Things and not-things

Two pretty full recycling bins. Photo taken from across the street and then extremely cropped to ensure it would be poor quality. This isn’t something I’ve been thinking about, but it is something that occurred to me. I can also say something like “I have been looking for something to occur to me.” I’ve been scouting out occurrences, as the things I do think about are not currently fitting the mold of written sentences. [Fade to black on this comment.] The “this” of the first sentence is the idea that what I want to make may have a lot in common with people’s recycling bins--not just the bins themselves, but specifically filled up bins placed on the curb--and more specifically the bins in Philly that look like the ones in the above photo. Either that, or it’s the idea that recycling bins have something to them that I’d like my made, 3-D things to have. (Does it make a difference from which direction a question gets asked? From which of the two contributing sides it approaches [my makin...

          As there isn't any relevant photo to accompany this post, I've decided to include a picture of the "holiday table" with "holiday train schedules" at Jefferson Station. I never know exactly how to say this (somehow I’m constantly catching myself using extremely conclusive language [“never”] about things that are in endless flux [what I know ]), but I want to say that my favorite thing about something is that it’s not something else. My favorite thing about a bagel is that it’s not a raspberry. My favorite thing about a tablecloth is that it’s not a book. Like most things that can be said, in addition to saying this I also want to ask what I mean by it. First, a few reasons that make up the “favorite” component of this.  I love how overwhelmingly true these not-object-statements are. This point isn’t the central source of the deep intrigue I feel and associate with not-things, isn't the reason these statements surpass other statements that coul...

There’s a guy in my neighborhood who I refer to as “the novel writer.” He’s always sitting in coffee shops or on benches, always has a couple books on him (one seeming to be a notebook), and I think I’ve only ever seen him looking out into space or noticing everyone who walks by. This guy is everywhere--absolutely everywhere!--but only the everywheres that seem to provide him with the best opportunities for observation and contemplation. So I like to think.  I have a positive feeling about this guy. And I like to assign a kind of mystique to him. I’ve mainly ever seen him alone, and as I’ve mentioned, I’ve seen him a lot--though there was this one time I saw him sitting at a coffee shop with someone else, and I overheard them complimenting each other’s sneakers. When I caught a glimpse of him today, I felt that I needed to put him in this blog. As he walked by, I thought: “Alright, he’s going in the blog.” I had this thought in the tone of a this-was-the-last-straw kind of moment, ...

This blog post feels a bit like an interlude. Not really an interlude to my other blog posts, but mainly just an interlude to my started, attempted, not yet written posts. I actually began this blog with the intention that every post would be done in one motion--that there wouldn’t be able to be a post that was started without being finished--that each post would be completed as one fell swoop, as a not-too-thought-out impression of something. But, I seem to be drifting toward posts that want to be longer, or that have more time-consuming thought-projects. Anyway, this post takes on the status of an intermission in that it seems to be…more meaningless than not…a very short tale…not hugely questioning...a stand-up comedian in the midst of a regular old open mic night of sorts. I’m writing about this tin of (presumably) cinnamon that I recently saw at a coffee shop. (Very recently, to be sure, as this is exactly the kind of material that would so quickly fade to black if not immediately ...

I often have the experience where someone asks me a question, I think about it, I really look deep into my mind, and then I conclude that, at least in that moment, I can’t find any piece of an answer (= “I have no idea”). When I was on the train home last night, I was thinking of one specific instance of this experience I had and I found myself picturing an abstract painting at the end of a long, dark hallway. I think the experience of not knowing how to answer a question feels like what this scenario looks like, but I was also starting to think that all of this is what looking at a painting feels like more generally--how when you’re standing right in front of a one, there are ways in which it’s not also all right there in front of you . I’m inclined to broadly say that a painting is often much closer to someone physically than it is conceptually. And conceptually, it’s always an unattainable distance away (distance that cannot be traveled, or possibly another kind of distance entirely...

There’s a short essay by Danielle Dutton called Not Writing . I first located and read it in n+1 , and later in Danielle’s book, Prairie, Dresses, Art, Other. (The book is divided into these four, noun-titled parts, and the essay, excitingly, appears in the "Other" section) . Somehow, I’m inclined to not only keep reading, but to keep rereading (I don't know if there's necessarily a distinction here, but "keep rereading" is nice in its being an excessive way to express enthusiasm) this short essay, both because it interests me greatly and because I never seem to entirely grasp it. For a while, I’ve been sitting in the awe that reading it brings me--the feeling of receiving a powerful takeaway without being very clear on what the takeaway actually is. More recently, this has developed into an urge to write something down. I like the essay so much that I almost want to just describe it, or simply restate it (not something I typically feel a tendency toward or ...

I’ve been thinking generally and specifically about the interactions I have with objects I walk past on the street. Well, “interactions” may be a little too strong of a word; I’d describe these moments as mild forms of interaction at best–maybe “encounters.” (Somehow this term seems to more justly convey the passivity that is coming across a static thing.) Usually, passing by an object is fantastically boring. Here are some things I moved past today: crunchable leaves, a "NO THRU TRAFFIC" sign, squared off hedges, a piece of twine, pots of mums, a blue bench. (How do these items either build or get incorporated into my stream of looking? Do they suspend or extend the continuous process of seeing that I'm carrying out?) In defense of boring, I often think this quality gets attributed to things that are actually just difficult to know how or what to think about them. The boringness in the above examples comes from the complicated simplicity of seeing an everyday street item...