MacArthur Genius Grant Goes to a Paper maker

http://www.nytimes.com/aponline/2009/09/21/us/AP-US-Genius-Grants.html

Iraq, Paper, Scissors

Gods, Fate, and Knowledge

It is today, and once again, that you find yourself at the end of some wandering. Confronted, face to book spine, with shelves full of knowledge - paralyzed with the apparent "limited" selection. You are fully aware, that when broken down into time segments, there is far too much here to take in in one lifetime.

It is amassed, this knowledge, and in front of you, a hands reach away.

To this, you let destiny take the lead. Closing your eyes, taking two steps to either the right or left (being careful to avoid the ladder), reaching in front of you, thrusting your hand forward until your fingers stub on a spine. Opening your eyes, you survey what fate has brought you: "Modernism and Abstraction." You play with the book, pulling it out slightly, feeling guilty for (honestly) just wanting to put it back.  Not wanting to seem ungrateful, you pull it out and flip through it before putting it back on the shelf.

Closing your eyes again, taking two more steps - to the left - and again thrusting your hand forward, stubbing your fingers with slight, excessive force this time (as if punishment for the lackluster interest in the previous offering), you open your eyes to "Hieronymus Bosch" and know that the Gods of fate are laughing at you.

Tomorrow your finger will surely be in a splint.
[01.04]

A Short Story

If she had been in her own pants, she'd have had a pen. She could've written down the name, the number, the book that would've changed her life. But as it happens, it was her habit to be unfortunate - to mislay directions, to be late (only the once) when someone else had to step in to take her place and be discovered.

Bygones and bookmobiles

Earlier this week, Tracy and I got into the car with the goal of finding the last standing Shell Station shaped like a shell (located in Winston-Salem, NC). Tracy had printed out a Google Map, trusting that Google, in all of its mathematical and geographical wisdom, would get us there in the most efficient way possible.  

This time, however, the directions were filled with all sorts of crazy mazes and turns - not at all the route I would've planned for us - but we decided, as it was a day of adventure, to put our trust in Google and let it guide us. On the way, a mere two blocks from our house, we passed the Lake Jeanette Bookmobile. I was ready to stop then and there. My adventure just hit its climax. I had no idea that these creatures still existed. I wanted to get out and take pictures of this dinosaur, this throwback to an era of Marian the Librarian & pearl wearing housewives. There is just something about containing a library in something compact and mobile that fits with my aesthetic for all things self propelling/self feeding (Automat; Art-o-mat; etc). We continued on, however, saving the bookmobile for another day.

We wound our way through Greensboro onto I-40 and into some rougher hit neighborhoods of Winston-Salem, where we found, hidden among houses with barred windows, crammed onto a very small corner lot - the last standing Shell Station shaped like a shell. Our van filled the space between this architectural treasure of 1930 and the sidewalk. In a neighborhood where people do their best against, what would seem, less than good odds, it is the most well maintained structure.  

It's a toy. A gimmick. It's not practical. It's not efficient. It was very clearly designed and built by humans. It has character and history. We would never see this kind of imagination and playfulness infiltrate such a corporate entity today. It's as if the Shell station of the 1930s represents the childhood of our collective culture, and we've since grown up.

The Collector Rediscovered

Edward Gorey's Elephant House

I have nothing but collections. Collections of lines... of studies... of things that would be art - gathering dust on shelves, in corners, in fleeting thoughts too soon to disintegrate. I have nothing but lines of books - empty or incomplete texts, saved for someday when the thoughts might be completed. When the lost become found or rediscovered. I am the elephant house but without shell and shelf - without room or stair. I am incomplete and waiting - for space, for time, inspiration, encouragement. [1.25.04]

Book.List:
Elephant House: Or, The Home of Edward Gorey. Kevin McDermott
You Are Here: Personal Geographies and Other Maps of the Imagination. Katherine Harmon
Squeak Carnwath: Lists, Observations & Counting Squeak Carnwath.