#I have over 30 individual paper bags that I love and cherish

[clown-bastard-man]

Ok yeah clowns are a weird thing to like but try also being the type of autistic who likes paper bags. Gets unexplainably giddy when a paper bag is near. You have a gift for me? It’s a paper bag?? Thank you, I am now gonna be thinking about this all day, I can’t wait to add it to the collection when I get home. Oh it’s a wax paper bag? That just made my fucking week.

[waitingforminjae]

When I was a kid I would spend my after-school hours at a place that, for the sake of potential creeper awareness I will call, somewhat ominously, the Center. The Center was right across the street from a Preschool, which I’m pretty sure was run by the same people. I attended both and have extremely fond memories of both bc there I felt safe and normal.

When I was about 7 my school switched to a “year-round schedule” which, for our purposes, meant that the new admin had no fucking clue what they were doing we didn’t have breaks at the same time as the other schools in the area. My dad worked at these other schools, and my mom was to sick to take care of me so I couldn’t stay home during these weird breaks. So that left the question of what the hell to do with me in these seven hours before the Center opened.

I ended up staying the day at the Preschool, in the “Four Year Old/Pre-K Class” then going over to the Center about 2:30 when it’s teachers arrived. I have a lot of fun memories, and some of my most cherished ones, associated with this time. There was one other school in the area that had the same funky schedule, so there were usually two or three of us older kids there, but for the most part it was us surrounded by toddlers. 

And these tiny humans absolutely loved me.

At the time, I couldn’t have told you why little kids love me so much. They just did. Without doing anything consciously, I had an army of munchkins at my disposal to take over the world at any given moment. They would talk with me, follow me around their playground area, listen to me. It was wild and I miss them dearly.

I remember one time this other older boy asked me why these kids loved us so much. I, in typical me fashion, rambled out this idea that we were kinda like a cool gem to these kids, like a diamond, and because we were different they wanted to be be around us because we were cool. I didn’t know what I was trying to describe, but I was becoming aware of a vague idea of why these kids loved us, and me in particular.

They were twofold:

I didn’t treat them any differently.

One time when I was around 8, I was sitting at a table with some of the kids. This one boy was chattering away to me, and I was engaged and listening to him. He asked me if I had a boyfriend and I told him that I didn’t. He then looked at me, and said “Can I be your boyfriend?” 

I was like, Oh Shit. I just explained to him that I wasn’t really looking to date anyone right now, and that I was sorry to turn him down. He took this in stride and continued on about his day.

That’s the most singular instance I can think of aside from the kid who asked if I could come home with him but it also extended beyond talking to them like they were my age. Which leads to number two:

      2. I would actively engage with them.

Most of the other older kids weren’t interested in playing with them, or talking with them. They were babies, after all! But I never minded. If I was playing, as I used to when I was younger, I would let them join me when it was play time. I would play with them when they invited me too, and talk. I would compliment their work and help them if they needed it. My favorite instance went a little like this:

There was this one little boy, I think he was actually in the three-year-old class, who would always follow me around during their outside playtime. He would hold one of my hands sometimes, and he never spoke a word. One time I was sitting with my bag, I was probably around 11 or 12, and he came and sat beside me. He kinda poked around my bag and looked at the book I had brought with me. I took it out and gave it to him to look at. This is the image that has stayed with me:

This small, quiet little boy, even for his age, carefully flipping the pages of my book. He studies them seriously, slowly, almost as if he can read them. It was such a small, calm moment and it still gets me to this day. 

Both of these ideas have since developed into a single hypothesis:

Little kids engage so easily with me precisely because I don’t try to engage with them like little kids.

I’m happy to let children exist in their own space. If a child wants to engage with me, I will be more than happy to participate. I actually listen to what they have to say, and that probably shows in how I respond to them, keeping the conversation going or playing along in their game. I let them show me things, and I don’t talk down or over them. I answer their questions, and I direct questions or comments to them, not to their parents.

I stopped going over to the Preschool when I was about 12 or 13 but a couple of experiences with little kids since has helped solidify this theory:

When I was in my AP World History class, my teacher had to bring in her little girl, about 3 or 4 years old. She’s an adorably precocious kid with blonde hair and sass.

My classmates kept trying to engage with her, but she wasn’t having it. She was cutting up paper and throwing it away. This kid, Homeslice actually, asked “Can I have a hug?”

She brushes past him, little hands full of paper, and says “I’m a little busy right now.” 

I wish I had a picture of his face bc it was gr8.

So it’s about 15 minutes later and we’re doing individual work and she gets her IPad and comes up and clambers into the empty seat beside me. She looks at me seriously, then asks

“Do you want to see my games?” 

I told her I would love to see her games, and she spent the class showing me how to play her little kid games. It’s one of my favorite memories.

I think this little girl chose to talk to me because I hadn’t been bothering her before. When everyone else had been talking to her, I had just watched. When she looked in my direction, I would smile at her so she would know I was friendly and open to her. So she chose me because I hadn’t been cooing and crowding around her like a Special Object. 

The second one was just last night.

One of my floormates brought her little niece, maybe 3 years old, into the Common Room with her for a minute. Everyone said the usual “Oh she’s so cute!” and “Hi, *girls name*!” that people always say to kids. She didn’t respond, obviously a little overwhelmed and shy. Then, when they left to get something from Floormate’s room, everyone said the usual “Bye!” or “Bye bye!”. I made eye contact with her and smiled, and told her “It was nice to meet you, *name*.”

She gave this genuine and sweet smile around her bottle and it made my day.

I don’t really know where I’m going with this but little kids seem to respond best when you don’t treat them like little kids and instead treat them as valuable equals. That’s all.

[hub-pub-bub]

Before her Netflix series, patron saint of minimalism Marie Kondo first entered our lives through her best-selling book The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up, teaching hoarders and people struggling to clean house how to let go of objects that didn’t bring them joy. With the recent release of Tidying Up with Marie Kondo, suddenly everyone was following her mantra, clutching household items to see if there was a spark and, if not, cathartically discarding them.

I watched this obsession sweep through my social media feeds, my friends posting pictures of to-be-donated loot and freshly organized homes. Everyone buzzed with this downsizing energy, until they discovered an aspect of the KonMari Method that didn’t spark any joy whatsoever.

In keeping with her philosophy, Marie Kondo shared that she keeps her collection of books to “about thirty volumes at any one time,” recommending to her readers and viewers that they do the same. But she also acknowledged that “the act of picking up and choosing objects is extremely personal” and that people should go with their gut when it comes to their books—because unlike other clutter, books can serve as conduits for knowledge and imagination. But in the game of telephone that is the internet, something got misinterpreted somewhere and everyone assumed she meant everyone should only have 30 books. No exceptions.

The literary internet exploded: “You can have my books when you pry them from my cold dead hands!” Blogs and opinion pieces proliferated, full of indignant readers decrying this proclamation. A few voices finally managed to cut through the noise and set the record straight, but the manic frenzy had already exposed readers for what we really are: possessive lunatics who could let go of a lot of things, but refused to part with our books. Literary Gollums that wouldn’t let anyone take away our preciouses.

I understood and was sympathetic to this reaction; I too cherish my books. I’ve loved to read since childhood. But I also understood Marie Kondo’s point of view and rationale for keeping her book collection to a minimum. For the past few years, I’ve had, at most, five to 10 actual books in my personal library. Yes, you read that correctly, five to 10 books.

Shortly after college, I moved abroad. With a small moving budget and no job prospects, I had to discard most of my worldly possessions. To that end, I donated the vast majority of my rather large book collection. I did keep a few titles to take abroad, such as my signed copy of David Sedaris’s Me Talk Pretty One Day, Love in the Time of Cholera by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, and a collection of haunting short stories by Jean McNeil.

I lived in Chile for three years, where books are very expensive, incomes are low, and the selection of English-language books is subpar. I knew I would eventually return to the States or move elsewhere—and when I did, I would once again need to downsize my library. So, during my time in Chile, I mostly abstained from buying physical books, relying instead on e-books.

At the end of 2018, the time came for another move and so, with a heavy heart, I turned to my solitary bookcase. On the top shelf sat my meager collection, the other shelves used to display photos and tchotchkes. There were 15 volumes in all: some new, some not.

I took down each book. I fanned the pages through my fingers, held it to my face, inhaled the scent. Stroking the spines, I recalled my personal history with each book: Where did I buy it, when did I read it, how did it impact me? Did it bring me joy?

In short: yes. They all brought me joy. So, that clearly couldn’t be my defining question. But what was the defining question and which books should stay with me?

There were some obvious keepers: the David Sedaris. A few books that would remind me of my time in Chile: a book about the art of Chilean bread, another of native folktales. The Jean McNeil.

Then came the cuts. The books I didn’t want to discard, but weren’t as special or important as others. The ones I hadn’t enjoyed. The titles that had made the trip to South America but wouldn’t return: my Gabriel Garcia Marquez, for example. While I still loved the story, I no longer felt the need to bring the book back with me.

Some of my picks stayed the same even after years had passed, while others changed just as I and my tastes had changed. But, as I placed the books I was donating or selling into a separate pile, I noticed a sense of sorrow blanketing the proceedings. I was mourning my books. Why?

Why are we so attached to our books? As I held and decided the fate of each book, I kept coming back to this question. Why was I attached to these physical objects? Paper, binding glue, a cover. Fairly simple and commonplace. I knew I could easily find replacements for my discarded books, and that, with the exception of my David Sedaris—which he had autographed to me personally—the true connection I felt was to the stories themselves. The books were mere vessels. So why didn’t I want to part with them?

Readers, especially “avid” readers, aren’t exactly known for our rationality. We collect, covet, and guard books the way a dragon does jewels. There’s even a word for having too many books: tsundoku. We say it’s about constantly craving new stories and adventures. Discovering new authors. We justify the expenditures as the desire to financially support writers, publishers, our own neighborhood bookshop.

The simple answer for our attachment to books is that it’s about emotion. Reading a story is a deeply personal and intimate act: connecting or empathizing with the struggles of the characters; being swept along by the narrative; losing yourself in the descriptions of a landscape. And when our feelings get involved, rationality goes out the door. We conflate these physical objects with their stories —and our emotional reactions to those stories—making it harder to separate the two. Any object can be imbued with meaning by circumstance or association, but books more so because of what they contain and how stories speak to us.

“But it’s not just the story!” you may say. “It’s also about the book itself: the feel of its feathered pages, that old- or new-book smell, the weight of it in your bag.” Yes, a book is a divine object, timeless and yet finite in its physical state. A book can be lost, damaged, burned, but the story lives on. Maybe the book was a present from someone special. Maybe it was bought and read during a key life moment. All this can make it harder to separate the raw physicality of the book from the emotional pull of the story. The book is the story and the story is the book. And that’s the complex answer. I too love the feel of an actual book in my hands, but does that mean that I need it? I need the story, that’s why I bought the book. Shouldn’t it matter more the why of reading, not the how?

Living abroad and trying to keep my collection to a minimum while staying up to date with bestsellers and popular reads, I had to turn to e-books, which was a significant departure for me. I’d never been a fan of e-books, and at first I resisted them. I missed the feel of a book, the heft, the sense of satisfaction of slotting a bookmark into place, watching the slow march of pages falling from right to left as I read through the book, accumulating as more and more of the story was laid bare to me. But as I read more ebooks, I gradually understood and embraced their uses: they take up only virtual space, they’re cheaper, and infinitely easier to transport. Perfect for someone who isn’t ready to put down roots like me.

But many lit-lovers scoff at people who use e-readers or who have small book collections, arguing that they’re not real readers or not as “serious”—as if it’s a competition. And much of the culture around literature supports this obsessive book hoarding. The former Shelfari’s Compulsive Book Hoarders website (now merged with GoodReads) required members to have 1,000 books in their personal libraries before signing up. Readers on Instagram display their packed shelves with pride. We love to brag about how many books we have.

So, we can only be good readers and love books if we have a massive personal library? This exposes a blatantly materialist and classist side of book culture. When considering this, I’m reminded of a popular John Waters quote: “If you go home with someone and they don’t have books, don’t fuck them.” When I was younger I took this flawed concept to heart: I shouldn’t be with someone who doesn’t have books because that means they don’t read, and if they don’t read they’re….what? The implication is that if someone doesn’t read, doesn’t have shelves of books in their home to display their intelligence, they’re uneducated and unsophisticated. It’s a very morally superior view, snobbish and condescending. And I reject that.

I’ve lived in a country where most people can’t afford to buy many—if any—books, and libraries aren’t readily accessible. But that doesn’t mean the people I met weren’t astute, engaged, thoughtful individuals. I have a partner who has never read the Harry Potter series—something I once considered a deal breaker due to their childhood significance for me—because they’re too expensive. The ability to own books does not dictate worth or intelligence.

I’ve completely reevaluated my relationship to books and reading in the past few years. I’ve constantly questioned my impulse to buy books, knowing that I’d likely need to discard them, weighing my desire to travel and save money against my love of books. I’ve had to find the balance. I’ve had to fight the urge to accumulate more and more, and instead prioritize story over form.

At the end of the day, I still struggle with it. I will probably always prefer real books. I want to buy a book at every bookstore I visit. My dream home does include a giant library with a cozy reading nook. But my attitude toward reading has matured. I have rejected elitist attitudes. I’ve gotten rid of hundreds of books in my short time on this earth, but that doesn’t mean I love books any less. It means I’m able to let objects go while still treasuring the lessons and morals they gave me. The important thing is that people read and learn. While I hated selling my books when preparing to leave Chile, I loved that I could sell them to other readers. Reading is a solitary act, but the love of reading and literature is communal. How stories get passed down has evolved many times, from spoken word to papyrus scrolls to paper to e-books. But what books convey to readers remains the same: a story, an idea, a transport to somewhere new.

If you want to have a giant library, have a giant library. Or not. It’s okay to only have a few books. Or no books. Or e-books. Let go of books or hold onto them. Do what works for you, just as I found a method that works for me, a flighty reader who has learned to appreciate the convenience of modern reading technology. What sparks joy for me is the act of reading itself and the pleasure and reflection it provides.

ZOE BAILLARGEON is an award-winning travel writer, essayist, and journalist whose work has appeared on CEREAL, Life & Thyme, Roads & Kingdoms, Glyph, Good Mood Magazine, SFR, and Amuse by VICE, among others. She's currently in the process of drafting her first full-length book.

[taylorzft8264220-blog]

What Preventative Measures To Observe When Micro waving?

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Baseding upon Daily Headlines Central In a research study published final month, Food and Drug Administration analysts said microwave popcorn bags alone can subject the general public to 'thousands of times' more C8 compared to usual use quality cooking equipment." The C8 is then taken in due to the folks eating the popcorn. Heating up foods the common way is actually a long process, as compared with the rapid home heating solutions that the microwave gives. Yet another threat that microwave oven is understood for is its own ability to superheat fluids. Since this is actually virtually impossible to maintain checking for microwave leakage, you may reassure your own self in various other aspects: take down the serial number, electrical power, style, place, year from manufacture and also connect with individual; affix a paper which specifies all safety and security components on the oven; if you feel any leakage from microwaves, either repair it or even dispose of the unit. . If you possess a restricted kitchen space, you could wish to consider acquiring an over the variety microwave. These are just a few recognized realities concerning the threats from cooking food in microwave ovens. For instance, if you plan to perform a ton of roasting or broiling, you will need to purchase a stove along with a grill. The Panasonic NN-SD967S is among the top kitchen countertop microwave ovens readily available on the market.

[lazilygreatdreamland]

dust and expanse

So picture this: riding down the dirt double track, dust pushes up from the chassis in all directions.  The mid-day sun feels warm as it radiates through the topless Rover.  At 30 mph we feel the dips, rocks, and stones against our backs and butts; my hands feel the vibration of the road (of life) through the steering wheel; we make our way to the bluff outcropping on the near horizon.  Vegetation seems sparse - but for the environment’s natural pattern. We are at one with what is here.

Comfortable shirts, ball caps, and canvas shorts are well worn and only slightly thread bear; our tan legs and arms wink with the touch of the sun; trail shoes and tech socks make us prepared and light.  This day seems to have stretched on for weeks as we relish the time, the date, and how very, very far we are from everything.

The leather bench seat has remnants of past dirt and grasses, the floor boards are well encrusted with dried mud from wetter encounters.  Somehow the stream crossings have done little to wash the dirt from the lower door panels, and residue remains as a water line for future tests.  The gear shift knob is long ago missing (oops), replaced with a block of well worn wood; the motor hums effortlessly with the power of a 10 second car without the pretense.  A raised air intake fills the motor from above the roof line with an unobstructed breeze from our forward motion.

We each rely on only two of the five-point seat belt tie down points.  After-market installed, we laugh at how long it took to ‘test’ the control they offer in rough conditions – first we tested yours then we tested mine.  All in all, they proved to hold well beyond what they were intended to hold, so we knew we would be safe in a rollover.

The full-on roll cage leaves peace of mind well preserved; while the attached speakers beat a sweet gyration of lofi hiphop just behind.  Gear is strapped under a spider web of one inch webbing using every available floor lash point.  Two gas cans and a full size spare ride securely on the back swing-away gate. The mud jack will be over sized for this trip, while grossly under sized during previous, wetter adventures.

The side shields on our mountaineering glasses keep what would otherwise be a bright day off our eyes.  You effortlessly check your smile within my glasses reflection; your pursed lips leave an indelible mark on my soul.  All in all, we are very content with where we are; and are easy with knowing much and saying little.

Looking towards the coming horizon, the afternoon sky is diminished by a heavy, gray and white mass of clouds in the distance. Far off, it will be a meandering storm late in the evening for which we will prepare.  This day is our theater and we play it well.

ACT I –

Pages of our journals flip in the breeze as we are at the table in front of our tent.  Pens, ink, pencils, charcoal and finger clothes are piled along with the less important solar panels and cords.  We sit across from one another in relaxed motion using our imaginations to etch on the pages what we see and what saw us.  Our unique vision of the environment leaves everything to the imagination – more brush strokes than words on the pages; our feelings and pictures fill the void of the journals bound in leather and secured with cord.  White cloth tape and ink number the series of journals we amassed carrying our thoughts inspired by the likes of Van Gogh, Monet, and Yeats.  We are composers of what stories lay just out of grasp.

ACT II –

Dusk is upon us as too is the cool breeze of the evening.  Marked with a faint smell of moisture in the air, we write and draw and stroke our visions to the journal pages.  Coaxing our subtle thoughts, gentle breaths and misty visions to the pages, the spread paper is left with the wet ink of the pen turned dry before the next thought is laid down and page turned.  We revel in the mere act of the written thought and its breath and action.  The age old art of moving thought and feeling to the two dimensional world it still alive a millennium after the first spark of thought left a scraped etch on a rock or wood or cave.  Each medium in time moves a thought to a feeling to a symbol and back again.  Interpretation is left to the passionate devices of the interpreter.

ACT III –

As night falls, we fill the crates with what needs protection from the coming elements; wind, rain, dust - all working together to bring us a concert of nature and its motion.  Zipping the coated canvas doors shut we are damp from the humid atmosphere in close quarters.  Our lifted mattress leaves plenty of space underneath for stashing the things we couldn't afford to lose.

Candle lanterns light the edges of the tent and cast shadows of our silhouettes as we strip and slide into the bags turned comforters.  Our body’s dust turns moist as the night and we roll on.

Tomorrow we will continue our journey towards the bluffs and its ever present whisper.  Knowing our journal pages leave much space for the anticipated experience, we rest knowing we have done much and captured what we could.  This evening however, we feel there is more to experience before our feet return to the ground and our journey forward.

ACT IV -

Lying spread and tangled and disorderly under the cotton layers we sense the coming storm; the wind comes in advance of the moisture and the ensuing flapping of the fabric and its folds.  Asleep, lazily we move over and around and under each other; every position is comfortable and reassuring to our nature and what it offers us.

ACT IV.I

Timelessly we wake sleepy eyed to watch the last of the candle lanterns flicker against the tent ceiling.  Our canvas walled enclave has been moving to and fro in fits and starts throughout the night; nature’s calling card, her way of a pleasant introduction before the throws of wetness arrive.  More soft touch and caress of the cheek than hard slap on the bare ass – the storm brings much needed moisture to the valley floor and the soon to be flowering growth.

ACT V –

The day’s heat is abated by the tent’s enclosed humidity and protection from the storm’s drop in temperature.  Now warm but not hot, sitting on the mattress across from one another, dimly light, it’s easy to need no cover of our bodies. Cross legged, erect backs and relaxed; we fold our hands and drop them to those sensitive areas and giggle to ourselves for all the things we have done to these spots and not really admitted to one another.  Some secrets remain secrets only because they are fun to keep and imagine and test.

Eyes open we see past our physical lines and nature to the things we cherish most deeply; the form, the function, the resilience, the fragileness, the strength, the shear manifestation of will and desire. Meditation has always been so natural, so seamless, so engaging.  Tonight is a moment where timelessness is met with a lack of focus which leaves us transcendent over all the things we love to know.  Feelings, senses, motionlessness turn to a mist in the surrounding dimness. Our breath, The breath, your breath, my breath; the breath of the moment seems to move from one to the other then back. Oxygen leaves our surround with only our lungs filling from the other’s exhaustion.  The exhaustion of this moment and all other moments, the moments which now fill the tent to capacity; breaking open the flaps and moving outside and around the tent, moving smoothly around the tent and over the tent; we are engulfed in the moment and its infinite capacity to tell all, see all, know all, sense all, and remember nothing.  It’s at this moment and only this moment which fills our lungs and our minds with our passion.

ACT VI –

Beads of sweat contour our bodies as the night turns onward.  Meditation finds us engaged with the essence of shared oblivion.  Rain hits the tent with a full give; moving from the roof to the walls to the ground, it contours its nature in symphony with ours.

The dirt floor takes on rivulets of water as the ground around the tent swells with wetness.  The crates and table legs and bed legs work diligently to provide refuge amidst the streams; in one side of the tent and out the other moves the water accompanied by our thoughtless thoughts.

In full exhaustion we breathe our last breaths together in unison.  Falling onto the mattress completely spent, our bodies return to their individual state of form, function, and breath.  Sleepiness turns to relaxed collapse and that never ending expanse of spread and tangled and disorderliness.