So . . .

. . . the scrolls I've been doing draw their inspiration, in part from vertical things like:

The misty centerline and sightline grandeur of Fan K'uan.
Under "Exhibitions," under "Painting" see "Travelers Among Mountains and Streams."

The fabulous handwriting of Su Shih (aka Su Tung Po).
Under "Scholar Art", look at Su Shih's "Former Ode on the Red Cliff"

The pacing and drama, in black and white, of Hsia Kuei.
Under "Exhibitions," under "Painting" see "Remote View of Hills and Streams," click to get pop-up window; scroll right-to-left

The dreamy detail and silky emergence from the fog of Ch'iu Ying.
Under "Exhibitions," under "Painting" see "Spring Morning in the Han Palace." click to get pop-up window; scroll right-to-left

In this context see my own meager El Dorado (horizontal), and Blue Company (vertical).

ROB pauses at the top of the exterior spiral staircase of the Swenson building, and watches the ripples on the pond below

"Allah is really angry," said a friend as we watched the fearful symmetry of Hurricane Rita consolidating and moving relentlessly --- at a jogger's pace --- toward the gulf coast.

Natural disasters will either affirm one's faith or rock it, but they won't leave it alone.

The great Lisbon Earthquake of 1755 was a key event in the history of the Enlightenment, and was called by some critics "the end of optimism." Every thinker took a side, many concluding that the event was evidence of a failure of authority ---- specifically the failture of the supreme diety's benevolence or his power.

How will our culture spin this double hit of category fives? And it's not even the gnarly part of hurricane season --- that is October.

ROB huffs and puffs his way up four flights of Med School stairwell.

Follow Moose and Squirrel to the new Swenson Sci . . . I mean . . . follow Moose and Buffalo to the new Swenson Science Building!

When you sight these fine beasts, you are almost at the narrow skybridge, and your journey (to my classroom in the fab new lab) is near its end.

"Navigation" is such a frequently-used metaphor in web design. But, as I tell my students . . . at some point we must remember that we're just sitting here in front of a screen . . . we're not "going" anywhere . . . the vast copy machine of the wwweb is simply sending us copies.

So when we find ourselves with true navigation tribulations it is instructive.

Our classes meets in the new Swenson Science building. Where is the new Swenson Science building anyway? I can see it when I drive by . . . but how the heck do you get there?

When you start to see signs like this one, you know there's a navigation issue . . .

. . . so many helpful souls putting up vernacular signage to try to assist the wayward scholar . .

.

And perhaps loveliest of all, this provocative warning:

"Foot Traffic Only" . . . what, have people been bringing their horses into the new building?

ROB stands and addresses his class in the fabulous new J.I. Swenson Science Building

Hi there! Well . . .

. . . if you want to take an efficient introduction to the world of blogging . . .

take a look at this

http://www.electricmist.net/

then see some more Katrina blogs at

http://www.cyberjournalist.net/news/002862.php

then bookmark this (it will be a required text this semster)

http://jilltxt.net/

. . . then take a quick look at these, and follow up a few links on each of them . . .

http://www.michaelberube.com/

http://www.antropologi.info/blog/

http://classroomconnection.blogspot.com/

http://www.thestage.co.uk/newsblog/

http://mbaleague.blogspot.com/

http://www.upforanything.net/poker/

When I arrived for the first of my interviews of the remarkable Leif Brush --- Professor (of conceptual and sound art) Emeritus --- he had five (5), count 'em, fünf (cinq) microphones set up on the table, microphones from different decades, a history of postwar radio and recording.

The jewel of his mic collection in my eyes, the old RCA double-diamond-shape; how beautiful!

I was asking him about his adventures in radio --- in the Army, as a "tape reporter" in the '50s & '60s splicing news reports with a razor blade and sending them to the station from the mobile VW bus --- and I was enthralled with the answers. Radio is the other half . . . the hidden half . . . of my inspiration for writing (the more obvious half being the visual/verbal intersection between graphic design and writing.)

My lifelong love of radio is what gives me a sense of the musical/temporal beauties of serial literature . . . effects that reveal themselves in episodes over days, weeks, months, Leif's sensibility to radio is so resonant with mine . . . a love of the sheer connectivity of networks: he describes with glee the moment in the old days when the entire NBC radio network would switch from originating a broadcast in New York to originating one in San Francisco . . . the gorgeous series of clicks as operators manually unplugged and replugged big-ass, olde-school regional switchboards . . . the original web,

My solution to the seemingly perennial money troubles of the Great Lakes Aquarium?

Simple! Just turn the aquarium into a first class fish restaurant!

 Arrrgh! Dinner time at
Cap'n Crappie's Fish Shack

Duh. Like we didn't already know an octopus can walk on two legs!

I'm tiptoe-ing away now. Bye.

(And don't you penguins get any ideas! )

ROB leans over an electric hand dryer in an institutioal restroom, SCRATCHING its label-plate with a HOUSEKEY.

I'm hearing about British graffitti artist Banksy on all sides these days.

Quite a nice stir he caused by insinuating some nice, small pieces of his own work into A-list Manhattan museums recently. These minor coups are listed on his website modestly under "Exhibitions." My museology sources muse that there's likely to have been inside help for the Bankster . . . who has a typically tortured, love/hate relationship with the idea of official fame.

I'm excited about this book: Carnet de Voyage, by Craig Thompson.

Thompson penned (or brushed, rather . . . he draws & writes with a brush) the quite-popular graphic novel Blankets. This book begins, as so many exciting works do, with a disclaimer. He says:

"This is not "the Next Book," but rather a self-indulgent side-project --- a simple travel diary drawn while I was traveling through Europe and Morocco from march 5th to May 14th, 2004."

Dodgeville, Wisconsin provided the taste surprise of the journey.

A great little restaurant on the main street where we ordered the (typical Wisconsin) bratwurst and potato salad lunch. We braced for the onslaught of grease and salt.

Instead, the brats were smoked over wood from a forest on Mt. Olympus, boiled in Zeus's own beer, and contained apples or pomegranates or something. The sauerkraut had cinnamon in it and was out-of-this-world yummy.

Note to self: look for restaurants with walls panted colors such as:

like the walls in this place.

The interior design is a clue to the high yum-factor of the gastronomy.

The fabulous lobby of the Julien Hotel in Dubuque is a dim, dark, '30s-movie-style classic --- deep carpet, a once-bubbling fountain, cracked leather furniture, ferns to hide behind, a barbershop, and a German cellar restaurant (once a speakeasy?) down the velvety stairs.

Chicago gangster Al Capone used to retreat across the Mississippi to flee Illinois warrents and stay here, the college kid at the desk told us. He laughed when we asked if there was a room available. The place was a ghost town.

Above the front desk is an incredible hi-tech (for it's day) electric display that once shone your room number if you had a message. What messages in its heyday? "Your illegal hooch has arrived from Canada?" "Should we send up the usual girls?" "Mr. Jones is indisposed."

From the 2nd floor coffee shop of the Best Western in Winona, Minnesota I had a great view of the odd Sugarloaf Bluff above . . .

. . . and a man vigorously waving the Japanese flag below. I drew it in my notebook.

Townsfolk were sweetly bidding farewell to a group of Japanese schoolkids and parents who had been in town for a week. Formal looking Japanese kids extended their hands for handshakes and got engulfted in beefy American-kid hugs.

The Sunshine and Salad Tour began over astonishingly good (& cheap) curried lamb & beef, and poached salmon at the Harbor View Inn in Pepin, WI ("Lake Pepin, part of the Mississippi River" as the town's web slogan proudly proclaims).

J's glass of white wine glowed golden for 5 minutes in a single strand of sunlight that travelled 150 million kilometers for that sole purpose.

The sky was frosty blue, the shadows long, the banks still snowy, the river dark and fast.

EXT. VALLEY BELOW THE CASTLE --- NIGHT

Dominating the ridge, parapets hunker. Light flickers in the highest window of the keep.

The camera ZOOMS HALF A MILE UP THE HILLSIDE toward the window. Slowing elegantly, the camera gives us a peek through he rippling panes.

We can make out the shadowy figure of LONGDRAGON in his robes poring over a tableful of ancient parchments. The camera tracks toward the window, closer, closer . . .

The camera suddenly throws on the brakes, spins out of the arms of the FRIGHTENED CAMERA OPERATOR, wheels, and charges back DOWN the hill, brushing perilously close to tangled electrical cords, dazzling lights and the faces of ASTONISHED GAFFERS ducking out of the way.

EXT. COUNTRY ROAD --- NIGHT

The camera is speeding; we mean really speeding. It careens around a bend, misjudges an angle, and snags a tree branch, which sends it SPINNING into ditch. Momentarily stunned, it charges on.

INT. VILLAGE PUB --- NIGHT

The camera enters hesitantly, pans left and right. Grumpy PUBGOERS arrest their banter to look. Across the room, the BARTENDER'S face lights up. He gestures 'come on over.'

The bartender doesn't even wait for the camera's order, we notice, and sets down a shot of the REGIONAL ROTGUT with a TALL PILSNER to back it up. The shot and the beer disappear under frame.

This is great. This is just great. The clock says 8:05.

The clock says 10:40 . . . or does it . . . it's so damned out-of-focus. The puffy face of a LOCAL MATRON dominates the screen. She laughs . . . or coughs. The camera is not serious. Tell us the camera is not serious.

The camera pushes in for a clumsy nuzzle of the matron's hairy ear. The camera's CONTRACT states specifically that the camera has been through rehab. A FRICKING ATTORNEY makes a call in the morning. Count on that.

The front door of the pub opens and a worried FILM CREW PRODUCTION ASSISTANT pokes her head in, scanning the room.

The frame fills with a giant OVERFLOWING ASH TRAY as the camera hides and quakes with giggles.

EXT. COTTAGE --- NIGHT

Oh dear god, no.

The matron stumbles through the mud and drops her keys on the doorstep. The camera attempts to track directly through the living room window and bounces off the glass. Twice. Three times.

INT. COTTAGE BEDROOM --- NIGHT

It is dark. Too dark. Blessedly. We hear nightmarish slurps.

The matron . . . oh, here we go . . . turns on a dank, green BEDSIDE LAMP . . . oh, now DO WE REALLY HAVE TO . . . OH FOR THE LOVE OF