I’m a Bibliophile Whose Books Just Keep on Giving

I love writing books. I love reading books. I love collecting books. I love everything about books!

I don’t care whether they’re printed on paper or available in electronic format. A good story is a good story. And for nonfiction, great facts presented in an interesting manner are like nuggets of gold. Ever since I was little, reading has been one of life’s greatest pleasures. It broadened my horizons, provided some blessed escapism from an abusive home environment, and whisked me away to exotic destinations on fabulous, magical adventures.

As an innately creative individual, I love it when I can make use of books in my artwork. I regularly rescue discarded books and give the pages new life by embellishing them in various ways. The resulting altered book pages vary wildly, depending on my mood and the nature of the day’s thoughts flitting across my mind.

Creating altered pages is fun and therapeutic--a great creative outlet that involves recycling, so it’s environmentally friendly too. Your finished creations will depend on your personality and personal interests. If you’re like me and suffer from the mental anguish of...

...then your altered pages might turn out like the ones I first shared with you in my Channeling the Beat Generation and the Original Hipsters post, or like the pages I’m about to share with you below.

I’m a huge fan of humor, laughter and utter nonsense. Firsthand experience battling an autoimmune disease (ankylosing spondylitis) has taught me they help to cure what ails you. Keep that in mind while eyeballing this assemblage of manic doodling, illogical collage, and offbeat, meaningless poetry, impulsively unleashed from my jingly, jangly, itty-bitty, twisted, WTF brain.

Just picture me at center stage of a moody coffeehouse from the era when hipsters were crazy cool cats who played bongos and moved to the soulful music inside their heads while a bass fiddle strummed sullenly in the background. And when I open my mouth to speak, I say...

(For easier reading you'll find the highlighted text alone shown beneath each altered page.)

(Above) Disliking Status Seekers

I had no sense. There are moments like that. Even if we weren't aware of it, the time had come to acknowledge it.

Disliking status seekers.

I survived evenings like that by putting on gingerbread. The party was under way. Would anyone miss me if I stopped about twenty feet ahead?

It's almost a shame to go inside. A picnic, diminished by the twilight.

Don't tempt the guest of honor.

(Above) Illustrations

Unlikely event. Appropriate for the photograph.

Computed from the reduced or enlarged.

Reduced to five methods of mechanical.

Piece of tracing

(Above) He was No Priest

Huge, silky tendrils cascaded. Some had fallen to float in the water he swallowed. Oh, Lord.

Dark lashes fanned across her elbows on the edge of her fingers in the water. Hunter could hear his heart beating in his lump, suddenly very hot.

And, he was no priest.

Hunter knew she hadn't mistaken him for the tub. He watched dewy droplets shimmering on the downward journey.

How he wished his smoky, half-closed eyes traveled downward, as if she were physically barely curving her lips.

(Above) Shape

Smaller. Too wide. An extremely expensive operation.

Shape. Skinny. Too long and narrow. Very Wide.

(Above) Searching for Shoes

Searching for shoes. My first dressy dress. Getting lost among the extravagantly beautiful things.

Looking for something made in Paris. Nothing seemed right.

Bras, camisoles, and slips. Lace-encrusted push-up bras in deep reds, golds, leopard.

Confections.

A buttery-soft black silk camisole. Outrageous. No excuse.

How does it look?

Ridiculous.

(Above) Trying to Draw

Trying to draw.

An alternative method with some exasperation.

Following block quotations.

(Above) The Crunch of Running Feet

Joseph couldn't control himself any longer.

Wiping her hands on her front door, Pierce's mother stepped the hell out of there, ripped the large beefsteak and hurled.

The dog snatched the waist and ran down the drive.

WHAT?

Cabot was halfway down the human, immediately followed by countless claws piercing his skin. The tearing claws came from behind his head to rip the screaming brat.

He fought to knock the crunch of running feet on the hands. Only a few more feet. With one mighty effort he sliced deep into his cheeks before he snatched at the dog, who should have been dead.

The damned dog must have dragged himself in. The hands still kicked viciously, satisfied when his foot heard, GREAT SEX TONIGHT!

--Super Earthling…roger wilco, over and out

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