78. to the moon and back.

 oklahoma is OK

 desert watchmen

 so nice, we ate there twice.

green vegetarian, san antonio

conference hotel

3279 miles, 10.5 days
dry heat and sunshine framed by midwestern thunderstorms
mountains, stars, burros, guacamole, scissor-tailed flycatchers, gallon water jugs, forrest gump, wranglers, dust, canyons, hospitality, wildfires, lyndon b. johnson, gasoline, quiet, prickly pears, roads, jenny, and jeremy.

76. negative capability.

75. no-coat monday.

a day without cold medicine is a good day. 
class, cover letters, reading, editing, etc.

74. katie getting married.

i journeyed north to the suburbs briefly for my sister's bridal shower:

 i am not a nun.

our view: paddle tennis courts

 bulletin board VIPs at the clubhouse

it's good luck when the wedding colors match chocolate.

garlic grater

its a (tiny) thing!

73. mail season.

letter from dad.

we're pen pals now.

my sister's wedding invitation

and my friend suruchi's

this thing is an entire foot wide

a foot wide

72. hold yo ground.

sore throat, stuffy face, busy mind.
had to miss the edible books festival and helping out at a stop-motion workshop with kids.
bummer.
the doctor at the health center gave me a bag of drugs and gatorade and was excited that we had the same birthday (capricorns have to stick together).
dreaming healthy thoughts...

71. no balance, franz?

"I think we ought to read only the kind of books that wound and stab us. If the book we're reading doesn't wake us up with a blow on the head, what are we reading it for? So that it will make us happy...? Good Lord, we would be happy precisely if we had no books, and the kind of books that make us happy are the kind we could write ourselves if we had to. But we need the books that affect us like a disaster, that grieve us deeply, like the death of someone we loved more than ourselves, like being banished into forests far from everyone, like a suicide. A book must be the axe for the frozen sea inside us. That is my belief."


--Franz Kafka, letter to Oskar Polak, January 27, 1904

70. flounce.

rare books in wrappings

1902: when nightgowns knew no gender, and the world was better for it.
i'm on board with this as required napwear.

69. give us this day our daily diet coke.

the pop culture conference is just a few weeks away and so i have finally begun assembling my presentation.
it is bringing back nice memories of frequent outbursts of laughter in our cataloging office during that project, especially last spring when the items in the collection took particularly weird turns on a daily basis.
i'm happy to continue sharing these things with a small pocket of the world this month.



in other news, my mom adopted a 9-year-old dog today.
she said that when his ears flop behind his head, he looks like dobby the house elf.

i tried removing his red eye with photo editing software, but it made him look like he had no soul or pupils. rock on, pup.

68. kid stuff.

a note to start the work day:

and open the book i did, to discover the stamp that seems to account for where these strange books are born: