art

In my apartment, I have (on the walls)

1 original painting I did by myself
1 original painting my friends and I collaborated on
3 original coast scenes
1 family picture collage
1 scenic tourism picture collage
2 limited edition prints
1 framed map
1 framed landscape (with the requisite cow, of course)
1 etching that hung in my bedroom when I was a little girl

I look forward to getting a "where the wild things are" print in the future. I would also love a Japanese scroll painting, the kind that have muted blues and greens in them and have mountains, trees, and elegant birds in them. (No people allowed, of course.)

Last night I went to an art walk, where a bunch of galleries stay open a little later than usual and kind of try to work together to sell a lot of art. One of the galleries was having a show of miniatures...most were no bigger than 4"x4". The brush strokes were incredible; for some of the detail, I'm sure that the artist used brushes that were no bigger than five hairs, and there were about 300 of them on the wall. I decided one day it might be cool to have a bunch of miniatures. There were a few that I really liked, and I still may go in and buy one, but I have to think about it. There's only so much wall space in a place, and only so many dollars in my pocket. But it was fun to go and see what's there and know that there is creativity alive and well. Sometimes, I get so bogged down in the every-day that I forget about the beauty of art. But I'm remembering this week!

one line

Sometimes, I think about one line. One line from a play, one line from a text, one line from a book, one line of music.

If you take out the line, how much does it have an effect on the rest of the piece? If you think about it, every sketch is made of a series of lines; every book is made of lines of text, every text message is a line of communication, every spoken word in a play is called a line. One line is all you need to connect one thing to another. It's true that the more lines you have connecting two things, the tighter they're linked, and the harder it is to erase the line.

Sometimes, I think, what if one line was left out? Think of your favorite poem, or your favorite song. How different would it be if your favorite line was left out? Would it still be your favorite?

Often, I get a song stuck in my head, and it's one line from that song. If it's a song I don't like, occasionally I wish that the one line would just disappear and that I could forget it entirely. But if that line is the "backbone" of the song, or the point of the poem, or the first words in a conversation with that really cute person you've been trying to get your nerve up to talk to for ages now, or "I love you," then it seems like the one line, that one connection, isn't just one line. It's more than one line. 

I was thinking, if you picked a line from a book, any line, and took it out, the chances of it mattering are pretty slim. You would have lots of other lines of text to give you information and context. But in a sonnet, taking out one line would make an entirely different poem. And in a haiku, one line missing ruins the structure completely.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that every line matters. Every decision, every connection, every day matters. Yes, you might just think of it as one line of text in a life, or one measure of music in a song, and that it's ok because you have context and other lines to back it up and give context. But sometimes, if you have a limited number of pencil strokes, or lines, in the painting of your life, it seems to me that it's important to keep tracing over the lines that you want to really stand out, so they won't fade. 

If you leave one line out, then how do you know?

I was thinking about this in church as I was singing a hymn. And then as we stopped singing, I thought of the first poem I ever worked at memorizing. I was in fourth grade, and I still remember most of it. It's the one about the roads diverged in the yellow wood. The last line says, "And I, I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference." Even if you claimed that "and that has made all the difference is actually a second line, if you took either one of them out, the poem would not be nearly as impactful. The person in the poem drew a lonely line that probably went in a roundabout way, but realized that he/she would never get back to that exact place, time, and situation...so even if the exact intersection was visited multiple times, it would never be the same. 

Every. Line. Counts.

Golden Gardens

Tonight I went to Golden Gardens, at the suggestion of The Conrad, who sadly wasn't actually there with me. The weather was beautiful, and although it was a little late by the time we actually got there, it was still gorgeous. I didn't even need a jacket until 8:15!

Even though The Conrad was stuck at work, Ronnster and RoJo and others were there with me. I burned my accounting book in effigy. It took a long time to burn. That class took a long way to burn itself out of my system, too.

We sat on the beach, and made some s'mores. (I had 0.5, which was 0.5 too much.) We talked and laughed and sang. And there were hugs. And trains in the background. And the whooshing of the tide as it crept in. And a ukelele. And I wore my sweatshirt, my "bonfire" sweatshirt...the one I never wear  unless it's a bonfire. I wash it every time, afterwards, but I'm sure it still has bonfire smell embedded in it.

It was lovely, and I loved seeing my friends, getting hugs, and laughing so much.

Cheers to friends. Cheers to summer. Cheers to no more accounting book.

Little Boxes

Little boxes, in the condo,
little boxes made of brown cardboard
Little boxes, in the condo, little boxes, all the same
There's a book box and an art box and a clothes box and a random box
Little boxes, in the condo, little boxes, all taped up.

Little boxes, full of my stuff
Little boxes made of brown cardboard
Little boxes, in the condo, little boxes, all the same.
There's the spice box and an art box and a clothes box and a random box
Little boxes, in the condo, little boxes, all taped up.

Start unpacking, start unpacking
says my head to my little hands
start unpacking all the boxes, start to cut through all the tape
there's the dish box and the bath box and the tool box and the random box
and they're all made out of cardboard and they're all still taped up tight.

little boxes, in the condo
little boxes made of brown cardboard
little boxes, in the condo, little boxes, all stacked high
they're all waiting for attention, and they long to be organized
little boxes, in the condo, little boxes....where's the knife?!

Squirrelly

On the day that I bought my couch (yes! I did finally find one that is uber comfy), something really unfortunate happened. I was on my way home, and feeling really good about life, when something not so nice happened. A squirrel darted in front of my car and I squished it. At first I thought either I had gone too fast or it had been too slow, and it was safe, but that was not the case. I looked at it in the rear view mirror. I was sad! I hadn't done it on purpose! Ending a life, even a squirrelly one, on accident, was not in the plan for that day.

I hoped that its family would be ok, and that it would had a quick death and did not feel the pain. In almost 15 years of driving, this is the first time something like this has happened to me. I hoped the cars behind me would be able to navigate around it. I was really just sad and felt sticky. "But it was an accident!" I thought. Accidents happen, but the consequences really just aren't good anyway. But at least they aren't on purpose. Then I would feel so much worse!!! I'm glad I don't have that kind of personality.


Then the voting part of me wondered if the city had a squirrel or other patrol to take care of the poor little remains. I hoped so...didn't want the indignity to last any longer than it had to.

Goodbye, squirrel. I did not mean you harm. I hope you are in squirrel heaven...with a tree full of nuts and some other squirrels to squeak with.

No Outlet

Outlets:
1. Electrical: It's really frustrating when you go somewhere, say, a hotel room, and there isn't an electrical outlet in a convenient place, so you can both look at your phone and charge it at the same time. Or if there's a bathroom that doesn't have an electrical socket.
2. Verbal: Sometimes your brain just gets too full of stuff so it has to overflow, and sometimes it does by what is known in Mean Girls  as "word vomit." It just bubbles up. Uncontrollably. You can't stop yourself from saying something even if it's terrible horrible and/or inappropriate. Finding ways to stem the verbal tide before you turn into that one lady villain in that one folk tale is really important.
3. Physical: Being able to move and wear yourself out physically so you are tired and want to go to bed is genius. Having a way to use your energy so you don't have to keep all the stress bottled up inside of you definitely counts as an outlet.

I have enough electrical outlets in my life right now. And I am grateful that I have some verbal outlets, too...but right now, because I had an ankle wrench, I don't have a physical outlet. I'm pretty much a boring blah on the couch. I really don't like it at all. Especially when I have a lot of stress built up and I literally feel the need to go *do* something. Anything, just to make my body as tired as my mind is. Keep in mind, I'm really not one to go to the gym, and I'm naturally a pretty sedentary person. All of my hobbies are indoor and fairly stationary: reading, quilting, guitaring, writing, even gaming. Cooking, too. So when I feel the need to go wandering, it's pretty bad. But because of my ankle, I can't exercise. It makes me feel jittery to sit around inside with comparatively so much more physical energy than emotional energy. Not having an outlet for the physical needs I have is really frustrating, and I'm not sure I can take it for much longer. I hope my monkey-wrenched ankle heals soon so I can be walking, not hobbling, soon.

Mike Teavee wants couch privileges

I bought a TV yesterday. And a laptop. It wasn't my first time buying a laptop, but it was my first time buying a tv. I don't know how I survived. Normally I am a basket case when I need to buy anything over $100. My brain just goes into shorted fritzed fried frizzled mode and I can't really function and it's difficult for me to actually "pull the trigger." Just ask K, who actually had to leave me at the car dealership so I would buy a car.

It's probably more TV than I need, but I got it on a very good deal and it was actually cheaper than the one I actually wanted, and even bigger, too. (!) I am now the owner of a 50" television. 3D glasses came with it. I'll never use them; they'll make me sick.

I tried to buy a couch, too, but I just couldn't find one that was comfy. If any of you have suggestions, please let me know. It turns out when you only have one couch, it needs to do a lot of different kinds of things. It needs to be tall enough to rest your head on, wide enough and long enough that you can lay down on it, have a comfy arm for sleeping on, be wide enough that you can fold your legs without feeling like you'll fall off, and be a good color. And it has to have no plastic cup holders. Because plastic cup holders imply that a cup will be used on the couch on a regular basis, which I don't really like the idea of. So, do I recline, or do I not recline? I find that usually if i have a recliner, if there's room, I usually end up spreading sideways anyway. So maybe that's not so important. Unless there's more than 2 people sitting on the couch, in which case that is important. I don't have people over often, so that situation likely won't come up often.

Couch shopping is hard work. :(

So yes, I have a TV, and yes, I want to buy a comfy couch privilege, but no, I do not want to be minimized into a three inch tall person like Mike. Oh, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory...how I love you. So many life lessons learned from one book. But that's another post for another day.

Good Monday to all, and Good Night!

Fresh Sheet Ode

oh, sweet-smelling, static-filled, still-warm sheets!
the moment after the dryer has announced in audible fashion it's through with you,
indicating that the only thing standing between me and you
is a closed door and the lint trap crying to be emptied before the next load
is the springboard into bliss.

You are worth a two-handed grab out of the dryer.
Our weekly ritual of determining long-side/short-side is soothing.
Sometimes you wrinkle. I guess everybody has bad wash days.
When you try to eat socks, I am dismayed: I think you should leave that to the UndieSock gnome.
The worst is when I have to put you back in because you're still wet.

But after you're dry, wrinkly or not, after I've wrestled your fourth corner to its proper place,
I still love the snap of the top sheet as I flick my wrists, watching you drift down atop the mattress.
You like to be mitered, but you don't like to stay that way.
You'd rather be soft than crisp, because you like to please me.
And when the quilts go on top of you, you carry their weight with pride. :)

Rock On, Goldilocks

Hey kid, rock and roll / Rock on, ooh, my soul
Hey kid, boogey too, did ya / Hey shout, summertime blues
Jump up and down in them blue suede shoes
Hey kid, rock and roll, rock on

And where do we go from here / Which is the way that's clear

Still looking for that blue jean, baby queen / Prettiest girl I ever seen See her shake on the movie screen, Jimmy Dean / James Dean
etc.

-"Rock On," David Essex, 1973

Sometimes I hear that song on the radio. The only lines I know are the bridge, the endless "rock on" litany at the end of the song, and the two lines I've bolded. For some irrational reason, this song has always made me want to have a pair of blue suede shoes to jump up and down in. And so for some irrational reason,when I had a gift card I needed to use up, and I found these blue jean baby queens on the almighty Amazon, I could not resist.

I have considered buying frivolous shoes before. Once, I even came very close. I was in high school and for some reason I wanted a pair of 4" high silver shoes that were basically only held on to my feet by a band of clear plastic over my toes. I really wanted those shoes, but my practicality won out. I have to say, I'm kind of glad, as they really weren't "me" and as you can really only buy one pair of absolutely frivol shoes in your lifetime, I'm really glad I didn't waste mine on that.

These are much, much better. Heels just the right height, toes with just the right amount of point, suede that's just the right color of blue. It's like I was Goldilocks, but instead of eating porridge, I was searching for just the right shoes. (Anyone who has been shoe shopping with me knows that sometimes there aren't just three bears in the story...it's more like six or seven, with lots of side trips and suitable distractions thrown in for good measure.)

Having found the perfect fit, I waited impatiently for them to arrive, and as soon as they did, I slipped them on, and did, indeed, jump up and down in them, and had a dance party.

For those interested, neither David Essex nor Jimmy Dean attended.

Cubism

This Is Not A Cubicle
Photograph
2014

The literal-mindedness of the artist is captured through the realistic shape depicted. The dynamic layers within the piece show that a cube is perhaps not as simple as something with six sides. Indeed, the shape shown does, in fact, not meet the specifications to be a cube, which lends a sense of whimsy to the piece, and serves to underscore the title.
 








I make myself laugh. Sisters who say I do not have a sense of humor, I respectfully disagree.

Mt. Sidewalk

It doesn't snow very often where I live. But recently, we had what was considered a doozy of a storm. The news (which I was watching [on accident] due to watching the Olympics while quilting) dubbed the weather cycle the "winter blast." I'm not sure I would agree, but it is the first time I have been snowed in like this. Didn't know it just took six inches to do me in, but it did.

First, it was cold. Really cold. Then I flew to LA while it started to snow, and had a "Winter Blast" of an interview, but that is another story for another day. My flight landed smoothly - a miracle, considering that there was already four inches. Several flights were canceled, but mine got in safely. Huzzah! Being without a coat because you weren't watching the news and you figured you would be fine in the few feet from the terminal to the shuttle bus and fine from the shuttle bus to the car is really silly, by the way. Then came the de-snowing of the windshield, and the fun trip through the winter wonderland that was the parking lot, and then onto the big main drag which had lots of traffic on it, and then to the freeway. Only once do I remember driving when the freeway was white. Dad had taken us to see LoTR in the stadium seating, so we had gone downtown. It was a little dicey, but we made it. Here, there was not a snowplow in sight, although it was clear that there had been one about an hour ago...on one lane of the freeway. The temperature had risen to about 25, but there the Ice-Wind Gnomes were marching from their Norway, and there were ghostly swirls of white headed every which direction. They were beguiling and suspiciously fractal-esque in their iterations, and I'm sure many a driver would have focused on the swirls in front of him and been lost, falling to the sirens, and failing Lesson #1 of Driving 101: Look as far ahead of you as you can, always.

It took almost two hours from when I got off the plane to when I got home, but I did make it safely. Only a few spinning spots. I took some extra precautions and I was really grateful...I saw a few accidents and several cars on the side of the road, but I was able to get home. Having no lanes while driving makes "passing" a little difficult. But I managed not to get hit, or hit anyone else, on the drive home.

It continued snowing and blowing all night, and when I woke up and started quilting, <--it looked like this.
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Then more snow came...and then freezing rain...and in the meantime I quilted and watched Olympics and was a little worried that I would run out of food, but kept warm and dry and mostly scare-free. I did do the prudent thing and make sure I knew where my flashlight was in case the power went out. There was one moment when the entire ice chunk that was the awning over the deck slid 8" down the roof, making a wrenching noise that scared me silly, but other than that I was scare-free...mostly because I didn't leave the house. At all.

On Monday, I was getting stir-crazy and so I went to shovel. This is the leavings of the sidewalk, piled up...drumroll, please: Here is Mt. Sidewalk! Looks suspiciously like Rainier to me, but whatever. Thank goodness S&J keep a snow shovel. It actually was a good thing I hadn't shoveled before, because the snow underneath the ice crust was still powdery...but if I had shoveled, it would have gotten iced and been at least 3x as hard to shovel.

Here's my handiwork. I sent this picture to a friend, with the caption, "Where I come from, we don't just shovel two little lines down the driveway so the car can get out. We shovel the whole driveway." It made me glad for all those hours we spent together as a family shoveling snow. Turns out shoveling is like riding a bike...once you know how, you never forget. I'm glad I learned how to do the job good and proper-like.

The next day, the streets were a bit slushy, but maneuverable. The day after that, the snow was gone. Mt. Sidewalk is no more, but there is a lot of green moss left behind in memoriam.

Career Choices

Recently I took one of those quizzes that has been floating around on facebook. This one was about what your career really should be. I don't know what the choices were, but most of the people I know who bothered to post their results got "writer." For my own part, I would have expected to be a writer, or a man-of-all-work. But no. Instead, I got "athlete."

Yep. The girl who consistently got "needs more coordination," and "she's very smart but needs to improve on her physical skills" got the one career she would be doomed in.

It occurred to me that although I would love to be a gardener, quilter, photographer, organizer, assistant, consultant, teacher, singer, or analyst. Or writer. I could be a blogger or a short story writer or a memoir maker or a fantasy saga extraordinaire writer. I could write speeches, news articles, or historical fiction. Or even poems! But one thing I couldn't do is write mysteries. I was thinking today, after watching one of the Cadfael disks my mom sent me...how do they do it? How do mystery writers formulate the story? How do they leave clues? Is it really just that your brain knows the formula but knows the enjoyment of "discovering" the answer again, so you can just read mysteries over and over? How do they decide the sequence? The weapon, the circumstances? How do they keep enough suspense to keep you interested, but keep the story believable? I could never write mystery. I have no secrets. My face shows everything I am thinking or feeling. I am incapable of throwing people off the scent. I spoil all surprises for people I am trying to surprise.

So I guess I might not be cut out to be an athlete, but I'm not ready for the mystery world either.

I do have some career choices coming up. Wonder what I'll really end up being when I grow up?

Steady as the Sun

I listened to a song that had a chorus with lyrics talking about what makes a man strong. (Incidentally, "Strong" is the name of the song; Will Hoge sings it.) It's a country song, and today was the first time I heard it. I didn't hear the whole song, but what I did hear went like this:

He'll pick you up and won't let you down
Rock solid inside out
Somebody you can trust
Steady as the sun
Ain't nothing gonna knock him off the road he's rollin on
He's strong



There is more than one way to interpret some of these lines.

He'll pick you up and won't let you down
The first is negative: He'll pick you up like a sack of potatoes, throw you over his shoulder, and won't let you down even if you pummel him half to death and kick and scream.
The second is positive: He'll pick you up, emotionally, and you can always count on him to do what he says he's going to do, when he says he will do it.

For the record, I prefer the second interpretation.

  Rock solid inside out

First: he has a stomach of iron and is super chiseled.
Second, he's immovable in his opinions, only slightly worn down by weather and elements.

(I'm not sure I like either of these.)

Somebody you can trust
This one, there aren't two ways, so I like the only interpretation there is.

Steady as the sun
I view this as being "steady as the sunshine," which, if you live where I live, can really only be called "steady" about two and a half months out of every year, and I don't exactly call that steady, especially since only one of those months is guaranteed, and everything else kind of fluctuates. I get that the sun is burning up there in the sky in its happy gassy way, but if I can't see it, sometimes it's hard to remember it exists. Especially around December the twenty-first. I turned to my friend and said to her, "I don't want a man who's steady as a Northwest sun." Indeed, the first thing I thought of was that I would rather have a man who's like a neap tide...slow, inexorable, his love washing over me. Of

Ain't nothing gonna knock him off the road he's rollin on
Either he's opinionated and you can't get him to think beyond the idealistic road he has been "rolling on," meaning that he's completely narrowminded and never seems to think of even looking out the window to see if he missed something.

Or he is steadfast in purpose and he overcomes adversity and keeps going, rolling with the punches and always stands up for his moral principles, and values things like truth and justice.

Either way, he's strong.