First, pictures of my new sketchbook! I made this over the weekend. It took me longer than it probably should have, considering how complicated it isn't, but it's been a while since I made a book. Also, I didn't have the right glue, and had to do some dodgey substituting, and then also spray the covers in waterproofing stuff. .... don't ask.

The front cover.

The back cover. The covers are made with a fabric scrap I bought in the Ikea clearance room a long time ago. I bought it with no particular purpose in mind, but knew I would find something eventually. And, so I have. Vindication!

Laying open. Because it's a coptic binding, it opens pretty much totally flat, which is nice. The crease in the standard hardcover sketchbook is problematic. I'd been buying spiral bound for a while, but I don't really love them, they are just a compromise between not opening all the way, and using plain old loose leaves of paper. Which I might do next time.

Here's a shot of the spine, in case you were wondering what coptic binding means in practice. Each signature (group of pages) is stitched from the inside to the outside, connecting to the signatures that come before and after it. The first and last signatures are attached directly to the cover boards. It provides exceptional flexibility of the spine, and can also be used for a book of almost any thickness.

This picture shows the inside of the back coverboard, and some of my drafting tools. Not that you really needed to know about that, I just liked the shot.


I know it's been a while since I posted the current work in progress, and technically I am not really doing that now. HOWEVER! Here is a picture of my workspace as it sits right at the moment. The panels along the back are the pieces of a custom crate, the center of the desk has a belt buckle design I am finalizing with hopes of begining the actual piece today, and the rack on the right has a bunch of work on paper that needs to be matted, imaged for the portfolio, and filed. Also, some Sequential Tart review materials are there, and my new sketchbook that I made over the weekend.

All the little containers are writing implements, tools, etc. The pink things on the top / left are tape dispensers, which I have needed for a long time. (Yes, it IS "the little things" that make happy happen.)

Little file cabinet is full of more tools / utensils, paints, inks, etc. Trash can on the left, and the cubbies on the desk supports are full of random crap that I need without warning ... but then set aside without warning. It's a functional system, don't judge!

Chair is a swiveling kneeling desk chair. It's not super duper comfortable, but it does save my back and hips. And shoulders and neck. Also, it's really good for keeping my herniated cervical disk from pinching the nerve in my right hand. So ... comfort isn't always immediate gratification.

Latest Fixation: Embroidery

Sometime in the past few months, I got hooked on the idea that embroidery and other sewing-related activities might be fun and visually entertaining.

(In case you ever wondered, my Big Artistic Mission is "make stuff that is interesting to look at"...)

So, I picked up one book about embroidery, and was handed the book from a starter kit. Between the two, and an 8 hour transatlantic flight, I was able to pick out a few tentative designs. At the very top (12 o'clock position) are the very first stitches I made. It pretty much had to get better from there...

Editorial Note

I've removed the link to Shelfari because it doesn't have most of the books I'm reading (they're in German, and apparently sometimes obscure, like the fat tome on Austrian renters' rights) but please don't worry: I am still reading. I'm just not giving away any clues.

Book Review Policy

I've been confronted with a lot of evidence that reading is on the wane, as a pleasure activity, as an educational activity, as an fixed element of modern enlightened life. This is a recurring nightmare over at Grad Student Madness, where the posts are generally of higher tone and better documented than my own. (I believe that may come as a direct result of reading, by the way. Rufus reads WAY more than I do, and I read somewhere in the too-much range.) After reading several articles about how The Young People Just Don't Like To Read (most recently, this one), and having experienced a shocking amount of groaning when adults enrolled in college were told read as many as one written page...

I started to wonder about book reviews. It is unwise for me to read a book, and then just tell people what's in it? Sure, it could pique someone's interest, but more likely (given the statistics) they'll just breathe a sigh of relief, realizing that it's one less tedious pile of irritating words they might avoid wading through. (Both the book, and the review.) Here's why:

When I worked at the bookstore, it was a regular occurrence to encounter folks who came rushing in, breathless, moments before the store closed, demanding the Cliff's Notes or... ah. That other thing, that isn't Cliff's Notes. Well, it doesn't matter now, because there are probably a dozen or so version of that idea, of clarifying and examining a text. The idea, I think, was to help folks who were having trouble getting on top of what they'd read. The Illiad is deeply mired in reference, fer cryin' out loud. To Kill A Mockingbird is complex shit, yo. The Sun Also Rises is... well. Nevermind what adjective I'd put on that one. Point is, sometimes when you read a thing, maybe you didn't quit apprehend the full significance. Enter the Cliff's Notes, or the Complete Idiot's Guide, or whatever. Maybe you're going to have to expound on Catcher In The Rye for your AP exam, and you want to rock it, and maybe your English class sucks.

But that's not how these guides are used. Instead, they're used to help the folks who haven't read the original text fake it satisfactorily in class, in the paper, in the exam. And now, the folks who discover that the library or bookstore doesn't have the study guide, who learned that some other jerk checked out the video store's only copy of the classic movie adapted from the book, are frantically rummaging the internet for synopsis and analysis. They're thoroughly boned, they're risking their A- average by getting called out on their complete and total failure to know anything at all about the title at hand.

Now we come around to the reason that I'm hesitant to write book reviews. I don't want any part of that. I admit, it's unlikely that I'm reading something that someone was supposed to have read but did not. I admit, it's unlikely that, in the random case that I have read and reviewed something that someone was supposed to have read, and did not. Hell, it's exceptionally unlikely that I have read and reviewed something that someone didn't read, and they somehow end up in my almost-totally-unread blog and read my review of it, and think they've learned something about the thing they didn't read. That's a lottery win long shot, right there. But I feel pretty certain that more non-readers who are searching the internet the night before their paper is due will read my book reviews, than other readers.

As a confirmed bibliophile, it's hard for me NOT to talk about things I'm reading. But it's often seemed to me that the people I'd like to talk with (other adults who have read the thing) are either non-existent or unavailable to me, or I'm too neurotic to connect with them. The other bibliophiles I do know well enough to talk intelligently with... don't read the same books I do, for the most part. Unless I force a book on one of them, or they on me.

Am I contributing to the problem, by not sharing my enthusiasm? Am I just being a bitter old wingnut, by believing that it's better to enjoy it by myself, than to have my experience corrupted and perverted? (In fact, it's unlikely that I would ever know if my book reviews were used in this way. The folks who skim the internet for clues in life are not going to be the ones giving authorial credit where it's due...)

I did join a few reading-group websites (like Shelfari, which displays my current reads at the bottom of this page, as well as GoodReads, and LibraryThing), to see about finding people to talk to about my books. I've been consistently disappointed with the discussions going on. The book I finished most recently has one, two-word review, which somehow manages to incorporate consonance, a pun, and two clichés. Argh! Another one has a few more words, but those words are "A nice sequel to the previous book." That's the entirety of the review. It's depressing, to be blunt. That's the best the bookworms can come up with?

So. Here's my book review policy. If I'm reading something, and someone asks me about it--anyone at all, in real life, one of my imaginary internet friends, the bookstore clerk, anyone--I'll review it. Otherwise, I'm probably not going to bother, unless it strikes a profound chord in me, and I just can't not write about it. Sometimes the spirit really is moved.

Two Books I Finished Last Night

Last night, I read the last page of Gefährliche Geliebt, the German translation of Haruki Murakami's 7th novel, in English titled South of the Border, West of the Sun, and closed the book with satisfaction. I like it so much that I have read it before, and I don't doubt I'll read it again. However, I don't see any reason to summarize it here. If you're looking for a compelling read, go and get this book. It's sad, at times almost unbearably so, but it will almost surely make you feel better about your own life.

The other book I finished last night is Daniel Gilbert's Stumbling on Happiness. It's kind of the non-fiction version of the Murakami's thesis: a point by point rebuttal of the idea that happiness is attainable. Gilbert has assembled an astonishingly well-referenced theory about why it's so hard for people to plan themselves into a future they are satisfied with. He talks about the odd behaviors people consistently have, that always seem like a good idea at the time, but ultimately lead to dissatisfaction. Some of these are very interesting, such as the inability people apparently have, to correctly gauge their own reactions to events, and some intriguing examples of the long term effects of the notoriously inaccurate human memory.

This isn't a self-help book; it's not about How To Be Happy. This is simply an analysis of why it sometimes seems so freaking hard to be happy, no matter how much time you spend on it. The conclusion I have come to is that this undermining behavior is probably for the best. Dissatisfaction keeps us going, it gives us something to do after the thing we're doing now. And, besides that, actually being happy seems to be more a matter of actually noticing when that's going on, than it is about planning or execution of plans.

I do recommend this book if you're the kind of person who has wondered what the hell everyone's problem is, and why it's SO hard to just be content. This isn't necessarily the whole story, but it certainly is an interesting and fairly well-written part of it. My only complaint is that there were more than a few moments where I read a sentence or two, and thought, "My god, you ARE a smarmy bastard, aren't you?" I have nothing against smarmy bastards, of course, but when I'm reading a book, I'd rather be engaged with the book than the author, if you see what I mean.

I need better portmanteaux.

I need something between "profound" and "faux"... Fauxfound doesn't cut it, even though it's a good sound-alike. Profauxnd is more the right idea, but still not quite on. I'm referring to this, which I read in Chuck Palahniuk's latest, Rant, last night:

If you ponder the thought, no one ever closes a thoroughfare due to the death of an individual. You can still drive over the spot on which James Dean died, or Jayne Mansfield, or Jackson Pollock. You can drive over the spot where a bus drove over Margaret Mitchell. Grace Kelly. Ernie Kovacs. Death is a tragic event, but stopping the flow of traffic always seen as the greater crime.

So, on the surface, this seems deep. "Yeah, wait a minute! Those were serious things. I mean, you can still drive down the the street where Kennedy was assassinated, and sure that has about about great an influence on the future of America as any street-death since Archduke Franz Ferdinand." And, hell, also, every time you get on the road, you're probably going to pass at least ONE spot where someone died. If you multiply that out by how much driving most people do, that actually a little foul.

But, back up a step. Why in hell would you close a road permanently because someone--even a famous someone--died there? And, more to the point, how is the death of ONE PERSON, even a famous person, actually a tragedy? People die; it's in the charter. The *circumstances* of death can be a tragedy, sure. But seriously, if someone fails to die that is far more interesting to me, than all those other people who are doing what they're supposed to.

I realize that Palahniuk is (to understate a thing) fond of hyperbole. I realize that he's making a comment about a certain mentality, with this line. But what alarms me is the possibility that there are folks out there who will read a thing like that, or hear a thing like that, and be swayed by it. They will actually succumb to the Fauxfoundity of it all, repeat it to their friends. Submit a petition to the highway commission about it. That's really, really depressing.