I'm excited to read a new and quality book manuscript tonight because I spent my day marking up manuscripts that needed focusing on shed design, as opposed to general information about sheds, or on how the garage is the new front door of the home. The garage, it's said, is the entrance to the new "beehive home," which has taken over from the "cocoon." People go in and out all day. They also give their delivery guy the code to their garage door opener so he can leave them packages without going in the house. I wish I had a garage so I could get my damn package from UPS. Second delivery notice today. I really don't know how I'm going to get this package. No one is home all day in my building anymore.

I like giving books to people. Sometimes I just know it's the right book and sometimes I'm being imposing and a showoff or know-it-all. But every so often you hit the bullseye and this week I did. I had these two books on Scandinavian design that had come into the bookstore; they were 1960s era, both still in their book jackets, and they were going to be completely jacked to pieces if they sat on the shelves. I say this to justify my buying them at the discounted rate. I was saving those books. So I took them home and read them, and they were gorgeous and everything, and I stood them on the shelf in readiness for when my liking of Scandinavian design should blossom into an obsession. But it didn't, and I knew these books were important (I looked on Alibris and they were over $20, which is always a clue), so I thought, who do I know who wants these? And I thought of someone, and mailed them off, and got the best phone message back. Someone who really wanted these books now has them, without having asked for them. How about that? I think this is what librarians hope to do every day, and it accounts for why a lot of librarians you see are kind of angry, because what they really do every day is tell kids that their 30 minutes are up and it's time to let someone else use the computer. And ask for funding.

"Converted into Houses," by Charles Fracchia, is sort of what I pictured my house looking like. It was published in San Francisco in 1976 and it's full of that Northern California funk. Hanging ferns, bentwood chairs on old oriental carpets on concrete, Lucite tables. Giant rooms divided by rows of chipboard cubes, old California job cases (those multicompartmented type trays) on the wall, in general a lot of collecting of old type elements. Handmade light fixtures. It's what I like. But the new house is not going to lend itself to that look at all. California funk, as far as decorating goes, requires space, light, high ceilings. I think it also needs the clear light of California, which makes everything look intentional. Or maybe it needs to be in California, period, where it's understood that you are living the way you choose.



But what this means in the short term is that I'm purging the Cal-Scando-Japanese things from my little collection of crapola. I'm staring at the bookcase that's going to be the toughest thing to cut loose. It's 6.5 feet tall, teak-veneered, brassy fittings, boomerang-y feet, stamped "Made in Norway."



I will keep my giant turquoise ceramic lamp. This may be the only important thing I own. What makes it most important to me at the moment is that my little nephew walked into my apartment for the first time and said, "I like your lamp." He does not notice much around him, or he does not comment on what he notices. Anything he likes enough to mention, I like.