RISQUE REVUE

- begins with a first step.

Well now,
I recall that ancient Chinese proverb that murmurs....may you live in interesting times.
(I wonder, just when didn't we live in interesting times?)

As we revel in the gobs of info-tainment, and over-indulge in information overload supersized and economy-packaged, we must pause once in awhile to contemplate our collective efforts - (attempting to make sense of it all.)

Not good enough, to simply declare it makes absolutely no sense at all, and leave it at that.
It's not that this is just too easy.
It's too boring altogether.
Much more fun to grab on to an idea and squeeze it hard enough to make it squeak.
(ah, the joys of toys that make noise)

I don't buy newspapers anymore. This sometimes makes me feel a little sad...
the tradition of the press was ingrained in me somewhere. I don't mind saving a tree or two from reduction down to pulp.
When three quarters of a newspaper becomes reduced to advertising, it's easier to shun the medium, I think.
And of course, there are now online ezines....(the trees exult!)
Mother Jones, In These Times - and endless others...

I'm curious -
What's your capacity for online reading?
Just how much stuff can one read comfortable from a backlit screen?
Personally, I like a 5-minute spin per item. (probably about 1000 words)
If on a real roll, perhaps a half hour at a time...

But for the real serious plunge into printed matter, a book is still the preferred page.
It is so low-tech.
All that is required, is decent reading light.
Otherwise one can stand, sit or recline - and still read.
There are no doubt, wonderful yoga contortions that can increase oxygen flow to the brain, while absorbing printed matter.
My downfall is posture.
My posture is absolutely awful, while reading.

On the 7th floor of my library, is a curious enterprise, snuggled away beyond the end of our internet technical support department.
In this place, they archive books....digitally.
They use strange machines, (about the size of a video arcade racing game) clothed in hooded black vinyl, shrouding the machine operator, and the operation itself.
Two or three dozen of these things quietly hum, whirr and purr away, committing endless pages of old volumes to digital discs. They turn pages, and photograph each word, phrase, paragraph - every squiggle upon the darkened page. (makes me wonder what the operators do)

On the one hand, I can feel glad that those books are being preserved, I guess.
On the other - I can't help feeling a little nervous about the whole thing - would the day come when that is the only way to access what's in those books?

A book is such a tactile thing. The feel of a book....the size, the weight, the compact, airtight perfection of its design - pleases me.
My collection is arranged haphazardly (as if the books just decide themselves) and spills about with the constant threat of literal anarchy.
My house apologizes to first-time visitors, "Sorry, a reader lives here."
I'm glad the house does this - I won't!

Books knock me out.
A book is the end result of an awful lot of work. Especially if it's a complicated sort of book - one that required a lot of research and organization. One that required a writer to really focus on something, and open up that something in an interesting way.

I think of a good book as a great conversation, between an author and myself.
Perhaps over a good dinner, or a long walk in the countryside (or a midnight drive.)
A conversation that is rather personal, and private.
One that is picked up after being put down, numerous times, resuming a thread that uncovers layers of understanding.
Ever notice (in a well-written book) that the passion of an author for their topic - will often reveal something of the humanity of that author, even their vulnerability, although I'm sure they try hard enough to hide inside the lines.
Lines - can make excellent camouflage.


Well now,
I'm writing an awful lot about writing, aren't I? [wink]
I'll stop it.
(for the time being)






Captain Midnight
Just let me laugh when it's funny
and when it's sad, let me cry