Friday, September 28, 2007
Sunday, September 09, 2007
Strange Bedfellows, Foxen Winery
Strange Bedfellows, Foxen Winery
Originally uploaded by cavalaxis.
My second favourite shot from this weekend. Foxen Winery tasting room.
Foxen's office, grape leaves in cement
Foxen's office, grape leaves in cement
Originally uploaded by cavalaxis.
My favourite pic from this weekend's wine tasting extravaganza.
Stockinette knitted with energized single (S-twist)
Stockinette knitted with energized single (S-twist)
Originally uploaded by cavalaxis.
Knitted directly off the bobbin
Stockinette knitted with energized single (S-twist)
Stockinette knitted with energized single (S-twist)
Originally uploaded by cavalaxis.
Knitted directly from the bobbin.
Monday, September 03, 2007
New Glass Fronted Cabinets
New Glass Fronted Cabinets
Originally uploaded by cavalaxis.
And these were billed as "video cabinets". We have turned them into curio cabinets... I think it works quite nicely.
New Mission Style Chair
New Mission Style Chair
Originally uploaded by cavalaxis.
Picked this one up for less than $40 at an oak place that was going out of business.
Spinning Silk
Spinning Silk
Originally uploaded by cavalaxis.
What's on the wheel. Notice the WooLee Winder. I'm so buying one of these, because day-um. It's so much nicer than leaning forward every few yards and moving the pig tail. I can really focus on drafting. Highly recommended.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Friday, August 24, 2007
The 13th Page
I was awfully fond of the last 13th Page that I did. So here we go. Pick an item, and I'll tell you the story behind it. Said story may or may not make sense. The author makes no guarantee.First off, a junk drawer is a collection of seemingly disassociated items. We all have this drawer in our house. It's the drawer were 'everything else' ends up. Old tools, things that are broken but can't seem to be parted with, ticket stubs, washers, rubber bands, wet naps*. But as we all know, each of these items has it's own story to tell. I highly encourage any of my fellow writers, if you're stuck and wondering about a character, write a junk drawer for them. All their bus passes, their take away menus, their old Playbills and receipts. You can learn a lot just by going through the detritus of their every day life.
I typically write these when I'm feeling creative but directionless. They seem to craft their own stories. It's an amazing thing to watch. Or it could be like watching paint dry. You be the judge.
~~~
- One red lacquered wooden chest, carven with the images of two cranes, intertwined, dimensions 12"w x 8"d x 6"h. Sealed all around with pitch. White granular residue in the bottom appears to be mineral salts.
- One silver fork, crane pattern, tines bent, two forward, two backward, so that it might stand as if on four legs.
- One small leather bag, brown, containing a set of six-sided dice, hand carved, square pips, one die chipped.
- One aged paper label, pale ivory with black text, bearing the name Château Lafitte and the date 1787.
- One ivory-handled straight razor, rusted.
- One small handblown glass bottle, sealed with wax, containing an amber liquid, now gone murky with age.
- One bird skull, raven, delicately wrapped in a piece of white silk.
- One lead sphere, slightly larger than a pea, ,etched with the letter 'R', wrapped in a piece of oilskin.
- One deck of ivory playing cards, suits without numbers, diamonds and hearts representing the House of Lancaster, spades & clubs representing House of York. The face cards have all had the faces erased.
- One waxed paper packet containing one length of silk thread, white, ten yards, and one coin, ancient, origin undetermined.
- Seven black beetles, threaded in order by size on a length of silk.
- One dried poppy seed husk, pierced through with bone needle.
- One silk square, white, folded in quarters, all four layers soaked through and encrusted with a dark brown stain.
*Wet naps are a requirement in certain circles. The lack of wet naps has brought down entire regimes much to the chagrin of the super power with sticky hands at the wrong moment.
Monday, August 20, 2007
Exhibit 13
I love this song and it tears my heart out all over again, every time I listen to it.
For all the playful, silly, rocking things the Blueman Group have done, I thank them for Exhibit 13 the most.
For all the playful, silly, rocking things the Blueman Group have done, I thank them for Exhibit 13 the most.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Tuesday, August 07, 2007
Sunday, August 05, 2007
Friday, August 03, 2007
And the wheel goes round...
I spent today with the Handweavers and Spinners Guild doing a Sheep To Shawl event at the Ventura County Fair. Pics here.
The last thing I expected to see...
This was the last thing I expected to see in the middle of the garden center @ Home Depot tonight.
Saturday, July 28, 2007
The 13th Page
The 13th Page, revealed.
~ One carven image of the goddess Sekmet, seated on her throne, two inches high, carved in soapstone, caked with an iron rich clay, oxidized to a deep blood red.
He'd walked for hours over sand hot enough to roast chestnuts on. He had no idea how slick the bottoms of his boots had grown when he reached the cliffs. The wind had worn the edges of the stone to soft, undulating curves, making each shadow sharp as obsidian. He had paused to blot the sweat from his eyes when he spotted the figurine, deep in the cool black. Not thinking, he bent to reach for it. It was just beyond the tips of his fingers. He stretched and felt the world lurch as his footing gave way.
The stone met his ribs with the force of a boxer's punch, knocking the wind out of him. He scrabbled madly to catch the lip of stone and felt it bite into his palms, his feet kicking at empty air. A stream of grit and dust poured over the lip into his eyes, his nose, his mouth. He let loose a stream of curses that would make the quartermaster proud, but he did not let go. Bloody handprints marked the stone, the moisture evaporating almost immediately. One foot and then another found purchase in the niches between the rocks. His fingers dug into the crevices, the hot stone searing his skin.
Dangling on the edge of the cliff, he could see the curve of her body, the regal tilt of her chin and the imperial line of her nose. He was a hundred miles from any city so there was little chance that she was a souvenir, carved in some Cairo back alley to amuse the white man. No, she was perhaps two thousand years old.
He levered his weight up, sucking hot air into his lungs, and groped in the space for it. His hand closed around her and darted back before the sand-coloured scorpion could bury its barb in his flesh. A part of him thought that was only to be expected. He'd have lashed out had someone disturbed his midday escape from the heat.
He took a moment to let his fingertips catalog the lines and planes of her form. The blood of his wound marked the soapstone, painting the line of her jaws with crimson, as was only befitting a goddess.
He squeezed the figurine tight in his fist, tucked it in his breast pocket and began the arduous climb back over the lip, praying to whatever deity watched over this place that he hadn't spilled his canteen.
Or worse, scattered the pages of his journal. Again.
~ One glass phial with cork stopper, filled with thumbnail sized fish scales, grey-blue, each bearing an inked number in Roman numerals. I-XXIII.
He'd been drunk on arak, and in danger of making an embarassment of himself. He pushed his glasses up onto the bridge of his nose and leaned closer over the table.
The dice were easily recognizable as knuckle bones, yellowed with age and polished to a glass finish from the years of handling. Someone nudged his arm and pressed the stem of the pipe into his hands. He only took a small puff of the cool smoke, but it went straight to his head.
He peered down at the table again, watching as coins and paper exchanged hands. The dice clattered on the brass table top again, and somewhere, he heard a fat-bellied lute being strummed.
They were gambling, he knew, but using very small discs of some material he could not identify, each hand numbered. A man would select a few and arrange them beneath a tea glass. There would be much arguing and exchanging of coins. Someone would flip the glass over, and the discs would scatter over the table top. A roar would arise from the crowd, making his head throb.
He watched for hours and never precisely determined what it was they were doing. He tried to speak to his host, but the man was too engaged in the sport to be of much assistance.
He scooped a few of them into a phial, promising himself he would catalog these strange artefacts, if only to satisfy his own curiosity.
~ One rusted rations tin, contents twenty three sea shells, the largest the size of a grown man's first thumb joint. Colours vary from white to charcoal, purple to grey green, to browns and reds.
Though he was grateful for the opportunity to linger, he'd enjoyed the hospitality of the local governor for far too many days.
Or for far too few, he thought, rattling the tin.
She'd been so beautiful, her hair long and dark, her voice unlike any he'd heard before. He'd been enamoured of her from the very first moment he'd seen her standing beneath the jasmine vines. But he was just a scholar, and she, betrothed to another, much richer and older man. It did not trouble her, for that was the way of things.
They had had only had a few weeks together, walking from her father's walled gardens, through the winding streets, passed the market place and down to the strand of beach that marked the city's edge. Each day, she'd given him a shell, to mark their day's journey.
He slipped the tin back into his pack. Days in paradise could only be counted, not kept.
~ One white, kid leather glove, female, folded in tissue paper.
It was hard to hold on to the memory of green here. Here where the heat never seemed to relent, only to retreat for the night, seceding its oppressive reign to the blight of frigid darkness.
It was difficult to remember rolling fields and stone fences. Difficult to remember riding out behind the baying pack, difficult to remember the deep shaded embrace of the ancestral grove. Here, sand undulated for mile upon mile, giving way only to stone or sea, equally barren.
Here he wore linen and sipped tepid water, longing for a night spent tucked up by the fire, wrapped in woolen blankets and sipping a proper cup of tea.
He refolded his mother's gift. Her favour, she'd called it. To help him remember grey skies and the smell of rain.
~ One strand of red silk, knotted, with ninety nine small wooden beads, bearing the sheen of hand oil.
Rahmanir Rahim
I commence with the name of God, The Compassionate and the Merciful.
The imam had pressed the strand of beads into his hand and patted him on the head, muttering something about the hand of Fatima. The next thing he knew he had been bundled onto the back of a horse like a roll of rugs.
Al-hamdu lillahi rabbil 'alamin.
Praise Be to God, the Sustainer of all Creation.
He'd showed them the map and asked if they knew where the ruins were. That had been his first mistake, he thought, ducking as the rifle rounds zinged over his head, richocheting off the sandstone brick behind them.
Arrahmanir Rahim
The Compassionate, The Merciful
The beads clicked in his hands as he ducked even lower in the trench. Horse thieves. Of course they would know about the only oasis in a day's ride. That it was a tomb only made the locals stay away, ensuring their need for privacy. Beside him a man shouted his defiance, waving his curved blade over his head.
Iyyaka na’budu wa iyyaka nasta’in
You alone we worship, and to You alone we pray for help.
The scholar cringed as the man crumpled, an English bullet in his heart. He tossed away the scrap of goatskin that held the map and prayed the regimental commander would believe his extraordinary bad turn of luck.
One linen scrap folded neatly around a stack of five Widow's head pennies and one golden Mohur coin. The linen scrap bears the faded emblem of the Honourable East India Company.
Silent and alone, a hundred feet beneath the floor of the jungle, covered in muck and filth from wading through the underground river, holding only a gas torch above his head, he couldn't be more pleased with himself. A thousand years ago, the Maharaja had set the counterweight of this particular door to the equivalent of one coin. One very special coin minted in his court. One coin that the scholar had spent months locating, weeks convincing the curator to let him weigh and measure it, and hours trying to duplicate that weight and diameter. He'd been contemplating creating a slug out of lead when the barkeep had shown him a trick involving a stack of pennies and the end of his elbow.
So it was that he came here to the entrance to this underground temple complex, with five pennies and a mohur. He gently laid the linen wrapped packet into the cylindrical receptacle. Something groaned and creaked.
Much later, when he came to on the pitch black shores of some underground river, coughing up a lungful of slime and water, he'd thought to himself, "Perhaps I should have factored in the weight of the fabric..."
One water-stained, dog-eared, heavy paper tag indicating Mellivora capensis, Kandahar, Baluchistan. One mammalian scientific specimen, a dessicated, grey and black furred paw, bearing four long claws. Bone structure intact.
"It will rid you of all your enemies."
"What if I have no enemies?"
"No man walks this earth who can claim to have no enemies."
He winced as the one-eyed man pressed the bony artefact into his palm. "How much?"
One wild grey eye peered at him before a gnarled finger pointed across narrow aisle of the bazaar.
The scholar looked. "A loaf of bread?"
The man nodded once sharply.
Within a week, he'd received a telegram calling him home to England. Apparently, there had been an accident. Three of his colleagues had been killed when a tiger had escaped from Chipperfield's and savaged them in the middle of Tottenham Court Road.
It wasn't precisely the manner in which he'd hoped to attain tenure, but under the circumstances, he was loathe to look a gift badger in the mouth.
He'd tried to throw the thing in the river, and it had reappeared in his jacket pocket in less than a day. He'd thrown it into the coal furnace, and within the hour, he found it tucked in the case with his glasses. He'd stood on the prow of the steamer at midnight and hurled it into black of the Indian Ocean. He found it waiting for him on the pillow of his bunk.
In a fit of inspiration, he sold it to a man named Jacobs for the measly sum of 10 shillings and a pint of stout. He didn't bother recounting its history. What difference would it make, he thought?
[ 1 ]
And if you're still reading, I challenge you to write your own junk drawer and take request for details from your readers.
~ One carven image of the goddess Sekmet, seated on her throne, two inches high, carved in soapstone, caked with an iron rich clay, oxidized to a deep blood red.
He'd walked for hours over sand hot enough to roast chestnuts on. He had no idea how slick the bottoms of his boots had grown when he reached the cliffs. The wind had worn the edges of the stone to soft, undulating curves, making each shadow sharp as obsidian. He had paused to blot the sweat from his eyes when he spotted the figurine, deep in the cool black. Not thinking, he bent to reach for it. It was just beyond the tips of his fingers. He stretched and felt the world lurch as his footing gave way.
The stone met his ribs with the force of a boxer's punch, knocking the wind out of him. He scrabbled madly to catch the lip of stone and felt it bite into his palms, his feet kicking at empty air. A stream of grit and dust poured over the lip into his eyes, his nose, his mouth. He let loose a stream of curses that would make the quartermaster proud, but he did not let go. Bloody handprints marked the stone, the moisture evaporating almost immediately. One foot and then another found purchase in the niches between the rocks. His fingers dug into the crevices, the hot stone searing his skin.
Dangling on the edge of the cliff, he could see the curve of her body, the regal tilt of her chin and the imperial line of her nose. He was a hundred miles from any city so there was little chance that she was a souvenir, carved in some Cairo back alley to amuse the white man. No, she was perhaps two thousand years old.
He levered his weight up, sucking hot air into his lungs, and groped in the space for it. His hand closed around her and darted back before the sand-coloured scorpion could bury its barb in his flesh. A part of him thought that was only to be expected. He'd have lashed out had someone disturbed his midday escape from the heat.
He took a moment to let his fingertips catalog the lines and planes of her form. The blood of his wound marked the soapstone, painting the line of her jaws with crimson, as was only befitting a goddess.
He squeezed the figurine tight in his fist, tucked it in his breast pocket and began the arduous climb back over the lip, praying to whatever deity watched over this place that he hadn't spilled his canteen.
Or worse, scattered the pages of his journal. Again.
~ One glass phial with cork stopper, filled with thumbnail sized fish scales, grey-blue, each bearing an inked number in Roman numerals. I-XXIII.
He'd been drunk on arak, and in danger of making an embarassment of himself. He pushed his glasses up onto the bridge of his nose and leaned closer over the table.
The dice were easily recognizable as knuckle bones, yellowed with age and polished to a glass finish from the years of handling. Someone nudged his arm and pressed the stem of the pipe into his hands. He only took a small puff of the cool smoke, but it went straight to his head.
He peered down at the table again, watching as coins and paper exchanged hands. The dice clattered on the brass table top again, and somewhere, he heard a fat-bellied lute being strummed.
They were gambling, he knew, but using very small discs of some material he could not identify, each hand numbered. A man would select a few and arrange them beneath a tea glass. There would be much arguing and exchanging of coins. Someone would flip the glass over, and the discs would scatter over the table top. A roar would arise from the crowd, making his head throb.
He watched for hours and never precisely determined what it was they were doing. He tried to speak to his host, but the man was too engaged in the sport to be of much assistance.
He scooped a few of them into a phial, promising himself he would catalog these strange artefacts, if only to satisfy his own curiosity.
~ One rusted rations tin, contents twenty three sea shells, the largest the size of a grown man's first thumb joint. Colours vary from white to charcoal, purple to grey green, to browns and reds.
Though he was grateful for the opportunity to linger, he'd enjoyed the hospitality of the local governor for far too many days.
Or for far too few, he thought, rattling the tin.
She'd been so beautiful, her hair long and dark, her voice unlike any he'd heard before. He'd been enamoured of her from the very first moment he'd seen her standing beneath the jasmine vines. But he was just a scholar, and she, betrothed to another, much richer and older man. It did not trouble her, for that was the way of things.
They had had only had a few weeks together, walking from her father's walled gardens, through the winding streets, passed the market place and down to the strand of beach that marked the city's edge. Each day, she'd given him a shell, to mark their day's journey.
He slipped the tin back into his pack. Days in paradise could only be counted, not kept.
~ One white, kid leather glove, female, folded in tissue paper.
It was hard to hold on to the memory of green here. Here where the heat never seemed to relent, only to retreat for the night, seceding its oppressive reign to the blight of frigid darkness.
It was difficult to remember rolling fields and stone fences. Difficult to remember riding out behind the baying pack, difficult to remember the deep shaded embrace of the ancestral grove. Here, sand undulated for mile upon mile, giving way only to stone or sea, equally barren.
Here he wore linen and sipped tepid water, longing for a night spent tucked up by the fire, wrapped in woolen blankets and sipping a proper cup of tea.
He refolded his mother's gift. Her favour, she'd called it. To help him remember grey skies and the smell of rain.
~ One strand of red silk, knotted, with ninety nine small wooden beads, bearing the sheen of hand oil.
Rahmanir Rahim
I commence with the name of God, The Compassionate and the Merciful.
The imam had pressed the strand of beads into his hand and patted him on the head, muttering something about the hand of Fatima. The next thing he knew he had been bundled onto the back of a horse like a roll of rugs.
Al-hamdu lillahi rabbil 'alamin.
Praise Be to God, the Sustainer of all Creation.
He'd showed them the map and asked if they knew where the ruins were. That had been his first mistake, he thought, ducking as the rifle rounds zinged over his head, richocheting off the sandstone brick behind them.
Arrahmanir Rahim
The Compassionate, The Merciful
The beads clicked in his hands as he ducked even lower in the trench. Horse thieves. Of course they would know about the only oasis in a day's ride. That it was a tomb only made the locals stay away, ensuring their need for privacy. Beside him a man shouted his defiance, waving his curved blade over his head.
Iyyaka na’budu wa iyyaka nasta’in
You alone we worship, and to You alone we pray for help.
The scholar cringed as the man crumpled, an English bullet in his heart. He tossed away the scrap of goatskin that held the map and prayed the regimental commander would believe his extraordinary bad turn of luck.
One linen scrap folded neatly around a stack of five Widow's head pennies and one golden Mohur coin. The linen scrap bears the faded emblem of the Honourable East India Company.
Silent and alone, a hundred feet beneath the floor of the jungle, covered in muck and filth from wading through the underground river, holding only a gas torch above his head, he couldn't be more pleased with himself. A thousand years ago, the Maharaja had set the counterweight of this particular door to the equivalent of one coin. One very special coin minted in his court. One coin that the scholar had spent months locating, weeks convincing the curator to let him weigh and measure it, and hours trying to duplicate that weight and diameter. He'd been contemplating creating a slug out of lead when the barkeep had shown him a trick involving a stack of pennies and the end of his elbow.
So it was that he came here to the entrance to this underground temple complex, with five pennies and a mohur. He gently laid the linen wrapped packet into the cylindrical receptacle. Something groaned and creaked.
Much later, when he came to on the pitch black shores of some underground river, coughing up a lungful of slime and water, he'd thought to himself, "Perhaps I should have factored in the weight of the fabric..."
One water-stained, dog-eared, heavy paper tag indicating Mellivora capensis, Kandahar, Baluchistan. One mammalian scientific specimen, a dessicated, grey and black furred paw, bearing four long claws. Bone structure intact.
"It will rid you of all your enemies."
"What if I have no enemies?"
"No man walks this earth who can claim to have no enemies."
He winced as the one-eyed man pressed the bony artefact into his palm. "How much?"
One wild grey eye peered at him before a gnarled finger pointed across narrow aisle of the bazaar.
The scholar looked. "A loaf of bread?"
The man nodded once sharply.
Within a week, he'd received a telegram calling him home to England. Apparently, there had been an accident. Three of his colleagues had been killed when a tiger had escaped from Chipperfield's and savaged them in the middle of Tottenham Court Road.
It wasn't precisely the manner in which he'd hoped to attain tenure, but under the circumstances, he was loathe to look a gift badger in the mouth.
He'd tried to throw the thing in the river, and it had reappeared in his jacket pocket in less than a day. He'd thrown it into the coal furnace, and within the hour, he found it tucked in the case with his glasses. He'd stood on the prow of the steamer at midnight and hurled it into black of the Indian Ocean. He found it waiting for him on the pillow of his bunk.
In a fit of inspiration, he sold it to a man named Jacobs for the measly sum of 10 shillings and a pint of stout. He didn't bother recounting its history. What difference would it make, he thought?
[ 1 ]
And if you're still reading, I challenge you to write your own junk drawer and take request for details from your readers.
Friday, July 13, 2007
The 13th Page
Found in a junk sale*, one well-used wooden box of indeterminate age, three times as long as it is wide and tall, currently painted black. Contents as follows: A rolled sheaf of parchment pages, oxidized and slightly singed at one end. One cylindrical brass trench lighter, working flint but empty of fuel, with pale blue green patina, bearing the initials HMS. One water-stained, dog-eared, heavy paper tag indicating Mellivora capensis, Kandahar, Baluchistan. One mammalian scientific specimen, a dessicated, grey and black furred paw, bearing four long claws. Bone structure intact. One glass phial with cork stopper, filled with thumbnail sized fish scales, grey-blue, each bearing an inked number in Roman numerals. I-XXIII. One linen scrap folded neatly around a stack of five Widow's head pennies and one golden Mohur coin. The linen scrap bears the faded emblem of the Honourable East India Company. One carven image of the goddess Sekmet, seated on her throne, two inches high, carved in soapstone, caked with an iron rich clay, oxidized to a deep blood red. One page, torn on one side, folded in quarters, blank, the size of a standard passport. Five rifle rounds, Mk VII, Enfield .303, four bearing the dark patina of age and one shining and bright as the day it was made. One strand of red silk, knotted, with ninety nine small wooden beads, bearing the sheen of hand oil. One rusted rations tin, contents twenty three sea shells, the largest the size of a grown man's first thumb joint. Colours vary from white to charcoal, purple to grey green, to browns and reds. One white, kid leather glove, female, folded in tissue paper.
Pick one and I'll give you a brief story.
* A junk drawer is an exercise outlining the items one might find in a junk drawer, trunk, chest, shoe box o' crap, that has been discarded or forgotten. Often the container itself is as interesting as the contents. They contain everything from tin soldiers to forgotten pizza coupons to back stage passes to wet naps. If you ever want to know more about your characters, envision what you might find in their junk drawer.
Pick one and I'll give you a brief story.
* A junk drawer is an exercise outlining the items one might find in a junk drawer, trunk, chest, shoe box o' crap, that has been discarded or forgotten. Often the container itself is as interesting as the contents. They contain everything from tin soldiers to forgotten pizza coupons to back stage passes to wet naps. If you ever want to know more about your characters, envision what you might find in their junk drawer.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Pics from the Backyard
| I finally figured out the macro function on my camera. Please view full for maximum wow. |
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| And one from UCSB on Saturday. |
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Thursday, June 28, 2007
8 Things
Dayle tagged me, and since this is my second tag (first one only got posted to lj), I'll do another eight things. And I don't tag, but please feel free if you haven't done this meme. Please comment with a link if you decide to do it.
The Rules:
2. I collect handmade Middle Eastern rugs. Right now I have pieces from Iran, Afghanistan, Palestine, Chechnya, Pakistan and Turkey, including a 3' x 3' rug that is a bridal piece. It was made to show the weaver's worth to her family when she married. It starts out kinda wonky but it gets better. It's also my favourite piece. I also have a piece that has very tasteful missiles worked into the design.
3. I've rehearsed and conducted a 32 piece orchestra. I've also directed a 75 person marching band. Somewhere there are trophies. I also play five instruments with some passing degree of competency, and I sing. Sometimes in funny languages.
4. I once drove from Baltimore, MD to Santa Barbara, CA in three and a half days.
5. I once petted a snow leopard kitten, a caracal kitten, and a Siberian lynx kitten, all in one hour.
6. I am mechanically inclined. I once took a vacuum cleaner apart and disassembled the motor, replaced the broken part, and reassembled it to a working state in one afternoon, with no manual, all on a bet.
7. It's not that I can't cook. I can. I just have other things I'd rather be doing. I much prefer to bake, and now that I have a proper kitchen, I hope to do more of that.
8. I tend to prefer non-fiction to fiction, just because truth really is stranger than fiction. People fascinate me. Mostly because I really don't understand them at all. Science and art, I get. People confound me.
The Rules:
- We have to post these rules before we give you the facts.
- Players start with eight random facts/habits about themselves.
People who are tagged need to write their own blog about their eight things and post these rules.At the end of your blog, you need to choose eight people to get tagged and list their names.Don't forget to leave them a comment telling them they're tagged, and to read your blog.
2. I collect handmade Middle Eastern rugs. Right now I have pieces from Iran, Afghanistan, Palestine, Chechnya, Pakistan and Turkey, including a 3' x 3' rug that is a bridal piece. It was made to show the weaver's worth to her family when she married. It starts out kinda wonky but it gets better. It's also my favourite piece. I also have a piece that has very tasteful missiles worked into the design.
3. I've rehearsed and conducted a 32 piece orchestra. I've also directed a 75 person marching band. Somewhere there are trophies. I also play five instruments with some passing degree of competency, and I sing. Sometimes in funny languages.
4. I once drove from Baltimore, MD to Santa Barbara, CA in three and a half days.
5. I once petted a snow leopard kitten, a caracal kitten, and a Siberian lynx kitten, all in one hour.
6. I am mechanically inclined. I once took a vacuum cleaner apart and disassembled the motor, replaced the broken part, and reassembled it to a working state in one afternoon, with no manual, all on a bet.
7. It's not that I can't cook. I can. I just have other things I'd rather be doing. I much prefer to bake, and now that I have a proper kitchen, I hope to do more of that.
8. I tend to prefer non-fiction to fiction, just because truth really is stranger than fiction. People fascinate me. Mostly because I really don't understand them at all. Science and art, I get. People confound me.
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Inflammatory Breast Cancer
Please watch this and pass it along. I had never heard of inflammatory breast cancer before watching this piece from Seattle, Washington's ABC affliate, KOMO Channel 4.
Monday, June 18, 2007
A prayer for the journey
When you set out on your journey to Ithaca,
pray that the road is long,
full of adventure, full of knowledge.
The Lestrygonians and the Cyclops,
the angry Poseidon -- do not fear them:
You will never find such as these on your path,
if your thoughts remain lofty, if a fine
emotion touches your spirit and your body.
The Lestrygonians and the Cyclops,
the fierce Poseidon you will never encounter,
if you do not carry them within your soul,
if your soul does not set them up before you.
Pray that the road is long.
That the summer mornings are many, when,
with such pleasure, with such joy
you will enter ports seen for the first time;
stop at Phoenician markets,
and purchase fine merchandise,
mother-of-pearl and coral, amber and ebony,
and sensual perfumes of all kinds,
as many sensual perfumes as you can;
visit many Egyptian cities,
to learn and learn from scholars.
Always keep Ithaca in your mind.
To arrive there is your ultimate goal.
But do not hurry the voyage at all.
It is better to let it last for many years;
and to anchor at the island when you are old,
rich with all you have gained on the way,
not expecting that Ithaca will offer you riches.
Ithaca has given you the beautiful voyage.
Without her you would have never set out on the road.
She has nothing more to give you.
And if you find her poor, Ithaca has not deceived you.
Wise as you have become, with so much experience,
you must already have understood what Ithacas mean.
~Constantine P. Cavafy
via MoonRiver
pray that the road is long,
full of adventure, full of knowledge.
The Lestrygonians and the Cyclops,
the angry Poseidon -- do not fear them:
You will never find such as these on your path,
if your thoughts remain lofty, if a fine
emotion touches your spirit and your body.
The Lestrygonians and the Cyclops,
the fierce Poseidon you will never encounter,
if you do not carry them within your soul,
if your soul does not set them up before you.
Pray that the road is long.
That the summer mornings are many, when,
with such pleasure, with such joy
you will enter ports seen for the first time;
stop at Phoenician markets,
and purchase fine merchandise,
mother-of-pearl and coral, amber and ebony,
and sensual perfumes of all kinds,
as many sensual perfumes as you can;
visit many Egyptian cities,
to learn and learn from scholars.
Always keep Ithaca in your mind.
To arrive there is your ultimate goal.
But do not hurry the voyage at all.
It is better to let it last for many years;
and to anchor at the island when you are old,
rich with all you have gained on the way,
not expecting that Ithaca will offer you riches.
Ithaca has given you the beautiful voyage.
Without her you would have never set out on the road.
She has nothing more to give you.
And if you find her poor, Ithaca has not deceived you.
Wise as you have become, with so much experience,
you must already have understood what Ithacas mean.
~Constantine P. Cavafy
via MoonRiver
Name Dropper
Musecrack just got a mention in one of my favourite blogs, Le Divan Fumoir Bohémien.
Thank you Florizelle!
Thank you Florizelle!
Friday, June 15, 2007
Storytelling
Ira Glass, host of NPR's This American Life, talks about story telling:
Part 1: A story, at its simplest form, is the retelling of a sequence of events (YouTube)
Part 2: Cull mercilessly. (You Tube)
Part 3: You'll make a lot of crap before you make good work. So make it. It's normal to suck. Don't worry. You'll get better.. Just don't quit. (You Tube)
Part 4: Ira is talking to people who want to be on video, but I really think these two common mistakes apply equally to writing: Be aware of your voice. Also, make sure your personality doesn't get in the way of the story. (You Tube)
Part 1: A story, at its simplest form, is the retelling of a sequence of events (YouTube)
Part 2: Cull mercilessly. (You Tube)
Part 3: You'll make a lot of crap before you make good work. So make it. It's normal to suck. Don't worry. You'll get better.. Just don't quit. (You Tube)
Part 4: Ira is talking to people who want to be on video, but I really think these two common mistakes apply equally to writing: Be aware of your voice. Also, make sure your personality doesn't get in the way of the story. (You Tube)
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