IT’S A WRAP!
So the New York Times is smaller than it used to be. At first I thought—this will make it much easier to fold, not so hard to shuffle the pages and keep them from flying off like the wild newsprint pirouetting around Moira Shearer' red satin shoes. But the pages still slip and slide, diving off the edge of the bed. I made a grab for one this Sunday and for a moment saw the sun shine clean through it. The type looked like hieroglyphics break dancing, then they were dripping, then the paper itself looked incredibly fragile, already aged and yellow with all those crafted words, edited, type-faced and stamped into it. I thought, what a thing! All this language and intention, read and gone in one day. That’s the case for Kindle, I guess.
Tree peelings. If I come across a strip of bark, I want to mark it with a Waterman pen, see it run a little. I understand the terrible waste, how trees are disappearing and paper milling filthifies the air. But no more paper! When this happens, it will happen to newspapers first, then books. So, here's what I’ll miss about the first print to go.
Newspapers to line a funky garbage can, the pages turned over the edge like a crisp collar;
any bundle wrapped in them ,especially if it’s scotch taped;
as enclosures for three-day old fish or flowers;
rolled up and stuffed down the sides of failing sofa cushions;
a photo in today’s paper of a kidnapped person holding yesterday’s paper to show she’s still alive;
yellowed ivory fish knives found inside a 1928 front page;
paper mache ashtrays;
spread all over the floor for painting;
finding one in a coffee shop when I'm alone and everyone else is unreadable;
blown against somebody else’s face in a windstorm;
put inside a shoe as many times as you want;
to help with eating a messy sandwich in the car;
stacked on a street corner, one for everyone, fresh and waiting.
I want these newspapers. You can save them or not. Use them to stuff things or fill time. They are even somewhat edible, but then I also like how newspaper tastes.
So the New York Times is smaller than it used to be. At first I thought—this will make it much easier to fold, not so hard to shuffle the pages and keep them from flying off like the wild newsprint pirouetting around Moira Shearer' red satin shoes. But the pages still slip and slide, diving off the edge of the bed. I made a grab for one this Sunday and for a moment saw the sun shine clean through it. The type looked like hieroglyphics break dancing, then they were dripping, then the paper itself looked incredibly fragile, already aged and yellow with all those crafted words, edited, type-faced and stamped into it. I thought, what a thing! All this language and intention, read and gone in one day. That’s the case for Kindle, I guess.
Tree peelings. If I come across a strip of bark, I want to mark it with a Waterman pen, see it run a little. I understand the terrible waste, how trees are disappearing and paper milling filthifies the air. But no more paper! When this happens, it will happen to newspapers first, then books. So, here's what I’ll miss about the first print to go.
Newspapers to line a funky garbage can, the pages turned over the edge like a crisp collar;
any bundle wrapped in them ,especially if it’s scotch taped;
as enclosures for three-day old fish or flowers;
rolled up and stuffed down the sides of failing sofa cushions;
a photo in today’s paper of a kidnapped person holding yesterday’s paper to show she’s still alive;
yellowed ivory fish knives found inside a 1928 front page;
paper mache ashtrays;
spread all over the floor for painting;
finding one in a coffee shop when I'm alone and everyone else is unreadable;
blown against somebody else’s face in a windstorm;
put inside a shoe as many times as you want;
to help with eating a messy sandwich in the car;
stacked on a street corner, one for everyone, fresh and waiting.
I want these newspapers. You can save them or not. Use them to stuff things or fill time. They are even somewhat edible, but then I also like how newspaper tastes.
