A young girl, wrongly imprisoned in a mental institution because she knows her mother was the true killer of her younger sister, a freakish doll-child on the child beauty circuit! Will Dana Delany's Megan Hunt save her before electro-shock therapy zaps the adolescent's memory, forever hiding the true killer's identity?? ...The things we do, to salvage the day, eh? The TV watching, that is. You work, you go home and then you work again; you turn around, and it's 10 PM, the day's gone, how did that happen? It's not like you're a lawyer, or raking it in, or are changing the world.
Too late to start anything new, but at least you could cleanse the palate from the day's bad taste...but a faulty cleansing it is, the TV watching. I'm not a snob, I get sucked into TV along with almost everyone I know, though I resent it. I think, outside of a few great shows, it's like cafeteria food, eating a little something, because you're mildly hungry -- or because it's the appointed time frame for eating -- and then eating a little something else, because that first thing you ate wasn't that satisfying -- and even then thinking, well, *that* didn't hit the spot.
That, to me, is habitual TV watching. It's the willful eating away of time, by one's own hand, because one was just *depleted enough* to not have the will to create something better with the day. Maybe a wee bit too puritanical on my point. Or perhaps too cynical... though it makes me think of Karl Marx's oft-paraphrased "religion is the opiate of the masses" -- not that I know a blessed thing about that passage outside of that, but STILL, I say, STILL, plunk TV in there and doesn't it still work surprisingly well? I contend that it does... And on that note, I should go to bed. The young girl turned out to be a malicious killer after all! And wily and cruel; with the keen ability to ferret out emotional weakness in her targets, a trait clearly shared by the entire mentally unstable population, judging from years of TV shows. But luckily all truth eventually comes to light, and quite handily so, with time to spare for commercials...
Tuesday, April 23, 2013
Wednesday, April 17, 2013
You lack the skills of a Graphic Design Jedi
A.) How long did you spend on photoshop?
B.) Too long.
B.) Too long.
Good night, moon.
Good night, rain.
Good night, misbehaving elliptical tool.
Good night, reader.
Friday, April 5, 2013
By in a Flash: a Few Snaps Before the Weekend
There's time for a scattershot post, no more. I could have sworn there was a misguided mildly uplifting quote about there being all the time you need, but a lax googling (see also: must hop in the shower) yielded a mere handful, plus crime story videos ("there's all the time you need"...in prison, to contemplate what you have done). "Making more time," however, yields an impressive 10.3 million in 15 seconds. And most of those are lies. As anyone living beyond the Phantom Tollbooth will tell you, you can't *make* time. But anything to free up space and make us believe we are creating a moment of calm, or stealing it, as the case may be, and we can be happier with our day...So. On with it.
Updates from the basement
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| Nothing was carved. |
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| And inked. |
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| Test print. |
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| A girl in an animal hat was forbidden entry to a party. |
Updates from outside
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| The metal duck family still sails a wavy roof in Gallup Park |
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| The heron is poised. |
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| Mahek somehow closed when I wasn't looking! Goodbye, favorite chai. |
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| Less tasty, more wordy: the anticipated book indie, Literati, has opened its doors |
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| Collective *sigh*. Much happy browsing to follow... |
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| Meanwhile, in a handful of alleys and random streets downtown, curious building adornments have sprung up. |
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| Keep an eye out! DIA's cool Inside/Out program has finally come to Ann Arbor. |
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| High society, landscapes; and biblical (and personal) vengeance! |
Wednesday, March 20, 2013
Mystery Vegetables and Rabbits in Watering Cans
Have been noodling around, perusing cookbooks. I don't know what to bring for Passover dinner, though the "some vegetables" suggestion doesn't seem, on the surface, a mysterious or challenging route. Orange and beet salad? But possibly better to avoid, what with the beet-horseradish possibility. I'll be working that day and maybe even quite close to dinner time, so something that I make the night before would do better. Hmmm. Hmmm. And then there's the "Ladies of X street" gathering on Sunday evening, since one of my friendly neighbors* is without her husband for the weekend and is fronting the very occasional we-should-know-our-neighbors-better directive. And it's about time for this, as there's definitely fresh blood on our street. But who's behind the front door? We all huddle inside our houses, humbled by the weather, crabby from the work day (projecting). Except for neighbor's husband, who snow blows/shovels many a neglected sidewalk, and waves merrily as you drive by, saint that he is. But the point is: do I know what to bring to the Sunday potluck, either? No, I do not. While I have hundreds fewer cookbooks than Compatriot, I certainly have enough to find something suitable. Perhaps the proper recipes do not yet wish to be found. Ironically, the notion of Easter Egg hunting for the perfect recipes spring to mind.
*neighborly friends -- she was one of less than five folks I skyped with when I was in China. And we still sometimes skype, which is ridiculous, as we live across the street and a few doors down.
Overarching indecision, or nostalgic mix, hard to say. Because Easters past have been springing to mind recently, more than they usually do for me. Not being from a family of practicing faith, this did not usher in somber thoughtfulness or remembrance, rather, like so many secular peers, it meant Easter baskets and egg dyeing. I always loved the dyeing, though the blowing-the-egg-contents-through-a-needle-hole I could do without. Luckily, we normally went the hard-boiled route, so.
Special old white chipped cups were reserved for the dying; they were kept in a cupboard downstairs. They had clean, triangular lines to them (I think they were from a contemporary Japanese dinner set) and just-barely-there dye lines from years past. I loved seeing the pools, with their fizzing dye tablets, to which Mom would add vinegar. A host of colors in each cup on the tray, so deep that it was often difficult to tell purple from blue from green. lowering the dainty wire circles into them, with the buoyant egg, so starkly white. Always the overlapping of colors, the deeper hue or --wonderful!-- luminous interplay of color --or ugh -- overdyed muddiness, richness rendered drab. The sturdy, beautiful woven baskets had been around from before I was born -- when had they bought them? My parents were older when they started their family -- were they in their thirties when they picked them up, in anticipation of a family? I remember one, especially grand, with a rolling rattan lip, reminiscent of a cornucopia. We certainly weren't wealthy, but think of it, to have these special things, for one day a year! And to have that much space, to easily store them away, all the better to forget them until the following year.
The house being somewhat chaotic, it was well suited for hidden Easter baskets. While our mother was the paper doll drawer, and the mistress of most things art related (outside of photography, which was my Dad's domain), my father always drew the treasure map to finding the basket, by some unwritten rule. He was not above trickery, being at times an unreliable narrator, so it was often with lingering wariness that I trudged around, holding his hazy sketch aloft as I scanned the various rooms for some corresponding point or landmark.
So on that note, perhaps it's less surprising that I bought a pretty little chocolate bunny for my Mom's late birthday package. Along with a certain degree of indecisiveness, I'm also experiencing delayed awareness of birthdays** and other missed deadlines of lesser importance. Word Collector, I'm taking a page from your package book: I'm going to nestle the chocolate bunny in a pretty little watering can (birds on it, Javier, like in Portlandia!), along with a handful of See's chocolates(oh how I love See's), I think she'll be as thrilled as I was, when I opened that kettle last year! The bunny's foil wrapping is quite clever, its nose is pert and eyes freakishly large. It will certainly suit her strongly developed sweet tooth. Luckily, my mother is allergic to the Internet and so will not see this.
**Oh, my dear old friend, Queen of Mystical and Evil Embroidery, Savvy Brooklyn Denizen and menfolk wrangler, lame apologies for letting your birthday pass. Something awaits you here, though I discovered it is not in the pristine condition I once thought. More cool things need to join it. I hope the day was lovely and that Spring is also dragging (its sorry-ass heels) your way, as well.
Well, on that note, I am hopeful for Spring, and for the awakening year.
In Ann Arbor, a brand spanking new independent bookstore, Literati is going to open very soon, on some mysterious day in the near future -- if you're intrigued, find them on Facebook, because they're better at updating there. Two of my favorite Borders alumns are working there, so I'm already excited! Let us know about the opening, hmm?
And! Also very soon, Festifools! Yet another year has passed, wherein I thought to volunteer with them, but it did not come to pass -- but in any case, that's going to be a visual feast, and very soon.Looks like the like Fool Moon will be Friday April 5th. Definitely worth a visit downtown -- and seems to get bigger every year.
On that note, I'll take my leave. I have presents to wrap, plus a geese print to send to "Metchley Lane" -- and doesn't that sound like it has character to spare ?
*neighborly friends -- she was one of less than five folks I skyped with when I was in China. And we still sometimes skype, which is ridiculous, as we live across the street and a few doors down.
Overarching indecision, or nostalgic mix, hard to say. Because Easters past have been springing to mind recently, more than they usually do for me. Not being from a family of practicing faith, this did not usher in somber thoughtfulness or remembrance, rather, like so many secular peers, it meant Easter baskets and egg dyeing. I always loved the dyeing, though the blowing-the-egg-contents-through-a-needle-hole I could do without. Luckily, we normally went the hard-boiled route, so.
Special old white chipped cups were reserved for the dying; they were kept in a cupboard downstairs. They had clean, triangular lines to them (I think they were from a contemporary Japanese dinner set) and just-barely-there dye lines from years past. I loved seeing the pools, with their fizzing dye tablets, to which Mom would add vinegar. A host of colors in each cup on the tray, so deep that it was often difficult to tell purple from blue from green. lowering the dainty wire circles into them, with the buoyant egg, so starkly white. Always the overlapping of colors, the deeper hue or --wonderful!-- luminous interplay of color --or ugh -- overdyed muddiness, richness rendered drab. The sturdy, beautiful woven baskets had been around from before I was born -- when had they bought them? My parents were older when they started their family -- were they in their thirties when they picked them up, in anticipation of a family? I remember one, especially grand, with a rolling rattan lip, reminiscent of a cornucopia. We certainly weren't wealthy, but think of it, to have these special things, for one day a year! And to have that much space, to easily store them away, all the better to forget them until the following year.
The house being somewhat chaotic, it was well suited for hidden Easter baskets. While our mother was the paper doll drawer, and the mistress of most things art related (outside of photography, which was my Dad's domain), my father always drew the treasure map to finding the basket, by some unwritten rule. He was not above trickery, being at times an unreliable narrator, so it was often with lingering wariness that I trudged around, holding his hazy sketch aloft as I scanned the various rooms for some corresponding point or landmark.
So on that note, perhaps it's less surprising that I bought a pretty little chocolate bunny for my Mom's late birthday package. Along with a certain degree of indecisiveness, I'm also experiencing delayed awareness of birthdays** and other missed deadlines of lesser importance. Word Collector, I'm taking a page from your package book: I'm going to nestle the chocolate bunny in a pretty little watering can (birds on it, Javier, like in Portlandia!), along with a handful of See's chocolates(oh how I love See's), I think she'll be as thrilled as I was, when I opened that kettle last year! The bunny's foil wrapping is quite clever, its nose is pert and eyes freakishly large. It will certainly suit her strongly developed sweet tooth. Luckily, my mother is allergic to the Internet and so will not see this.
**Oh, my dear old friend, Queen of Mystical and Evil Embroidery, Savvy Brooklyn Denizen and menfolk wrangler, lame apologies for letting your birthday pass. Something awaits you here, though I discovered it is not in the pristine condition I once thought. More cool things need to join it. I hope the day was lovely and that Spring is also dragging (its sorry-ass heels) your way, as well.
Well, on that note, I am hopeful for Spring, and for the awakening year.
In Ann Arbor, a brand spanking new independent bookstore, Literati is going to open very soon, on some mysterious day in the near future -- if you're intrigued, find them on Facebook, because they're better at updating there. Two of my favorite Borders alumns are working there, so I'm already excited! Let us know about the opening, hmm?
And! Also very soon, Festifools! Yet another year has passed, wherein I thought to volunteer with them, but it did not come to pass -- but in any case, that's going to be a visual feast, and very soon.Looks like the like Fool Moon will be Friday April 5th. Definitely worth a visit downtown -- and seems to get bigger every year.
On that note, I'll take my leave. I have presents to wrap, plus a geese print to send to "Metchley Lane" -- and doesn't that sound like it has character to spare ?
Saturday, March 16, 2013
A Hazy Week in Review
Theoretical week snapshot:
You think to cook a meal for lunch, which burns, but lacks discernible taste. Each sneezing fit sets off a ripple of chills; you pause and debate the merits of sofa or bed as the next landing strip. You lose track of the debate, but find you are already somewhere anyway, with a blanket, though you alternately resent and feel fondness for the blanket. You watch vampires and shady people getting lost/good people getting mixed up with shady people getting kidnapped and knifed or being returned to their parents. Everyone has hidden motives. You try on your junior prom dress and think, "well, this might work after all." Your new boyfriend breaks up with you and then doesn't understand why you're upset, acts like nothing happened in the first place. You are told, adamantly and self righteously, that you "have NO ANSWERS," though it would seem more accurate to say that you have numerous displeasing answers. The dog says you have issues and the clementines have grown mealy. So perhaps the week has been a little more seamless than it should have been, but time is carrying you along.
{Reminds me, too, of one of my oldest friends who has always had a lush, prolific imagination. It was only natural that she was especially prone to hallucinating while feverish. One evening, her parents only noticed she was ill after she began quarrelling with her peas at the dinner table. They felt her forehead and sent her to bed.}
Javier* reads your list. "wonton soup"
"Yes, if you don't mind."
"I'm going to Arbor Farms for you anyway--"
"Wait, why?"
"I don't trust those zinc lozenges you have. It says they have zinc IN them, but doesn't say how much--"
"oh, sure" we peer at the label, which does seem noncommittal.
"I don't know this zinc's history! I don't know its background, I don't know his parents!" Javier, he riffs. He looks further down. "...and 'a few nice oranges.' But only if they're nice." Is he confirming, or mocking?
"Yes."
{*previously referenced as partner in crime, a label with a short shelf life. During a pause in a recent skype with Word Collector, she asked, "So how's Javier?" So odd, the memory. This name has no connection with him whatsoever, doesn't speak to his personality. We both laughed and wondered over it. So, he with the irrelevant nickname, versus cardboardy veering to saccharine nickname.}
The organizing is done, and then he's off and then he's back, swooping in with a few bags and then off to the rest of his packed day. He's in almost constant motion. The rare person for whom pacing does not indicate being distraught. He is merely working things through, puzzling them out, and his active, restless body is indicative of his active, restless mind. But now he is gone and you return to sleep and then to sofa/bed. How could you have forgotten how wonderful Bob Ross is? So hypnotic, with his happy trees: "And maybe in our world, let's have a little rock here. And maybe there will be a smaller rock, right next to him, so he doesn't get lonely." Yes, you murmur. Yes, this seems to be a good way to make a world. Flecking the paint thinner, watching a waterfall brushed into being, better than watching a fire. Which would be too hot to watch anyway. Everything is hot or cold, with little warning beforehand.
The minute you fully lay down, the cough returns in full force and hangs around in its juddering way for minutes or hours. Even so, bed and sofa have the greatest appeal.
The cough drops have grown more talky since the last time you have sucked them down. The first one read "Tough is your middle name," which was kind of nice if not false and a bit gung-ho, but the more you look, the more corporate can-doey they feel. "Don't try harder, do harder"? When you're sick?
"Let's hear your battle cry?" Seriously, who wants that? "Don't give up on yourself" seems an odd one -- as if being sick were an indicator of weakness and would naturally lead one into despairing of one's ability to succeed at all? Reading too closely, possibly. But the Bob Ross painting world seems a bit more conducive to healing than the manufactured gumption of the wrappers.
***
And so it goes. The weekend features YoYo Ma, a nice meal which I may or may not be able to taste; Javier, hopefully lots more sleep and a lot less coughing and ear/sinus pain. Dancing to a live band? Sound lovely, but very energy-intensive. I hope to return to more printmaking soon and hope to pop onto the blog in an increasingly reliable fashion. I did number the first version of Cake Maelstrom, which you can see here; and a few other small editions on different colored papers are waiting patiently to be numbered and signed. Hope Everyone is doing well and is fighting off the cabin fever of latter day Winter. Take heart, Spring is almost upon us!
You think to cook a meal for lunch, which burns, but lacks discernible taste. Each sneezing fit sets off a ripple of chills; you pause and debate the merits of sofa or bed as the next landing strip. You lose track of the debate, but find you are already somewhere anyway, with a blanket, though you alternately resent and feel fondness for the blanket. You watch vampires and shady people getting lost/good people getting mixed up with shady people getting kidnapped and knifed or being returned to their parents. Everyone has hidden motives. You try on your junior prom dress and think, "well, this might work after all." Your new boyfriend breaks up with you and then doesn't understand why you're upset, acts like nothing happened in the first place. You are told, adamantly and self righteously, that you "have NO ANSWERS," though it would seem more accurate to say that you have numerous displeasing answers. The dog says you have issues and the clementines have grown mealy. So perhaps the week has been a little more seamless than it should have been, but time is carrying you along.
{Reminds me, too, of one of my oldest friends who has always had a lush, prolific imagination. It was only natural that she was especially prone to hallucinating while feverish. One evening, her parents only noticed she was ill after she began quarrelling with her peas at the dinner table. They felt her forehead and sent her to bed.}
Javier* reads your list. "wonton soup"
"Yes, if you don't mind."
"I'm going to Arbor Farms for you anyway--"
"Wait, why?"
"I don't trust those zinc lozenges you have. It says they have zinc IN them, but doesn't say how much--"
"oh, sure" we peer at the label, which does seem noncommittal.
"I don't know this zinc's history! I don't know its background, I don't know his parents!" Javier, he riffs. He looks further down. "...and 'a few nice oranges.' But only if they're nice." Is he confirming, or mocking?
"Yes."
{*previously referenced as partner in crime, a label with a short shelf life. During a pause in a recent skype with Word Collector, she asked, "So how's Javier?" So odd, the memory. This name has no connection with him whatsoever, doesn't speak to his personality. We both laughed and wondered over it. So, he with the irrelevant nickname, versus cardboardy veering to saccharine nickname.}
The organizing is done, and then he's off and then he's back, swooping in with a few bags and then off to the rest of his packed day. He's in almost constant motion. The rare person for whom pacing does not indicate being distraught. He is merely working things through, puzzling them out, and his active, restless body is indicative of his active, restless mind. But now he is gone and you return to sleep and then to sofa/bed. How could you have forgotten how wonderful Bob Ross is? So hypnotic, with his happy trees: "And maybe in our world, let's have a little rock here. And maybe there will be a smaller rock, right next to him, so he doesn't get lonely." Yes, you murmur. Yes, this seems to be a good way to make a world. Flecking the paint thinner, watching a waterfall brushed into being, better than watching a fire. Which would be too hot to watch anyway. Everything is hot or cold, with little warning beforehand.
The minute you fully lay down, the cough returns in full force and hangs around in its juddering way for minutes or hours. Even so, bed and sofa have the greatest appeal.
The cough drops have grown more talky since the last time you have sucked them down. The first one read "Tough is your middle name," which was kind of nice if not false and a bit gung-ho, but the more you look, the more corporate can-doey they feel. "Don't try harder, do harder"? When you're sick?
"Let's hear your battle cry?" Seriously, who wants that? "Don't give up on yourself" seems an odd one -- as if being sick were an indicator of weakness and would naturally lead one into despairing of one's ability to succeed at all? Reading too closely, possibly. But the Bob Ross painting world seems a bit more conducive to healing than the manufactured gumption of the wrappers. ***
And so it goes. The weekend features YoYo Ma, a nice meal which I may or may not be able to taste; Javier, hopefully lots more sleep and a lot less coughing and ear/sinus pain. Dancing to a live band? Sound lovely, but very energy-intensive. I hope to return to more printmaking soon and hope to pop onto the blog in an increasingly reliable fashion. I did number the first version of Cake Maelstrom, which you can see here; and a few other small editions on different colored papers are waiting patiently to be numbered and signed. Hope Everyone is doing well and is fighting off the cabin fever of latter day Winter. Take heart, Spring is almost upon us!
Tuesday, February 26, 2013
Here comes the wave/be the ocean
Hey-ho, it's February! That indecisive time of year, likely to be dampish cold, and then up to a heartening 40 degrees, leading one to sit outside of one's own free will, for an afternoon break, followed up by BAM! Winter storm! Due tomorrow afternoon, during which time I am supposed to briefly be in Canada. Though again, this is not a Buffalo-amount of snow, nor is it weeks of time with -- literally -- no daylight, so I have no reason to complain. The minimal point being: mid-Winter, it buffets us all about, tossing in just enough good for us to yearn and hope, before giving into another storm and more dark days. But slowly, slowly.
As my yoga teacher cautioned us against this evening -- don't think of life events as waves crashing upon you, happening to you. Think of being the ocean. The waves do not change the essence of the ocean, and their every motion is equally balanced by the opposite motion; it merely continues endlessly. So what seems to be so huge/insurmountable/shattering is only one small passing facet of life. Which does not stop me from being sick of the cold or irritated by all those things which get me, certainly. But I will say I was quite happy to return to yoga tonight. Life has been really hectic and this time last week I believe I was still at work; and the number of curses I have muttered to myself over the past two work weeks could have been impressive, except that they were merely run-of-the-mill invectives, hurled at devious powerpoint charts, or in disbelief at innocent instant messages which undid hours of work ~~ and whew! ~~ how easy to suck one's self back in, eh?
Anyway, Sondra was tremendously happy and chatty this evening -- she and her family are bird-sitting and the visiting parakeet is adopting the shrieks of the home-reigning cockatiel, rather than the mellifluous canary and she expects the owner is going to be less than thrilled by this. She also started talking about boisterous relatives ("I told you guys about *him*, right??" which, alas I had missed a couple classes, so I was in the dark.) These remarks were threaded throughout the practice, with us flowing through our sun salutations, downward dogs and hovering/trembling with our noses inches above the ground. A guy, who I haven't seen before, crashed to his mat with a loud thud. "Ohh, this feels SOOO GOOD!" said Sondra. She was clearly enjoying all the stretches, in between relishing more pet-sitting (burmese up next). "So! good!" Sondra exclaimed as we extended one leg behind, with the knee being the highest and the foot dangled off on its own. "Remember, if you're concentrating on your breathing, that's still Vinyasa. You're still practicing." The guy laying on the floor snorted. He laid there for most of the class, before graduating to sitting and standing. The rest of us attempted various pretzelly configurations; as usual I kept losing track of my breathing, and my mind spooled out daydream fragments before I pulled myself back in.
Who would have thought simple, concentrated breathing would prove so difficult after a few years, on and off ? Regardless, even such an uneven practice as I give it seems to make a big difference. It does seem to be one of the few things that really could benefit almost anybody who were to encounter it (with the likes of Ginger aside, who sports an irrational dislike of yoga, despite never having touched it with his pinky toe). My Mom shocked me a couple weeks back by saying they had signed up for a modified yoga class -- my folks, who have not done any kind of exercise class in decades, if I'm not mistaken -- so, hopefully, there will be more yoga converts in my family. Now, we only have to rope in the Sister...
It's a simple truth that the point at which we most need things like yoga, we feel caught in the hectic vortex of our daily lives. And too, sometimes it's a fabulous vortex, an exciting whirlwind. And so it is, with this neglected blog. When I came back from New Orleans with Compatriot a year ago; and then from China in August, I returned with a wealth of new experiences, plus hundreds and hundreds of photos, very few of which have made their way online. I could write about this! And this! And this! And life continues on, and your water heater breaks and the report needs to be redone and noooo, this other person has left the company -- as you wish to reflect and process, in order to boil things down a bit. 2013 has been quite surprising and rich so far! But not so much time to ponder all the new experiences. And I haven't discovered the magic formula to slowing down amidst the speeding up.
In lieu of that, a few happy snaps:
As my yoga teacher cautioned us against this evening -- don't think of life events as waves crashing upon you, happening to you. Think of being the ocean. The waves do not change the essence of the ocean, and their every motion is equally balanced by the opposite motion; it merely continues endlessly. So what seems to be so huge/insurmountable/shattering is only one small passing facet of life. Which does not stop me from being sick of the cold or irritated by all those things which get me, certainly. But I will say I was quite happy to return to yoga tonight. Life has been really hectic and this time last week I believe I was still at work; and the number of curses I have muttered to myself over the past two work weeks could have been impressive, except that they were merely run-of-the-mill invectives, hurled at devious powerpoint charts, or in disbelief at innocent instant messages which undid hours of work ~~ and whew! ~~ how easy to suck one's self back in, eh?
Anyway, Sondra was tremendously happy and chatty this evening -- she and her family are bird-sitting and the visiting parakeet is adopting the shrieks of the home-reigning cockatiel, rather than the mellifluous canary and she expects the owner is going to be less than thrilled by this. She also started talking about boisterous relatives ("I told you guys about *him*, right??" which, alas I had missed a couple classes, so I was in the dark.) These remarks were threaded throughout the practice, with us flowing through our sun salutations, downward dogs and hovering/trembling with our noses inches above the ground. A guy, who I haven't seen before, crashed to his mat with a loud thud. "Ohh, this feels SOOO GOOD!" said Sondra. She was clearly enjoying all the stretches, in between relishing more pet-sitting (burmese up next). "So! good!" Sondra exclaimed as we extended one leg behind, with the knee being the highest and the foot dangled off on its own. "Remember, if you're concentrating on your breathing, that's still Vinyasa. You're still practicing." The guy laying on the floor snorted. He laid there for most of the class, before graduating to sitting and standing. The rest of us attempted various pretzelly configurations; as usual I kept losing track of my breathing, and my mind spooled out daydream fragments before I pulled myself back in.
Who would have thought simple, concentrated breathing would prove so difficult after a few years, on and off ? Regardless, even such an uneven practice as I give it seems to make a big difference. It does seem to be one of the few things that really could benefit almost anybody who were to encounter it (with the likes of Ginger aside, who sports an irrational dislike of yoga, despite never having touched it with his pinky toe). My Mom shocked me a couple weeks back by saying they had signed up for a modified yoga class -- my folks, who have not done any kind of exercise class in decades, if I'm not mistaken -- so, hopefully, there will be more yoga converts in my family. Now, we only have to rope in the Sister...
It's a simple truth that the point at which we most need things like yoga, we feel caught in the hectic vortex of our daily lives. And too, sometimes it's a fabulous vortex, an exciting whirlwind. And so it is, with this neglected blog. When I came back from New Orleans with Compatriot a year ago; and then from China in August, I returned with a wealth of new experiences, plus hundreds and hundreds of photos, very few of which have made their way online. I could write about this! And this! And this! And life continues on, and your water heater breaks and the report needs to be redone and noooo, this other person has left the company -- as you wish to reflect and process, in order to boil things down a bit. 2013 has been quite surprising and rich so far! But not so much time to ponder all the new experiences. And I haven't discovered the magic formula to slowing down amidst the speeding up.
In lieu of that, a few happy snaps:
 |
| lilies that open a day later. |
 |
| plus tiny little white flowers that bloom within the purple ones! |
 |
| A super-extravagant package from (Magpie and) Collector of Words |
 |
| ...also including heady vanilla beans |
 |
| and pretty, nostalgic notebooks! |
 |
| innocent lemon dough, waiting for baptism of fire. |
 |
| still sparkly on the other side. |
Wednesday, February 13, 2013
Printmaking Weekend: Now, with More Rabbits!
I should probably dispense with the weekends have been BUSY!! and just get down to it, eh? Last weekend's seeming wealth of *two* scheduled studio days were foiled by: myself, some needed weekend work hours, and my headlights, which had mysteriously ceased to work the preceding Friday...
"Sounds like a blown fuse. Just replace it," advised a friend from work.
"You wouldn't take it in?"
"What? NO. Just get your owner's manual, find the fuses, take 'em out and pop the others back in~"
"But you think *I* could do that--"
His eyes bugged out, as they do, when the other person is obviously being ridiculous. "YES: It's SO. EASY." He had tried to get me to take a beginner's car maintenance class, which was a tremendously practical idea, but four hours claimed every Sunday? Seemed punitive.
Back at home, I girded myself with the manual and my little flashlight. PiC*, who seems to possess the same degree of fixitness as I do, texted: "Is he crazy? Just take it somewhere. There must be a gas station or mechanic nearby."
*Partner in Crime, shorten to Crime?
Meanwhile, my learned more fixity neighbor pulled out my [perfectly fine] fuses --with his needle-nosed pliers. "It would be easier if I had a diagram of your circuitry." He floated several possibilities, all of which were over my head. Mechanic it was. I gave up quite easily and started watching Hysteria (7.2/10.0 IMHO). About half an hour into the movie, my neighbor calls (who, if you're a regular reader, may recall him as the mocking-but-helpful lawn mower introducer): "Listen, I've been reading some Subaru forums and I think I may have an easy work-around..." Which sounded promising, given the speaker, but for the part that follows you can simply envision part of a flow chart: arrow to -- > Did the fix work? ---> No. --> Take it to a mechanic. And so it went, but not before the two-afternoon studio weekend, wherein I barely got through the annoying initial nothing-is-printing-well part before it was OMG it's almost dark, and country roads! Flee! As I drove, kind people periodically blinded me by flashing their headlights into my face. Yep, got it! thanks! Though oddly, it seemed like a less caring world when I'd pass a string of cars, none of whom cared enough to blind me.
Before I drove out initially I got a curious voice mail from Maestra, warning me that there was a rabbit in the studio. Don't you wish more warnings fell along those lines? But they don't. Rarely are we cautioned against the presence of chipmunks, lavender meringues, baby hedgehogs, no.
The bunny was waiting, as promised. He seemed a bit anxious because of my presence, but he may have only been going about his normal bunny business. Sudden bounding hops across his small space, continuous paper shredding, bar gnawing. nose wiggling.
I talked with him more than I should say, as immediately after I first inked my block, it became apparent that more wood strips had defected from its surface -- and I had to cool my heels, waiting for wood glue to dry.
Between the first weekend and last Sunday, even MORE wood defected! Not quite sure why I have had SO much block deterioration early on, but at this point, I'm just rolling with it. RE: the change at left, at least it's a clean absence. I fear gluing would only produce a muddied new variation. Obviously, I was going for the French spelling...
"Sounds like a blown fuse. Just replace it," advised a friend from work.
"You wouldn't take it in?"
"What? NO. Just get your owner's manual, find the fuses, take 'em out and pop the others back in~"
"But you think *I* could do that--"
His eyes bugged out, as they do, when the other person is obviously being ridiculous. "YES: It's SO. EASY." He had tried to get me to take a beginner's car maintenance class, which was a tremendously practical idea, but four hours claimed every Sunday? Seemed punitive.
Back at home, I girded myself with the manual and my little flashlight. PiC*, who seems to possess the same degree of fixitness as I do, texted: "Is he crazy? Just take it somewhere. There must be a gas station or mechanic nearby."
*Partner in Crime, shorten to Crime?
Meanwhile, my learned more fixity neighbor pulled out my [perfectly fine] fuses --with his needle-nosed pliers. "It would be easier if I had a diagram of your circuitry." He floated several possibilities, all of which were over my head. Mechanic it was. I gave up quite easily and started watching Hysteria (7.2/10.0 IMHO). About half an hour into the movie, my neighbor calls (who, if you're a regular reader, may recall him as the mocking-but-helpful lawn mower introducer): "Listen, I've been reading some Subaru forums and I think I may have an easy work-around..." Which sounded promising, given the speaker, but for the part that follows you can simply envision part of a flow chart: arrow to -- > Did the fix work? ---> No. --> Take it to a mechanic. And so it went, but not before the two-afternoon studio weekend, wherein I barely got through the annoying initial nothing-is-printing-well part before it was OMG it's almost dark, and country roads! Flee! As I drove, kind people periodically blinded me by flashing their headlights into my face. Yep, got it! thanks! Though oddly, it seemed like a less caring world when I'd pass a string of cars, none of whom cared enough to blind me.
Before I drove out initially I got a curious voice mail from Maestra, warning me that there was a rabbit in the studio. Don't you wish more warnings fell along those lines? But they don't. Rarely are we cautioned against the presence of chipmunks, lavender meringues, baby hedgehogs, no.
 | |||||||
|
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| Bunny: "Here's me, not caring." |
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| "If I could get farther away from you, I would." |
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| Bar good, glue slow. |
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| Decided to try out some different colored papers this time around |
 |
| was undecided... |
 |
| ...But fancied the line detail lent by the "linen" paper finish |
 |
| I also tried an unlined mustardy mulberry color (called "Curry" at Hollander's) |
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| As usual, I printed most on white paper. |
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| What's wrong with this picture? |
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| At the end of this Sunday, I actually had a productive bout: 46 prints |
 | |
| Busy Bunny day. Cardboard box mauling. Ardent love to Stuffed Friend. |
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