I found myself at the library again, looking at my pile of books, preparing for their ‘30 minute call’. Here is a textual illustration of my view.
The Books Next To Me(Top to Bottom):
The Robbers and Wallenstein, Friedrich Schiller
I never remember if he’s spelled ‘c Schiller’ like my grade school friend or ‘no-c Shiller’ like the the man o’ the markets and housing index. I’ve never read anything by either so I suppose it’s not a mystery. I have, however, watched various interviews with Shiller on youtube. Don’t really remember the gist. Upshot was housing prices go up, until they don’t. Then we’re all fucked. He seemed pretty genial about it all, though. Yale’s pretty tight like that. I wonder if he has anything to say about Schiller.
Reflections, Benjamin.
He’s becoming my ‘min man. I’ve been told its pronounced Ben-yah-mean, like I really ‘mean’ everything I say. Or write anyway. I’ve passed that knowledge on to my girlfriend by way of a correction of her speech. I’m not sure she enjoyed it, but I bet she’s since had opportunities to be grateful in conversations. (this is supposed to be self-mocking...hope that comes through...)
The Arcades Project, by My Guy.
The foundation for the pile and the reason any of us is here, reading this. I haven’t but thumbed it and caught snatches online, but this is a very inspiring tome to me. Can’t quite decide what’s to come of it but I’ve thought of naming after it: a blog, a column in a magazine, book of stories, a film. So many projects I won’t finish, or at least publish or produce. But what is production these days anyway? What with the internet and biomimicry and the singularity and all. We probably can just walk around the city aimlessly, thinking our thoughts, safe in that knowledge that cognition is production and we are our own best consumers.
In Front of Me:
The Uses of Literature, Italo Calvino
I’d have more to say about not reading these books, but my hunger and other bodily impulses have finally caught up with me. Plus, there’s a cat out there, somewhere in the night, that is waiting for me to feed it. No metaphor.