matchbooks of lonely places

 

Dear Listener,

A song for you, for today.  

More soon!

the waiting

 

Dear Typists and Sketchbook Users,

My typewriter was out; getting cleaned and repaired.  It's back now, and I used it to finish up my sketchbook to be sent to the Brooklyn Art Library.  They have this great sketchbook project, see, where you can purchase a little empty book, fill it up, and send it back to their shelves where it can live, waiting for someone to look at it.  

It's a beautiful notion, and I hope someone will go and find my little book.  I put some velvet on the cover, imagining that would be nice for this person to feel when they pick my book up off the shelf.  I do wonder, though, if anyone will pick it up.  I mean, they have an awful lot of books there!  

It's enough, though, for me, to imagine it there, waiting, for someone's hands.  

Skyward

 

Dear Dodoistes,

Did y'all see this sky a few nights ago?  All these little chunks of cloud, set out in rows?  So lovely!

New toy.

 

Dear All,

Think of it is an upgrade to your service here on the Dodo.  It's my first digital camera, and it's a new toy.

House of the Illustrious.

 

Dear Radio Dodo Listeners,

Here is your song for today.  

Now, while that is playing, take a look at these sculptures of Nancy Rubins'.  I can't decide if I like them or not.  Whatever, you may say, who cares if I like them or not?  Well, that's a good point, but I am still looking to be moved by artwork, even after so much water under the bridge of meaning, the market, and whatever 'self expression' is.  (Now I think they call it 'personal narrative,' which we do care about, but only in as much as we can say we are listening.  I don't think we are supposed to want to make one ourselves; or, if we do, can we please just do it quietly?)

Now, while you decide if you like those sculptures, you can think about this photo of Josephine Baker.  What I am thinking, is this: what is it about this photo that makes it belong here, now?  I am not sure why it wants to be here, but I read a short while ago that she lived in a castle, and I have wanted to tell you so.  (If you would prefer, you can make a very short personal narrative instead of reading about the château.  This should be no more than a page long, very quiet, and written in pencil so history can erase it easily if finds your narrative inconvenient in the future).

À la prochaine!

Good Fortune!

 

Dear Radio-Dodo Heads,

My DJ just played this amazing version of one my favorite songs, and I ran to send it to you, post haste!  Play it loud and see you soon!

lost stone

 

Dear Shangri-La,

I had a thing I was saving for you.  A thing about the beauty and perfection of a stone.  It meant that the stone was the symbol for all things made by processes of the world.  By extrapolation, it meant we (you, me, the stone) were all beautiful and perfect, not because we thought we were, but because processes had made us so.  Made it so.

All that is what I think it meant, anyway, because like I said, I lost it.  I thought there was a slip of paper marking it.  It's in Siddhartha, by Herman Hesse; so if you really want to, you can go searching for it.  I decided that it's importance was better served through my telling than my searching.

But, I don't feel all that confident about that, and it might be just another miss.  The book's world is very complete, very livable, while you are there, anyway.  But once you leave it, you notice some fraying, or maybe I have frayed?  It's a pretty parable, but don't you already have a drawer full?  I do, and I am trying harder than ever to internalize the messages, the directions, the instructions, and the good advice of so many compelling and enchanting voices.  

In any case, read this instead, if you are looking to read a thing:  Thick, by Tressie McMillan Cottom, because it will rock your tiny boat in a fabulous sea.