You do get used to the sight of graffiti on New York City subways. These days the cars are all graffiti-repellant, but there is still opportunity, and in New York, there is no such thing as an opportunity not taken.

At Written on the City, people post photos of interesting graffiti by the city in which it’s drawn:

And at Pictures of Walls,  there are both wordy walls, such as these, and artsy walls:

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Rating: 4 of 5 stars

If I didn’t really like this book, I’d hate Stefan Merrill Block. The kid – and yes, I mean kid – was born in 1982, as his book jacket brags. He’s still in his 20’s. And this book is good, not good like macaroni art is good, or good like that time that your 12-year-old cooked you pancakes and forgot the eggs, it’s bona fide good. Maybe it’s not great, but jeez, he’s gotta have something to do with the rest of his life, right?

Block creates a familial mythology that is interwoven with a genetic disease, an imagined variety of early-onset Alzheimer’s. On his website, stefanmerrillblock.com, he details the personal origins of his fascination with Alzheimer’s:

When I was a small child, my grandmother was diagnosed with probable Alzheimer’s disease. At that time, I hardly knew what the disease was (I thought the word was “Old-Timer’s”). For the first year or two of her decline, her symptoms were subtle and I was too young to notice anything unusual. By the time my mom invited my grandmother to come stay with us, however, the disease was in its middle stages, and I was old enough to understand that something was deeply wrong. Just before my grandmother arrived, my mom explained to me what I should expect: cognitively, I was now more advanced than she. Difficult as it was to comprehend, I would now have to think of myself as more mature than my grandmother. I would have to watch out for her, like a brother would for his little sister.

Like the disease, the myth of Isidora is carried from parent to child, from one generation to the next. The Isidorans start out unable to remember anything – this is not considered a flaw, but key to their bliss.

Complicated are his ideas on memory, but they are ideas, not permutations of characters at play, but actual ideas. He could have been more coy with his ideas, weaving them seamlessly into stories, but he states them outright, with poetry and grace, and I, for one, am glad he does. Take his ideas of DNA as Memory, birthed of its parent, Chance:

…Chance also created some astoundingly complex and resilient successes, and memory didn’t miss a chance to take these opportunities as far as it could. Eventually, with higher domains of complexity, Memory took on new responsibilities. Once Chance and Memory devised the nervous system, for example, Memory found work for itself beyond its endless, monotonous transcription. Chance interred Memory in their mutual creations, allowing, for example, a simple fish to remember not to eat a bluish alga, or swim too close to the coral. Chance encouraged Memory’s new work, and in new organisms new forms of memory were invented all the time: instinctual memory, procedural memory, sensory memory, short-term memory.

Perhaps the ending, which carefully leaves some laces untied, is still a little too perfectly assembled. I can’t say that I understand how you strike that balance between order and potential, though. Maybe in the next ten years, either Block or I will get there.

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Today’s poem, “Andy Warhol for Familiar Quotations” by Peter Oresick is one with repeating lines (if anyone can identify it as a specific form, please let me know — I couldn’t find it anywhere). It begins:

Andy Warhol said, Always leave them wanting less.
Being born, Warhol said, is like being kidnapped.
Everyone will be famous, Andy said, for 15 minutes.
I thought everyone was just kidding, said Andy.

Being born, Andy Warhol said, is like being kidnapped.
Think rich, said Warhol, look poor.
I thought everyone was just kidding, said Andy.
Dying, Andy said, is the most embarrassing thing….

At first I wondered what Andy Warhol was doing on the Writer’s Almanac, but as the quotes wedged their way in again and again, I realized how pithy and quotable the man was. While quotes may not be exactly writing, they require thought, editing, and precise wording. Sounds a lot like writing to me.

Back to Andy and Garrison: there’s a pleasing converse, parallel effect between them. Andy was the very epitome of cool and — despite what he said — for a lot longer than fifteen minutes. He took the popular and ordinary and lifted it from its day to day to make it extraordinary and even more popular. (Are you gonna tell me you don’t think he sold soup?)

Garrison, on the other hand, is the very epitome of uncool. He’s midwestern, nerdy, and old fashioned. He takes the bizarre and unpopular and makes it extraordinary and at least a little popular.

I don’t know if I’m right, but I suspect they’d be friends, were Andy still around.

Be well, do good work, and always leave them wanting less.

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rating: 4 of 5 stars

Seldom have I seen an author so skillfully align guilt and innocence, unfold a story with such dexterity as to confound the reader’s own judgment of these usually clearcut qualities.

Our protagonist — if he can be called such — in The Bright Forever is both heartbreaking, almost childish in his innocence, and yet terribly guilty. As lies are told and truths uncovered, we judge and empathize with the character. In the end, we feel nearly as guilty as he does, as we allowed ourselves to love a little bit those we would choose to scorn were the whole story revealed.

Loneliness, shame, and pride are explored in this book — left wide open: the question of redemption.

At many points the main character addresses the reader, daring us to put the book down in condemnation of his actions. While this is not my favorite literary technique, it’s used well here. When we don’t put the book down, read on at times in the story when our worst fears about our primary narrator seem most certain, we give a little bit of doubt away, place a little more trust in him. We collude with him, if you will.

Aren’t we as guilty as he? Aren’t we also the ones charged with forgiveness, if it is to be granted?

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Apparently, Mr. Rogers wrote all his own songs, including “It’s a Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood,” the subject of this lovely anecdote:

Once while rushing to a New York meeting, there were no cabs available, so Rogers and one of his colleagues hopped on the subway. Esquire reported that the car was filled with people, and they assumed they wouldn’t be noticed.

But when the crowd spotted Rogers, they all simultaneously burst into song, chanting “It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood.” The result made Rogers smile wide.

Read all of the 15 Reasons Mr. Rogers Was the Best Neighbor Ever at CNN.

Mom, Mr. Rogers, I miss you both.

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Perhaps visual artists — maybe painters in particular — feel ordinary, old school, unoriginal. They are not bursting from a canvas wearing a bloody apron and a half-burned tutu. Nor are they installing six-foot View Masters that revolve with the pull of a slot machine arm. Flat, bulky, tangible things they create to hang on walls, so much decor.

But to me, visual artists — maybe painters in particular — are the quintessential artists. So when they take their medium and blend it with my own, I’m enthralled. I noticed recently that, coincidentally or not, most of the original paintings in my home have words somewhere in the picture. That I didn’t buy it all myself makes it an even more compelling fact.

Today I visited my friend, Kathryn Daily’s studio in the International District for an open studio event. I love Kathryn’s work, so it was a joy to see what she’s doing. There were many other terrific artists there, with all their wine and cheese and equipment — including a letterpress that I got to work myself!

I was most taken by the work of Edward Ancher Nelson, particularly his watercolors of groups of people. The image is an example of the many on display in his studio and in the hallways of the building. One slim painting traversed the length of the staircase, with myriad portraits of people and their characteristics, fading into the horizon line at the bottom of the stairs. “Scatalogical.” “Cat-like.” “Self-Involved.”

Nothing puts me at a loss for words like a painting. I blame my inadequate art history education for not being able to describe what I like about a work of art. Sure, as I said, I love words in art, but that isn’t all that appeals to me about his work. There’s a feeling of both individual importance and anonymity that Nelson’s paintings create. We are only one character, one trait, one moment, and we are together, standing out and blending in all at once. Next to each other one trait shines brightly, while anything else we may be is eclipsed.

And maybe that’s not it at all.

I talked to one artist in her studio about how difficult it is to know where to begin with visual art. For me, that’s usually not the case with writing. Yet I wouldn’t say writing comes easily, either. It comes slowly, not without pain, and with a tremendous deliberation, analysis, and unending correction. I imagine the painter throwing his or her soul against the canvas, using technique only as a lens. The creation is already there in the mind. Perhaps that’s not how it is.

But for my writing, every moment feels precarious, uncharted. Every word, as it appears on the page, means crap. Crap, crapping crappiest crapness. And later, when I look it over again, sometimes it means more. Sometimes not.

How pedestrian, how droll to trade in meanings, line my ideas up and assassinate them with periods at the end of every sentence. How boring to explain. Quick, someone give me a canvas, and a clue where to begin. There’s a soul here in need of throwing.

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The book is called Women. Period. Wanna guess what it’s about?

Why is it that our “time of the month” is taboo? In some cultures, menstruating women are banished from their marital beds during Aunt Flo’s visit.

In our culture we come up with cute names to talk about menstruation, mimic it in television commercials with something that looks like it could clean windows, and charge exorbitant prices for pressed cotton wrapped in something called Dry-Weave — to keep it away from us.

And yes, even though I see right through all these euphemisms and whitewashes, I am still embarrassed that I wrote two poems — one of which I even count among my best — about the subject. Worse yet, they’re not hiding away in a document on my now dead computer. They’re out there, in the world. In a book.

So it is with a familiar mix of pride and shame, and shame of my own shame — metashame? — that I announce this publication. Truly it’s a gift that I get to put something in my artist’s resume. Certainly it’s an honor to be chosen. And someday it will be a funny story.

For now, it’s mine. And damn it, I’m proud of it.

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It’s a pretty good deal. To start out you post ten books you can part with (they don’t really have to be paperbacks, but keep in mind that you’ll be paying postage, so paperbacks are cheaper), and you get two credits to spend. One credit = one book.

Once I was done posting my books, I immediately had five requests, so half of my books were wanted — and these were the books I knew I’d never read again. I thought for a moment that the site was that active, but it turns out that you can make a wish list, and when the book comes available, you get first dibs (assuming you’re first in line, that is). Pretty neat.

When two of the members who had wishlisted my books confirmed that they wanted them, I promptly went to the post office to mail the books, which was my biggest mistake. I didn’t like the idea of setting up a postage account with them and printing my postage — how would I know exactly how much postage I would need? That would mean that some of my money was always in their hands: add all of that extra postage up, and it’s likely a lot of money. Smells like a racket to me, and I’m careful not to give money to something that feels that way to me, no matter how little money it may be, on principle. Well, as I mentioned, that was a mistake. It turns out that had I printed the postage, they would have considered the book not just mailed, but received. And therefore my two credits would already be available.

As it is, I have to wait until the members receive the books I mailed and go online to mark them received. According to their site, that could take 15 days! Also, at the automated mailing station at the post office (it was closed), I couldn’t buy media mail, only first class or priority, so I spent more than I had to, about $5.35 to mail two books.

The site was down for maintenance when I first visited, and pretty slow moving (and relatively unattractive… just saying) once it was back up. And my wish list is far longer than the list of books I wanted to read that were available. Like me, other readers are probably only putting their least favorites up for swap.

But this is only my first day, and some of my dissatisfaction was my own stupid fault. So I’ll have to keep you posted on how it goes from here on out.

Update: So another person confirmed that they wanted one of my books and I went the pre-paid postage route. It is not cheaper, and I do feel ripped off. I spent $3.50 on the postage, $.50 of which was a fee for using my credit card.

The postage cost $2.41, and I also spent $.43 on the per-book transaction fee of using the prepaid postage service. I did get instant credit, but when it costs 39% of the postage to mail it from home, that’s not a bargain.

Of course, I could have put more money into the postage account, thereby spreading the $.50 over multiple shipments, but even if I spread it over, say, 10 shipments, that would still be $.48 per shipment, or in this case, a 20% premium.

There is a second option I’m going to try next time. This feature prints the mailing label with a confirmation bar code on it — as soon as your mail is scanned in at the post office, you get credit for the trade. It costs something like $.23 (I can’t find the exact price, bad user experience, folks), and of course, since I only have $.16 in my account now, I will have to spend another $.50 to get my account balance up to the point where I can use it. Sigh.

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It turns out that like the Bush Administration, I was wrong. (It may be the only way in which I am like the Bush Administration, but that’s another story.)

This morning on the way to work, I heard this story on my local NPR affiliate, KUOW:

After years of using the word “jihadist” to describe terrorists who carry out attacks against civilians and the U.S. military, the Bush administration has finally realized that doing so actually pays those groups a compliment in the eyes of some Muslims.

Since the Sept. 11, 2001, terrorist attacks, the Bush administration has relied on terms like “jihadist” and “Islamic extremists.” But jihad has very positive connotations in the Islamic world. It is akin to religious duty: when someone wants to better themselves, they embark on a jihad. Whether it’s to quit smoking, pray more, and in some cases, fight off anyone preventing them from practicing their religion.

Jihad is not, as I have believed, about militarism, but about duty to God. I guess, though I am not much for any of the capitalized deities, I can understand that, if only from the perspective of having the sincere drive to better myself however I can.

Like, for example, being a better blogger, one who posts on a regular basis instead of letting entire weeks pass between posts. I will try harder, I promise, though I am still pretty loathe to call it a blogging jihad.

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The researchers analyzed bones from five such individuals that lived at Sima de los Huesos, a cave in Atapuerca, Spain. Using skull bones, they created very detailed three-dimensional computerized tomography (CT) reconstructions of the cave dwellers’ outer and middle ear. CT involves multiple X-ray-like images that serve as thin slices, which gradually build whole body parts or other structures.

The comprehensive model revealed that the Atapuerca human-ish residents had a heightened sensitivity to sounds falling between one and five kilohertz, a range linked to listening to speech that other primates seem to lack.

“Our results show that the audition of hominids of the Sima de los Huesos was equivalent to ours, and clearly different to that of the chimpanzees,” Mendizabal said.

He and his team recently presented the findings at the Acoustics ‘08 meeting in Paris.

The hearing range they detected indicates H. heidelbergensis spent around 90 percent of its time listening to sounds that fall within the bandwidth of speech. Their hearing was best suited to such noises, even though they could also listen to other sounds, just as we can today.

Looks like we were a talkative bunch, even back then. You don’t say.

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