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A book collection of prose essays about memory, time, change, and wonder delivered to you throughout the year (4 editions total).
A book collection of prose essays about memory, time, change, and wonder delivered to you throughout the year (4 editions total).
49 backers pledged $2,665 to help bring this project to life.


Posted by Brittany Chaffee (Creator)


WE'VE MADE IT PAST $2,000! I'm nervous to do this, but the support behind BORDERLINE has been so uplifting, I simply cannot resist. I want to share a quick sneak peek of the book with you (!!) The words will be showing up in your mailbox come May, 2019. But now, a few of them can show up in your inbox.

**deep breath**

Okay, here's a little piece of my heart. This expert is pulled from an essay inside of Volume 3 (Fall, Change).

What I Know


A sign in Vegas, called the Stardust, now sits in a neon graveyard. I saw it a few years ago during a tour of the Neon Boneyard. It’s my favorite sign in the world. The capital jagged “S” jutting, pointing north, east, south, and west. Bold as a glass of bourbon and striking as a woman wearing tall boots over her knees, tan thighs. The letters are seventeen feet tall and dappled with bulbs, shaped like an lightning bolt hitting a withstanding tall tree. The appearance of the entire thing makes me think of the future. The sign makes me think of the future as people may have seen the future in the ’60s, full of boisterous hope and glamour, fulfilling blank moments with fantasies of moving walkways and microwave meals, robots, and self-regulating electricity. Stardust is neon red. The kind of 1960s movie red, appearing pink, sticking out of visuals like a leg pop during a kiss. The kind of red that’s a verb. A curtsy. A poppy pinup smooch. A girl putting on lipstick while she stubs out a cigarette with her boots. Everything bold you could fit into one sequin-encrusted bag, protruding at the sides. This monstrous ruby banger was lit in Vegas 1958, at the Stardust Resort and Casino, during the booming atomic age. Sputnik had just been launched. Tourists would come to Vegas to watch atomic blasts tested behind chain-link fences at the Nevada Test Site, like watching a baseball game. The font used on Stardust was fondly named the Electra Jag—you could see the sign from nearly three miles across the desert. Even better, it has been said the original pinkish lettering matched the color of Vegas’s radioactive dust. Signs, elements of fantasy fulfilled, were the epitome of the strip magic. I walked up to the sign in the Neon Boneyard fifty-nine years later. The Stardust had been sitting on the ground for a little while, collecting dust and letting the sun burn its vibrant red into a considerate, washed-out pink. We toured the Neon Boneyard, and they saved Stardust for the end. She was a grand finale, curtain closer, rose tosser, hat trick, vibrant ending. You can’t forget about those.  Have you ever dreamed of something so intently that it sits with you for a few days after? Have you ever imagined something you wanted so desperately to happen that, when it did, there was this heightened, thick presence that you’d been there before? You simply couldn’t believe the dream was actually happening to you? And yet, there you were, experiencing something as if it had been engraved into your heart forever? Then, with a quick blink and the natural movement of life, poof - gone. The last day the Stardust casino was open, November of 2006, before the Stardust’s eleven thousand bulbs went out, customers danced out of the casino in a conga line to “When the Saints Go Marching In.” Outside, loudspeakers played John Lennon’s “Nobody Told Me.” Nobody told me there’d be days like these, strange days indeed.

Carrie Bergman, Maureen Murphy, and 1 more person like this update.


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