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Monthly Archives: August 2013

Cusp.

It’s four years ago, see, that I began my first Moleskine. I’d begun filling a small notebook two months before, on the day that the seniors the year before us graduated. That one thin notebook now precedes nine identical notebooks that I’ve filled, writing every day since that first sort-of first day of senior year of high school. I’m on Number Eleven now, and beginning first day of senior year of college.

Right now I’m too sleepy to think of much to say, but: hello.

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Jitter.

One day, someday, I may do work that’s not last-minute and caffeine-fueled. Not today!!!

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The limit does not exist.

Nowadays everyone must love (or at least pretend to love) pleasures that were supposedly once disdained or taken for granted: dive bars, street food, trashy films. But knowing, sophisticated attempts to replicate those things often traffic in their own kind of snobbery, confusing condescension with authenticity.
A. O. Scott, “Someone Done Her Wrong. Horrible Mistake.” in the New York Times. See also “The Strange Ascent of ‘Strained Pulp.’

Food for thought.

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Coniferred.



This week, Ada & co. worked to initiate me into the Pacific Northwest life. We kayaked, canoed, hiked a mountain (the Grouse Grind), and went to MEC for a proper rain jacket. There, people swarmed the aisles on a Sunday afternoon, poring over athleticwear and tugging at backpacks that reached high ceilings in rows and rows and rows. It’s another world, I thought.

We climbed the mountain and walked a little longer up paths to find the bears and we came up a little ridge and there was a grizzly bear right there, just on the other side of a little fence. We watched him in the water awhile as he tossed and pawed at a stick and lolled in the water. I turned back to stare again at the walls and walls of trees.

I love these trees. Ada laughs at me: “on the gondola ride down, she told Andrew, “I was looking at the city, which is my favorite view, but Allison kept turning me round to see the trees. The trees!”

When I was seventeen, I went to Seattle for three weeks — my second time there and my first time away and by myself for so long. As we left the airport for Kirkland, I stared round the highway, thinking, these trees. How did I not notice them last time? This is somewhere different.

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Home.


This is a house full of books. I’ve been saying lately that I want to chip away at my shelves and select my life: live just with the books I’ll read again and again, and avoid the collection and clutter of pages and spines. I’m double-thinking that now, though; just asking, why do I want to limit my collection, and what do I like about a house with so many books, and is my collection the same as or different from this one in some essential way, and how can I go from here in how I think about and collect books and knowledge?

Really, my book collection will look a lot like this one someday. When I am in my fifties and sixties, I will have tons of books on modernism, on theology, and of modernist and modernist-sensibility literatures, analogous to this house of mid-century European film and literature and photography. Our sensibilities are quite well matched. It is, as Ada said of my parents’ house, the right kind of home: properly lived-in.

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