Made in the 216 should be a good time. I love seeing the inventive displays Danielle comes up with (she worked at Anthropologie for a good long while, so she has skills) and getting to meet all the remarkable people hiding in the city. Cleveland is a funny place - there is no one place to go or live to meet like-minded people. Instead, they hide like truffles in secret pockets throughout the region and if you want to find them, you have to do some work and dig them out. Every so often, there's an event or gathering that pulls a critical mass together, and jumbles them out of their usual circles. That's when I find myself looking around and feeling like, "But WHERE do they come from? Why do they hide?" Who knows. Maybe unbeknownst to me, I'm hidden. It's a lot of fun and a little exasperating.
Anyway, I'll be curious to see who turns up tomorrow evening. If I had my way, I'd be wearing this.
What sort of diary should I like mine to be? Something loose-knit and yet not slovenly, so elastic that it will embrace anything, solemn, slight or beautiful, that comes into my mind. I should like it to resemble some deep old desk or capacious hold-all, in which one flings a mass of odds and ends without looking them through. I should like to come back, after a year or two, and find that the collection had sorted itself and refined itself and coalesced, as such deposits so mysteriously do, into a mould, transparent enough to reflect the light of our life, and yet steady, tranquil compounds with the aloofness of a work of art. The main requisite, I think, on reading my old volumes, is not to play the part of a censor, but to write as the mood comes or of anything whatever; since I was curious to find how I went for things put in haphazard, and found the significance to lie where I never saw it at the time.
Don't be amazed if you see my eyes always wandering. In fact, this is my way of reading, and it is only in this way that reading proves fruitful for me. If a book truly interests me, I cannot follow it for more than a few lines before my mind, having seized on a thought that the text suggests to it, or a feeling, or a question, or an image, goes off on a tangent and springs from thought to thought, from image to image, in an itinerary of reasonings and fantasies that I feel the need to pursue to the end, moving away from the book until I have lost sight of it. The stimulus of reading is indispensable to me, and of meaty reading, even if, of every book, I manage to read no more than a few pages. But those few pages already enclose for me whole universes, which I can never exhaust.
Why didn't she try collecting something? It didn't matter what. She would find it gave an interest to life, and there was no end to the little curiosities one could easily pick up.
*Please note: this blog contains no sponsored links; free goods or services are politely declined. However, I do like to hear about new artists, books, bands, products, and shops, so send along an email. Messages from readers are always welcome.