I needed a new journal, and I just couldn't quite swallow the selection at my local Barnes & Noble. Nothing against the mothership, but one can only spit creative thoughts - like used bubble gum - into a book with the cover "Dance," "Laugh," or "Inspire," (or even a badly hand-pressed paper collage). I knew I would write stinky, fungal things that would destroy the already decaying pages. It wouldn't be good. I'm not John Updike, or Arundhati Roy, but I do want to give my words a fighting chance for sagacity.

I was a breathless pilgrim at 1:20 pm - on an odyssey to journal mecca on 1st Avenue between Stewart & Virginia: Peter Miller Architecture & Design Books.

This is a sacred place: where architects and designers who have gone before both inspire and frighten me into soft whispers with their mantras of bauhaus typography. A white cathedral of shelves and minimalistic displays of inky pens shoot black liquid at me, a scared fish out of holy water.

Peter Miller is home to the epic tales of structural heroes and design masters: The Tom Kundigs and Jim Olsons of the Northwest, the masters of rooftop design in Hong Kong, photographers, landscape architects, travelers, graphic designers, urban planners, artists. This shrine deserves a candle, and a purchase.

The images take my breath away.

(Photo compliments of Behance)

(Images like this warm me like incense - photo compliments of Below the Clouds)

I said my prayers, paid my tithe, and signed the bill for my new Nova notebook. Thank you, God.

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