efficiency is all I seek

Title: Motion Study: A method for increasing the efficiency of the workman
Author: Frank B. Gilbreth
Date of creation: 2009
Date of publication: 1911
Dimensions (in): 8x5.5x.75
Description: "Motion Study": full vellum binding (three-piece structure); title stamped in gold on front board. Illustrations on rear board and spine stamped in gold; culled from the writings of Frank Gilbreth and Frederick Taylor, pioneers in the field of efficiency studies as applied to hand work. The papers used for the endpapers and lining underneath the vellum are composed of compiled images from the Gilbreth and Taylor studies, with the images varying across the book. The papers lining the vellum were dyed in shades of blue and green; the edges of the textblock are dyed dark green, with green leather endbands.

Proust still in process; lacked the final aesthetic synthesis sought.

reading airline itineraries
weather sunny with a chance of spring

a boy in a plaid woolrich shirt

Bottle caps. Rows upon rows of bottle caps, nailed to plywood sheets, nailed along the headboard of the bed, nailed around the molding of the doors and windows, nailed along the chair rail molding separating the blue wallpaper from the wainscoting. Piles of accumulated and as yet unattached bottle caps gathered on window sills, on side tables, in corners of the dresser, occasionally landing underfoot and accompanied by the curse of a barefoot discovery.

Bottle caps from parking lots behind convenience stores, bottle caps from schoolyards, bottle caps saved from bars, both significant evenings and those of a more mundane tone. Bottle caps presented as gifts from childhood friends, from great aunts, from second cousins twice removed, from trips abroad to Russia, to Budapest, to Mexico, to Canada, from lonely all-night road trips across the desolate wastelands of Kansas cornfields, from UFO sighting weekends in Utah, from commemorative speeches at fairs and from marketing launches for the next great thing.

Bottle caps rusty and shiny, bottle caps flattened by forces beyond sustainability, bottle caps standing pristine in their shape, each ridge a miracle of machined regularity. Bottle caps in hues of blues, reds, silvers, yellows; fewer greens, fewer purples, fewer pinks. Logos and symbols and trademarks and insignia flashing against the sunlight drifting across the room.

The effect a secular installation of the mosaics at Ravenna, the flickering of candles upon tiles and the refracted light from stained glass shattering into the hues of colored glass, here enacted in the most basic of human currency. Soda pop, beer, prosecco, sasparilla, cream soda, and the myriad forms of rest, relaxation, energy, fun, sold to consumers across the world.

Was there a first bottle cap, a find so unusual or so unexpected, a first orange cola as a young child, fascinated with the cool carbonation offered by a stranger in an outdoor market; a long afternoon ice cream soda break with a grandfather on the porch; an illicit find in the alleyway, shining amidst the gravel; a token of affection passed from one's crush at recess during first grade; something snatched from a cocktail party one was expressly forbidden to attend; something stolen from an older brother.

Which was the first bottle cap, once the collection became an installation: the one nailed into a corner of the window, just above the sill; or that one by the light switch, glowing a beacon to brightness in the reflection of a full moon; or the one attached to the foot of the bed, just there, in the corner, by the carved acorn; or the row along the top of the closet door, nailed in place inconspicuously away from eye level, but only hidden from one's six year old self, and instantly spotted by an exhausted mother returning clothing to its rightful location, and determining that a row of bottle caps is less of a household inconvenience than frogs or radios dissected on the kitchen table, or stories from the neighbors of an unseen but suspected someone letting all of the local dogs loose from their respective yards.

For several years a suspicion of the bottle caps turned them into talismen, tokens to keep bad luck, evil, the outside world, older brothers, younger sisters, math tests, sickness, unfair punishments, overcooked spinach or boiled cabbage or the chore of cleaning the bathroom at bay. The lucky bottle cap kept in the jacket pocket providing protection against bullies, against boredom, against broken bones or flat tires or lost lunch money or forgotten homework or embarrassment during gym class or a sick pet or failing a quiz or a mean teacher.

Placing the bottle caps along the head board kept out nightmares, monsters, being chased, being caught, watching pain, felling loss -- the layer of safety between an unprotected sleeping self and the fangs unfurled of an outside world ready to pounce.

The bottle caps around the window were holy water, silver bullets, and garlic against invasions by ghosts, aliens, monsters, were wolves, vampires, mummies, zombies; were protection from sleepwalking out the window and from bats flying in.

The bottle caps surrounding the doorway barred entry to all trespassers, mothers, siblings, fathers, no-longer-best-friends, baby sitters, thieves, kidnappers, robbers, gunmen, murderers wielding knives or machine guns, rampaging leopards loose from the zoo.

The ring of bottle caps around the room kept away house fires, tornados, hurricanes, floods, tsunamis, earthquakes, global warming, meteorites, and a return to the ice age.

Placing piles of bottle caps acquired the meaning of votive candles, a corner cleared of harboring resentment, fear, anger, sadness, loss, grief, death, failure. The piles became more numerous as childhood fears blossomed into the paranoia of adolescence, the anticipations and rejections and accepting of romance, the trauma of learning to drive, the obscure calculations of class rank and GPA, the need to declare a college major before finishing high school, the specter of life long debt, unemployment, love lost, poverty, canned foods, life at 25 or 45 no different from the aimless hyperactive ennui of life at 15.

The piles promised freedom from harsh bells calling everyone into frantic action followed by another bone numbing brain numbing 70 minutes of lecture, freedom from Church or from casseroles, freedom from an ancient Buick bequeathed from Grandmother, freedom from practicing the piano or marching in band.

Then the bottle caps became a source of embarrassment, not just an ironic collection of American popular culture, but a too visible display of the fears and insecurities and aesthetics of youth. Every time someone would contribute to the collection, the twisting of a knife in the stomach, a public clamor of being The Bottle Cap Collector, the oddball, the obsessive.

Friends, returning from St Thomas or Japan proudly offering their discs of memories, when even the concept of another bottle cap became accompanied by the shame and nausea of a collection that one can no longer control: the collection becoming the collector. Still they appeared, offerings of how easily everyone oversimplified the inner person, how only the most obvious tokens of personality were all they cared to see. The bottle caps quickly transferred to mayonnaise jars, peanut butter jars, shoe boxes, empty dresser drawers, anywhere to be out of sight, away, unseen.

Then college. A hatching, a disappearance, a migration to the world of who one could become, accompanied by only one lucky bottle cap, the talisman that couldn't be abandoned, but was no longer part of an overpowering entity. Visits to the oppressing room became fewer and fewer, every visit leaving behind a few new pieces, picked up unconsciously on travels or while walking, and left in the anonymity of the collection in the closet. The room's embellishments became the presence of the occupant when visits were delineated by fewer and fewer phone calls, became the only touchstone to the past of a child who once was.

---

reading
Trying to find the first orchid sequence in Swann in Love. Must learn time management.

weather
a dusting of late winter snow

Notes on Declining a Proposal

Message delivered. Letter stamped. Voice mail left. In each instance, the reply was the same: no response.

No, "Go away."
No, "I'm busy."
No, "No."
No, "Yes."
No, "I'm sick."
No, "My sister just had a baby and I'm helping out."
No, "My wrist is broken and I can't type."
No, "I've met someone else."
No, "I converted to insert faith here and can thus no longer see you."
No, "I've been working lots of overtime."
No, "The distance is too far."
No, "Actually, I think you're an insane stalker."
No, "I'm at a three month silent meditation retreat in Thailand."
No, "I'm on tour with insert trendy pop band here."
No, "The sex isn't that great."
No, "You have really awful breath and have you ever washed your feet?"
No, "We never go out to restaurants anymore."
No, "I've decided to start a burlesque act in Manhattan."
No, "I'm being treated for a brain tumor."
No, "My father had a stroke."
No, "My dog ate something and has been in intensive care."
No, "My car broke down in northern Alberta, leaving me stranded."
No, "I've joined a cult with an amazing guru."
No, "I've dedicated my life to yoga."
No, "Your NASCAR habit really disgusts me."
No, "Actually, I really do believe in global warming."
No, "Have you considered that a man of your age should have a job?"
No, "When are you going to move out of your parent's house?"
No, "Did you realize how much you snore?"
No, "I found out about your criminal record."
No, "I am forsaking our lifestyle to become a potter in Northern California."
No, "Your net worth has depreciated too much."
No, "You're just not my type."
No, "Actually, I do want to have children one day."
No, "Your ex-wife is stalking me."
No, "Your best friend is a lot funnier and cuter."
No, "You spilled beer on my couch and that is unforgivable."
No, "I don't want to share my season tickets at the Met with you."
No, "Baldness doesn't suit you."
No, "Our aesthetic tastes are essentially incompatible."
No, "I found out about your relationship with your secretary."
No, "Some stocks matured and I no longer require your funding."
No, "I find all of your friends incredibly tedious and dull."
No, "Have you considered pharmaceutical assistance from Prozac and/or Viagra?"
No, "I'm having an affair with the grocery store clerk / oil change technician / mailman."
No, "I discovered my true self through meditation and you aren't my true soul mate."
No, "Actually, you've gained a lot of weight."
No, "I'm off to Paris for a three week culinary arts course."
No, "I've locked the door to finally finish this damn novel."
No, "When I gave you a thirty day ultimatum, I meant it."
No, "This casual hook-up thing isn't working for me."
No, "My mother doesn't approve."
No, "Your family hates me."
No, "Sports bore me to tears."
No, "You don't make me laugh."
No, "Your pasta is always overcooked."
No, "Your conspiracy theories are absurd."
No, "How can you believe we've actually been on the moon?"
No, "You're not normal."
No, "Your finances are a mess and your house is in foreclosure."
No, "I want to focus on my career."
No, "How could you divulge that confidential information to the entire group?"
No, "My friends think you're a loser."
No, "I saw a copy of your college transcript."
No, "I've been accepted at a business school on the west coast."
No, "My apartment manager evicted me."
No, "I'm in traction following an automobile accident."
No, "I'm having a vacation in Acapulco with a group of friends."
No, "I need someone younger."
No, "You're allergic to cats."
No, "You never help with the dishes."
No, "You only buy cheap champagne."
No, "I've decided to give up alcohol, and you're a drinker."
No, "I'm moving to Florida."
No, "Our political beliefs are too divergent."
No, "Your dog chewed up my best shoes."
No, "You broke my great-grandmother's China."
No, "I found your stash of porn / opium / women's underwear."
No, "Your sense of style hasn't evolved since 1976."
No, "I've never forgiven you for voting for Reagan."
No, "I am driving cross-country photographing historical markers along the Eisenhower Interstate System."
No, "What do you mean, calling me three years after we broke up, and proposing?"
No, "I've been artificially impregnated with an anonymous donor's sperm."
No, "I'm on a research sabbatical in Morocco."
No, "The check arrived for the publisher's advance and I went to Vegas."
No, "You kiss terribly."
No, "Your clothes are never clean."
No, "Have you considered seeing a therapist?"
No, "I'm being mugged in inner-city L.A."
No, "I just signed an exclusive modeling contract with an elite gentlemen's agency in Washington."
No, "I'm on the trail campaigning to help the new state senator."
No, "I've become a Moonie."
No, "I'm being held hostage in Singapore."
No, "I've been auctioned as a white slave and am being held against my will on a Chinese junk."
No, "I decided to sail around the world."
No, "There was a last minute opening for an artist's residency in Chicago."
No, "I've been suffering from trauma induced amnesia following a fall while horseback riding."
No, "I just woke up and decided to leave town."
No, "My brother threatened to have you beat up."
No, "I didn't realize you were still seeing other women."
No, "I don't care to enact your schoolgirl fantasy."
No, "I was accepted for a tenured post in Nevada."
No, "Well, I don't actually love you."

---

reading
Back to Henry Hitchings, his new release "How English Became English;" a splendid book.
Alas, Invention of Air was a fascinating topic rendered in the most tedious prose possible.

weather
the great thaw following the February full snow moon

la semana

His name was Wednesday. He wasn't a dog with much presence: he didn't bark, didn't beg for treats, didn't roll over for tummy rubs, didn't play dead, didn't fetch, didn't attack strangers, didn't jump, didn't sleep on the bed.

His name was Wednesday because the daughter was home sick, again, watching reruns of the Addams Family when he appeared on the doorstep. It had been just like that: one moment, no dog; the next moment, dog waiting patiently at door to be let in.

There hadn't been any signs of abandonment, no cars speeding swiftly away, no suspicious pedestrians. The dog wasn't tied to the porch; he just sat, waiting, by the front door. It was spooky. The Addams Family was spooky. His name was Wednesday.

He had shaggy black hair, little paws, and ears that were always crimped into an "I am listening" position. Once inside the house, he sprawled out by the living room radiator, and fell asleep.

Then, at four, her brother arrived home. He didn't recognize the dog, but just assumed that it belonged to the family, without asking where it came from or how long it was staying or whether it had already been named. His name was Thurgood.

They were studying the judiciary system in social studies, and he wanted to be a supreme court judge. Thurgood was an impassive dog, who would lift his head if addressed directly, thump his tail if scritched behind the ear, but mostly content to sleep sprawled next to the radiator.

There was a sharp and pointed argument between the Wednesday faction and the Thurgood faction, and it had escalated to kamikaze Barbies being launched from a catapult in the attic against GI Joe figures scattered like land mines over the stairs and in the doll house. Before the matchbox cars and sea monkeys could become involved, the front door opened.

The sharp click of heels on the entry way could only indicate the arrival of grandmother, who took one look at the dog sleeping by the radiator, and called out crisply: "Faraday, come."

To everyone's surprise, he smartly pranced across the room and sat neatly at her feet. The grandmother reached down, scratched him behind the ears, then rose to remove her coat and gloves. Faraday returned to his post in the living room by the radiator as she entered the kitchen, intent on making a cup of tea and finding out why, exactly, there was a new dog in the living room, and where it had come from, and who was claiming responsibility.

From the kitchen came the whistle of the tea kettle and the clicking of heels on tile; the children streamed downstairs in the hopes of candy or a snack, guerrilla warfare temporarily forgotten in the light of this new diversion. Faraday didn't bother with the kitchen; he knew it wasn't dinner time, and lay contentedly in the circle of warmth from the radiator.

The crunch in the driveway and the sound of the Volkswagen's engine caused him to leap to attention, and all but throw himself at the front door. The man of the house had returned triumphant from a day slaying middle management, and he greeted the dog with a hearty "There, boy, down, Stevenson, that's a dog," before sorting through the mail on the entryway table and greeting the assembled.

His mother-in-law, intelligent woman, brought him a Scotch and soda as she carried her tea into the living room. As Stevenson traded his spot by the radiator for a place at his master's feet, the children were threatened and cajoled and bribed into removing the catapulted Barbies and the attacking GI Joes and the secondary entrenchments of matchbox cars and the doomsday mechanism of the threatening sea monkeys.

The table was set while the mundane and fantastic and anticipated and unlikely events of the day and forecasts for the world broadcast from the television. When the sports came on just before the weather at 6.47, they telephoned for pizza delivery, timed to coincide with the lull between schedules.

When the doorbell rang, Stevenson glanced adoringly at his master, but neither dog nor man rose to rescue the boxes of pepperoni and olive, extra cheese, quickly cooling on the doorstep. The mother came shuffling through from the kitchen, phone under one ear, holding the bills to liberate their meal. She called "Domingo!" into the kitchen on her return, to down his kibble before the family was tempted to fill him with crusts.

Domingo followed, optimistic at the scent of pepperoni, philosophical at the offering of dehydrated meat product compote. He ate quickly while she found the pizza wheel and made sure there was a sufficient quantity of napkins to hand during the meal. While Domingo didn't want to forsake his master at his hour of need, he knew who had poured the kibble, and sat quietly by the kitchen door as the news ended and they assembled in the dining room for dinner.

Midway through, the squeal of tires on the street preceded the front door slamming shut, the big brother home from an after school soccer match, still in his uniform, but focused on the pizza.

His gatorade bottle deposited next to his plate, he grabbed a slice of pizza with more pepperoni and fewer olives, between bites calling out "Hey, Larry, over here, boy", to which the dog immediately responded, sensing pizza crusts and an indulgent companion. He related his particularly noteworthy saves on the field, described in great detail the fractured fibula of a member of the opposing team, and adroitly addressed his conversation to Larry when his grandmother brought up college admission essays or his father enquired about calculus.

Larry basked in the glow of pizza crusts, happy to sit at attention and divert as needed. He even considered rolling over and playing dead in the hope of scoring some pepperoni, before deciding it was beneath his dignity.

They were all surprised by a knock on the door, arriving at that awkward moment when the meal is ended but the remains lay scattered across the table prior to clearing, and dirty napkins and piles of crusts attest to a feast of mediocre nutritional value.

The mother crossed the room, surprised to see their neighbor peering through the screen door. His sister's dog, Trixie, had gone missing earlier that day -- had anyone seen her? And Wednesday Thurgood Faraday Stevenson Domingo Larry walked up to the door, ready to return home.

---

reading The Invention of Air | the author had a splendidly convincing interview on NPR

weather messy and unnecessary and character building perhaps