In the 60s, Timothy Leary told everybody to “Turn on, tune in, drop out.” I tried to think of an update for today: Log off (get out now), mute all (turn off notifications), and carry on (without hope and without despair).
Make something for somebody
I love it when I see knitters out in the world, knitting. I like to imagine that they’re knitting something for someone: a scarf for their sick friend, maybe, or a blanket for a baby who hasn’t been born.
Whenever I get stuck lately, I’ll make a robot for my son. (Here’s another one.) Just a silly little something. And when I give it to him, I remember that, sure, the gift is in the giving, but the gift is really in the making.
Making something for somebody — is there anything simpler and more likely to get one unstuck?
Paper is a wonderful technology
This afternoon I popped into the Ransom Center and came across a wonderful little section showcasing interactive design elements in early paper books. Above is a “volvelle” (from the Latin word volvere, a verb meanting “to turn”) made around 1575 by Leonhard Thurneisser. (Hand colored!) If I understand correctly, it’s basically gigantic “horoscope calculator,” designed to show readers how the heavens will influence their lives. (A visual echo: Brian Dettmer’s book autopsies.)
Below is a 1570 printing by John Day of Euclid’s The Elements of Geometry, complete with foldable diagrams. The book is open to the point where Euclid explains what makes a pyramid a pyramid. (Looking at both these books I was reminded of my friend, the paper whiz, Kelli Anderson, and her new book.)
Across the room, perhaps not as visually spectacular, but no less beautiful to me, was this pocket notebook that belonged to Sam Shepard:
“Paper is a wonderful technology for the storage and retrieval of observations,” writes Walter Isaacson. In his recent biography of Leonardo da Vinci, the penultimate item on a list of lessons he draws from the artist’s life is: “Take notes on paper.”
Five hundred years later, Leonardo’s notebooks are around to astonish and inspire us. Fifty years from now, our own notebooks, if we work up the initiative to start writing them, will be around to astonish and inspire our grandchildren, unlike our tweets and Facebook posts.
I went home and wrote in my notebook. My paper notebook.
What’s being woven
The classroom
I thought I would spend my whole life in a classroom.
My mom, when I was born, was a high school teacher, so I was in the classroom before I ever went to school. Back then, I was a special guest. (At least in my mind!) Then, when I was in the classroom as a student, I just assumed that I was still a special guest, but one in disguise, playing a part, putting in the years, until one day I was at the front of the room. The Teacher.
It hasn’t played out that way. Now I’m back to, at best, being the special guest. If I’m in the classroom, I’m not a real teacher, no, but the visiting writer, artist, etc. Just passing through. A workshop or two, then I’m off on a plane.
There was a brief lunch period last week, in between two workshops I was running, when I was sitting at the teacher’s desk at the head of a high school classroom, alone, and I almost felt like a real teacher. Exhausted, but wired. Pulling together my materials. Listening to the silent hum from the empty desks. Eating a sandwich. Drinking a can of Coke. Leaves falling out in the courtyard. Imagining the next period, what we’d talk about, what we’d do.
Then the bell rang.
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