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At the public library where I work, there are two groups of computer terminals, at which one may use Microsoft Office, spend life on the internet 60 minutes at a time, or search the collections belonging to several libraries in the region. Excepting a scattershot but otherwise hefty catalogue of free-to-check-out DVDs for kids, the internet access these terminals provide seems, at times, to be the only reason the library exists. Adults read gossip columns and keep up on email while teens and other youths fritter away their evenings before the poorly animated characters of free-to-play video games.
This is nothing inherently awful: towns all over these United States can be unkind to kids who don't want to be at home or otherwise feel that they haven't anywhere to hang out, and grown-ups can't carry on the correspondence of their secret lives and affairs just anywhere.
Terrible joking aside, there are tasks for which a library computer terminal seems ill-suited. Looking at pornography is one of them. Doing one's taxes, I'd argue, is another.
I may be old-fashioned, but I prefer to account for my taxes at home, on paper. There, the digits attached to my livelihood and identity as a citizen remain with me. And more importantly, there, should I find stress amid the process of reporting my contributions to Uncle Sam's pocketbook or to the treasurers of my state, I can freak out in the privacy of my home.
Last week, while working at the library, I spotted a teen mom at one of the computer terminals. Grandma was there, too, with Baby in her arms–a little girl no older than my own daughter (which is to say, 10 weeks old or so). Teen Mom was working on her taxes. I gathered this because she burst into tears as soon as she saw the Final Number, mourning the loss of vacation plans barely made and cursing the advice of her coworkers (did they say to put down a one or a zero?) between sobs.
Then Baby was crying, too.
When the trio departed, Teen Mom was certain that they'd made some mistake, that they were neglecting some figure or calculation to transform the Final Number into What it Should Be.
However her 1040 adventure concludes, she certainly made my problems feel exactly as small as they really are.
This is nothing inherently awful: towns all over these United States can be unkind to kids who don't want to be at home or otherwise feel that they haven't anywhere to hang out, and grown-ups can't carry on the correspondence of their secret lives and affairs just anywhere.
Terrible joking aside, there are tasks for which a library computer terminal seems ill-suited. Looking at pornography is one of them. Doing one's taxes, I'd argue, is another.
I may be old-fashioned, but I prefer to account for my taxes at home, on paper. There, the digits attached to my livelihood and identity as a citizen remain with me. And more importantly, there, should I find stress amid the process of reporting my contributions to Uncle Sam's pocketbook or to the treasurers of my state, I can freak out in the privacy of my home.
Last week, while working at the library, I spotted a teen mom at one of the computer terminals. Grandma was there, too, with Baby in her arms–a little girl no older than my own daughter (which is to say, 10 weeks old or so). Teen Mom was working on her taxes. I gathered this because she burst into tears as soon as she saw the Final Number, mourning the loss of vacation plans barely made and cursing the advice of her coworkers (did they say to put down a one or a zero?) between sobs.
Then Baby was crying, too.
When the trio departed, Teen Mom was certain that they'd made some mistake, that they were neglecting some figure or calculation to transform the Final Number into What it Should Be.
However her 1040 adventure concludes, she certainly made my problems feel exactly as small as they really are.
So how's this for a wild night ...
First, I dreamt I was in a collegiate art class, and then this girl drew a glyph on the wall outside which summoned forth from the earth a division of WWII-era tanks ... with minds of their own! One of them had the personality of Patton. Things turned to rubble quickly.
Next, I dreamt that I was passing time in the last house my grandparents ever lived in, when a tall politician walked in and fired everyone (from what? I dunno) before I could shut the door in his face (and I did).
Then, I dreamt that while escaping a tense and awkward but otherwise ordinary house remodeling project, an athlete (?) threw a hammer at me. So I picked it up and
New Things
While there's little for me to say about being a brand new parent that hasn't already been saidor felt, at leastby billions of people the world over, I've two recurring thoughts these five or six days into fatherhood.
The first has to do with something Bruce Springsteen said in an interview or onstage some years agohow when his first son was born, the event felt so profound that he stepped outside and couldn't believe that people were still out there shopping. When I'm not sleeping or tending to Claire or helping my wife around the house, I remind myself of those words. I tell myself to not be surprised if I'm struck with a
Halfway point (?) and shout-outs
It is two days past mid-November, and I'm beginning to wonder if my recent output of a drawing a day--or nearly so--is a bit much. I wanted to try to post something every day for 30 days, but I'm thinking 20 drawings over 30 days (or something resembling that pace) wouldn't be half-bad, either. A couple of the more recent drawings have felt really generic to me--like I was racing the clock instead of letting an idea happen. I also fear that in putting together drawings so often, I will unconsciously reuse color choices for the gradient-effect backgrounds that accompany many of these images.
This is not to say that I'm discouraged about drawi
November 1st, 2011
I've not written much lately. Good ideas come along (right now, I'm imagining a comic strip in which a child, after hearing about Santa Claus and the 24 hour journey to every good kid's home on earth, leaves Santa milk and amphetamines by the fireplace), but I turn them over in my head, and then procrastinate until the motive to sit down with them is gone.
Nevertheless I draw on.
And there's not a whole lot to say about what I produce out of those moments when I'm drawing to avoid overthinking some other, better idea, except, after the pen hits the paper for a few minutes, I'm into it. I start thinking of the next piece. I start thinking ab
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How did I miss the you having an infant daughter?