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I’m significantly interested in the postsecret art project that this Frank Warren dude started when I was in college.  Check out the website for a sneak peek of this weeks secrets if you’ve never heard of it.  As with any fine art worth it’s hours in devotion, there’s a spectrum of style.  I’m not the biggest fan of the melodramatic, introspective realizations.  Sometimes it’s sad that Donna Depressed doesn’t have a single person to trust and sends her deepest feelings into a pop artist, but who am I to judge, right?  There’s always so many sex secrets and fantasies, again, sad.  The value that folks don’t put on marriage is sickening.  I wish I could pray for the restoration of every marriage that is represented by cards that read, “I’m afraid to tell my husband…” or “My wife would be crushed is she knew…”.  Let’s face it, people have problems and marriage isn’t always pretty, but – honestly, now.
Then there’s funny ones and brilliant ones [I’m not claiming an unabridged, complete list of secret-styles here, but it’s a start…]  Putting poetry in library books is brilliant.  I don’t question the motive, because there are about ten good reasons that I can think of off the top of my head as to why that’s a brilliant idea.  I question the guy who steals parking tickets and doesn’t pay them, or the chick who pretends that she likes to recycle.  I can’t tell you how many times I’ve spoken to the pages of the postsecret books, “Why on earth?”.  But putting poetry just about anywhere falls into the loose, post-modern definition of “art”, and while I resent the parameters of that definition, some good things do come of it.
I read a book in Barnes and Noble the other day, something about graffiti.  In my sphere of interest, it falls under “Desired Coffee Table Books” [of which I have one book and zero coffee tables] and it was mostly pictures.  There were photos of graffitti and a caption of the city in which it was found.  Again with the loose definitions, some of the items were not what I would consider traditional graffitti.  There were mailing labels stuck to telephone and light poles,  chalk and crayon drawings on the sides of post office delivery boxes, even one picture of gang letters carved in the wet sand, like the mural on the Tijuana beach years ago.  Putting poetry in library books isn’t so different, hm?
My mind trails off in digression wondering about the nature of the market as a sneaky fine artist like this.  The reward would be marginal, I’m sure, but money hardly defines worthiness to me.  Go get a book from the library, maybe you’ll be pleasantly surprised.