sunday morning soundtrack

sunday morning soundtrack

driving five over
shuffle softly pages fingertips
wailing muffled despair
shoes shuffle fall almost
moist mouths stage whisper
nervous habit
clickclickclickclickclick
no smoke break during service
love thy neighbor
why don't you?

because:
clickclickclickclick
rustle whimper sigh

hands shaking can't write

cough beep murmur chuckle

awkward greetings

smiles fake fade
you're not here.

maybe i can hear you out there--
pray in face of cold wind
hide from invasive others
keep hands still heart open

just long enough to decide

coming up soon

I finally bought my own scanner. It was about time. I wonder why I didn't think of this earlier, and spent months being intimidated by the possibility of being kicked out of Phillips Hall for trying to use their scanners. I got one that looked similar to the ones I used in Phillips, and it should arrive in a couple of days.

Here's a quick list of what I'm going to scan:

• 2 Viewmaster reels
• puzzle pieces
• greeting cards and envelopes
• tiny, thumbnail-size Ansel Adams images
• philosophy related library index cards (whole and in pieces)
• a deck of miniature playing cards
• film negatives
• Polaroids (I still have a pack of 10 left to shoot)
• a chart depicting Genesis 1:1 in computer code, courtesy of Westminster Theological Seminary

That chart of Genesis 1:1 fascinates me because it accounts for untranslatable words by using the symbol '#' as a placeholder. It reminds me of Howe's inclusion of a chart depicting various alphabets, the one I mentioned in an earlier post about a language curtain.

What is a reader's experience of encountering untranslatable words, placeholders, and gibberish? I suppose either your brain must "skip" the word, mining the whole sentence / phrase / paragraph to get a general meaning from context, or you substitute something else that makes sense to you. Maybe this is the Rorschach test of reading, where your own interpretations reveal more about you to you than about the author.

the language curtain.

Although I'm still afraid all the thoughts I have are rather obvious, I have to start somewhere.

In the section 'Scare Quotes I' Howe presents historical anecdotes, dictionary definitions, and of course quotations.

A bed hanging is a sort of curtain. An 11th century legend of a seamstress who had to discard her embroidered tapestries to evade the witch hunters (44-45) is followed shortly by a chart presenting the alphabets of different languages, which Howe presents as a "curtain" with a subtitle (47). So language is a curtain. Then she provides the definition of a curtain as " 'A cloth contracted or expanded at pleasure; To draw the curtain, to close so as to shut out the light; to open it so as to discern the objects' " (52-53).

This is a wonderful summary of how we can use language. I can't wait to throw open some curtains myself. It seems like Howe enjoys closing them, or leaving them open only a sliver.

on the title, "a meditation on the misplaced"

This is a place where the unnoticed is noticed, and the unappreciated brought to light. This contains the musings of an archaeologist of nostalgia, complete with exhibits provided for your perusal.

This is a place where seeds are sown, secret messages are sent, and playful life abounds.

There is no ultimate, straightforward answer to the fate of the misplaced, because we do not know yet. We are free to speculate. Any stubborn assertions may be arrogant and wrong.

This is a medium through which the importance of the tactile sense may not fully be conveyed, so go play with some cards while reading, or when you're done. Sow them in wonder.