chocolate is a verb

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Tag Archives: paper

found poem: We don’t sleep

found poem: The paper

found poem: the wrapping paper

found poem: pages

found poem: paper

found poem: the page

found poem: jumbled

paper…

find…

This paper…

Friendly…

IN FALL…

unveil…

fragments…Roland ~ 2

old newspaperUntil we invoked a closed-door policy on his office, Roland’s desk and shelves and hunched figure were on full view, a collision of neatness and chaos. Every surface was covered with piles of paper, the piles squared and tidy, like with like.

Newspapers towered in stacks along the credenza (those on the floor having been removed when the nighttime cleaning service threatened to quit). Dozens of yellow pads sat in two piles, used and unused, and lined sheets that had escaped their pads made up yet another. Manila folders, filled with papers and borrowed from the department’s master files, claimed one corner of his desk, where the pile rose ever higher, nearly obscuring Rolly from view.

While-You-Were-Out phone message slips, Post-it notes (new and used) and business cards had their own stacks, and then there was the sad but neatly stacked collections of folded paper bags and slightly-used paper napkins Rolly saved from the meals he ate at his desk, in spite of the company’s no-food-at-your-desk policy.

In between the stacks, aligned neatly as timber, were pencils, toothpicks and, for some reason, unused drinking straws still in their paper wrappers.

When the situation became intolerable, Rolly was ordered by his friend the boss to clear out the mess. But he was incapable of parting with his paper, so we sent him away and descended on the office with trash bags and recycling bins. Hoping to find room to put away the few things worth saving, but expecting more crammed paper, we opened the credenza, file cabinets and desk drawers. They were utterly empty.
—–
newspaper image by ShironekoEuro

beginnings…

paperworks - detailAfter many years of making fiber art, I felt the absence of words. First I tried to incorporate the words into my work, gridding out elaborate stitch patterns or writing on ribbon that I crocheted into an object.

Then I moved to another kind of fiber — paper. On a roll of brown kraft paper, I’d hand-write long, unedited musings, just writing and writing until my hand was done. Sometimes I’d do the same on a typewriter, writing margin to margin, without correction and without even re-reading what I’d written.

This word-covered paper became the medium, folded in on itself, twisted and tucked, torn and layered and stitched tight.

Each piece, all words, was an overheard conversation, a letter ripped in half, a book with the last chapter missing…

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