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[all images are Doug McNamara from Esopus, scanned by me]

Things have been hectic this week -- some progress has been made on the housing-in-Vancouver front, though nothing is yet definite -- I've been typing up thousands of handwritten e-mail addresses at my one job and coaching some really high-strung kids at my other job -- I read The Painter From Shanghai -- saw The National, Modest Mouse, and REM last night -- and found a whole slew of really great internet things.

As a sort of segue, I had a funny thought last night in the middle of REM's awesome performance -- earlier yesterday I had watched a TED talk on the Cern Large Hadron Collidor in which the speaker had described the Higgs boson with an anecdote about Margaret Thatcher [around 7:50] and I was standing in this sea of happy people thinking about how we were like boson particles -- one of those dangerously reckless science metaphors, but it was fun at the time.

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Some things I've discovered this week:

Esopus -- a wonderfully inky-smelling journal. Through them I've discovered A Song for Liza Minnelli by Man Man and the incredible drawings by Doug McNamara. They printed some of the drawings on clear vellum which adds an interesting layering effect -- layers of nature peeling away or something.

Print Your Own Graph Paper -- I cannot emphasize enough how exciting this was to me -- my favorite is the off-set polar graph paper

George Lewin's Synonym Puzzle ++ Sam Winston's work especially Dictionary Story Print

This made me remember why I stay away from political 'talk' programs. Linda Nochlin's famous question, 'Why Have There Been No Great Women Artists?' seems all too appropriate -- 37 years after it was first asked.

[from The Waves - Bernard speaking]:

Jinny was the first to come sidling up to the gate to eat sugar. She nipped it off the palms of one's hands very cleverly, but her ears were laid back as if she might bite. Rhoda was wild -- Rhoda one never could catch. She was both frightened and clumsy. It was Susan who first becam wholly woman, purely feminine. It was she who dropped on my face those scalding tears which are terrible, beautiful; both, neither. She was born to be the adored of poets, since poets require safety; some one who sits sewing, who says, 'I hate, I love,' who is neither comfortable nor prosperous, but has some quality in accordance with the high but unemphatic beauty of pure style which those who create poetry so particularly admire.

I'm a little unraveled and very tired, so more writing later.

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