Here’s a look at marginalia.
I have had about a million discussions about the proper care and handling of books, both from the perspective of a caretaker and an owner. A common sentiment among bibliophiles is that modifying a book in any way is an act of vandalism. Book ownership as a trusteeship; we should preserve our books for future generations, so that they might experience those books as they were originally published. I don’t buy that argument, though. A book is a living thing. The very act of reading it transforms it. From oils in your hands, which over time develop into stains, to creases along the spine, a book that has been read bears scars that testify to its life’s travels. When further transformed, by the addition of annotations, a book becomes a unique and priceless historical document. Not that my marginalia have any pretensions to such importance, but I think they are a far cry from vandalism.
One of my favorite high school teachers said that, if you hadn’t written in a book, you hadn’t truly read it. I don’t know that that’s strictly true, but being given the permission to write in text books dramatically changed the learning process for me. From that point on, I underlined, bracketed, highlighted, dog-eared, and took notes in the margins, all with great glee and abandon. Books became living things I interacted with, instead of passive things that simply existed to be read. Thank you, Mrs. Taylor, for that, and for a whole lot of other stuff. You were one of the bestest teachers EVAR.
I mention this, because it relates to my next altered book project. I still don’t have anything concrete enough to share, but it shall be forthcoming. Soon!
A Festivus for the Restivus? I used to dislike Seinfeld, but then I moved to the Land of No Cable, and discovered that when there’s nothing else on television, Seinfeld isn’t so bad. In fact, it’s occasionally damned good. There’s rarely a day that goes by that something Seinfeldian doesn’t crop up. Right now, as it’s the Solstice Season (Bill O’Reilley can kiss my fat ass), I feel like work is nothing but a revolving staff party. I hate staff parties. I don’t go to them, it makes me cranky to get the inevitable food sign-up memos, and I especially hate the twelfty gabillion e-mails counting down the commencement of the inevitable party. The worst, though, is when higher-ups go around corralling and shaming anti-social folks like me into attending. That especially pisses me off.
So, a co-worker called this morning (I’ve mentioned that I’m the only one who seems able to answer the phone?), asking me to go downstairs to meet her at the loading dock with a book truck, so that she could deliver goodies for this afternoon incarnation of The Party. I was not amused. Not amused in the least. It’s enough to make the Baby Jeebus cry. And, if that doesn’t do it, maybe this will? I mean, who wouldn’t want a menorah made out of tampons?
If you haven’t noticed, I’m not exactly brimful of the Holiday Spirit, whatever the hell that is. Not even the Viggo Mortensen Advent calendar has been able to ungrinchify me.
And now for a quick game of Statstacularity. I have to wonder if the folks who get to my blog or websites via a search engine bother to read the accompanying descriptive text. Because, somehow, I don’t think they do. Otherwise, the person searching for “ejaculating penis photos” probably wouldn’t have bothered visiting. I’m just sayin’… Also, “n.u.d.e. celebrity photos.” And, what’s up with acronymization? Is it supposed to be some sort of super s33kr1t code? I’m still getting lots of hits for puggles and “winter sky,” though singly, not in combination. There’s a thought, though. Imagine a Pug x Beagle, ears outstretched, soaring majestically through the brooding winter sky.
And since I’m in the mood to pick nits (whenever am I not?), the Maya people speak Mayan. There is no -n on the end of the word when it refers to the people themselves, or when it refers to their artifacts. It’s one thing for regular folks to get it wrong, but there is just no excuse for news editors not knowing the difference. That said, this mural is pretty damned cool. What’s special about it is that it dates from ~100BCE, which is 200 years before the classic period. These may be the earliest Maya wall paintings to be discovered.
This portion of the mural depicts a king making a blood sacrifice by piercing his penis. The practice was common among Maya rulers, who bore responsibility for the well being of their subjects. The genitals or tongue would be pierced using either an obsidian blade or a stingray spine. Pieces of bark paper were soaked in the blood, or, in some cases, ropes made of bark paper were pulled through holes pierced through the skin. The blood-soaked paper would then be burned in an offering to the gods.
To the ancient Maya, blood sacrifice was necessary for the survival of the gods, who in turn provided the Maya with everything they needed. The gods could not exist without the Maya, and the Maya could not exist without their gods.
I’m all blogged out, but since I invoked Viggo up there somewhere, I’ll leave you on this note:
I’m not anti-Bush; I’m anti-Bush behavior. In other words, I’m against cheating, greed, cruelty, racism, imperialism, religious fundamentalism, treason, and the seemingly limitless capacity for hypocrisy shown by Bush and his administration.
— Viggo Mortensen
red paper boat 
