Last time I went, I saw the original scroll of Kerouac’s On the Road along with other fascinating stuff at an extensive exhibit on the beat writers. You can read my small story about it here.
Currently, the Center has an exhibit about archives in general-—their acquisition, uses, quirks. In truth, when I read about the exhibit I couldn’t wrap my mind around the concept at all. But I was immediately and deeply sucked in when I got there. Along with the usual manuscripts, letters and photos, there were oddities that came long with various archives, such as horribly defiled photos of Gloria Swanson, sent to her by Kenneth Anger after she filed a lawsuit related to his book, Hollywood Babylon. I enjoyed reading a series of letters related to the acquisition of an archive and a slideshow about the arrival at the Center of John Fowles’ archive, which includes his desk drawers and their contents. (Brass knuckles?)
And all this got me thinking about my own archives. For someone who’s a nobody, I have a very well documented life. Hundreds and hundreds of travel photos. Dozens of sketchbooks. Old manuscripts, both in hard copy and on floppy disks. (I was gratified to learn at the Center that the archive of Isaac Bashevis Singer contains three unpublished novels. Nice to know even revered authors have unpublished manuscripts.) Boxes and boxes of newspaper clips of my articles, turning to dust in the garage. Ticket stubs from shows I don’t remember seeing.
Those of you who read me on MySpace probably remember my diaries. For newcomers, you may read about my exciting youth here, and my embarrassing youth here.
I decided to start exploring my own archives from time to time. This morning, I reached into a box and pulled out a little book that turns out to be a journal/sketchbook of a trip I took to Maine by myself when I was probably about 19 or 20 years old.
My own little exhibit of a few random excerpts and pages:
I’ve gotten myself a nice room on Sebago Lake. It’s called “Anderson’s Motel & Kitchenette Cottages” It’s within walking distance (I believe) of the beach. It’s run by an old Maine man. He sits on a lawn chair outside the office, which is a tiny one room shack. My room is all yellow with a couple of lawn chairs with cushions on them and pictures stuck on the wall with thumbtacks. One is a picture of a cowgirl & her horse.
Walking to the beach in the morning is one of those picture book experiences. All I hear are the pines rustling, & an occasional child’s voice or car engine. One sight that suddenly confronted me was a dirt road lined by pines with the lake in the distance and three little children meandering along.
The woman with the black beehive comes every day in a new bathing suit & big, plastic colour-coordinated earrings.
I saw a fox tonight! The first one I’ve ever seen running wild. I slowed down when I saw him & he stopped and looked at me.
Frogs kept hopping in front of the car. I think I must have killed a few. I tried to go over them.
6 comments:
Wow, you just made me want to go to Maine. I've never even considered Maine. Good job!
Cynthia
For those who haven't read it yet, the "embarrassing youth" part of Sophia's adolescent diary entries is some of the most charming, funny, and enchanting reading that has ever been put to paper. I still think she should turn it into a script or an illustrated book.
I was enchantingly ridiculous.
I remember Sebago Lake. Beautiful place. At first I thought the people were just country folk, then I realized they were closely related. Eating steamers and lobsters and drinking beer. We were younger.
We stayed at Anderson's, didn't we? I know I stayed there with Monte one year.
We're not too old to eat lobster and drink beer.
Those diary entries crack me up every time.
The Maine lists are awesome. My favorite part is your illustration of the street signs.
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