Last night I was going through the print publications I’ve accumulated over this past while: not newspapers, magazines or catalogs, but homemade or house-made, generally stapled, often Xeroxed, almost all made of paper folded in two. Pamphlets, low-rent journals, auxiliary materials for exhibitions. There are romantic personal records of devoted nomads, intellectual awakenings of youthful idealists, desperate information earnestly curated through righteous politicized consciences, far-left no-frills polemical tracts meant to be taken seriously, scraps of poetry and malformed fiction, beautifully-printed little narratives, anarchy, feminism, illness, desire, and then the aloof, intellectualized high-art booklets, either lushly printed or dire and isolate; glossy ink or black-toner austerity. I put them all into a pile, and I have to ask, is there a way to combine all these things? Any more than I already have?