Category Archives: paper

On unpacking my library

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Dedicated to the memory of Walter Benjamin. I moved from one office to another last week, which means I had to take down all my books, put them on carts, and unpack them in my new office. A simple enough task, but handling each book, picking a new location for it, tugs at the heartstrings and stirs old ideas from hibernation. You see, no one remembers all of the books that they have. This particular copy of “1984” was left on my desk in chemistry by someone–never knew who–in the spring of ’76. They had written my name it. My copy of “Ghost Story” came from the English book section of Casa de Libro in Madrid in 1979. Over the course of even a few years, one forgets individual volumes that were acquired in odd ways in dark, smelly, book shops off of equally dark and smelly streets deep inside a grimy urban setting. A copy of Borges’ short stories was a birthday gift from a beloved friend and still bears her dedication. I found a copy of Dante’s “Inferno” which was inscribed “To Helen, completely unforgettable, London, 1961.” I had completely forgotten several titles which I had never gotten around to reading, but I was warmly surprised to see old friends that I had indeed read, albeit decades ago. Having an analogue library, though quite superfluous today, appeals to my medieval sensibility of scribe. The physical presence of the books reminds me of how much there is to think about just being human. Flipping through familiar pages, reading familiar passages, gazing on forgotten book covers, I am often reminded of other periods, other times in my life when I lived in other towns and knew other people. My worries and concerns were different when I first read “Don Quixote” or “The Name of the Rose.” While I was unpacking I was assailed by both nostalgia and pathos, remembering a warm rainy afternoon in Madrid when I found that one book about Cervantes that I always wanted to read. Or perhaps it was a copy of “Cien años de soledad” that I found abandoned in a train station in Toledo (Spain). Some books had been gifts, and others had been borrowed by me, but never returned. I found an old, beat-up paperback of “Dr. Zhivago” that I bought for fifty pesetas from an outdoor vendor in the plaza of Alonso Martínez, which I read during the winter of ´84′-’85, one of the coldest winters in Madrid’s history. My copy of Shakespearean sonnets which was bought for less than a dollar out of a remainders bin at a mall in Mankato, Minnesota over thirty years ago which still bears my innocent marginalia of my youth. I had to throw away, with much regret, several books with broken spines and molding pages. At one time this would have horrified me, but these works are easily recovered given the digital nature of the internet. I noticed that I now have two copies of “The Lord of the Flies,” but that I still haven’t read it after all these years–I suspect I know what it’s about and don’t want to stare at the horror of humanity unleashed. I have dropped an ancient copy of “Beowulf” on my desk–a discard from my high school library. I first read this book when I was fifteen, so it will be a new read for me when I pick it up later this week. I will donate three boxes of books to the local library sale to make way for new titles because space is always finite for a book lover.

On unpacking my library

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Dedicated to the memory of Walter Benjamin. I moved from one office to another last week, which means I had to take down all my books, put them on carts, and unpack them in my new office. A simple enough task, but handling each book, picking a new location for it, tugs at the heartstrings and stirs old ideas from hibernation. You see, no one remembers all of the books that they have. This particular copy of “1984” was left on my desk in chemistry by someone–never knew who–in the spring of ’76. They had written my name it. My copy of “Ghost Story” came from the English book section of Casa de Libro in Madrid in 1979. Over the course of even a few years, one forgets individual volumes that were acquired in odd ways in dark, smelly, book shops off of equally dark and smelly streets deep inside a grimy urban setting. A copy of Borges’ short stories was a birthday gift from a beloved friend and still bears her dedication. I found a copy of Dante’s “Inferno” which was inscribed “To Helen, completely unforgettable, London, 1961.” I had completely forgotten several titles which I had never gotten around to reading, but I was warmly surprised to see old friends that I had indeed read, albeit decades ago. Having an analogue library, though quite superfluous today, appeals to my medieval sensibility of scribe. The physical presence of the books reminds me of how much there is to think about just being human. Flipping through familiar pages, reading familiar passages, gazing on forgotten book covers, I am often reminded of other periods, other times in my life when I lived in other towns and knew other people. My worries and concerns were different when I first read “Don Quixote” or “The Name of the Rose.” While I was unpacking I was assailed by both nostalgia and pathos, remembering a warm rainy afternoon in Madrid when I found that one book about Cervantes that I always wanted to read. Or perhaps it was a copy of “Cien años de soledad” that I found abandoned in a train station in Toledo (Spain). Some books had been gifts, and others had been borrowed by me, but never returned. I found an old, beat-up paperback of “Dr. Zhivago” that I bought for fifty pesetas from an outdoor vendor in the plaza of Alonso Martínez, which I read during the winter of ´84′-’85, one of the coldest winters in Madrid’s history. My copy of Shakespearean sonnets which was bought for less than a dollar out of a remainders bin at a mall in Mankato, Minnesota over thirty years ago which still bears my innocent marginalia of my youth. I had to throw away, with much regret, several books with broken spines and molding pages. At one time this would have horrified me, but these works are easily recovered given the digital nature of the internet. I noticed that I now have two copies of “The Lord of the Flies,” but that I still haven’t read it after all these years–I suspect I know what it’s about and don’t want to stare at the horror of humanity unleashed. I have dropped an ancient copy of “Beowulf” on my desk–a discard from my high school library. I first read this book when I was fifteen, so it will be a new read for me when I pick it up later this week. I will donate three boxes of books to the local library sale to make way for new titles because space is always finite for a book lover.

On ink

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It is ironic that for one who loves ink so well that I should do the vast majority of my writing on a digital screen with virtual ink. Virtual ink does not have a distinct odor, does not smear or run, does not drip or splatter–it is, in fact, not really ink at all, virtual or otherwise. I keep bottles of ink around–on my desk, near the computer, in the bathroom. You never know when a creative moment might hit you, and you want to be prepared for anything. The worse thing that can happen to the occasional writer is to find themselves with an empty pen, either actually or metaphorically. To avoid scraping a dry fountain pen across the blank surface of a blank leaf of paper, I always err on the side of caution and have several ink wells at my beck and call. Real ink, the kind that gets on your fingers and makes a mess, is so different than the modern inks of ball point pens or the ink gels common in faux-disposable writing utensils from big box retailers that sell in packs of ten. No writing instrument worth its salt is sold in packs of ten. Real writing instruments grow on duck’s wings or have highly polished and systematically designed nibs which help guide the flow of ink on the paper. If you have a good nib and fluid ink, you barely need touch the paper to coax the ink to do its job, create a new piece of art. I admire calligraphers because they immerse themselves in the process, but they are artists with an artists point of view whereas I am a blue-collar writer with an imperfect hand. If I were a medieval copyist in a cold, dark monastery scriptorium, I’m sure I would assigned the more menial tasks such as the abbey’s shopping and to-do lists. No one would have ever entrusted me with creating new hymn books or a new book of hours. I love ink, but my letters are often inconsistent, run into one another like drunk patrons at a soccer game, sail wildly above and below the lines as if it were a gusty day, impersonate one another in confusing and troubling ways. I recognize my handiwork, but readers might have questions. My handwriting is only for me. Yet the ink beckons like an unpredictable desire, yearning to dry into new and unpredictable patterns, dividing the light from the dark, forming new loops, circles, curves as dots drop in over the errant “i’s” and the “t’s” can only hope for their cross which will distinguish them from the lurking, if upright, “l’s.” My use of ink so erratic that what I call handwriting either really neither cursive nor printing, but a hybrid wondering between the two, instead. Some letters stand alone like solitary night watchmen waiting in the dark to be relieved while other letters run together in some unhealthy and incestuous ways. Real ink, spilled and splattered ink gives one the liberty and freedom to express oneself, to let the passion flow, the anger rage. Ink is changing the plain white sheet of paper into a whirl of new spaces which are blocked off into lines and rows and, guiding the eye into some sort of disciplined order of reading, releasing its information or perhaps causing some genuine confusion–either way, I’ll be satisfied. Modern writing instruments–the computer, ball point pens and the related ilk of the sort, lead us away from our souls and stifle our creativity, limiting what we think we can do, killing our rhetoric, stifling our fire, stamping out our art. Ink, spilled, splattered, controlled, sets us free in a world only too willing to control us, repress us, oppress us. I am gently reminded of the fire in real ink when I glance at a copy, a facsimile of The Declaration of Independence and I am reminded that it was hand-written with a real quill, real fire, real ink.

On ink

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It is ironic that for one who loves ink so well that I should do the vast majority of my writing on a digital screen with virtual ink. Virtual ink does not have a distinct odor, does not smear or run, does not drip or splatter–it is, in fact, not really ink at all, virtual or otherwise. I keep bottles of ink around–on my desk, near the computer, in the bathroom. You never know when a creative moment might hit you, and you want to be prepared for anything. The worse thing that can happen to the occasional writer is to find themselves with an empty pen, either actually or metaphorically. To avoid scraping a dry fountain pen across the blank surface of a blank leaf of paper, I always err on the side of caution and have several ink wells at my beck and call. Real ink, the kind that gets on your fingers and makes a mess, is so different than the modern inks of ball point pens or the ink gels common in faux-disposable writing utensils from big box retailers that sell in packs of ten. No writing instrument worth its salt is sold in packs of ten. Real writing instruments grow on duck’s wings or have highly polished and systematically designed nibs which help guide the flow of ink on the paper. If you have a good nib and fluid ink, you barely need touch the paper to coax the ink to do its job, create a new piece of art. I admire calligraphers because they immerse themselves in the process, but they are artists with an artists point of view whereas I am a blue-collar writer with an imperfect hand. If I were a medieval copyist in a cold, dark monastery scriptorium, I’m sure I would assigned the more menial tasks such as the abbey’s shopping and to-do lists. No one would have ever entrusted me with creating new hymn books or a new book of hours. I love ink, but my letters are often inconsistent, run into one another like drunk patrons at a soccer game, sail wildly above and below the lines as if it were a gusty day, impersonate one another in confusing and troubling ways. I recognize my handiwork, but readers might have questions. My handwriting is only for me. Yet the ink beckons like an unpredictable desire, yearning to dry into new and unpredictable patterns, dividing the light from the dark, forming new loops, circles, curves as dots drop in over the errant “i’s” and the “t’s” can only hope for their cross which will distinguish them from the lurking, if upright, “l’s.” My use of ink so erratic that what I call handwriting either really neither cursive nor printing, but a hybrid wondering between the two, instead. Some letters stand alone like solitary night watchmen waiting in the dark to be relieved while other letters run together in some unhealthy and incestuous ways. Real ink, spilled and splattered ink gives one the liberty and freedom to express oneself, to let the passion flow, the anger rage. Ink is changing the plain white sheet of paper into a whirl of new spaces which are blocked off into lines and rows and, guiding the eye into some sort of disciplined order of reading, releasing its information or perhaps causing some genuine confusion–either way, I’ll be satisfied. Modern writing instruments–the computer, ball point pens and the related ilk of the sort, lead us away from our souls and stifle our creativity, limiting what we think we can do, killing our rhetoric, stifling our fire, stamping out our art. Ink, spilled, splattered, controlled, sets us free in a world only too willing to control us, repress us, oppress us. I am gently reminded of the fire in real ink when I glance at a copy, a facsimile of The Declaration of Independence and I am reminded that it was hand-written with a real quill, real fire, real ink.

On recycling

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Most people probably get recycling, although for some the trash is just everything you want to throw away, and that means everything–every container, can, bottle, box, and paper goes into the trash, no discrimination. I think those days have long since past, however, when we can afford to just throw it all away. Recycling is about knowing that the planet’s resources are finite, and that we must reuse and recycle almost everything that we can. Recycling seems like an obvious response to the insanity of filling up an endless string of landfills with valuable resources. These are moral and ethical choices we are making that affect us now and will affect our children in the decades to come. Recyclable materials, whether they are metal, glass, plastic or paper, are valuable commodities that with a little effort can be turned in to new products. Yet, when driving around my own neighborhood on any given Friday morning when the trash cans have been wheeled out to the curb one can find lots of recyclable materials protruding from the gray bins whose contents will be going to the landfill. Perhaps I am wrong in assuming that the general public understands the finite nature of natural resources and how quickly we are using them up. No paper or cardboard should ever go into the general trash, yet one might spot a huge cardboard box roughly jammed into the top of the gray trash bins as if it were a corpse with the feet sticking out. Why would anyone throw away an aluminum can when the metal dealers will give you real money for the empties? Let’s say one is addicted to diet sodas: a real drinker might turn all of those empty cans into some real money by the end of the month, but lots of cans just go into the garbage, or tossed onto the side of the road, or left in the gutter for someone else to pick up. Our relationship with our garbage is an unhappy one, marked by dysfunction and bitterness. Wouldn’t it be better to just keep two bins at home? One for organic waste which has little value and should be disposed of, and one for all of the materials that can be recycled. The volume of the organic waste is very small, but all of the bottles, cans, boxes, and paper take up an enormous amount of space. In order to recycle one must be proactive and make an effort to distinguish between what is, or is not, trash. Of all the things we throw away, very little of it is actual trash, and if we could compost that without attracting vermin, we could reduce our solid wastes to almost nothing. The time will come when natural resources give out and we will have to dig up the dumps and land fills to “mine” all of the precious materials that lie smoldering away, buried years ago by a society that put no value in recycling. There are those people who do not look to the future, don’t really care about the planet, don’t understand how we are polluting our environment with landfills and such, don’t believe in global warming, and, in general, just don’t care about anything or anyone but themselves. The choice to not recycle, then, turns into a moral decision to just wallow in filth and ego and not care. I am not idealistic enough to believe that recycling will solve our problems regarding the use of natural resources, manufacturing, pollution, or greenhouse effects, but I do think there will come a time when it will be illegal to dump recyclables into the trash, a time which has already come to some communities across the USA. This is no longer a question of whether recycling is a good idea, it’s a question when we are going to take it seriously. Now? Or when we no longer have the choice?

On recycling

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Most people probably get recycling, although for some the trash is just everything you want to throw away, and that means everything–every container, can, bottle, box, and paper goes into the trash, no discrimination. I think those days have long since past, however, when we can afford to just throw it all away. Recycling is about knowing that the planet’s resources are finite, and that we must reuse and recycle almost everything that we can. Recycling seems like an obvious response to the insanity of filling up an endless string of landfills with valuable resources. These are moral and ethical choices we are making that affect us now and will affect our children in the decades to come. Recyclable materials, whether they are metal, glass, plastic or paper, are valuable commodities that with a little effort can be turned in to new products. Yet, when driving around my own neighborhood on any given Friday morning when the trash cans have been wheeled out to the curb one can find lots of recyclable materials protruding from the gray bins whose contents will be going to the landfill. Perhaps I am wrong in assuming that the general public understands the finite nature of natural resources and how quickly we are using them up. No paper or cardboard should ever go into the general trash, yet one might spot a huge cardboard box roughly jammed into the top of the gray trash bins as if it were a corpse with the feet sticking out. Why would anyone throw away an aluminum can when the metal dealers will give you real money for the empties? Let’s say one is addicted to diet sodas: a real drinker might turn all of those empty cans into some real money by the end of the month, but lots of cans just go into the garbage, or tossed onto the side of the road, or left in the gutter for someone else to pick up. Our relationship with our garbage is an unhappy one, marked by dysfunction and bitterness. Wouldn’t it be better to just keep two bins at home? One for organic waste which has little value and should be disposed of, and one for all of the materials that can be recycled. The volume of the organic waste is very small, but all of the bottles, cans, boxes, and paper take up an enormous amount of space. In order to recycle one must be proactive and make an effort to distinguish between what is, or is not, trash. Of all the things we throw away, very little of it is actual trash, and if we could compost that without attracting vermin, we could reduce our solid wastes to almost nothing. The time will come when natural resources give out and we will have to dig up the dumps and land fills to “mine” all of the precious materials that lie smoldering away, buried years ago by a society that put no value in recycling. There are those people who do not look to the future, don’t really care about the planet, don’t understand how we are polluting our environment with landfills and such, don’t believe in global warming, and, in general, just don’t care about anything or anyone but themselves. The choice to not recycle, then, turns into a moral decision to just wallow in filth and ego and not care. I am not idealistic enough to believe that recycling will solve our problems regarding the use of natural resources, manufacturing, pollution, or greenhouse effects, but I do think there will come a time when it will be illegal to dump recyclables into the trash, a time which has already come to some communities across the USA. This is no longer a question of whether recycling is a good idea, it’s a question when we are going to take it seriously. Now? Or when we no longer have the choice?

On throwing away old papers

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Do you keep every odd bit of paper that floats into your life? Do you have random piles of junk mail, old receipts, antique bank statements, odd scraps of paper with strange or cryptic messages? “Call Charles–cat caught in disposal–need plumber or animal control?” But you not only don’t recognize the writing, you don’t recognize the message either? Tonight I tackled a random pile of such papers and made three piles: shred, recycle, does anyone know what this is? I can throw things out. I am not one of those poor hoarders that has been caught in the lights of a television reality show. I truly do not understand what makes hoarding interesting enough for television. Those poor devils have an obsessive compulsive disorder and they need help, not national television exposure. So I tackled a random stack of old receipts, scrap papers and what have you. And I threw it all away–some to shredding, but it all goes to recycling. Most of this stuff was from about 2005. Either I wasn’t throwing anything away that year or these papers have been in hiding. I didn’t find any old treasures (or old treasure maps), nothing that had been lost many years, nothing that needed finding. So I ask myself, “Self, why didn’t you throw all of this away ages ago?” It’s just been sitting around gathering dust and grit for seven years. Yes, there are times when it pays to stack and not throw out. Very infrequently will I find some scrap of something that will remind me of another time, of an old writing project, of a person I haven’t seen in a long time, of a debt that was paid, an object that was bought, a dinner that was enjoyed, but all of these relics remind me of how fast the clock moves, how quickly we forget even when we swear we will always remember, an already forgotten unforgettable afternoon in a distant past that has sunk into the shadows of history. I throw away things so that those who come after me will not be burdened with the effort of having to do it themselves. I’ve seen others given the task of throwing out old papers, and it is a horrible task–going through the life of another person. Me, hopefully when it is my turn to go, everything will already be on its way to recycling.