I'm sure a few of you have already seen this great collection of paper art, it's making the rounds on the information superhighway rest stops and truck turn-offs. (An aside: I think it's cute how our parents version of facebook or blogging is simply long chains of forwarded emails. It must be a holdover from the days of chain-letters and relatively harmless communicative diseases like syphilis and the clap)
I've always loved paper, to the point where I would buy countless different journals, notebooks, and stationary. And then, like the lazy writer I am, leave them sitting dejected and unused (like a WASPs nether-regions) for years. Part of the problem was that I loved the dignity and elegance of the notebooks so much, I didn't want to sully it with my own idiotic ramblings, poseurish inanities, and extremely ugly handwriting. I'm slowly overcoming this neurosis, accepting my idiocy, trying to temper my embarrassing pretension, and adding some fluidity and flourish to my penmanship. Also, computers help. But paper! Good paper smells like a grandparent's skin feels. It comes in such different grains and coarseness, a panoply of mash. And what a beast that comes so flat, but folded once is never repaired.
I recommend everyone touches paper once a day, to feel human. A fabulous novel with paper as one of its lesser, unspoken players is The Time Traveler's Wife. A lovely read. Don't you dare buy the e-book.
Oh, and even though it is reminiscent of something you'd put on your college dorm wall to stare at when you were too high to speak to the rest of your wretched ensemble, I think this one might be my favorite of the aforementioned papyritic makings.
I've always loved paper, to the point where I would buy countless different journals, notebooks, and stationary. And then, like the lazy writer I am, leave them sitting dejected and unused (like a WASPs nether-regions) for years. Part of the problem was that I loved the dignity and elegance of the notebooks so much, I didn't want to sully it with my own idiotic ramblings, poseurish inanities, and extremely ugly handwriting. I'm slowly overcoming this neurosis, accepting my idiocy, trying to temper my embarrassing pretension, and adding some fluidity and flourish to my penmanship. Also, computers help. But paper! Good paper smells like a grandparent's skin feels. It comes in such different grains and coarseness, a panoply of mash. And what a beast that comes so flat, but folded once is never repaired.
I recommend everyone touches paper once a day, to feel human. A fabulous novel with paper as one of its lesser, unspoken players is The Time Traveler's Wife. A lovely read. Don't you dare buy the e-book.
Oh, and even though it is reminiscent of something you'd put on your college dorm wall to stare at when you were too high to speak to the rest of your wretched ensemble, I think this one might be my favorite of the aforementioned papyritic makings.
1 comment:
great post with the one exception that syphilis is hardly a benign disease. not fun, it hasn't been fun at all.
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