Wednesday, October 5, 2011

Ken Drives By

Ken comes by in his car, and slows down as i am loading my car with tools, and he says he is drawing a lot, over in Bothell, can't recall the name of the gal who runs it, but its pretty good, though its during the work day, but there are some pros there, like Ned Mueller, and i ask him if there are nude models, and he says 2 out of 3, but they are really good. You should go, he says, I say, well, i would like to, but really, i think, what is the point here? Its not like i am getting work out of this- the poses aren't long enough.The economy crashes, and suddenly there's no drawing anymore. No one drawing, except out in Bothell.

I collect books. I would guess i have 5,000 or 10,000. My nephew tried to calculate. I collect nothing thats worth anything, just stuff that inspires me, either by content, or its cover. I like complete series of things. If i learn that there more buy an author, i want them all. Or a series. But nothing expensive, not first editions. But a vast library of, well, my own brain. Truly, like these its my brain you walk into when you peruse these books, each one a synapse that fires.

I mention this as I know that books, like drawing, are on their way out. A person can take a photo, and convert it to a perfect watercolor or charcoal drawing, a person can read anything on a kindle. Theres's not going to be a reversal of this movement, its sensible, energy efficient, and matches the mood of a world more crowded and less able to deal with material things, like books, or drawings.

But it occurred to me today, that there is a difference. And I am trying to recall now what my insight was. I think it was this: that there is a psychic difference in whether a computer does the work, or a person. That maybe, maybe, maybe, it matters if a life form processes the information, that one draws, that one picks up a real book, that its real, and processed by a psyche. Dang. And that somehow matters. I say it now and it seems like it doesn't matter.

I don't know that it does. We live in interesting times. A curse. Some say we haven't felt at home since the 12th century. When everything was so clear. Actually, that's something i saw in  movie starring Ronald Reagan- called King's Row, pretty darn good, and i think the sentiment is from Henry Adams-his book Mont St Michelle- isn't that  right?

 Is there some sort of psychic world? Something that proceeds? Something that develops? Apart from the world of dinosaur dioramas? Is it possible- even remotely- that this all makes some sort of differnce? All this hassle, all of this birthing, deathing?