BurningbirdGord, at poeticgeek.net.
All this writing makes me questions Shelley’s humanity. I have come to the conclusion that she is actually a sophisticated robot using a markov generator to make compelling entries. There is no way a human being can consistently produce witty, helpful, and well-written articles. I swear that women like Shelley make me question the benefits of being gay.
Thank you, Gord. That is the best compliment I’ve ever had.
I can’t just ‘do’ technology. The longer I don’t feed that other half of me, the more somber I become.
The weather was too nice to stay inside pasting, cutting, and folding for my Art of Book projects, so it was a good time to visit the rose gardens; take some pictures, though I know it must seem like the only photographs I take are those of flower and weed, with an occasional aside into something that doesn’t have roots.
I hope to explore with my photography this summer, with different subjects including local bikers and river rats (human that is). Or not, and take a break from it. But for now, just plain flowers.
I also looked for something to go with the flowers, some writing. A poem or two, and if you search on poems with roses, you’ll find hundreds. But they all seemed so weepy, and sentimental. I don’t like sentimental poems, and I don’t need weepy.
So I guess I’ll stick with just flowers.
I usually agree with Mark Morford but rarely have I found myself in such strong agreement with him, as I did with his column today.
He writes in response to the question: how can he write about dogs or yoga or sex in cars when there is so much evil in the world. He responds with:
The world’s tragedies absolutely deserve our immediate attention. And our hope. And our divine raw funky sexed-up intellectual perspective. This is not a question.
But what it needs even more is the counter-energy. For us all to remember to shut it all off and get the hell away from the computer and go have a glass of wine and a deep tongue kiss and a romp and a an intense book and a hot sweaty yoga class and a soft swoon to an incredible blues singer. This fuels the resistance. Rekindles meaning. Steals life back from those who would deign to devour it with pitchforks and judiciary committees and heavy artillery.
After all, real life is not in the dour headlines
Though I could have wished that he had left off his anger with Bush, because it detracts from his message, overall it is compelling reading with one important point: all of life is not dark matter, all the time.
The work on the star tunnel books goes slowly as I gather the material to make the volumes. Before I can even consider starting them, though, I have to master the fold. If I can’t master the fold, I won’t be able to master the concertina fold, which is nothing more than long strips of stiffer paper, in perfect parallel folds. The star tunnel book I have in mind consists of several overlapping concertinas.
I thought I knew folding, having previously spent a life time of folding things, such as dolls, letters, hope, books, arms, and t-shirts; but all this past experience does is build bad habits; habits which must be broken to do a proper fold. Contrary to what we might think a fold doesn’t just happen by luck. There is no natural perfect fold in nature, unlike the fractal. The fold must be precise, measured, and then firmly flattened using a bone folder, because your work is only as good as your fold.
As I study the art of book, I find that there is an esoteric element to folds, which adds a hint of spirtual mystery to that previously seen as commonplace . For instance, there are proper names describing how the fold is placed relative to the surface: if the fold is pointed up, then it’s called a mountain fold; pointed down, a valley fold. Not difficult to remember and makes for rather impressive explanations of what you’re doing if someone asks.
“I’m folding the end of this paper, here, until the tip meets the base of this mountain fold.”
Or something to that effect. Those people who are experienced at this are probably snickering right now, saying to themselves, “It’s not called a base, you amateur. It’s the spine“, or some such thing.
To practice my proper folding technique, I created a book called an Inserted Concertina, which is one concertina fold inserted into another, and looks rather nice for nothing more than two pieces of paper connected by slits.
First I had to make one 8-panel concertina, 6 inches high (sorry, if I try to keep up in metric, I’ll be here all night); and then a second, 4 inches high. I cut off the two end panels from the shorter strip (which are being used to make a small Japanese stab binding book). The paper had to be long enough, so I glued two pieces together, which itself is rather a production.
Place scrap paper underneath the edge and use it to mask all but 1/2 inch of the edge of one strip; use the paintbrush to spread a thin layer…
Once the long strips were made, I folded the middle of the taller concertina to make a mountain fold, and then folded one half to make another mountain fold and so on, until the stretched out piece easily collapses, edge to edge, all space eliminated.
It was then a matter than of cutting out the insides of the larger to make space for the smaller, cutting slits in both to align with each other and then put the two pieces together (easier said then done, something about cutting through six pieces of paper). To measure the cuts, I used the pointed end on the bone folder to score the paper, to avoid using pencil or pen, which, in a way, again makes use of the fold to accomplish my task.
As a finishing touch, I added orchid print outs, just as a fun detail and a bit of color, because the true spirit of the art of book is improvisation, each piece then being subtly unique.
I’m not sure if the photos do the book justice; it was difficult to photograph. It’s not perfect, and there are bends in the paper, and the photos warp the perspective, and I have made mistakes. Regardless, the amazing thing about it is how well the book collapses neatly and elegantly into its cover, and how stable the piece is, without using any clip or thread or glue to keep the concertinas together. It is a most cooperative work, as if the pieces decide to mesh for whatever reason even though there is no physical bond.
I can twist the work about and open and close it and pull it around to take photos, but the join holds and the piece remains steadfast despite the strain it undergoes. As you may guess by now, it is, of course, due to the compatibility of the folds; to the ends, really, because that’s what a fold is–the alignment of two ends.
I have no allusions about the stability of my little book. Brutal shaking of the piece will most likely break it apart, perhaps permanently if the slits are damaged, or the folds crumpled and lost. It is not a work that can be tossed carelessly aside for convenience, or thrown across the room in anger; too easily sat on or thrown away for scrap if forgotten. I think that’s why this style of book appeals to me: there is the very real possibility that it will not endure.
Since we can name these individual works, these book arts, I called this one My Virtual Friend.
I have to take Zoe in today to get her teeth cleaned. I hate having to do this. She’s an older cat and she’s had seizures in the past and I worry every time she’s under general anesthesia. However, as the vet said, this is something that can’t be put off. But I hate doing it.
What’s worse is she knows it’s coming. When she doesn’t get fed in the morning and her water is taken away the night before, she knows she has to go into the vet. She gets very quiet and very hurt looking, and then she crawls up into my lap and presses as tight as she can to me, and talks softly in her little chatter. Every once in a while, she trembles a bit and presses closer.
Before we adopted Zoe we had a cat, Boots, who was one of three boys born to another cat we were taking care of for a friend. Boots was an amazing cat, huge, close to 20 pounds. He kept getting into one scrape after another, including getting hit by a car and losing sight in one eye.
Boots ended up having stomach problems, and had to have surgery a couple of times, but he’d always pull through. Then one spring we noticed that he was losing weight and getting quieter, and not eating as well. We took him into the vet and they diagnosed stomach cancer and recommended surgery. They also suggested that we take him home for a few days and just spend time with him before the operation.
He looked like a young kitten again from the weight loss. His eyes were huge in his face, and he was so vulnerable.
The day of the surgery the vet said for us to go to work, he’d call and let us know when the operation was over. (Neither Rob’s company nor mine was amenable to time off ‘just for a cat’.) Later that morning, Rob called me and he was crying so hard I couldn’t understand him. It was a shock, because I never heard Rob cry before.
He said that the doctor called and the cancer was very advanced. They could try to continue the surgery, but the chance of him surviving was only about 20 percent and if they weren’t successful, Boots would continue in a great deal of pain. We had to make a decision: continue or allow them to just let Boots drift off to a permanent sleep.
Rob couldn’t make the decision; he was especially close to Boots. I called the doctor and we talked, and he said I had to decide quickly–Boots was still under anesthesia. So I chose not to let him suffer. But all I could think of the rest of the day is that Boots didn’t understand why he was going into the vet, and he didn’t understand why we weren’t there with him, and this was his last memory.
I am writing about Zoe and having her teeth cleaned. My priorities are wrong. She’s just a cat and this isn’t about Iraq, where people are dying and the world has gone to hell. Where’s my civic duty, and don’t I have more important things to write about?
But she’s part of my micro world where my actions have direct cause and effect. I can’t control what I can’t touch, but I can touch her.
The people at the clinic are just wonderful. I’ve always wished that I could have a vet for my doctor.
