Paragraphernalia, Vol 2

Welcome to Paragraphernalia. The intent of this series is to write and practice writing through recalling and sharing short vignettes from my life — some of which I’ve never written about. Volume 1 starts here.

06

Ever since I was a kid, I have always been fascinated with seeing the world.

As an early childhood birthday gift, one of my grandparents gave me a globe. I recall it looking like the one here, with a sturdy metal base and raised topography. It begged to be touched and explored with my fingertips. Over time, some of the surfaces frayed — Nepal, in particular, became worn almost beyond recognition.

Attached to the metal meridian ring was an adjustable slider that stayed in place to indicate a location.

A game I invented and played by myself hundreds (if not thousands) of times was to simultaneously spin the globe and adjust the slider, up and down the meridian. As the spinning slowed, I would manually decelerate the slider, landing wherever I landed. What’s it like being there? Who are the people who live there? What language do they speak? What do they eat and what does their food taste like? What time do they wake up in the morning? What’s their value system? Or, what does it feel and look like like to be surrounded by ocean? After a few moments of contemplating life in that spot, I’d start spinning the globe and adjusting the slider again.

This game was how, at an early age, I became fascinated with travel, geography, life in other places, and people.

07

Barcelona—December 2011. It’s day three of two weeks in Spain, at the beginning of the 40 days off I took when I turned 40.

I booked an Airbnb with a wonderful host, Miguel, close to the Arc de Triomf. On day one, I awoke as one would typically do—jetlagged and groggy. I left the building in search of coffee and orientation.

Across the manzana I saw a café. Entered at street level and walked down a few steps into the place. Picked a table and ordered a cortado and croissant. Probably had a second cortado. Went about my day.

On day two I returned to the same spot because of its convenience, and because the cortado was especial. Feeling more stable and taking more preparations to be out for the day, I brought my backpack with camera and journal. I spent more time at the cafe, wrote a bit, probably had a second croissant. I observed more, particularly the window with a shelf at street level, at which a few businessmen were having their coffee and morning cigarette.

On day three, as I was headed back to try out the street level window, I got a phone call from my Mom. We caught up about my flight, first impressions of being back in Spain, and the smells and sights and tastes. As we chatted I was leaning against the wall next to the window, facing the street. Once I hung up the call, what was waiting for me?

Cortado and croissant.

Immediately I felt seen and known. A local. Three visits was all it took.

08

In 1988, as a junior in high school, my best friend Rachel’s mom gave me a catalog of typefaces. It was from her old job working a phototypositor machine. She was moving and clearing out stuff she no longer needed.

I pored over each page with nerdy glee. The nuances of letterforms and the immense variety of expressions fascinated me. I’ve always been a type nerd.

Michelangelo (pictured above) stopped me dead in my tracks. I loved it because it was a typeface that had no lowercase letters—as has been the style of my handwriting since my early teens. It reminded me of certain forms of calligraphy, which I learned and practiced from an early age. And although it was close to a face I spec’d a lot, Palatino—which I grew to love to hate, then ultimately appreciate again — it was gratefully not. It is Palatino’s rich aunt, more graceful and debonair. You mightn’t see her but once or twice a year.

Whenever Rachel and I saw a movie, during the credits we played Name That Typeface. Although I knew a lot of them, at times I wish I’d had her mom’s book handy! One film that I distinctly recall using Michelangelo is Caligula.

I am continually fascinated with typographic expression.

09

Have you ever felt suspended inside a timeless bubble with the world stopped around you?

I have—a few times in my life.

Once was in front of a painting at the Museum of Modern Art.

It was an abstract, brightly colored, large scale portrait of a woman’s face and neck. Flat color, and lots of it. Fluorescents in the mix.

I was transfixed upon seeing it. Something about her gaze meeting mine. And its grand scale.

The world around me was hushed. I knew that it continued to move, but I did not, for some time. I could have been standing in front of it for seconds, or it could have been hours. I wanted to stay in that peaceful, quiet bubble.

Eventually, I walked up to the painting to learn the creator. An Italian name. The title?

“No.”

I loved it even more.

Although I’ve searched and inquired, since I didn’t jot the name down, I’ve never been able to locate the image again—except inside my head.

Was it all a dream?

10

Absolutely is a lovely word. It suggests no restriction, limitation, or qualification.

It’s a long word. It’s completely, totally, and utterly a pleasure to pronounce. There’s so much you can do with it: Ab•so•lute•ly. Aaaaaab•so•lute•ly. Please—do go on having fun with it!

But please don’t ever qualify it. I’ve always taken issue pairing it with not.

It unconditionally changes your decisiveness, but only at the very end. You’ve wasted four syllables to make your point. By the time you’ve strung me along and gotten my hopes up, you completely change course?

No, please do not do this. Absolutely.