Sunday, March 8, 2015


I love books.
I mean I really love the books themselves.
The books.
Not just the stories.
When I was a kid, I remember loving the way books smelled.
That wonderful sweet scent of book glue.
Loved the way they felt in my hand and the deckle edges of the pages.
Loved the pictures.
I'm still a sucker for illustrations.
They can make or break it for me.
Sometimes books are republished with different jacket art.
That can't be the right thing to do.
I get attached to the drawings. New ones seem like interlopers.

I think bending the corner on a page of a book is heartless.
It makes me wince.
It might seem unthinkable then that I have completely cut up a vintage children's book.
But I have.
I did feel a small twinge but I ignored it and snipped away.
The book was from 1960. The illustrations were wonderful.
It's just that someone else thought so too.
Someone who owned the book before me.
They had recklessly snipped here and there and the story was in tatters.
The bits I could still read seemed pretty preachy but stories were like that once upon a time.

I salvaged the remaining pictures to make cards for my Auntie.
She sends us weekly notes in hand crafted cards.
Cards she has cleverly crafted from this and that.
Upcycled artistry.

Hope she likes the kitties coming her way.

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