Kest Schwartzman is a metalsmith trained at Massachusetts College of Art. She has been making masks for over a decade. She is now embarking on a journey to make a mask for every creature in the 1969 version of Borges’ “The Book of Imaginary Beings” as translated by Norman Thomas Di Giovanni
Date a girl who doesn’t read because the girl who reads knows the importance of plot. She can trace out the demarcations of a prologue and the sharp ridges of a climax. She feels them in her skin. The girl who reads will be patient with an intermission and expedite a denouement. But of all things, the girl who reads knows most the ineluctable significance of an end. She is comfortable with them. She has bid farewell to a thousand heroes with only a twinge of sadness.
Don’t date a girl who reads because girls who read are the storytellers. You with the Joyce, you with the Nabokov, you with the Woolf. You there in the library, on the platform of the metro, you in the corner of the café, you in the window of your room. You, who make my life so god damned difficult. The girl who reads has spun out the account of her life and it is bursting with meaning. She insists that her narratives are rich, her supporting cast colorful, and her typeface bold.
"If kids are in school right now and want to be astronauts, there’s going to be possibly even more opportunities," Walheim told SPACE.com. "With the commercialization of access to low-Earth orbit, that will give people a chance to go to the International Space Station. And then beyond low-Earth orbit exploration, NASA will be right in the front of that. The one thing I can say to the kids is: Don’t take a shortsighted time frame; look at the long-term time frame, and the future of American space is pretty bright."
As with anything on the Internet, I suspect there will be someone out there that will be, for lack of a better word, butthurt about my little endeavor here. So I figure I’ll explain myself here, and also to people who don’t understand what it is I mean when I make reference to Comic Con Pervs,…
I was late to work today because I wanted to get Buzz Aldrin’s autograph in a dream.
I was going to catch a train—somewhere in Vermont, I think, because I had it stuck in my head to go get maple sugar candy. I had some time before I needed to be at the station, so I went to the souvenir shop across the way, part of which turned out to be the Deke Slayton Memorial Space and [I don’t remember what, except that it seemed as unlikely as bicycles. Cartography, maybe? Sure, let’s go with Cartography] Museum.
I was surprised and entertained that there were not one but two Deke Slayton Memorial Space and [Something Unrelated] museums, and it occurred to me that maybe there were more, scattered around the country. That maybe Deke Slayton had traveled from state to state, leaving behind only these strange little museums dedicated to his hobbies and passions, and the only way he’d been able to get them funded was to append the “Space and.” I resolved to start a tumbler titled something along the lines of “Deke Slayton Takes Pleasure in Unlikely Juxtaposition,” and themed accordingly.
At some point, it morphed into the Buzz Aldrin Memorial Space and Cartography Museum. Also, I worked there.
I remember thinking that it was sort of macabre to call it the Buzz Aldrin Memorial museum, given that Buzz Aldrin was still alive. Using the power of Dream Logic (TM), I rationalized my concern away by concluding that it was probably just that Buzz Aldrin had founded or funded the museum, and the “memorial” part referred to someone or something else.
The Buzz Aldrin Memorial Space and Cartography Museum still sold maple sugar candy, though.
And then Buzz Aldrin came in. He was surprisingly sweet and unassuming and seemed surprised that we—at this point, asonlynasacan was also working there—recognized him. I looked for postcards, ‘cause I wanted to get him to sign one that I could then send to jump-suit, but there weren’t any. Buzz also wanted postcards, and I checked my bag to see if I had any extras but found that the only cards I was carrying were clearly unsuitable and slightly embarrassing promotional ones I’d snagged somewhere to modify later.
Fortunately, we found some souvenir white science-fair-thanks-for-participating-style poly-satin ribbons.
Then, my alarm clock went off, and I fuzzily turned it off and went back to sleep so that Buzz Aldrin could finish signing the prize ribbons.
Every editor has a list of maybe-someday holy-grail projects, licenses, and creators. A collaboration with Valve has been one of mine, for years, and I can’t describe how cool it is to see it finally come to fruition, and to be part of that process.
Watching the final launch of Atlantis this morning, I finally put my finger on what bothers me so fundamentally about the privatization of space travel.
For fifty years, the accomplishments human spaceflight—all that brilliance and innovation and technology and sheer goddamn pluck—have very literally belonged to all of us.That launch this morning? All that pride, and all that inspiration? It was ours.
Human spaceflight will continue, but it’ll no longer belong to everyone. It’s the difference between a state park and a private garden.
Some things should belong to no one—and to everyone. And this is one of them.
Remember when I used to do more than reblog melancholy astronauts and dirty jokes?
I haven’t forgotten you, abstract imaginary audience.* I’ve just been really busy, and I find that I’ve only got so much time to divide between job work, freelance work, unpaid-but-important-to-me work, the rocketship I’m building in your** backyard, and the occasional interpersonal relationship; which leaves little for the internet. Under those circumstances, my ‘net presence tends to shift mostly to Twitter, because it’s designed for the kind of interstitial drive-by posting that best fits through the cracks in my current schedule.
So: I’ve got twothree four*** big projects to finish up before the end of June, and a few days in a cabin in the woods with some friends where we will inevitably go mad and/or awaken ancient evil, but either way probably end up cannibalizing each other just hanging out, and then diving back into the current, which will, ideally, include more actual, original content here.
In the meantime, there will probably be a bit more melancholy astronaut art and blanket forts and comic-book things. Bear with me. We’re almost out of the woods. And into the other woods.****
*I tend to picture you as a cluster of attentive woodland creatures.
**What? You think I’m going to store liquid oxygen in an apartment? See, this is why no one trusts you with heavy machinery.
“At age 78, yes, in many ways. Some things about current society irritate me, such as the adulation of celebrities and the inflation of heroism…Celebrities? What nonsense, what an empty concept for a person to be, as my friend the great historian Daniel Boorstin put it, ‘known for his well-known-ness.’ How many live-ins, how many trips to rehab, maybe—wow—you could even get arrested and then you would really be noticed. Don’t get me started.”—
Mike Collins’ answer in 2009 to: “You are starting to sound a little grumpy. Are you grumpy?”