First, a confession: I read Playboy magazine.  Not all the time, mind you.  I used to read it more religiously and now only rarely.  The content has fallen off a lot; it used to be a place where I could depend upon excellence in fiction.  There used to be other content in quantity that drew me in, like Asa Baber.  Loved him, even though I frequently disagreed with him (and now miss him greatly).  Now?  It’s all about the internet; I can reliably find quality content out here, without having to flip through all the other glossy pages hubby enjoys.  So much more efficient, though I’ll understand if you disagree.

Occasionally there’s a lagniappe or two worth reading; last month (the 50^th Anniversary issue) contained a letter-essay from Hunter S. Thompson.  Heh.  Good stuff.  He’s still his irascible self, making for a tasty rant.

There’s another bonus in this same issue: a little something by author Jonathan Safran Foer.  I admit to not having read his book, Everything is Illuminated, although I may after reading this article in Playboy.  This piece is an innocuous yet intriguing introduction to the author and one of his personal foibles.

Another confession: it’s one of my foibles, too.

A blank piece of paper.  Ah.

Foer writes about collecting paper – pieces that had the potential to be something more significant in the context from which they were removed.  They still mean something to Foer once removed and put into the new context of his collection.  These empty leaves were held by someone, with the promise of being something else entirely under their guidance and skill.  But like a snapshot, these sheaves are halted, frozen in that moment between being and nothingness.

Once upon a time – it seems like eons now – I was a draftsman.  It was the first job I ever had; it was my means of support for a handful of years in the days before computer-aided drafting was commonly used.  I took several courses in high school, took wood shop as well, in order to master drafting.  I was damned good, too; it was something I enjoyed.

At the beginning of every project I was ecstatic.

There on my drafting board, a sheet of vellum, twenty-four inches by thirty-six inches, taped just so, tautly gleaming blue-white under the soft glow of my drafting lamp.  It is in the pure potentiality of that moment, when the graphite lead has not yet touched the surface of the vellum, that I am completely enraptured.  Utter formlessness, waiting to be coaxed and molded into something-ness.

I can still smell the tape, the vellum, the graphite; I can feel the coolness of the slick table surface under my palms as I study the sketches and engineering reports from which I am to work.  I can even feel myself perched on my drafting stool, hunched slightly over the expanse of white awaiting my focused attention.  All that promise, sharpened down to the point at which the lead intersected the unbroken surface of the paper.

Unlike Foer I don’t collect blank paper.  I have a number of drawings that I’ve drawn or collected; I know how much artistry there is in these, what creative spirit was invested in these sheets.

But like Foer, I am still awed by that moment between yet and is.