this would be easier to write abut if i were a less
lazy person. or perhaps if i could see the illustrations and think again of axolotls and
stories about axolotls and albinism. and edward o. wilson, maybe, who sketched also and
when i was little and wanted to be an entomologist, not quite a naturalist, i would
pretend i could read and carry his books around and scribble between his lines although
all i could write was ee-period-ess-period skipp.

realistic sketches, sketches that are time consuming, obviously, and are photographic
tend to bring to mind an argument about art today -- that we revert to a lack of realism
in response to an overabundance of reality, through photographs and film, and because
we realize that reality can be falsified. that's just how it goes.

e.o. wilson wrote "the naturalist," the first illustration in which was of a creature,
like an eel with legs, hiding under the murky depths beneath some dock somewhere
somehow. i no longer own a copy, or a copy of its sequel, so i cannot account
for the species or its location or its importance. remember, when these books
mattered to me, i couldn't read.

more to the point he is among a dying school which allows for an almost guilty glance
at the intimate details of catalogued beasts and beings and places and campfires
which one cannot possibly appreciate outside of this painstaking medium.
perhaps it is the human quality for empathy that allows us to hold this labor
gently and adore it so.

02/02/2008

Author's Note: (please recall from the folder description: none of this can be edited once written).

Posted on 02/02/2008
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