Special Projects: Two-Dimensional Found Art Journal?

I think that I’m discovering how much I enjoy these small scale experimental writing projects. There’s a sense of immediate pleasure and satisfaction that comes with making something that I don’t get with the novel work and the stories. It reminds me of the pure satisfaction I used to get from developing photographic prints in the darkroom. I had made something, and it would be there forever, and it was physical and immediate. Writing can be so damn abstract and obtuse. What we need really is writing that has the same effect on the writer and the reader as the chef and the five star meal.

To that end, for our Thanksgiving trip to the desolate urban landscape of Granite City, I’ve been keeping a small ‘found art’ journal. I’ve been working on it every day, at every free moment I get, cutting and pasting with scissors and glue stick, and scribbling with a somewhat leaky blue pen.

Some explanation. Recently we were in arty, cozy Asheville, North Carolina, and there in an art gallery I bought a $6, hand-sized journal, the exterior of which had been made from the cardboard of a Bass Ale beer sixpack. So, the outside of the journal is a partial image of a Bass Ale beer box; the inside is about 60 pages of plain white paper. The whole thing is bound somewhat loosely with very light string.

I’ve used this journal to keep track of our trip; but, I’m not really writing your typical (banal?) journal; I’ve decided to paste small found Art onto page and then scribble something below each item in the remaining white space. For example, I took a receipt from a breakfast we purchased in the airport lounge and wrote a few sentences about the breakfast.

Sounds off, I’m sure, but the experience has been extremely pleasure. I don’t have any idea why, except that it seems like a small project that I can complete; and it becomes a peculiar testament to our trip; and, perhaps most importantly, it makes me realize that incredible things are happening to us all the time.

I ought to explain that last sentence. What I mean is that there is always a gap between when I collect an item to paste into the journal and the time when I actually paste it into the journal and write about it. During that time, something bad happens. I actually forget the context of the moment in which I collected the item. In fact I tend to chalk up every moment, for the most part, as wholly ordinary. But, when I sit down to write about the item, when I sit down to remember the moment, a whole flood of rich memories and stories and observations return to me—and in turn, I realize, that Rilke was right. There is never a boring moment. If you are not poet enough to bring out the poetry of your life, then it’s your fault. It really is.

So, in short, the journal are an act of defiance against ordinary experience; they are testament to Rilke’s idea. Or, of course, I’m seriously deluded, and the little scraps of paper and casual observations I’m making are quaint, and ultimately, banal. Either way, it doesn’t matter. Because, what’s key here is the pleasure I’m taking in the creation. You need to love what you do. Otherwise, give it up, forget everything, and maybe then you’ll fall in love with something totally different in nature.