The rest of my family is off adventuring in St. George–my bro in law got tickets for a hike in Kane County that are pretty hard to come by. My dad is a bit flustered with me because I just don’t get hiking–even when I was in good enough shape to go, I never understood the appeal. Don’t get me wrong, I’d be willing to go on a hike, as long as it was shorter than 3 miles, flat most of the way, and the temperature never gets above 65° farinheit. Oh, and there is no sand.
I’m not being difficult, here, am I? I figure I can get away with it. The fam’s all out-of-town, and I’m counting on the fact that they won’t have computer access at their hotel. *fingers crossed*
The hike the family is going on is called “The Wave”, and, according to the all-knowing Wikipedia, is quite a rugged hike. However, this is the second time my fam has done this hike in the last five years (apparently, quite a coup. Sis was telling me that most people consider themselves lucky if they get to go once) and my sister and her husband think that their three-year-old won’t have a problem with it. Or that the bro-in-law won’t have a problem giving him a piggy back the whole way.
This is a hike that I’d actually like to do, someday. My mountain-goat of a father tells me it’s not to difficult, and Sis thinks I’d be able to do it. I’m not convinced.
Mom is going to be hanging out in the hotel taking care of E while the rest of the family is out adventuring. She tried to talk me into coming down to help, but I didn’t think it was fair to dump the dogs on my usual babysitter without warning on Valentine’s Day weekend, and I didn’t want to deal with the emotional crap that ALWAYS comes after watching E–I thought I dodged a bullet on Monday, but it just took a couple of days to hit.
Mom made me promise that I’d do something fun this weekend. The problem is, the things I consider fun all cost money that I don’t have. Maybe I’ll just go to my happy place, aka Tai Pan Trading and just hang out.
I wrote a super-depressed post last night, and scheduled it to be published during the time when Max and Lulu would be at the groomers today. I’m happy to report that I don’t need to put that super-depressed post on my blog, as I woke up happy and ready to face the day. For a few hours, anyway.
I woke up thinking about the white space on the printed page, specifically, the margins. The way the human mind (especially mine) works never ceases to amaze me–I was dreaming that I was exploring the desert with some of my friends, and our car got stuck. We decided to walk out (which, by the way, is about the worst thing you can do in such a situation) and were picked up by BLM worker, who took us back to his house, where his wife wouldn’t let us go home. He also had a red-headed little boy who kept throwing stuff at us–I woke up enough at that point in the dream to discover Max decided he wanted to sleep by my head and was kicking me in the ribs.
So, to get back on topic, I don’t know why I was thinking about margins when I woke up. But, when I was out with the dogs on their morning walk, I remembered two books I read just as I was starting to take design classes. The combination of those two books, with the classes I was taking left me a deep desire to become what used to be called a typesetter–someone who designs the inside of books.
The first book (actually, I don’t remember the order I read them in, but this is the book I want to talk about first) was called “Joseph Smith: Scientist” and I think it was self published. At least, my brief search to find it somewhere other than my local library was futile. It was an interesting book, if a bit outdated. I think it was written during the ’50s–well after Einstein, but it still discussed the ether as if it were a valid scientific theory. But what struck me is that all the text, including the block quotes, and the quotes pulled out to elicit interest in that particular chapter were all right aligned. It looked sloppy and cheap, and, for me, anyway, made the book hard to read.
The second book had margins of about 1/8 of an inch all the way around. It was about a man who was wrongfully condemned to work in a prison mine, (I don’t remember what it was called) so it could have been a conscious choice on the part of the publisher to elicit the cramped, uncomfortable in which the main character was forced to work. The result, though, again was that it made it hard to read. I had a nagging feeling that someone had taken a paper-cutter to the book and sliced off most of the margins.
Frankly, though, it’s a bad sign that I can remember the margins of a book but not it’s title years after I read it.
If I was going to tie this back to real life, I’d say something along the lines of “Things left undone are as important as things done”, but that sounds too much like a stoner trying to be profound, and I always try to avoid sounding like a stoner trying to be profound. Of course, this leaves me with the uncomfortable situation of not knowing how to close this post, and just abruptly ending. Like this.