One Book

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"Walden is the only book I own, although there are some others unclaimed on my shelves. Every man, I think, reads one book in his life, and this one is mine. It is not the best book I ever encountered, perhaps, but it is for me the handiest, and I keep it about me in much the same way one carries a handkerchief – for relief in moments of defluxion or despair." (White in The New Yorker, May 23, 1953)

A friend recently invited me to be interviewed on a new literary site (info to come later). He asked me a bunch of questions about reading and writing. When thinking about the answers, I wanted to look back at books I own, but I couldn’t find many of them. Right now my books are scattered around the world, and I feel slightly unsettled because of this.

Some of my books are en route from Germany. Others are in the Oak Park Apartment, while others are in boxes soon to be placed into storage. I don’t like having them in three different places.

This got me thinking about beloved books and the above White quotation.

So I wonder, what’s your "one book"?

Easter Eggs in July

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Tonight I had dinner with . Moments like this make me so happy to be home. One of my favorite things to do is sit and talk with friends over food and drink–those meaty conversations that nourish your whole person. Sometimes the conversations are mundane and earthy, sometimes they are provocative and philosophical. They are always treasured.

And speaking of treasures, [info]swampwitch brought me a gift–an egg that she purchased because it’s a "Valya Egg."

It was actually labeled as a Valya Egg! And it’s purple and sparkly, and it opens like a Fabergé egg. The egg has already been claimed by this mini steampunk poppet (one of Lisa Snelling‘s creations) seen gazing longingly above.

Because I have an uncommon name, I was never able to find any of those personalized gifts that kids sometimes had in the 80s: bracelets, bookmarks, or mugs. There may have been a Valerie or a Val, but I was neither of those. A friend once made me a wooden sign of my name, I have it to this day because it was the only thing with my name.

And now this egg.

Plus [info]swampwitch knows me well enough to know that I am fascinated with eggs as symbols, a part of folklore and tradition, and as a storytelling tool. Eggs by their very nature hide something precious inside. They connect generations. They hold their stories hidden inside the shells. They are a perfect symbol of potential.

(Painted eggs, called pysanky, are an important (and one of my favorite) part of Ukrainian culture. To read more about them from a previous LJ post, click here.)

I wanted to write more about friendship and hidden treasures, but I’m falling asleep on the keyboard.
More later.
Night all.

Retaliation?

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My relationship with technology has always been precarious (all the more interesting that I married a computer programmer). Things technological break down or function oddly around me. I’ve often speculated that nefarious powers were behind it.

When my Kyle Cassidy Collaboration partner Ember and I put our heads together, we created the Snafoo mythos to reveal the technomagical gremlins behind most of the world’s technological woes.

However, ever since we started this collaboration project and website, the tech-pranks have been increasing in frequency around me.

Last week my computer began playing a song I had never heard before. I shut all my browsers and programs, and the song kept playing. Just as I was going to shut down my Mac, the song stopped and vanished without a trace.

This past weekend, every atm machine that I visited was broken and gave me odd messages like: check health, notify attendant. This week my batteries are dying, even the new ones I just installed.

I think that the Snafoo are a wee bit upset that we’re calling them out! I’m a bit nervous of what they may have in store (so I’m backing up my files and printing out manuscripts, just in case).