Controlling the Vertical and the Horizontal

Whew. After days and days and days of unpacking, cleaning, and reshelving the books, the newly repainted North Bedroom is finally presentable. The shelving is not perfect, and I imagine that I will be making slight alterations in how the sections are working.

On one physical level, the only way to get (most) all of the books onto the main shelves was to switch from vertical shelving to horizontal stacking. I’m not sure how functional horizontal stacks will be for a semi-regularly referenced library. It works best when there are many books by a particular author or in a subject matter. It also means that the larger books, which may or may not be the books I’m more likely to consult, form the base of the stacks—consulting them will be like that magic trick where one pulls a tablecloth out from underneath a set of dishes. Hey Presto!

The fiction paperbacks have, alas, been double-shelved on some separate modular shelves. I am going to see if I can purchase some additional planks and brackets and increase the linear shelf space.

There’s no rest for the wicked, however. Now that the books (and the banker’s boxes they were stored in) have been put away, I have to move onto restoring the bedroom closets, which will involve finding brackets for the very long closet rod and installing them before I can transport the costume and prop department lurking in the North Bedroom and Main Hall closet into the new bedroom closet.

It also means figuring out where some other objects are going to live. There were a number of tchotchkes interspersed throughout the books and I’m resisting the urge to return them to the shelves. The chief of these is my Writers of the Future award from 2006, which inspires the joke about the person who goes to a costume party as a Gifted Child, and when asked “What are you supposed to be?”, replies, “Oh, I was supposed to be so many things.” Mark has already moved the trophy, which is a sharp prism of about seven pounds of acrylic, from one end of the modular fiction shelves to another end, where it will be less likely to kill me when The Big One hits and the trophy does a Sword of Damocles impression.

Unfortunately, I can’t make the closet in our new bedroom behave like a TARDIS, and there simply isn’t room for the Old Burridge Chest of Drawers and Portable Stonehenge and my clothes. And my Doctor Who Scarf. And the giant, wool, double-breasted Pegasus Ranger army greatcoat. And my necklaces, talismans, and amulets. And the crowns (plural). Or the file cabinet of critiqued manuscripts.

Or the banner with a full length Cicely Mary Barker Cornflower Fairy on it. I like it because it reminds me of my Anglophile Aunt Margot, and because I like cornflowers; and the over-the-top pose of the young male fairy with his hands to his cheeks and one leg bent up screams, “OMG! You want to go to the fancy dress ball with me?!” Whether it’s Too Much Old Lady or Too Much Twee I can’t say—but it’s so “Too Much” that it’s funny. I’m not sure why Mark hates it and calls it scary. Okay, we did hang it up behind the door of the bedroom just before The Child's temporary return between college academic terms in a decor move that Mark calls "weaponized;" so there may be a residual Grandma-Jumpscare element involved.

Mark also does not care for the large, sixty-year old, touristy temple rubbing of a bunch of bright blue Hindu women playing instruments. I’m sure my parents purchased it on their travels overseas when they were sophisticated almost-thirty-year-old Americans in 1962. It used to be a central image in the downtown house I lived in before I was seven—I thought the figures were pointy-eared extraterrestrial ?women? wearing space (or diving) helmets, with alien devices; avatars of celestial mystery casting a spell; or possibly space sea-monkeys having a party. What I took for either a lap-sized crystal ball or else some sort of space communication device in one woman’s lap in real life is actually a tambour, seen drum-head on. The air-tubes connecting their helmets to the geometric space suits that I saw as a kindergartener are actually chunky necklaces draped strategically over bare, spherical breasts. Perhaps it is Kama-Sutra-adjacent. I suppose I find it compelling and oddly comforting in a “the party’s still going” kind of way; Mark thinks it’s poorly executed.

Finally, there’s the small bronze unicorn bust on a pink marble plinth. I bought it when I first moved to Eugene to live with Mark. It’s fine art that doesn’t look like a bunch of scrap metal and gears glued together, nor does it look like a twee citizen of the Glass Menagerie. Nor is it Eugene Hemp Macrame with Driftwood and Beads. I’ve always thought it might be fun to make the piece a gnomon for a sundial board, but mostly it’s lived here and there in the house in the shelves or by the Portable Stonehenge or on the mantle or the dining room table. Apparently Mark doesn’t like it (and never has)… not because it’s nauseatingly cute, but, I think because a gay man owning a cast bronze unicorn bust is fence-sitting in the way a gay man owning a scaled-down replica of Michelangelo’s David or a reproduction of a sexy, Pre-Raphaelite Saint Sebastian isn’t. Also, being just the head and neck, the unicorn is slightly reminiscent of “The Godfather.” (“Nice bookshelves. Shame if something happened to them.”)

When I get a little overwhelmed, I go into the North Bedroom and look at the main, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves: vertical shelving tidily interspersed with horizontal stacks. Dusted. Clean. Accessible and not double-stacked. The hardback novels; the Arthuriana next to the Dion Fortune next to the Ronald Hutton; the gay history running into the gay spirituality; the divination section just beneath the poetry section; the astronomy section and the folklore section and the gardening and herbal section—and along the entire length of the main shelf is the art and the history and the art-history running from the Paleolithic to the Egyptian to the Greek, Roman, and Islamic; to the European Mediaeval and Renaissance; spanning to the Pre-Raphaelites, Escher, Mucha, and the Impressionists; ending with Barbie and Art Deco and New York Gargoyles.

I suppose the books spanning time and space are as close to the TARDIS as I’m going to get.

Portland In April: Saturday

Saturday, April 12

Mark arose, like he usually does, before I did, and after a particularly lazy sleep-in, I joined him at the Benson Cafe and Bar for breakfast. In the morning light, the place had an open and light quality that had seemed heavier the previous evening. The sun peeped out from behind clouds and shone through beveled and frosted panes of glass. Massively intricate plaster ceilings reflected the sunlight in a diffuse glow. A huge gilded and silvered mirror at the stair landing stood like a gateway to a reflected lobby—or would that be ybbol ? The darkly stained bannister held panels of carved wreaths between the sturdy rail posts. Breakfast was good, but we decided that better fair was to be had from one of the patisseries a few blocks away.

We skipped a brief reunion tour with Mariah and opted instead to explore the stairwell. This had been set up as a kind of museum, with different landings focusing on things like the history of The Benson, which of the recent U.S. Presidents had stayed at The Benson (many, except the 45th) , the Portland Rose Parade, and famous performers who had stayed at The Benson.

“Whoa,” said Mark. “Mariah requested seven limousines? And a specially lit mirror? And $50 candles? Telling folks that seems like a breach of confidentiality. They’re being so mean to Mariah; they don’t single out Elvis or Shaquille O'Neal like that! And then they make her show her boobies in the elevators!”

Mark then went on to play some Mariah Carey songs, and I recalled why I only liked “Fame!” and “Out Here On My Own.”

Then it was time for our first outing. Saturday was partially cloudy with sprinkles of rain. We entered the Chinese Garden right as it opened at 10 AM. I have never been, although I have walked outside its enclosure and caught glimpses of bushes and interior stuccoed walls through some of the ornate windows. The garden takes up an entire city block, but the layout of the tea shop and trees and galleries and shrubbery and moon gates breaks up site lines and makes the space seem much larger.

Our tour guide was a very enthusiastic Chinese woman who would lock eyes with everyone as she would explain the history and design of the garden and structures around us. Sometimes the sun would peek out from behind clouds; other times a cool wind would herald spattering rain. This was a Chinese scholar’s garden, brought together to enable a scholar easy access to both nature and culture. I would say the central design theme was bringing together contrasts: yin and yang, sharp and smooth, dark and light, moist and dry. I enjoyed the various dark and light pebble floor tiles and took pictures to see if there might be a pattern to bring back to our back yard; I’d say “cherry blossoms on ice” was the most interesting design because the other designs (which I also liked) were regular tessellations. Of all the flowers opening for Spring, I think the blooming bonsai wisteria was my favorite plant.

There were many koi in the irregular pond stretching from the center of the lot, ranging in color from red, to orange, to porcelain blue, to black, to bone, and multiple patterns between. I thought the most striking one was a large black and white koi with silver triangles running down its spine. Mark liked a large grey and white koi with pale blue, almond-shaped plate scale armor.

Later, I was able to capture a photo of the grey and white koi centered in ripples from its spine; in the water outside of the circle of advancing ripples, a cloud-veiled sun was reflected, distorted into a cat’s white slitted pupil in a small blue circle rimmed with yellow and red clouds.

“Whoa,” said Mark when I showed him the photo on my mobile. “That’s a powerful picture. It almost looks like The Moon tarot card.”

We took a meal in the tea house; I declined the chrysanthemum tea—which prompted a mini performance of Stephen Sondheim’s “Pacific Overtures” and a quick explanation to the somewhat amused tea house docent/clerk—and had a red hibiscus tea that was much more subtle than the old Celestial Seasonings Red Zinger tea I sometimes used to have a long time ago. Mark got white pine needles. The second floor of the tea house, where we ate, was open and airy, with Chinese lanterns hanging from the thick crossbeams. We had an interesting and hot soup. The moon cakes were fine, but not to my taste.

Mark had said that the Garden staff used to encourage patrons to use soft, quiet voices in order to preserve the serenity of the place. Apparently, this custom has been relaxed, and I had to compose a haiku about two particularly brash young women and their incessant chatter:

Screeching mergansers
Churning the koi pond waters

Miss the rain’s ripples.

After a final stroll along the peonies, maples and limestone formations, guardian dog and dragon sculptures, and sloped rooflines, moon gates, and ornamental picture windows, we said goodbye to the koi and ducks and exited the Chinese Garden—purchasing some chocolate from the gift shop before hand.

There was an occult bookstore that sold rare books—things like first edition copies of “The Equinox”—across the Willamette on Burnside that I wanted to visit, and Mark was amiable. As we set out, the rain was very intermittent, and the gusts had become more constant, prompting me to tie back my hair so that it wouldn’t blow across my face.

The bookstore was a few blocks east of the river. When I walked in, a wave of something like frankincense and myrrh and cedar hit me. The heavy scent had a deep note, and almost no flowery bouquet or fruity top note; it wasn’t unpleasant, but I knew Mark wouldn’t appreciate spending too long in the store (and in fact, he delayed coming in for a bit). The store was smaller than I expected; the decor was more occult than Neopagan, more Goetia than Wiccan. Folk-pagan music played over the sound system. The store had a collection of tarot decks by the front door, which looked interesting, but I already have several decks and I really only use one. Mark and I both liked a stain glass piece that used beveled cabochons to show the moon’s phases. Short stairs, decorated with occult paintings, led to a small landing with a closed door—I would suppose that a ritual space was located behind the door. The books were arranged by subject and author; the rare books were behind glass doors. While it might be fun to have a rare, first edition book—thinking of my lightly read but visually dynamic (and ponderous) copy of Jung’s “Red Book,” and my facsimile copy of William Morris’s stunning (and long-winded) “The Story of the Glittering Plain”—I felt that the florid style of early nineteenth century mystics, mediums, and ceremonial magicians probably wouldn’t warrant the expense.

I’d say the layout was not conducive to casual browsing, and my initial sense was that folks were not encouraged to loiter before the shelves. I wonder if I was giving off “I’ve come to see the freaks” tourist vibes or something when I first walked in, because I got a strong sense of wandering into someone’s enclosure. The proprietor warmed up after a bit, especially once I started asking serious questions like, “do you have this in soft bound copy?” I snagged “Queering Your Craft: Witchcraft from the Margins,” by Cassandra Snow; “Gay Witchcraft: Empowering the Tribe,” by Christopher P; and (on impulse) “The Awakening Ground: A Guide to Contemplative Mysticism,” by David Chaim Smith. Skimming them a little later prompted the Question of the Day: Can one both be critical of hyper-capitalism and still espouse the use of “money magic”?

Back on the west side of Portland, we took a quick nap, and then grabbed some food from an outdoor Food Cart World local to the Benson. I had sushi, Mark ate Columbian. We sat at a very long picnic table and listened while a busker tap danced on a stage. Then it was off to the New Mark Theatre for a world premiere Oregon Ballet Theatre performance of “Marilyn.” (We almost were seated at the stage where “Tootsie” was playing.)

Mark wore a nice, dark blue shirt; I wore a purple shirt with a detailed flower-of-life geometric pattern and a darker paisley-patterned purple scarf. I always like to see what other folks wear to the theatre. We saw a woman dressed like Carmine with a red flower in her hair; there was another woman in a dress that looked a notch above gold lame; there were two guys who were obviously together, but their outfits were not coordinated, as one wore a cowboy hat and the other was higher-end urban. There was less Hippy Chic than we usually see in Eugene.

“Marilyn” was a modern dance ballet following Marilyn Monroe’s life from childhood to her death. The mostly piano music was recorded, with occasional historical voice-overs. The set made use of a scrim, a mostly featureless art-deco wall with a split gate, and a circular stepped dais in castered sections. Effective lighting sectioned off the stage. The main antagonist was a chorus of faceless men in trench coats. At times the chorus was the paparazzi, other times it was men/the patriarchy, sometime it was just a bad situation. The most effective lighting trebled the cast by shining red lights on the trench coated dancers so that their hellish shadows danced on the walls. The most striking music was when Marilyn “sang” happy birthday to JFK without actually singing happy birthday. The dance explored Marilyn’s odd relationship with her father, her husbands, and how this translated to her relationship with men and men’s society, and how Norma Jeane Mortenson constructed the persona of Marilyn.

Afterward, Mark was emotionally exhausted. We made a new best friend (who had a fabulous green and black velvet dress) and the three of us had a mini-salon in the seats and discussed how Marilyn navigated the patriarchy while we waited for the auditorium to empty. I think the dancer we felt for the most was the very young dancer who performed as a child Norma Jeane at the beginning and who represented a regressed Marilyn near the end as she dance with Monroe’s psychiatrist (how would you direct a child to dance in such a convoluted adult head- and emotional-space? we asked ourselves).

We walked the streets of downtown Portland. Mark was open to the idea of cocktails, and I was hoping to find a place to dance (with the understanding that Mark was probably not in the mood for a dance). As we were circling in on where I thought the Silverado was, I pulled out my mobile to look at a map. Almost instantly, a young waif—I thought it was a boy, Mark said it was a girl—appeared and asked if they could borrow my phone to call their uncle. I was simultaneously processing 1) our location in relationship to the bar, 2) the mechanics of dialing a stranger’s phone number, 3) the likelihood of this being an attempt at “Apple Picking”, and 4) a Corvallis Nice Response, when Mark nailed them with a New York City buzz-off stare and a very firm, “No.”

The complex of gay bars that used to be around the corner from Powell’s Books had dispersed to other Portland sites. It was was now a Disneyfied pedestrian street mall.

We wound up back at the Benson Hotel bar for cocktails. Our waiter was putting off enough signals that even my feeble gaydar was pinging. After he suggested that my second drink might help us get lucky, we told him we’d been looking for the Silverado and Mark asked him where people went to dance. It depended on what we wanted to do. He suggested The Badlands bar, which was only a few blocks away, and mentioned Sunday night BBQ at the Portland Eagle (which was far away in North Portland).

Mark and I closed down the bar at 11 pm, more by accident than anything else, and went back to our room. Reader, I enjoyed that second drink very much.

New Moon Cleaning

Sunday was a new moon.  Sunday was a cleaning day.  

One of the drawbacks of not having a craft room or a library is that my side of the bedroom gets cluttered with books, artistic projects, and stray papers.  At one point in the past, I purchased some project boxes, and that helps a little, except that the boxes tend to end up underneath our bed along with stray summer shoes, and collect dust-bunnies and hairballs.  

The tchotchkes and pocket detritus, I'm sorry to say, even winds up on the top of my dresser, which is supposed to be my altar.  The dresser was also doubling as my vanity table and necklace display.  

Mark worked on another project and walked the dog while I reshelved books.  Then I reviewed a few old textbooks.  It was very hard, but I threw away a thirty-five year old S Statistics Package manual from 1986.  I haven't analyzed data with S (on a PDP-11 VAX) since I wrote my undergraduate Psychology thesis.   I think even S+ is old and this was just plain old S --  they've moved onto calling it R -- and my old Statistics Instructor, Albyn Jones, retired just the other year.   It was very weird getting rid of it -- I felt like I had betrayed the Spirit of the Library of Alexandria, or tossed out a children's tattered magic kit, or burnt an old lover's letters -- and I had to sit down with Cicero afterward.  

But I soon carried on, vacuuming, cleaning out old receipts, storing some items in the garage, and even tossing a few periodicals from the late 1900's, which allowed me to actually shelve a few more books instead of stacking them.   And yes, some things were shook out, wiped off, and returned to newly dust-free nooks.  

I figured out a better way to store and display my necklaces:  only one is a proper talisman,  two I'd call amulets, about half are charms, and the rest are merely theatrical -- so moving them off of my altar area made sense.  I do like wearing them, but over the last year with COVID and not going out as much, I've fallen off of choosing one in the morning.

With more space, I moved the Portable Stonehenge to be more central.  Continuing with the "less is more" theme, I cleared away most of the junk jewelry and all but a few of my elemental emblems and ritual tools.  The end result feels calmer and less frenetic, and I'll have to see if I can continue to just take 30 seconds in the morning to ground, center, and move the day, moon and sun pegs around their courses.

Queer Books

For Pride Month this year, I've been posting photos of myself prominently holding up book covers of books from the gay male and queer theory section of my library.  Then I've posted little mini-reviews or summaries to Instagram > Twitter and Facebook.   My plan was to do a book a day for the month.  We'll see if I have enough books -- I'll be including books that overlap the NeoPagan and Gay Male/Queer community as well.

In a way, the books were my gay (and to a lesser extent my NeoPagan) community, especially over the long time period during which I was navigating my sexuality and sexual preferences in several small town settings.  I've discovered that my library doesn't have much in the way of gay male / queer theory past about 2000.  I've also discovered that some of my books haven't aged well.  My sense is that in the 90's, thinking about gender and orientation was much more binary -- so authors were focused on essential gay male consciousness, or on if they were assimilating too much into heteronormative ideals.  There was an awful lot of focus on gay men's (supposed) low self esteem, which in turn led to risky, promiscuous behavior, which in turn contributed to the AIDS crisis.  I'm not even sure if gay male low self-esteem is still even a thing.   Don't get me started on Iron John in Drag.

It's possible one reason I stopped purchasing queer theory books is that I found Mark, and I didn't need any theory anymore.  Another reason is that I kept hoping to find the gay male equivalent of Starhawk, but instead I eventually discovered Ronald Hutton.  

Reynard the Fox

I've just finished Anne Louis Avery's "Reynard the Fox," a retelling of some medieval Flemish fox fables, told within the frame of court intrigue and trials.  It's well written, but it wasn't the book I expected.  The eponymous Reynard is an anti-hero, a scoundrel in an animal kingdom of flawed nobles, who is far more dangerous and deadly than the kindly Old Fox of Avery's charming and poignant Twitter microfiction.  So I was unpleasantly surprised when Reynard tricked Bruin the Bear into a kind of medieval industrial woodworking injury, followed by a gang beating.

I paused after that scene, but pressed on.  Unfortunately, this was the first of a handful of bloody, disfiguring, and disabling -- if not fatal -- acts of mischief Reynard manipulates his animal opponents into.  While "Reynard the Fox" isn't exactly GrimDark, it is Red in Tooth and Claw, and I was glad that I had not gifted this book sight unseen to my preteen relatives.

After some consideration -- starting with musings on Punch and Judy, which I've always found creepy and disturbing -- I've concluded that the Reynard stories are in the same vaudeville, slap-stick vein as Bugs Bunny and Yosemite Sam.  Or Foghorn Leghorn and his nemesis, Barnyard Dawg.  Or Itchy and Scratchy.  Actually, a lot like Itchy and Scratchy.

I feel like I'm missing something, especially after reading so many rave reviews.  Maybe I'm just supposed to sit back and enjoy Avery's rich language.  Maybe I'm supposed to respond to the medieval fables like the "Bring Out Yer Dead" or the "Vorpal Rabbit" skits from Monty Python and the Holy Grail: yes, it's shocking, but laugh, because the disconnect between the mortality and the nonchalance is also funny.  Or maybe I'm suppose to feel Grimm schadenfreude that various animals are getting their just desserts in the same way various step-relatives and witches do when the nail-lined barrels, red-hot dancing shoes, or gingerbread ovens appear.   Aside from Sir Isengrim, the Wolf, maybe I'm missing the cultural context of animals' symbolisms, which would ground me in their stories.

Still, it's hard to find equivalency between Bruin the Bear having his back flayed to make a travel bag and Daffy Duck getting his bill shot off.  The medieval retelling is more explicit and gruesome, whereas the modern cartoon violence is either screened behind a dust cloud or fence, or the Loony Tunes characters pick up their bloodless body parts and pop them back into place with little consequence.  Other comparisons, say, between Sir Tybert the cat getting partially blinded and maimed by angry peasants and Sylvester the Cat getting mauled by a pack of angry dogs protecting Tweety Bird are a closer fit. 

I had the same difficulties with the animal characters' motivations as I do with Sampson's in the biblical story of Sampson and Delilah:  someone tries to trick you into danger multiple times, and yet you still believe them, or even love them, and they lead you to ruin.  This is more a function of fable (and dream) -- where-in the characters' motivations are bound more closely to the plot needs than to their emotional and metal desires and abilities -- than it is a shortfall in Avery's writing.  

Between scenes of wickedness and trickery, there are luxurious, sumptuous descriptions of the countryside, clothing, jewels, and feasts.  I actually laughed during the description of King Nobel the Lion's multi-day festival.  Avery clearly renders medieval concepts such as Boethius's Wheel of Fortune and the calculus of forgiveness, sin, and animal nature.  Her language is an accessible mix of medieval, Flemish, and modern English; it's a bit like reading Shakespeare, but not having to stop and puzzle out some of the more antique or tertiary meanings of phrases.  Should you want it, there is a delightful glossary to consult at the end of the book.  

The hardback copy I purchased is sturdy, with magazines of quality paper and a plum colored ribbon to use as a place marker.  And there are oodles of footnotes. Who doesn't like footnotes?

Finding a Good Book

I received a gift certificate for books from Powell's Books and now I'm trying to figure out which books to buy.   The ephemeral nature of e-books prevents me from converting my library to electronic holdings -- and besides, the physical nature of holding a book, turning the pages, and looking at the layout brings a pleasure to reading that pixels on a small LCD doesn't.

Perhaps some day, when I am very, very old and reaching the top shelves of my library is physically beyond me, I'll convert.  One can only hope that robotic assistants able to pull books from the top shelves will be within the means of the moribund.  (And now I'm getting sad imagining 90-something me, alone in a room full of books, unable to stand without a cane, much less raise my arms above my head to pull down the red-bound, ten pound six-book volume of "The Lord of the Rings."  Obviously, I need to design a circular bed that is on a central axis pivot, surrounded seven eighths of the way around with vertical carousel bookshelves.)

But back to the present.  I started searching for the kinds of books I'd want and came to the conclusion that it was easier to find the kinds of books that I didn't want.   I didn't need any more Wicca 101 books; or Coming Out books; and searching with keywords like "Gay Witchcraft" only brought up one book, which I already own.   I already have an extensive collection of Ronald Hutton's works -- and there really is such a thing as Too Many Dion Fortune books (no, I'm not getting rid of any).  I could fill out my Ursula Le Guin holdings, but it would feel like checking off a bird-watcher's list.  And I think I've already got all the charming Wooden Books on Geometry that haven't gone over the edge into woo-woo "the Golden Mean is Magic!" drivel.  Perhaps I could get an updated and revised 2005 edition of Jane Yolen's Touch Magic (to round out the 1981 first edition currently in my folklore section).

I want a book (or books) that will feed my soul.  Or at least be wonderful.  Or Sparkly.  Maybe a book on the Lady and the Unicorn tapestry (okay, I've got a MET publication on the unicorn tapestry), or an art book on mediaeval tiles, or a history of typeface (although, now that I think about, I already have three).    I'm thinking "Reynard the Fox," by Anne Louise Avery, might fit the bill, but it won't be released until November 2020.   I'm thinking Jung's Red Book, except the only copy currently at Powell's is almost $300.  

Or maybe...  I can't help shake the feeling that this is a CS Lewis moth unconsumed by the flame / unsatiated feaster situation.  That what I'm looking for isn't a book so much as the solace of reading from a well-crafted book a story that resonates with words of truth.  It's possible that in order to address this feeling, I have to make my own miraculous book.

Perhaps I'll have to take up book binding.

OED!

I managed to get a two-volume copy of the OED.  It was a bargain!  It's got a little magnifying glass and everything (which is good, as the typeface is something like 5).  I've wanted one since about 2000, when I used to read the one the UO English Department had on a lectern in the Booth Lounge (it's gone somewhere, probably shelved).  What I loved about the OED was that you could read the history of words, and the contaminant learning from going on to the next entry was addictive.  OK, and the magnifying glass is fun,too.

"The Effervescence" is not quite as bad today as it was yesterday; at least I no longer feel as if a cowboy boot is nudging my right ovary.  I'm trying to decide if it will keep me from the gym today or not.   I haven't been since last Wednesday, and I hate it when I loose ground because I've only gone once a week.  I'm thinking this is part of the aging processes, and I'm not amused.

I guess I'll have to look up the word gerontology.

"He goes to college / gathers knowledge..."

The other day I walked through a library stack containing some century-old books.  And they smelled nice, "very nize."  There I stood, surrounded by books about early airships, dirigibles, and aeroplanes.  The scent of leather bound covers and the yellowed pages brought back the time Mark and I were in the Egyptian Wing of the British Museum with all those exquisite stone specimens of Ozymandian might.   Thank goodness temptation in the form of a hot scholar did not grace the stacks.  (Yes, I did start humming "Sexy Nerd" to myself....)

And Mark doesn't like the bookshelf in our bedroom.

(On a side note, apparently, old books smell nice because... sometimes they smell nice.  Very nice.)

Dream House

I checked out a book from the library on American Bungalows. The more I flipped through the pages, the more oppressed I felt. I think the cause was the dark interiors, even in the photographs of buildings with lots of windows, and the low, heavy ceilings.

With each new fabulous, honest bungalow I saw, I tried to tell myself how cool and cultured the interior would be. But I couldn't convince myself, and as I imagined myself living in the houses I saw pictured, I imagined myself rushing outside. I wondered if maybe I had some odd childhood experience in a bungalow, because my feeling of dread had a dejavu feel to it.

---

There are times when I wish we had a garret in our house. Maybe one of these years we can put one on top of our garage. Actually, if I were going to redo our garage, I'd put in a new roof that slants at a forty-five degree angle--it would let the sun in during the winter and provide shade during the summer.

A it would drive Mark crazy because he likes things plain, but I wish we could replace all the walls in our house with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Filled with books books books books books!

No... it really would drive Mark crazy. But maybe we could pull off a reading nook for two. OK, and a throne with wide armrests for tea and a little pull-out desk for jotting down notes...

Buying a Small Piece of Heaven

I went to the Crumpacker Family Library Book Sale.

Entering the Crumpacker Family Library always makes me want to run around like Julie Andrews and sing, "The Hills Are Alive" - only my song would be about how the hills are alive with books books books BOOOOKS! - and then read a book while seated on a ceremonial throne.

Before the doors opened, I met a painter, and we started talking about her paintings and how I hoped I'd run into a really good book on Paleolithic art.

Then the doors opened and I told myself that I wanted to look for books on Paleolithic art and oh, look interior arts -- and no, you're writing Steampunk, so - hey! Art Nouveau! and Oh! 7000 years of Iranian Art!

No. Focus focus focus Burridge! You're writing about fantasy and steampunk and you need to look at source work for the ... ooooh! a book on silver tableware! That's Steampunk, or at least fantasy....

Finding a scholarly book on art that's at a nice price which makes my heart bubble over with bibliophilic avarice.

Everyone was very polite. I helped someone find a book on interior design and the painter's friend handed me a book on European Art History. We were all enablers.

When I think of heaven, it's filled with books. When I think of buying a little bit of heaven, I go a little crazy with divine badness. That was a Freudian slip of the fingers there, but it's probably more correct to say "divine badness" because I really only meant for this to be a dry run on what I would do at the book sale next year -then next thing I knew I had a really huge, heavy stack of older books.

Which I bought.

And they're all my favorite. And I want to read them all. And I can use them for research. And I'm not sure where they will fit on my home shelves. But I am pretty sure Mark is going to start laughing in a few minutes when I walk out of the building with two shopping bags full of second-hand art books.

[editor's note:  He did.]

Crumpacker Family Library

11:40 AM Sunday.  Portland. I'll let you in on a secret. I'm not the world's most assertive person. Even less so when I'm traveling on my own to a city larger than the one I live in. To get around this I rely on costume to either distract myself or fool myself into being more direct. Hence, the Pegasus Ranger outfit. Yes, I like dressing up; yes, Boys Don't Cry was singing "I Wanna Be a Cowboy" in my head; and yes, there were a couple of moments when I squared my shoulders, shifted my body language, and thought, "Don't mess with me, I'm a Pegasus Ranger." And then I smiled; Pegasus Ranger is right up there with Laser Unicorns in terms of seriousness.

I walked a short distance and then found a yellow-line MAX. The disadvantage to having a laptop and a camera in my bag was the weight. And, alas, I'm getting old. Mark would tell me that I should walk more to build up endurance, but I kind of didn't want the balls of my feet to be sore from walking sixteen blocks. And besides, the Museum was opening real soon now and MAX would be faster.

The MAX train pulled into the stop and I boarded. Just before the doors closed, a young woman with a cardboard sign hopped on. "Whoo," she said, "I almost didn't make it." A few minutes later she strolled through the train, saying in a much tireder-sounding voice, "Spare change?" Her sign said something about karma.

"Hey, Joe," she said to a young bearded man who smelled strongly of urine and amonia. "How you doing? I heard you and your old lady broke up." Joe related his woes: a story involving abandoned dogs, Xanax abuse, and wanting to avoid cops. Karma-girl and Joe got off at Pioneer Square; she was giving him advice about lawyers.

I got off two stops later and walked a few blocks to the Portland Art Museum. The great coat received adulation from the check-clerk. But it turned out that my coat spent more time in the Museum than I did, because the Crumpacker Family Library -- although sharing some space with the Museum in the Mark Building next door -- was a seperate entity with its own entrance. So, abandoning my coat to PAM, I toted my bag next door. Past a curt security guard, past a plaster reproduction of two naked Greek wrestlers, through a book security grid, and into... Paradise!

I'll say it again, in my best imitation of Brenda Vaccaro climbing the ladder to George Hamilton's bedroom in "Zorro, the Gay Blade." Paradise!

Imagine the art history room at Powell's books. Add burgundy carpeting to the bare concrete. Now make the bookshelves 1920's library shelves. Add a stage, high vaulted ceilings and carved, wooden beams; an Euro-ecclectic vibe with pillars and red drapes. Now imagine being told by the librarian that the room was once a Masonic Temple. Realize the four thrones arranged in a circle in the middle of this gigantic, vaulted, lofty, sumptuous, quiet, book-filled room are very likely the ceremonial thrones for the masters of the cardinal directions. Restrain yourself from squealing at the top of your lungs like a five-year-old at 4:30 AM Christmas day and running a victory lap around the stacks before collapsing in an ecstatic heap!! It was like being Scrooge McDuck in a bathtub of gold coins. It was like being a cat on catnip. It was like being St. Agnes pierced by arrows. I was in bibliophile heaven.


I'd seen a picture of the thrones on the library's web page, and they were everything I hoped they could be. Sitting in one was a comfortable pleasure, with excellent lumbar support; although I did wish I wasn't looking at a reproduction of a small boy picking a thorn out of his foot. I walked, or rather, skipped, in a daze and found a gigantic, full color illustrated, coffee-table book of paleolithic art. Translated from the French. (gasp) Critiquing the methodology of Abbé Henri Breui. (gasp) With sub-headings like, "The Ideal Paleolithic Sanctuary." (gasp) And that was before I found the old electric magic lantern. (gasp) In the little niche room. (gasp) Hidden behind a half-curtain.

I set out to immerse myself in Every Single Tome in this TEMPLE. A short time later, I was back at a throne, reading a catalog of "The Stuff of Dreams," a Portland Art Museum show Mark and I visited many years ago. I made some photocopies. I learned that squinch is a real term describing multiple layers of arches holding up a dome.

Several books on Burne-Jones, the Pre-Raphaelites, woodcuts, angels, and a book called "The Quest for Odysseus" later, I had a Mr. Spock in the City on the Edge of Forever moment. "I am a fool!" I thought. "They've got to have something on the Cult Wagon of Strettweg!" They didn't, or more precisely there wasn't monogram focusing solely on the Cult Wagon. The Librarian pointed me to a survey of world history, and pointed out how the shelves were arranged chronologically.

And this is where I nearly wept on my hands and knees as I searched: Because I found a book on Islamic Art, and another book on Roman art, and then another on Greek art, and shelves and shelves of Egyptian art. Being in the library was like being the proverbial moth consumed by the flame, the guest at the worldly feast or other metaphors from C.S. Lewis's  The Discarded Image: The problem was that I couldn't sit down and just read a book -- every book led to at least three others and I had to read all the other books. In less than four hours. Even if I had four days, or four years, or four decades -- well, maybe four decades -- there would be no way I could read all the books enshrined around me.

And I very much wanted to read them all.

I'd been wrong; I wasn't in Heaven, exactly. I was in a retelling of the Greek myth of Tantalus. I was Moses, stranded on Mount Pisgah, gazing at the Holy Land in the distance -- a Holy Land I would never reach.

After only three and a half hours, I was simply overwhelmed by all the books.  I didn't have a clear research plan (I hadn't been able to connect to the on-line catalog earlier in the week).  And being a Pegasus Ranger -- while probably charming the librarian -- wasn't going to help me. I packed up my photocopies and camera, thanked the librarian for all of her help, and strolled back to PAM, where I looked at actual works of art (silver chocolate pots, and tea sets mostly).