still-sound 193. First day

These are cypress trees near the perfume shop where I work.  I pass them some evenings when I walk Rosie around the block.  Now it's getting dark and the trees look inky.  Soon there will be no traces of the sun at 7 pm.

Today is the first day of autumn. It feels like it too.

still-sound 192. Wrapping books

One of the things I like most from buying art and design books at Stories, the used book store in Echo Park is that the dust jackets are usually protected in archival plastic film.  The crinkling sound that comes along with handling the books is delightful. 

I bought a roll of the plastic film online and spent at least an hour last night wrapping some of my favorite books - particularly the old ones I took from my mom's house on a recent trip - mostly photography books that my dad bought in the late 1970s.  I grew up with them and couldn't begin to guess how many times I leafed through the pages and stared at the glamorous pictures.  Now, coated in a plastic sheen, the printed colors of the dust jackets pop out with a rich saturation.  Any rips, creases or crinkles in the paper are forever frozen and somehow lessened  - protected under a cool glossiness.

I wrapped 7 or 8 books last night.  I lay them on the table when finished and just stared at them.

still-sound 191. Robots and birds

Isn't this robot scary?  I like that it's made of wood.  Not necessarily the obvious choice of materials when creating a robot.  I wonder if in Olden Days robots were made of wood and springs and cogs?  Probably not.

My friend, and brilliant poet Jane Yeh wrote an incredible poem about robots in her last book called The Ninjas.  I bought it a couple of months ago and have read it several times - often before going to bed.  This is from The Robots:

In robot language, 'I' and 'you' are the same word.

I love this line the best in the poem.  This pertains to all robots.  Those made of wood and those made of kevlar and microchips I suppose.

***

I was so happy to discover that Jane shares my fascination with birds.  They often appear in her writing. I'm surprised I didn't already know this.  But I suppose we never really had aviary conversations in person.  In the poem Last Summer, she writes


Birds were cheeping and tweeting like crazy.
(Their lungs are so small they can't make complete sentences.)
In the trees they perched like tiny balloons, feet tethered to the branches


Tomorrow is Jane's birthday.  Tomorrow is already today in London where she lives.  So I wish her, with my big and full lungs, the happiest birthday.