DREAMS OF HOME

The earliest memory I have that I know is a "true" memory—one not fabricated from the stories of others or from old photographs or home movies and then believed to be a memory—is of a streetcleaner going by in the early dawn light near the house I lived in on Trenton Avenue in Bremerton, Washington when I was three years old. That memory was triggered this morning as I watched a streetcleaner go by in the early dawn light near the house in which I currently reside. The wife asked me what I was doing. I told her I was watching the streetcleaner go by because I found it soothing and enjoyable, which was, and is, true.

When I wandered around Bremerton two weeks ago, the town in which I grew up, similar memories were stirred by landmarks present and absent. I was taken back to my childhood, my teenage years, my years as a young adult. I wandered by the storefront that once was Harbor Books—a favorite hangout of mine when my brother or sister were taking swimming lessons at the long-demolished YMCA. Thinking of Harbor Books brought a flood of wonderful book associations with the space: browsing and then buying H.P. Lovecraft tomes; picking up the latest Dungeons & Dragons and Traveller modules; looking through the maps and discount books in the loft; buying books by Stephen King, William Gibson, Bruce Sterling, Ramsey Campbell, Clive Barker.

I passed the old Bremer's building, once the department store of downtown Bremerton, and Kitsap County. I passed the corner where Woolworth's with its soda fountain and lunch counter used to stand, now fenced in and claimed in a land grab by Puget Sound Naval Shipyard. I passed the places where the record store and tattoo parlor and the Roxy and Admiral theaters stood.

The dream of Bremerton-past shimmered and then faded. Sepia tone gave way to now: the steel frames of condominiums-under-construction on the waterfront, the new Kitsap Federal Credit Union building, the Kitsap Conference Center, the Bremerton Transportation Center, the Norm Dicks Government Building. Streets that you could park on at will now require that you leave after two hours, not to return to the same street on the same day! The streets of the dream give way to the streets of today, the same streetcleaner driving down both, a small boy and an adult watching and remembering and dreaming...

MARYHILL DREAMS

Dreams in the desert, clockwise from upper left: (1) The Maryhill Double; (2) The Maryhill Museum of Art; (3) "outside" the dream; (4) inside the dream.

PICK OF THE WEEK

The Maryhill Museum of Art as viewed from the "grounds" of The Maryhill Double.

PICK OF THE WEEK

The Maryhill Double as viewed from the grounds of The Maryhill Museum of Art.

PICK OF THE WEEK

The blue nylon construction fabric on top of the scaffolding waves in the wind, the motion of the nearby Columbia River, as well as the surrounding grasses, echoed in its movement.

When I first heard about the Maryhill Double, an art installation/architectural piece, I knew that I had to visit it. The two artists/architects that created Maryhill Double, Annie Han and Daniel Mihalyo, who collectively operate as Lead Pencil Studio, had originally hoped to create their sculpture on the grounds of the Maryhill Museum of Art. The Maryhill decided not to invite Lead Pencil Studio to be part of their annual invitational sculpture "competition." Lead Pencil Studio instead were granted funding and built their piece on the other side of the Columbia River on private ranch land. The Maryhill Museum in Maryhill, Washington is mirrored by The Maryhill Double in Biggs, Oregon, with the two structures built on opposing cliff faces of the Columbia Gorge.

I was fascinated by the mirror image aspect of the Maryhill Double as well as the way that it "functioned" in its surroundings. The structure was built to take up the same amount of space and volume as the original Maryhill's shell. The interior floors and walls of the Maryhill were absent in the Double. All that remained was an exoskeleton of scaffolding and blue nylon construction fabric, held together with the help of construction wire and supported by guy wires. The interior floors and walls were provided by the imagination of the viewer. Two "stairwells" at opposite corners allowed one to climb to the levels of the "second floor," "third floor," and "roof."
I was unsure how long the wife and child were going to tolerate sitting and staring at this structure, so we took along a picnic lunch. This allowed me time to climb on the exterior, wander about the interior, and reflect upon the structure itself, all the while taking photographs while the two of them ate. We also spent time earlier in the day at the Maryhill Museum itself, and then reprised our visit after our time at the Maryhill Double. This allowed me to view the Double from the Maryhill and vice versa.

The space contained by the Double felt small to me once we were inside and eating our lunch. From the outside the Double felt much larger. I could easily imagine where the floors and the rooms of each floor were suppose to be, which made for some disconcertment as I tried to "find" my place in temporal space. I had a wonderful brief conversation with Annie Han, one of the artists/architects, on our way back to our car, parked a quarter-mile away. She inquired about our experience with the piece and I tried to elaborate on the "strangeness" of the size of the structure. She and I spoke about the fluctuation of space that occurs in the process of constructing a building—from foundation to framing to finishing—throughout the various stages. It was nice to have some of her insight into her project.

It was interesting to have this structure rising up out of a grassy field in the middle of nowhere, on a cliff face overlooking the Columbia, with any neighboring structures rather distant. This could describe the Maryhill Double or the Maryhill Museum itself. For me, an echo of the readymades of the Surrealists made itself known in the Double. The scaffolding and fabric felt as though it had been lifted from a construction site somewhere and randomly plopped down in the field. This made for another bout of disconcertment. It is amazing what we take for granted in the structures and spaces that we move about and within.

I am glad I made the trip. It was a worthwhile and enjoyable experience that will keep me pondering its ramifications for quite some time to come.

on THE TAPHANDLE

Oktoberfest by Powerhouse Restaurant & Brewery

This is a seasonal offering from my favorite local pub. Initially, the beer had a slight nutty and earthy flavor. The flavor slowly changed over the time of drinking it, with a slightly bolder citrus note making an appearance and the hops moving to the forefront. This was partly due to its food pairing—the best pizza that the Powerhouse makes—The Overload. The Overload is topped with pepperoni, sausage, lots of cheese, and a slightly tangy tomato sauce. The sauce on this particular pizza was the tangiest I have encountered, which may have influenced some of the citrus flavor. All in all, a wonderful beer with a wonderful pizza to bring a wonderful time away on a mini-vacation to a close.

THINGS BETTER LEFT PRIVATE

Clockwise from upper left: (1) neon restrooms sign in Home Depot; (2) men's restroom in a Taco del Mar; (3) men's restroom in a Borders; (4) men's restroom on fourth floor (red floor) of Seattle Public Library's Central Library.

Why is it that the places that we spend the most time, or time doing things that are more intimate or private, are often the places that have the least amount of thought placed into their design? In this case, it is public restrooms, but it could easily apply to our bedrooms as well. One of the best things the wife and I ever did was to get a decent mattress. Think about how much time you spend sleeping—for most people it is one-third of their life, or, in my case closer to one-quarter of my life, but I am getting better about sleeping more.

Now, to the issue at hand. Why do public restrooms, spaces where we perform necessary acts of urination and defecation, often have to be some of the ugliest spaces we inhabit, even if ever so briefly? The restrooms in places like Home Depot or Borders Books and Music surely reflect the corporate cultures of which they are a part. Those restrooms are about function, with little consideration of form. They are, however, usually quite clean. The Borders bathroom I visited was in a recently opened store, which meant that it was clean, shiny, disinfected, and sterile. I would much rather have the bathroom at Elliott Bay Books, though. It is dark and dank, sometimes odoriferous, filled with graffiti and scrawlings, but it has what the Border restroom will always lack—character.

The Taco del Mar restroom was a step in the right direction, even if it too was part of a chain store. The walls were a white laminate from the floor up to about four feet from the floor and then painted a bright blue above that. The door was painted bright red. The restroom was kept clean but felt more like a place that was used, and meant to be used, than the overly-hygienic atmosphere of the Border's restroom that almost discouraged use.

The restroom that started me thinking about public restrooms, their design, and their decor, was Seattle Public Library's Central Library. The fourth floor of the Library is the red floor. All of the exterior spaces—hallways, stairs, doors—are painted red. The meeting rooms are painted various pastel shades, as are the restrooms. The women's restroom is painted a very pale eggshell blue (yes, I peeked); the men's restroom is painted a soft mint. The contrast from hallway to restroom made the movement into the restroom one that was soothing and calming. The sinks, toilets, and urinals had rounded corners and angles, as opposed to the more rectilinear shapes of standard restroom fixtures. The urinal almost begged to be used. The sink nearly invited you to cleanse your hands. The fixtures nicely matched the feel of the rest of the Library—its art and architecture reflected in even the most basic of functions. The only urinals I can think of that felt more like pieces of art than those of the Library were those I encountered in one of the restrooms at the Woodland Park Zoo. The Library's restroom was clean, but it also had character, and was warm and inviting.

The next time you use a public restroom, take a look around and see what the restroom says about the store or space to which it is attached. It may tell you much about that very store or space. The restroom may help you decide if you really want to be where you are.

THE PUBLIC READER

The Public Reader strikes again, finding errors in multiple posts. Ouch!

I would, however, like to thank The Public Reader for her diligence, and for making Troy's Work Table a more enjoyable experience for all parties—namely, you and me.

The Public Reader has been a longtime supporter of Troy's Work Table in its blog and pre-blog versions. The following story is a perfect example of what I mean.

I had long dreamed of having a dictionary stand for our home library, but knew that the cost was prohibitive. The Public Reader spoke with my father about building one for my birthday. He initially wasn't too keen on the idea. However, The Public Reader measured the space that would allow for a custom-designed dictionary stand, took photographs of the space and surrounding bookcases, and then laid on the charm. The father decided to create and construct the stand and at my birthday party I was pleasantly surprised—caught completely off guard is more like it—with this wonderful hand-crafted gift.

The stand allows for one of the two volumes of my Shorter Oxford English Dictionary to be on display at all times. Three shelves below allow for quick access to other reference books, such as The Sibley Guide to Birds, The Dictionary of Cultural Literacy, Roget's Thesaurus, and Jonathan Rosenbaum's Essential Cinema.

The Public Reader seems to be using this dictionary stand and its various tomes more than I. She has been looking up quite a few words and checking many facts. I had better do the same.

MANIFESTO?

I am misunderstood. It is no one's fault, really. I am not sure that I really understand myself, therefore, how can I expect someone else to know me with any sense of depth. They probably don't even know who they are.

We build myths about ourselves, stories that we use to help us navigate through life. My friend Daniel, however, cautions against concentrating too intently or intensely upon any one of these myths or stories because that distorts our picture of who we are. Additionally, if the myth we are reliant upon collapses then what is left? Nothing.

In this line of thinking, I am rather disturbed at some of the labels that have been attached to me. These labels are accurate, to a point, but they do not capture who I am when they are the sole lens through which I am viewed. This is something I need to remind myself as well as others.

First, I am an introvert. I enjoy spending time alone. It helps me to recharge, to regain energy, to reflect, to think things through, to observe. I notice that many people then assume that I cannot be energetic or flamboyant or loud or aggressive. Am I oftentimes reserved and quiet? Yes, but I can also exhibit the aforementioned qualities as well. Being an introvert doesn't mean that I am shy or awkward in social situations, although I can display those qualities at times. A great book that I have turned to occasionally is The Introvert Advantage: How to Thrive in an Extrovert World by Marti Olsen Laney, Psy.D. I have not read the entire book, but use it more as a reference book that I turn to when in need of an answer—much like I would do with a dictionary or encyclopedia. I believe that I really need to make some time to read the entire book. I wish that some of the extroverts that surround me would read it also, and that we could have a conversation about the book. Who knows...

Second, I am not the best at establishing or maintaining friendships. Oftentimes, others seem to be an unnecessary burden to me. Perhaps, I am too selfish or self-absorbed to look outside of myself. I think I have greatly improved over the past few years but most of the credit for that would have to go to two people who have been steadfast companions for me: the wife and the child. They have tolerated my quirks and idiosyncrasies. They have allowed me to be who I am, with only minor conditions applied here and there, most of which have turned out to be for my own good. Recently, my brother has helped me to examine my friendships. He gave me the book Vital Friends: The People You Can't Afford to Live Without by Tom Rath. I have read half of the book, so far. I am not normally one to read books that would grace the self-help categories of a bookstore, but have decided to stick this one out due to the graciousness and persistence of my brother. He also happens to be reading the book, which should open up another opportunity for conversation in the near future. I agree with most of Rath's argument to this point, but will be interested to see more of the Gallup Organization research that underlies his book when I reach the appendices. I will also be interested to read about his eight categories of friends—builders, collaborators, connectors, mind openers, champions, companions, energizers, and navigators—to see which best describes me and to see which best describes my own family and friends.

Third, I am a depressive. I have never been clinically diagnosed but all the signs are there. Sure, there are times when I am manic or have outbursts of joy or happiness, but the feelings of moroseness and melancholy most assuredly return. I have become more attuned to when the feelings of sadness are trending toward despair, and so has the wife, which is a great thing to have a companion that can sense when the darkness is coming and help you prepare and help you to move it quickly away, as well as to weather it with you. A wonderful book that has given me great insight into this disease is The Noonday Demon: An Atlas of Depression by Andrew Solomon. He examines all aspects of depression, including his own, along with various treatments and techniques for coping with the disease. The chapter headings alone are a synopsis of his stories and examinations—depression, breakdowns, treatments, alternatives, populations, addiction, suicide, history, poverty, politics, evolution, and hope. His view is that of an insider and one that is often unflinching even as it explores the darkest nooks and crannies of the darkness.

If I were a monk, I would be a contemplative, content to remain secluded, silent, in solitude, isolated, only in conversation with God. I would hope that another monk of the order would push me back toward the group.

If I were a bird, I would be a lone crow, content to sit in a tree of my own choosing, lining my nest with shiny, pretty things like broken bits of mirror and cellophane candy wrappers. I would hope that the rest of the murder would cackle and caw, calling me back into the communal roosting tree for slumber at dusk.

If I were a tree, I would be a scrub pine, content to listen to the whistling of the mountain wind, its whispers full of songs for me to remember. I would hope that my cones would produce other small pines nearby or that gray jays would nest in my branches.

If I were a book, I would be filled with few, well-chosen words, bound by wide margins, by the white space of a page. I would hope that I would be read, well-loved enough to be opened again and again.

If I were...

THE JOYS OF LIFE

One night last week, the child needed to expend some energy. The wife thought that creating thank you cards from the child would be a good idea as well as a creative outlet for her. It was. The child started with one or two simple colors and by filling each page with a lot of paint. As the project progressed, she started to mix colors together more and to employ more of the space of the page. She also began describing her pictures to us as she created them. Some were of rain. Some were of the wife and I. Others were of objects in her everyday life. One was even self-referential: it was of the child painting!

on THE TAPHANDLE

2005 Three Philosophers Belgian Style Blend Quadrupel by Brewery Ommegang

This was given to me as a gift after an extremely hectic week of preparation at work for our fall kickoff events. I had declared that "on Monday, after work, I am going to have a good beer and relax." A few days later, someone provided me a good beer with which to relax.

I am really beginning to appreciate Belgian ales, although I still feel myself to be such a beer novice. I am sure that I missed all kinds of flavors lurking just beneath the surface of this great brew. I also had it with homemade tacos, and probably should have waited for a different meal with which to drink it. Oh well...

This quadrupel had a wonderful dark brown color, a full head, and excellent lacing. The flavor was rich and malty with hints of caramel and cherry. It was also slightly more subtle than some of the other Belgian ales I have tried, which was a good thing.

I also experimented with the glassware I drank it from. The better flavor was in the pictured glass. It allowed for a fuller, richer flavor and really helped to accent the cherry. The second glass I used had a wider mouth and was shaped more like a bowl. It presented the alcohol more so than the first. I believe that I will stick with the first, pictured, glass for my next Three Philosophers experience.

on THE TAPHANDLE

This was almost pick of the week. I didn't have any of the Belgian ale that Fritz serves so I decided to wait to give it such honors. After the Aurora Valentinetti Puppet Museum, the child wandered around the Bremerton waterfront, which now includes the Bremerton Transportation Center, the Kitsap Conference Center, a hotel, restaurants, and retail shops, in addition to a docked Navy ship as a museum, the Washington State Ferries, passenger ferries to Port Orchard, and a fishing pier.

Just outside the Kitsap Conference Center, and next to a large fountain whose streams of water are choreographed to music, is the Fritz European Fry House. This very small restaurant specializes in Belgian fries and Belgian ales. The interior can seat eight people on bar stools. There is also exterior seating that could handle another twenty if the weather is good. The staff are friendly.

The child and I decided to share our meal. We ordered the special of the day—a chicken basket meal that included three pieces of chicken, a generous helping of Belgian fries, two choices of dipping sauce, and a small soda. I refrained from drinking any Belgian ale, since we were out wandering on foot and car. I will, however, be visiting Fritz again in the very near future.

The child and I initially ate outside next to the fountain, although the wind picked up and both of our jackets were in the car (my fault!). We moved inside and sat upon the two barstools in the front window. This was a great treat for the child, who thought it wonderful to be sitting on something taller than herself. The window seating also allowed us to continue to watch the fountain and various passersby.

The fries were the obvious highlight of the meal, along with the dipping sauces. I ordered the Honey Dijon sauce for the child and the Spicy Chili sauce for myself. Both sauces worked well with the fries and the chicken. The Spicy Chili sauce was too spicy for the child (she did try it) but just right for my taste. We had a great dining experience, and if you haven't picked up on it yet, I will be returning again very soon.

---

Three asides:

(1) My brother recommended that I eat at Fritz when I told him we would be down near Bremerton's waterfront. I scoffed at him. Now, I probably owe him a meal at Fritz as penance.

(2) The bar/counters have these interesting two inch holes drilled into them every eighteen inches or so. Most of the fries, except with some of the specials, are served in paper cones, and the holes are to hold your cone of fries in place so that you can have one hand on your ale and the other free to grab fries for dipping.

(3) These are probably the best fries I have had since the fries of my high school days at Elsie's in Silverdale. I will be returning for more!

PICK OF THE WEEK

The Aurora Valentinetti Puppet Museum is one of the hidden treasures of Bremerton, Washington. Someone in Bremerton told me about it a couple of years ago due to my love of puppets and finger puppets, but I never visited it until yesterday. The child and I took a drive to Bremerton to see puppets.

The space that the museum inhabits is very small. The museum is run mostly by volunteers and it often shows. The passion that these lovers of all things puppetry have is also very apparent, however, and trumps any of the museum's shortcomings. What the museum lacks in size and staff is made up for in the wonderful puppets and masks. Many of the puppets were donated by Marshall Campbell, one of the founders of the museum and the Evergreen Children's Theatre, and by his mentor, Aurora Valentinetti. When the child and I visited there were hand puppets, rod puppets, marionettes, shadow puppets, life-sized puppets, masks, and props from some of the shows of the Evergreen Children's Theatre.

In addition to the main gallery of the museum, there is also a small room filled with hand puppets, marionettes, children's books, a puppet stage, musical instruments, table, and chairs. This room is intended for children and adults alike to play with puppets and imagine. There is also a gift shop that sells puppets of all types, shapes, and sizes so that you can take the world of puppetry into the comfort of your own home.

I immensely enjoyed the puppets in the gallery and the child seemed to be enjoying herself as well. We then played in the "imagination" room putting on some improvised "shows" for one another, as well as tried out the various percussion instruments—xylophone, snare drum, tamborine, maracas, castanets, and more. We purchased a set of "eyes" that clip on one of the fingers of your hand, turning that hand into a puppet. The child is fascinated by them and listens to what she calls Eyeballs better than she listens to either of her parents. After a great time in a world of puppets, puppets, and more puppets, the child, Eyeballs, and I wandered off into the cool late summer weather of downtown Bremerton to explore the newly renovated and expanded waterfront district.

THE JOYS OF LIFE

The Puyallup Fair is back in town, and, in addition to the smell of onion burgers and corndogs being carried on the wind, horrible traffic in downtown, and a lot of "out-of-towners" converging upon our fair city, it also means the annual cattle drive and fair parade. The child especially enjoyed the horses and tractors. She did not enjoy the marching bands, though. They made her cry.

LIBRARY

"...a mere labyrinth of letters..."
—Jorge Luis Borges, "The Library of Babel"





Structure, infrastructure, superstructure, foundation.
Repetition, slight variation, variation.
Symmetry and asymmetry.
Pattern.

Bend reality. Extend the narrative of "The Library of Babel" in one direction and you have the "bio-batteries" of The Matrix. Another direction, and you have the Internet. Still another, and you have volume, physical space, the Central Library of the Seattle Public Library System, 1000 Fourth Avenue in the heart of downtown Seattle.

Okay, so I'm playing rather loose with Borges' story. It is, however, what came to mind when I wandered through the Central Library. I made the decision to ride the elevator to the top public floor, number ten, and descend through the building via ramps and elevators. Peering upon the lower floors from the tenth floor; spiraling downward through the non-fiction stacks of floors nine, eight, seven, and six; floors containing their racks, racks containing their shelves, shelves containing their books, books containing their words and their orthographic symbols; floors and tables and chairs and cubicles and computers and cubbyholes abuzz with people—each of these scenes reminded me of the hexagonal chambers of the librarians of Babel, the wandering in search of knowledge, in search of meaning, in search of order, the Order.

It was as though wandering inside an enormous organism. The fourth floor, with its red hallways and corridors, and its pastel-colored meeting rooms tucked away from view, as the heart of this creature. The Mixing Chamber as its mind, its nervous system. The ramps, elevators, stairwells, and yellow-green escalators as arteries, veins, capillaries. I need to venture back into the belly of this beast. I can hear it calling to me.

NUCLEAR DREAMS

I remember 9/11 of 2001 as though it were today. The day is very vivid for me.

It was one of the rare mornings that I was not listening to NPR as I drove to work, which at that time was as a receiving manager for Barnes & Noble. It was an additionally rare morning, in that I didn't turn on NPR as soon as I was in our receiving room. I was unloading pallets in relative silence when someone rang the buzzer for our front doors. It was Diane, one of my coworkers. She was frantic and wild-eyed. She spoke of the two towers of New York City's World Trade Center as having been hit by airplanes and of the collapse of the first tower. I told her that she probably misheard what they were saying on the radio. We both walked rather quickly back to the radio in the receiving room and I turned on KPLU, Tacoma's local NPR station.

The voices of the national commentators were restrained but not calm. There was fear and agitation lurking within their reportage. The second tower collapsed. They recounted it in detail. Soon, another plane crashing into the Pentagon. Then, another plane crashing somewhere in Pennsylvania. Reports of up to ten planes missing from radar. Misinformation. Exaggeration, as though that were even possible after what the world had just witnessed. Flights forced to land at the nearest airports. Airspace shut down over North America. The skies overhead were quiet, eerily quiet, for we were directly under the flight path of many of the flights for both Seatac International Airport and Boeing Field.

The radio was a buzz all day, as was the receiving room. NPR ran all day. Drivers were updating us with the images they had seen of the planes slamming into the towers, of the towers collapsing. Employees were wandering through, talking out their fears and worries. Everyone seemed dazed and numb. I kept waiting for more. More planes, more attacks, a nuclear detonation. I kept waiting for retaliation.

I felt dizzy. I felt sick. I was angry. I was mournful. I prayed. I tried to wrap my mind around the unfathomable, the deranged.

I drove home with my mind in a haze, the sound of NPR reporting as a constant humming in the background.

I didn't see the footage of the attack and its aftermath until I walked in the door. My wife was there with the television repeating the images over and over and over. I remember sitting there for hours afterward, trying desperately to understand, to make some sense of it. It was the most time I had spent continuously watching news coverage since CNN had aired the aerial bombardment of Baghdad in Gulf War I, 1991.

I couldn't dream at the time, although I knew they would come. The flash, the heat wave, the blinding white, the cloud. Fueled by the madness of other men. Fueled by a faith that is no faith, a faith that is without hope.

The dreams roll over me as the wave does in the dreams. All I can see is darkness, the abyss, the Pit. The swirling waters of the Pit. All I can do is cry out with the Psalmist who declares:

Bless the Lord, O my soul, and do not forget his benefits—who forgives all your iniquity, who heals all your diseases, who redeems your life from the Pit, who crowns you with steadfast love and mercy.
—Psalm 103:2-4

But I cannot forget...

on THE TAPHANDLE

Whoop Pass IPA by Silver City Restaurant & Brewery

Wow! This is probably my new favorite IPA. It was bold. It was probably the most bitter, most hop-laden IPA I have ever experienced. And, at 9% alcohol by volume (ABV) this beer really packed a punch, especially considering that most commercial beers are somewhere between 3.5 and 5% ABV. We were in Silverdale, Washington for my sister-in-law's birthday dinner and celebration, and I was not going to pass up the opportunity to enjoy some local beer and pizza. Silver City's Brewer's Special—a pizza with a firm yet moist crust, tangy tomato sauce, cheese, pepperoni, and andouille sausage—was a great companion to an excellent beer. Needless to say, the wife had to drive to the party since 20 ounces of this beer on a fairly empty stomach immediately made its way to my head. Thank God that the wife was willing to play designated driver. The next time I am in Silverdale, I will definitely be stopping by for an oversized pint of Whoop Pass. Hopefully, you will too.

on THE TAPHANDLE

Mongoose IPA by Hale's Ales

After a day of working outside—cleaning gutters, organizing the shed, and general yard work—this IPA was a wonderful treat. It was nice and bitter, with hints of vanilla and cream (vanilla cream, perhaps?). The very slight sweetness was a nice juxtaposition to the prevalent hops. This ale was a great "meal mate" for homemade tacos that the wife, the child, and I prepared together. If this is my reward then please send me out to work in the yard more often.

on THE TAPHANDLE

Oktoberfest Märzen Amber by Paulaner

The weekend of beer begins with a smidgen of nostalgia. This is the beer that saved me from a life of Miller Genuine Draft, the road that I was heading down until I had a swig of Oktoberfest Märzen. This beer gave me a new appreciation for beer, and shifted my focus in beer consumption from quantity to quality. It helped me to discover that beer actually had flavor. It also helped me to realize that beer could actually be a nice addition to a meal rather than a way to escape at social functions (into the bottle, that is). I don't think it is the best beer out there, but it is good one. It has a nice reddish-amber color, a head that dissipates a little too quickly, and little lacing of which to speak. The flavor is mild with a hint of caramel and the slightest note of smokiness. To boost the nostalgia factor, I consumed this beer with a Totino's pepperoni pizza, once a staple item for me. All I needed was a little Hüsker Dü playing in the background and it would have been a perfect evening.

ALL THAT I SEE

"The word, although prevalent in our day, has lost its reasoning value, and has value only as an accessory to images. In turn, the word actually evokes images."
—Jacques Ellul, The Humiliation of the Word

For all my time spent in a visual culture, I know that I am not very adept at using the vocabulary. This became very apparent to me on my recent visit to Seattle Public Library's Central Library. I see things and I react to them. I see things and I feel particular ways about them, have an emotional reaction, "feel" them in my gut. But, I find it difficult to express what that is; find it difficult to talk about the things, the objects; find it difficult to describe how they make me feel.

Fortunately, I have help. I have been rummaging through the home library again and have found help in three very different books. They are: (1) Visual Grammar by Christian Leborg; (2) The Humiliation of the Word by Jacques Ellul; and (3) Ways of Seeing by John Berger.

Visual Grammar is a wonderful slim volume from Princeton Architectural Press. Christian Leborg has produced a primer on how to "read" visual objects and elements, especially as they appear in graphic design. The book is broken into four main categories: (1) abstract objects and structures, such as volume and radiation; (2) concrete objects and structures, such as form and texture; (3) activities, such as repetition and direction; and (4) relations, such as symmetry/asymmetry and distance. The book simply explains each of the sixty-one visual "words" and defines each with a brief description, sometimes a slightly longer and more detailed description, and engaging illustrations. This is a book for everyone. It is helpful when thinking about the images that surround us and that we are immersed in every moment, everywhere. It helps us to better understand our relationships to images and objects and to therefore better explain them or describe them. It has helped me to better understand the visual culture I move within.

Ways of Seeing by John Berger and The Humiliation of the Word by Jacques Ellul then pose questions about the visual information that we absorb and digest.

John Berger questions how we relate to images we view, especially as seen through the medium of oil painting. His book examines the ways that we view and contextualize images in four essays consisting of words and images and three essays consisting of images alone. These essays look at the way that we view, consume, and objectify other people, especially women; how our desires are manifested in the images that we create and consume; how these desires and images help to prop up and support our capitalistic worldview; and how we use the media of painting, photography, and advertising to control our environment, our selves, and others. I was first introduced to this book in a college art class and find myself returning to it over and over again on a regular basis.

Jacques Ellul is concerned with how truth is lost in visual images and how they undermine the truth that is spoken in words—both human words and the divine Word, specifically the Word manifested in Jesus Christ. The section I was most interested for this conversation, however, was a section toward the back of the book on "The Image-Oriented Person." He looks at how we are born into a culture of images that we cannot escape and at the gap that exists between what we see, and subsequently feel, and the words we use to describe what we see and feel. The section was perfect for me since it helped to elucidate some of what I myself was feeling. Just as Visual Grammar was able to help define "words" of the visual vocabulary for me, and Ways of Seeing laid some long-forgotten foundation regarding images once again, The Humiliation of the Word helped speak the problem I was experiencing to me. It was how I believe a good sermon functions: it spoke to me, individually, about my problems, my concerns, in a context that is universal, collective, social.

Which brings me to another section of a book that I have recently read again, that being Carl Jung's "The Concept of the Collective Unconscious" from his The Archetypes and the Collective Unconscious. Jung writes that "from these references it should be clear enough that my idea of the archetype—literally a pre-existent form—does not stand alone but is something that is recognized and named in other fields of knowledge." I wonder if one of those other fields of knowledge is the visual realm in which we wander. There are images that seem to be primal, that strike deep chords within me when I view them. As John Berger writes: "Seeing comes before words. The child looks and recognizes before it can speak."

Berger's observation is true for the child. Her toddler mind can recognize not only Mickey Mouse but the Rorschach inkblot formed by his head and ears. Last week, the child became excited and agitated by the Target bullseye, with which she has had limited contact, although it is out in the visual ether flitting about, presenting its image in all of its finery and plumage. And, Berger's statement is true for me as well. I can recognize more than I can speak. I just hope that somehow, somewhere, sometime I will find the words to speak the truth about all that I see.

PICK OF THE WEEK

The Seattle Public Library's Central Library has to be one of the greatest places I have ever visited. It is architecturally interesting. It is colorful. It is playful.

I am still trying to process the experience.

I also know that I am going to have to return to explore some more.

In fact, one of the intriguing things for me was that people were just going about their everyday lives, doing what they normally do in a library: reading, researching, chatting, sleeping. I was the outsider. It was as though I had crossed the border into a foreign country where I don't know the language. I definitely looked the part of a tourist as well, with my two cameras and my waist pack, along with the wife and child in tow.

Rem Koolhaas created a wonderful design for the Central Library, and the Library has done a wonderful job of incorporating the work of other artists into the environment.

It's a good thing I have a couple more days of vacation to ponder what I saw and try to wrap my mind around it all. If you haven't visited this piece of living art and architecture then you need to get there as soon as you can. Maybe I will see you there.

on THE TAPHANDLE

Negra Modelo by Grupo Modelo.

We celebrated the wife's birthday at a Mexican restaurant. Now, when I eat at restaurants, I try to drink something that has the local flavor of the food in mind, or that will complement my meal. Negra Modelo was a good choice due to the fact that it is an imported Mexican beer. Grupo Modelo's website lists Negra Modelo as a "Munich-style" beer. I don't know what that means, but I do know that this was a good accompaniment for my enchiladas picadillo.

Negra Modelo is a dark beer, although one much sweeter and lighter than I am used to drinking. It was served to me in the bottle with a pint glass and slice of lime on the side. I poured my pint and took a brief sip. The beer had a translucent brown/amber color, formed a good head, but left little lacing. The flavor had a slight nutty tone that became more fruity the longer it was on my tongue. I eventually added the lime to the pint glass and the lime pulled out more of the fruitiness of the beer. I don't think I would actively seek this beer out, but I will have it the next time I am in a Mexican restaurant. Overall, it was an enjoyable drink.