The cleaning chronicles.
I have decided to take this lazy sat morning to tackle the piles of books and loose papers in the other corner (1 down, three to go). I am again overwhelmed with the task. The piles of beloved books (oh the Tintin and Chesterton and Dostoyevsky, the knitting books, the old sketch books, the doodle books, the zines, the comics the coffee table art books (alas, no coffee tables) seem to grow but the shelves are still obstinately full. Its like a miracle, the books keep coming, I am neigh drowned in paper.
For respite, I read an old Currer letter (12-03). Letters are so immortal, and his was no exception. That is why I like them so much. E-mails get erased, as do voice messages. Accounts get cancelled, hard drives crash, operating systems are upgraded. But a letter needs no special tools to be read, nor does it need electricity to be appreciated. Tho' on the other hand, letters get lost (sorry puolet!) and burned and misfiled. Letters have the artifact appeal, the sense that, this person picked this paper, and that pen, and it got handled by postal workers and sat in the sun and it just oozes the traces of real people.
My old sketch books are pretty painful to look at. There are a few gems scattered her and there, but mostly, lots of scribbles and what-the-hell-is-that-supposed-to-bes and self conscious knatterings. I am not going to be publishing a Datebook, a la Chris Ware any time soon.
I seem to be getting an impressive collection of zines. I should do the collector thing and get little baggies for them. Would that be neurotic?