Lou Ruvo Center for Brain Health (source: Architect Magazine)
I tripped over a link to images of Frank Gehry’s latest building–the Lou Ruvo Center for Brain Health in Las Vegas–and had a look out of idle curiousity.
I didn’t expect to be so moved by the building–there’s something about it that expresses the confusion that comes with dementia. Shambles and beauty in one building.
Architecture Magazine has a short article about the building and a slide show. More exterior and interior images are availble on the Keep Memory Alive site.
Sometimes it’s just nicer to wander into a shop and have a look-see, so you can smell the records, hold them and touch them. (Isobel Campbell)
Some time ago, Douglas sent me a link to a Guardian article celebrating independent record stores. His eye was caught by this reference to the smell of records.
It’s the first reference to the smell of records that I’ve spotted in the wild and it surprised me. It fits quite neatly though into a pattern established by a commonplace lament about the loss of bookstores and print books.
I rarely notice the smell of books in everyday use or even when going into a used bookstore. A book with a smell is a problematic book and one I’m reluctant to take home. If it’s a used book, it’s either mildewed, damp, or been owned by a smoker. If it’s a new book, it’s off-gassing chemicals from the ink, glue, or paper.
I suspect the smell of records is actually the smell of degrading cardboard.
Credit: 96dpi
I’m at the halfway mark. The grades for the second term of my MLIS are trickling in; I’ve just about caught up on sleep; and I’ve stopped dreaming about imaginary assignments I forgot to complete.
Lots of ups and downs over the course of the year—some related to ordinary library school patterns and some related to my particular situation. Both terms have been more difficult than I expected. The difficulties haven’t emerged from the content of the program—which I enjoy for the most part—but from mundane problems of too many meetings to schedule, too much change all at once, and too little time taken to breathe.
When things feel most difficult, I slip into believing that I’ve been doing nothing. It’s a perverse habit of thought I’m trying to let go of since it magically erases the effort that went into selling our home, moving a household, reconnecting with family, learning the ways of a new city, negotiating the long term care bureaucracy, struggling with the pain of needing to arrange long term care for my mother, looking at long term care facilities and trying to choose the right one, going back to school and relearning how to be a student, learning the outlines of a new discipline, getting good grades, publishing a paper, figuring out how student groups work, working on a student journal, winning a competitive internship, and getting past some crazy-making situations.
My hope for the summer is balance. Yes I want to learn the ins and outs of reference work and web services in a research library but I also want to spend time with my partner (he-who-has-done-ALL-the-household-work), re-start a sitting practice, explore the city more, and read for pleasure. Novels. I remember something about novels.
