I wrote a blog earlier today — something about BoHo and gypsy and wrapping my wardrobe around that feeling. Blah blah and I don’t remember exactly where that was going, because I rode home from work tonight with the windows open, the fields shimmering with yellow soybean leaves and stalks of corn turning crisply brown, their tassels dancing in the evening breeze, Elton John rocking at full blast on the radio, my thin, flat reddish-brown hair flying helter skelter in the wind, thinking about my evening ritual of playing fetch with my dogs, then a bit of dinner, a bit of cleaning, a bit of TV, then digging into a good book.
Wherever I was going with my previous story, whatever wrappings I thought I needed to be who I was, whatever depressing thoughts tried to bloom from a day of data entry, whatever politics played out during the four cement walls of my workplace, whatever aches and pains follow me day in and day out, none of that mattered. None of that matters.
Life is good. Love, in whatever form you find it, is good. It’s here and it’s now and it’s all you’ve got. Damn the job and the family members that don’t get you and the pounds you want to lose. Open those windows. Crank up the radio. Sing at the top of your lungs.
Take the long way home….
I have always been an emotional person. An overly emotional person. I love till it hurts. I resent even though I shouldn’t. I am jealous over things that I have nothing to do with. I listen to my favorite music and am in heaven. Yet the next minute I drive home from work .shouting “Fuuuccckkkk aaaallll of yooooouuuu!!” out the window.
As I get older the emotions flash way up and way down. And I have to say I don’t care for it.
Yes, there are Meds. There is meditation and fresh air walks and alcohol and chamomile tea and church. There are many ways to deal with that over-active amygdala. But that doesn’t stop the knee-jerk reactions to everything from too-salty food to pink sunsets. Everything bothers me. Everything thrills me. Thoughts and dreams and desires flood my brain at lightning speed, confusing me with their urgency. Hence, I want to edit, write, read, sew, watch movies, go for walks, throw the ball for the dogs, cook, sulk, scream, and yes, even clean.
One thing I know. I really am at the end of my working career. Instead of going out in a career choice blaze of glory, I’m going out as a fill-in-the-spreadsheet-blank kinda girl. The writing career I wanted will have to fill my days of retirement, for there’s nothing really left at my job. All that’s left of my waning career is the sad click of the keyboard as I fill in number after number after number.
See what I mean? That’s the out-of-control amygdala babbling away. For I really don’t mind my job. And my personal life is so full of family and grandbabies and oatmeal raisin cookies and evening walks that I’m not really that strung out.
But these days I find myself alot more reactionary. I “hate” a lot more people, places, and things. Something I never did in my youth. I also “love” a lot more things than I did when I was 20 or 30. Not only the obvious things like children and husbands and friends and homemade spaghetti, but smooth jazz and classical music, taking pictures, my art blog, Game of Thrones, corn fields, and even…dare I say it…country music.
I wish my highs could stay longer than my lows. That my outlook on myself and the world would lighten up. I hate myself for wasting precious emotions and energy on things I can do nothing about. After all, my future is shorter than my past. And that very thought saddens me.
See what I mean?
Life is all about finding balance. About letting the good into your life. And when the bad comes along, oh well. That’s life. Not holding onto to jealousies and grudges and bad memories. There’s nothing you can do to change anything in the past, and the future is uncertain. So just get jiggy wit it. All of it.
I just wish I wasn’t so moody about getting jiggy……..
Debra Mager is a self taught mosaic artist.
She developed her craft by learning from the best mosaic teachers in the country, reading many many books on the subject, and by practice.
Debra’s art is an expression of the joyful, beautiful happy things in life with a touch of whimsy.
She considers her art, in the words of the author, Elizabeth Gilbert, “souvenirs” of her artistic journey.
Debra read every book on the subject of mosaics, took classes, and practiced incessantly.
She learned quickly, discovered a tremendous passion for the craft, and has been at it ever since.
Debra’s mosaic art is whimsical, technical, and magical — just what you expect mosaic art to be.
More of Debra Mager’s art can be found at http://cinderellamosaics.com,
Oh, I took pictures when I was young. First married. Family, my brothers, my dad. With my kids through school and high school. But they are all sitting in a box somewhere, waiting for my A.D.H.D. to slow down enough to go through all of them.
Then came my first Smartphone. And my learning about Picasa (which has turned into Google Photos).
I am hooked.
You would think I were a master photographer the way I run around taking pictures of everything. Of course, grandkids take up the majority of the space on both Google and my phone. Kids walking. Kids laughing. Kids falling down. Kids in daddy’s shoes. Kids standing on the picnic table. Kids Kids Kids.
None of those would win a photo contest, but to me they are unique moments in time that will never happen again. It’s like driving down a deserted road and watching a leaf fall from a tree. You are the only one in the universe that saw that leaf make its final journey to the ground. How special is that?
Of course, life is made up of special moments. 16 hours a day (the other 8 for sleep, a special moment all its own), 7 days a week, 52 weeks a year.
That’s a lot of camera moments.
I’m also the nature picture girl. I’ve got a thing about taking pictures of clouds, woods, water, animals (when I find them), plants, old houses, old barns — anything that looks like an elf or a faerie could be just around the corner. My husband chuckles at all the path-through-the-woods pictures on my phone. I mean — how many cool paths can there be?
At my age, EVERY path is a cool path. I imagine the turn in the road, the path not taken, the path that leads to Hobbiton and Brigadoon and Diagon Alley. That barn covered in ivy and disrepair might be the gateway to Neverland. That flower in all its unique glory could just have been danced upon by faeries. Pictures of unusual places and things tickles my imagination, and the most wonderful things come out the other end.
Maybe all this is nothing more than wanting to retain images of the things I love before the end. That when I’m old and gray I can look at these pictures and remember when — if at all. For we all have a “when”. And it flies by too fast.
Don’t be afraid to use your camera/Iphone/Android. Create worlds of your own with just a click. Delete the ones that don’t take you to Avalon, Asgard, or to your family and friends. Then let your imagination take you where it will.
Get the photo bug today!
Latchezar Boyadjiev was born in Sofia, Bulgaria, and educated the the Academy of Arts in Sofia and the Academy of Applied Arts in Prague, Czechoslovakia, where he studied with Professor Stanislav Libensky, one of the most prominent glass artists of our time.
Boyadjiev came to the United States in 1986, where he taught at the California College of Arts and Crafts.
Next follows a series of positive and negative molds, a time-consuming and detail-oriented process that leads to the final plaster positive that will determine the outcome of the sculpture.
These new glass sculptures are cast into yet another mold, and later annealed, partially ground and polished.
Boyadjiev creates amazing glass sculptures that are sensual and fluid, a true joy to behold.
More of Latchezar Boyadjiev‘s glass sculptures can be found at http://www.latchezarboyadjiev.com/.
The trigger this past week has been Hurricane Harvey and the devastation it wreaked upon an unsuspecting public. Deaths, destruction, desolation. Every day it’s another heartbreaking story.
But like so many others, I am settled safely in the Midwest, far from the water and the grief. And that makes me feel like a slacker. I have sent money to help the victims, but I am employed full-time and have family and financial responsibilities, so I can’t go and help those in need. And even if I did go down to Houston, I am in no shape physically to help out.
This feeling of helplessness is the same feeling I got when Katrina hit. Or the Twin Towers. Massive devastation thousands of miles away from me. It’s almost surrealistic, because in all cases I have not known one person who was affected by these tragedies. I feel like I’m a cheater — reading the stories of the victims and the survivors, then turning around and making a grilled cheese sandwich like it’s nothing special. It is a shameful feeling.
Do you ever feel like you’re reading a fiction novel instead of really grasping the truth?
Yet around me are situations that can (and have) taken turns for the worse. Not only my cancer (which has not returned, thank goodness), but cancer in friends, triple bypass surgery, arthritis throughout one’s body, mothers and fathers and wives and husbands passing away, ill health and bankruptcy and all kinds of situations that hurt the heart as well as the body. Are these any more important than what is going on in Houston?
Are we any less of a feeling, emoting human being if we keep on working on our side of the window?
On the other end of the scale is the decadence of the wealthy. A world I cannot even imagine. Beyonce once spent $100,000 on a Balanciaga bra and leggings and $4 million for a Bugatti Veyron Grand Sports Car. The Beckams spent $240,000 on a nursery for their son, while Elton John bought the apartment next door for $2 million so his son could have a place to play in.
People are starving. People are dying. People’s homes have been washed away. Their children will have nightmares the rest of their lives. Yet there is a section of society that can buy a teacup sized Pomeranian for $10,000 (Paris Hilton) or a $250,000 bottle of champagne (JayZ) or a $2 million dollar bath tub (Mike Tyson).
What is wrong with the world?
I know I know — kings and queens and popes and oil monguls have been spending buko bucks for centuries while the poor ate potatoes and worse. There has never been a balance in the world’s economy. It’s just the nature of human beings.
I don’t know why I feel like I’m ignoring the woes of the world.
We are all caught in the middle, lost somewhere between tragedy and comedy. The only thing we can do is acknowledge where we are, what we have done, and be prepared to handle the best of times and the worst of times.
Today, like any other weekday, was a work day. Filling in spreadsheets with numbers and relationships and variants. I used to do a little writing for my company, but with personnel changes and new directions and new horizons to be discovered, it’s mostly the data routine.
Yet I wonder.
How many of you work full time? (show of hands)
How many of you like your job? (fewer hands still up)
How many are doing what you want to do? (only one or two still up)
Why is it that so many people in the work force have issues with their jobs? Admit it. Most of us fall between the “I can barely stand this place” to “this is a pretty darn good job.” But do any of us really enjoy what we do day to day, week to week?
Tell the truth. The main purpose of any job is to make money in order to live. To pay our bills. To have a few extra dollars so we can order a pizza or go to the movies once in a while. A means to an end. Sometimes we are lucky and land our dream job in the world, in the field, we love. We get a job doing something we’re good at, something we’ve trained for.
But more often we get stuck in jobs that really don’t fit. We think it’s a side step to where we really want to go, but we get stuck in that sideways direction so long that we don’t recognize the road ahead. The job turns into a routine, our future prospects narrowed by our present occupation. The field we really want happens to be pretty saturated at the moment, so we stay where we are for just a little longer, and when we do apply for something we want they focus on our current experience, not our intent.
Suddenly we have been a secretary or a truck driver or a warehouse worker for most of our lives. Now we’re invested in three or four weeks paid vacation and 401K and co-workers we’ve gotten to know. We didn’t mean for our lives to take this fork in the road — it just happened. And we were so busy making money to feed our kids and pay for our house and to make car payments that there was no time to “take a chance” on that perfect job.
I am lucky to have had steady work in fields that were pretty decent. I’ve owned my own business, been a coordinator/proofreader, secretary, and salesperson. I am now at that point where my vacation and age leave no room for turning around, for the end game is in sight.
But as I sit and put numbers on a spreadsheet and copy and code catalog information and send and track emails and waste away hour after hour in silent calculations, I wonder if things would have been different if I’d gone to college. If I’d worked in an advertising agency instead of a savings and loan association. If I’d started writing professionally at 20 instead of 60.
I’m at the point in my career that I’m working hard to get to the finish line. To retire and really start my new life. I’ve been preparing for it for over 47 years. And I am so ready.
But I still wonder…
Lucy Clark calls herself a “Hand Built” Potter.
Each pot is built in the coil method, one layer at a time. It is then embellished or carved and set to dry for a month before it is fired.
The firing process involves bringing the kiln up very slowly to a temperature of around 1300 degrees and then it is turned off and watched until it hits 990 degrees. After the firing, the piece is lifted out with Kevlar gloves and placed in sawdust to “smoke” the pot in the old Pueblo style tradition.
Lucy uses no glazes in her process –the sheen comes from burnishing (polishing) the piece with a small quartz stone until it is smooth and silky to the touch.
Lucy pulls from her many years as a massage therapist and touching people to listen to what the clay wants to be and how it wishes to be transformed into shape in the physical universe.
Lucy Clark explains her talent best. “To me, life is a work of art, always in progress and only finished when we take our last breath. It is through this belief that art informs all that I am and all that I do. Even within the daily routines that consume so much of our time, art is alive and only waits for our notice.”
More of Lucy Clark’s marvelous pottery can be found at http://lucyclarkpottery.com .
Did you all go outside the other day with your glasses and try and catch a glimpse of one very cool astral happening? Tell the truth — how many of you tried to catch a peek at what was going on without your protective glasses?
It was pretty cloudy here in the Midwest United States. We were scheduled to see the moon/sun thing about 1:10 pm. I must admit I did sneak outside (at the end of my lunch time) only to be greeted with bumpy clouds. Alas…about 15 minutes later there was this little uproar throughout the office — the clouds had parted! It was happening!
So I, along with a dozen of my co-workers, went outside (after our scheduled lunch time) and gazed at the phenomenon through eye-protecting glasses (although I have to raise my hand…I did for a NANOSECOND peek at the sun without said glasses…just to see…)
So I figured I would share some old-world explanations for what today’s scientists so flippantly explain with exact detail.
According to TimeandDate.com:
In Vietnam, people believed that a solar eclipse was caused by a giant frog devouring the Sun.
Norse cultures blamed wolves for eating the Sun.
In ancient China, a celestial dragon was thought to lunch on the Sun, causing a solar eclipse. In fact, the Chinese word of an eclipse, chih or shih, means to eat.
According to ancient Hindu mythology, the deity Rahu is beheaded by the gods for capturing and drinking Amrita, the gods’ nectar. Rahu’s head flies off into the sky and swallows the Sun causing an eclipse.
Korean folklore offers another ancient explanation for solar eclipses. It suggests that solar eclipses happen because mythical dogs are trying to steal the Sun.
The Pomo, an indigenous group of people who lived in the northwestern United States, tell of a story of a bear who started a fight with the Sun and took a bite out of it. In fact, the Pomo name for a solar eclipse is Sun got bit by a bear.
The ancient Greeks believed that a solar eclipse was a sign of angry gods and that it was the beginning of disasters and destruction.
According to Inuit folklore, the Sun goddess Malina walked away after a fight with the Moon god Anningan. A solar eclipse happened when Anningan managed to catch up with his sister.
I don’t know about you, but I’m rather amazed at the explanations the ancients had. After all — what did the poor sun do to get bit by so many animals?
Illustrator David Stone Martin (1913-1992) was one of the most prolific and influential graphic designers of the postwar era, creating over 400 album covers.
Born David Livingstone Martin in Chicago, he later studied at the Art Institute of Chicago and began his career as an assistant to the social realist painter Ben Shahn, designing murals during the 1933 World’s Fair.
Martin spent the remainder of the decade as art director of the Tennessee Valley Authority, and served during World War II as an artist/correspondent for Life magazine.
After returning to the U.S. he mounted a career as a freelance artist; in 1948, he also began teaching at the Brooklyn Museum School of Art, followed in 1950 by a year at New York City’s Workshop School of Advertising and Editorial Art.
Martin entered music illustration through his longtime friendship with producer Norman Granz, designing hundreds of now-classic cover paintings for acts including Count Basie, Art Tatum, Gene Krupa, and Lionel Hampton.
Martin’s work has exhibited at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the Museum of Modern Art, and others.
More of David Stone Martin’s magnificent album covers can be found at http://www.birkajazz.com/archive/stonemartin.htm
There are thousands and thousands of bloggers out there. You may follow three or three hundred. The purpose of this made-up week is to encourage you to interact with those who write/paint/travel/share with you. If you like what you read, click that little LIKE button. REALLY like what you read? Drop a comment! We/you/they love to hear back from you!
I love reading your blogs Leah, Ann, Ray, Jackie, Jan, Crissouli, Blue Settia, Walt, d Marie, Suzanne, Patrcia, Mary J, Nick, Marion, Patty, Dawn, Annette, Denise, Jeremiah, CJ, Joel, Jan R, Marie, Norm, Alan, Waterdove, Glorialana, Tess, Gwen, Craig, Pirate Patty, Doug, Craig, Austin, Peter, Anne, and all those names I’ve left out. You all rock! Keep it going! I look forward to following more bloggers, and you should too.
BE a part of the creative world. Appreciate your creative friends this week — and every week!
Darlene Foster writes the kind of blog that plays to the voyeur in me. She travels, she writes, posts on other blogs, does book signings — what is not to envy? I have been following her blog Darlene Foster’s Blog for a while now, and am loving her excursions since she moved to Spain. Darlene turns her sight-seeing jaunts into experiences we all can relate to. A little history, a lot of pictures, and I’m walking through the beautiful Ta´Pinu Sanctuary on the Island of Gozo or through the streets of Cordoba.
Looking for a little getaway that is more in line with your lifestyle (rather than the latest magazine)? Take a walk with Darlene and tour the countryside at your own pace!
Posted July 13, 2017on:
During the visit of my aunt and her friend, we took a bus trip to the Andalusian city of Cordoba, about five hours from where I live in Spain. Originally built by the Romans, it became an important location during the Moorish occupation. The ancient city of Cordoba held some of the world´s first known universities and medical schools. The fascinating architecture throughout the city reflects the Moorish, Jewish and Christian cultures.
More of Darlene Foster’s wonderful blog can be found at https://darlenefoster.wordpress.com/. You’ll love your journey!
My next salute to wonderful bloggers is really a two-fer. I don’t really remember how I found Tom von Kap-herr and his blog Cats at the Bar, but the moment I dug into his posts I was hooked. I love cats. Seeing that my own cats are all over me when I’m at my laptop, Cats at the Bar was their choice of reading materials, too.
I noticed that Tom often reposted posts from another great Kat site, Katzenworld. Katzenworld is everything cats. Pictures, information, a kitty goods shop, funny stories — everything a Kat person could want! You really need to stop by both blogs and check out their talent (although I’m told the cats do most of the posting…)
Cats at the Bar (https://catsatthebar.org/)
One of the easiest kind of blogs to follow — and the most fulfilling — are poetry blogs. I know there are a zillion of them out there…poetry is just one of those techniques that speak straight from the heart. It’s not as easy to master as you would think. But those I follow have mastered their crafts well.
I know you have your favorites — I hope you will share back — but here are just a couple that I have enjoyed through the years.
If you love love poems you must have heard of Maxima. Stefan Maxima has a way of wrapping love around his fingers and pouring it upon the page. His poetry is full of affection, awareness, and sensuality. Find his work at https://hillsofherchastity.wordpress.com/
The morning is bathed in
the scent of roses.
To be silent wounds.
To voice our thoughts,
speak our mind,
is the better way.
I see your face in dew drops
clinging to the edge of yellow petals
I want to sing to you your favorite song,
it is better that way,
but this morning you and I are silent.
The sun’s ray stirs the imagination
Your smile leaves a trail to my corner
of happiness where I am
a victim of your charm.
I’m speaking of this morning
with the breeze so gentle and caressing
here on the terrace where you sip
your first cup of coffee.
I love you my only one,
this I know,
and I know that you love me too,
but this morning we are silent.
Friendly Fairy Tales (https://friendlyfairytales.com/) makes me want to dance with the faeries in the moonlight. I am very much a unicorn/faerie kind of girl, and Brenda Davis Harsham’s poetry zings straight to my heart. Hers is the kind of blog that I go directly to and read post after post after post, liking them all!
barks away night.
fusses and yowls.
One eye open,
I view the day,
push sleep away.
Tea and oatmeal,
I paint with words
and dust of fairies.
One of my favorite poets is a newcomer to my world. Ivor.Plumber/Poet (https://ivors20.wordpress.com/). Ivor is a relatively newcomer in the WordPress world (I think), at least with this blog. His poetry is the kind that touches your soul. Sometimes it’s sad, often it’s reassuring. Ivor’s way of writing is everyman’s way of writing. Do check him out.
My eyes, narrowly cracked.
My cheeks, slightly etched.
I rest here, retracing every mile.
Remembering, your everlasting smile.
My lips, already dry.
My tongue, trying to say goodbye.
I wonder, was it all worthwhile.
Remembering, your loneliest smile.
My throat, lumpy and sore.
My chest, heavy as never before.
I look back, recalling your life-style.
Remembering, your younger smile.
My lungs, empty and tight.
My legs, weak and light.
I relive, your personal exile.
Remembering, your generous smile
My head, spinning from fright.
My heart, deep and out of sight
I sleep alone, crying like a child.
Remembering, your everlasting smile.
I have followed Catherine Arcolio and Leaf and Twig for the longest time. Her poetry never ceases to amaze me. She calls her style Ekphrastic poetry” which is the verbal representation of visual representation. Writing in short staccato notes has to be one of the hardest forms of creativity. Matching this form of poetry to amazing images is truly an art. You must check her out. https://leafandtwig.wordpress.com/
Support your poets. Try writing poetry yourself. Your soul will thank you for it.
I love following Dave Whatt because he has a quirky sense of humor that can only be found in the UK. I must admit there are times I don’t quite understand the lingo, which makes his blogs all the more appealing. Dave says he is “… a grumpy old surrealist artist, musician, postcard maker, bluesman, theatre set designer and debonair man-about-town. My favourite tools are the plectrum and the pencil…” Being not so much a brainiac as a researcher, I had to look up plectrum and learned a new word to boot! (it’s a guitar pic, so to speak). I love to listen to local lingo, and Dave’s posts are full of them. Throw in a British accent, and reading suddenly becomes more fun!
If you want a bit of the Brit and walk away with a smile on your face, go check out Dave and his blog at https://davewhatt.wordpress.com/.
A number of you may know (and follow) my second creative friend. David Kanigan creates his blog Live and Learn with thoughts, quotes, research, and philosophy. I mean he’s amazing. I have no idea how he finds the quotes he does. All are thinkers and feelers. He is light and he is deep. I can see his feelings and thoughts through the pictures and stories he shares.
* * * * * * * * *
The love a parent feels for a child is strange…
It’s like trying to describe sand between your toes or snowflakes on your tongue to someone who’s lived their whole life in a dark room.
It sends the soul flying.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
Ethereal and fun, I look forward to his writings every day. You will too.
Check out David at https://davidkanigan.com/.
Violets are Green
Writing and Painting
Is More Than A Dream!
This is a made-up celebration, of course — but is it?
We all are jealous of other’s creativity. In a sweet, supportive way, of course. As shown on my Sunday Evening Art Gallery blog, I am always in awe of what magic comes from creative hands, minds, and souls.
I follow a number of poets, artists, sculptors, and everyday wise men and wise women, and am always in love with their offerings. So I am going to celebrate my friendly creative friends with my own #AppreciateYourCreativeFriends week! Check them out, follow follow follow (if it tickles your fancy), and have a great time doing it!
My Monday recommendation is Carsten Wieland, an amazing watercolor painter who lives in Essen, Germany. His site is full — and I mean full — of fantastic watercolor paintings. Houses, landscapes, weather — every post he shares is yet another glimpse into a very accurate eye and a very open palate.
Check out Carsten Wieland out at Brushpark/Watercolors. https://brushparkwatercolors.wordpress.com/.
You check in, you may never want to check out!
Inspired by nature, recognized body painter Johannes Stoetter turns living models into animals, fruits, flowers, or blends them with the surroundings.
These impressively detailed paintings take up to five months of thorough planning and up to eight hours of work to complete.
The winner of the World Bodypainting Championship in 2012 says that the key to success is to love what you’re doing.
Stoetter says, “I think I observe the world, nature, colors and shapes with very clear eyes and an open heart. And painting is my big passion.”
Looking at his compositions, you can see just how passionate he is.
You can find more of Johannes Stoetter’s work at johannesstoetterart.com .
They say absence makes the heart grow fonder. Indeed it does, but it also makes our shared time a confusing mess.
The last couple of years my other has been working the night shift. Not a big deal for most couples. Not a big deal for us. Except just as get into my girlie routine being by myself, he’s home an extra night and I’m thrown off base.
The first 2/3s of my life I spent every evening with him. Kids, dogs, family. Mowing the lawn. Doing the laundry. Playing video games. Reading books. Like synchronized swimmers, we did a lot of things either in tandem or complimentary to each other.
His work hours these days are Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, and every other Saturday night from 5pm to 5am. So I do Japanese Movies with English Subtitles on Monday, Horror Movies on Tuesday, binge watch series and write on Saturday, and watch dramas and tearjerkers and do Art Gallery pictures on Sunday. I throw in a little pretzel housework between movies or chapters — it’s a little dizzying but it works for me.
You say, why don’t I include him in my pretzel activities?
He thinks I’m nuts already for the Japanese movie part. He thinks B horror movies are a waste of time. Breaking Bad didn’t interest him, nor did Stranger Things, both of which I power watched. I text, write, surf, watch, fetch and wash at my own speed. I eat what I want when I want, not fearing eyes watching me have a bowl of ice cream before bed.
Yet when we do spend the evening together and we’re not working on some “project” we crash on the sofa and…watch TV. I don’t care for the Ultimate Fighter or the Beverly Hillbillies and I cringe watching anything with commercials, so I usually pull out my laptop for a couple of hours.
I’ve worked 64 years on developing this wonderful, quirky personality. Or rather it’s taken me 64 years to accept this wonderful, quirky personality. Either way, I like things my way. The pretzel way.
I’m sure my hubby doesn’t mind it either, otherwise he wouldn’t have stayed with me for so long. But when the day is done and the two of us are together and we’re not going crazy with grandkids or mowing or other lovely pastimes, I say —
To think I did all that
And may I say – not in a shy way
Oh no, oh no, not me
I did it myyyy wayyyy…….
I had a wonderful weekend. We celebrated both grandkids’ birthdays. We laughed, spoiled, loved, gossiped, and enjoyed the company of parents, grandparents, great grandparents (grandpa is 90 next month!) my grandkids, friends with their kids and grandkids, plus a couple of dogs thrown in.
Today I read the following column at Ask Amy (http://tiny.cc/za2wmy)….
DEAR AMY: I have four adult children and three grandchildren. They all live 2.5 hours away and have very successful, fulfilling lives. My husband and I couldn’t be prouder. They usually call every week or so and I send an occasional text or email. The problem is our daughter-in-law, who wants nothing to do with us. She is the mother of our only grandchildren. She refuses to visit, especially on the holidays. When we visit, she is pleasant but seems to barely tolerate us.
We want to see more of our grandsons but we are not permitted to babysit, and if I ask to take them to the park, etc., she ignores me, hoping I will let it go (which I do to keep the peace).
I have spent many a sleepless night trying to figure out what I have done to her and cannot think of a thing. Honestly, in the 10 years they have been married I have never said a mean word or offered advice, even with new babies.
I say nothing to my son. I know he sees her treatment of us and feels guilty, but fighting about it isn’t worth it to him. The boys love to see us and I have heard the oldest asking if he can go home with Grandma and Grandpa and Mom always says no!
We just came home from a visit and it was worse than ever. I am depressed over the situation and do not know what to do. Anxious Grandma
This made me very sad.
I don’t know the daughter’s side, I don’t know the grandparents’ side. But to keep grandparents from enjoying the best time of their entire lives —
What happens to families?
I know I take for granted the love and affection I share with my two sons and their kids. Love, friendship, all come naturally for us. We’re not all like two peas in a pod all the time, mind you, but we enjoy each other’s company and get together whenever we can.
Grandparents are the old souls, the old angels, leading the innocent young angels through the mess we call life. We try and lighten their burdens, play their games, listen to their secrets. We give them a safe space their parents can’t, just because they’re parents.
It’s a parent’s job to protect, guide, and teach their precious packages to ensure they make it through life with a good head on their shoulders.
It’s a grandparent’s job to spoil, cuddle, play and dream with those same packages, ensuring they make it through life with good dreams in their heads.
I look at Dear Amy’s question and my heart breaks for everyone involved. The grandkids will never have that close relationship with two people who love them so much; the mother will never find peace with the mother and father of her husband; and the grandparents will have to deal with empty arms and empty dreams.
Like I said. I don’t know the whole story — I never will. There is nothing I can do to change that family and their sorrows.
But what I can do is share this story so that you will go home tonight and hug your kids and grandkids and when you see your friends or your sister hug their kids and grandkids. Play catch or Chinese checkers with them. Tell them a story of when you were a kid.
Don’t just take the love — MAKE the love.
You work hard on finishing your project. The afghan you are crocheting (a couple of my friends are into this). Your last piece of art for the craft show. (In my case) finally finished my/your novel. You’ve worked hard on your projects. Creativity may flow, but it does need a bit of focus and control to be useful.
Now comes the hard part. That last thing you need to do before you can truly show off your work of art.
But you don’t want to go anywhere near it.
For someone who loves writing, I’m actually pretty tired of it. Perhaps it’s because I’ve read the story a thousand times. I know the ending before I even start. There is no magic in it — no surprise, I’ve pumped my heart and soul into this piece and now it’s just old news.
Oh, there are surely other projects that could use my attention. A poem here or there, a couple of short story ideas. The third novel in my set. It all sounds so inspiring. Yet all my creative energy has been zapped.
I know I’m always encouraging my friends and reading public to keep pushing to make your dreams come true. And I do so believe that. You cannot improve if you are not doing. But I suppose with all the pushing there has to be some give. Some yang to your yin. If one goes full speed ahead without slowing down that same one will get burned out in no time flat. And you know what burn feels like.
So here is my Monday Evening Advice. Like you need it.
Work hard on your passion. Work hard on your project. When you finish, let it rest. Let it breathe. Give both you and it space. If you are finished with it you are finished. Let it be. If not, give it a second go around. Or a third round.
I find that after I walk away from my written words for a bit they feel new upon my return. I can see my repetitions, my overly-active adjective gland, my dangling participles — everything. I then can approach the same old story with a fresh perspective.
I myself am letting my novel rest. In the meantime I’m having a wonderful time watching Japanese movies with English subtitles.
Depends on what I pop in here for.
I’m sure it’s the same with you. You work a full time job, either outside of the house or in. Or full time school. Or full time mother. Dog sitter. Whatever. You do what you have to do to buy groceries, maybe a bottle of wine now and then. Society dictates you not only sparkle at your job, but that your house is immaculate and your clothes tailored, children behaved, and your books read.
Good thing you and I aren’t following the dictates of society. You and I live by the fly-by-the-seat-of-our-pants rules.
Finish the big things, like switching the laundry or turning off the stove. Oh…and make sure you have clean plates for dinner and vacuum the cat hair up at least once a week.
But who wants to do that on a beautiful Saturday afternoon? My interest wanes in anything physical (except if I’m running around with grandkids) long about mid day.
Except for writing.
Funny how we find excuses for everything we don’t like, but offer no explanation for those we enjoy?
Ack — with a wave of the hand it will be tomorrow. All your chores will be waiting for you — they won’t have gone anywhere.
But think of how great it would be to finish that painting? That poem? That crocheted sweater? Or, in my case, that novel?
I love when I read that someone has learned something, discovered something. Finished something. They sound so alive! So sparkling! So awake!
Here’s to you. And all you do. Have fun!
When people connect in blogs and in tweets and on story boards, you never know who’s listening. Words and images can be so powerful, especially when they come from the heart. So choose your words well.
I was touched that my Wordless Wednesday pic (that I took down one of the paths by my house) would touch off such a beautiful poem. Please check out Ivor’s post.
Thank you, Ivor, for inspiring us all.
Feature Image: Courtesy, “humouringthegoddess”, thankyou Claudia, for permitting me to use this beautiful photo, I’ve tagged the picture, “Smiling Leafs”. My eyes, narrowly cracked. My cheeks, slightly etched. I rest here, retracing every mile. Remembering, your everlasting smile. My lips, already dry. My tongue, trying to say goodbye. I wonder, was it all worthwhile. […]
You’ve got to know when to hold ’em
Know when to fold ’em
Know when to walk away
Know when to run
You never count your money
When you’re sittin’ at the table
There’ll be time enough for countin’
When the dealin’s done.
It’s a precarious ledge we stand on, isn’t it?
Do you know when to hold your ground? When to give in?
When to walk away? When to Run?
It’s not as easy as it seems, is it?
We want to run away, we want to stay and fight.
We say it’s not worth it, yet sometimes it’s all there is.
Pick your battles.
Fight the fights worth fighting for.
Blow off the rest.
A stay in a hospital isn’t worth it.
Nor is a broken soul.
Every gambler knows
That the secret to survivin’
Is knowin’ what to throw away
And knowin’ what to keep
‘Cause every hand’s a winner
And every hand’s a loser
And the best that you can hope for
Is to die in your sleep.
Seung Hoon Park, an artist from Seoul, S. Korea, is creating the most unusual images with the use of a camera and threading the film to mimic the look of woven textiles.
Each image begins with 8mm or 16mm camera film strips which he lays down in rows to create a larger surface that effectively acts as a single piece of film.
Park then exposes two images in a large format 8×10″ camera using sets of vertical and horizontal strips which are woven together to create a final print.
The final image is a blend of mediums: both photograph as well as woven textile; by threading the film together, Park creates beautifully captivating scenes with textured distortions.
Park has traveled to locations around the world including Rome, Milan, Venice and Prague to shoot images for his ongoing series titled Textus.
More of Seung Hoon Park’s fascinating photography art can be found at https://susanspiritusgallery.com/artist/seung-hoon-park/ . and https://theartling.com/en/artists/seung-hoon-park/ .
It’s amazing how much control it has over each and every one of us.
Magazines and TV and movies depict women as skinny and beautiful. We look at them and think of how much less we are then they. Everyone around you has sweet, adorable children. It puts our choice of not having kids in doubt.
We KNOW we are right in most — if not all — of our decisions in life. Yet our mind tries to second guess our determination. Our mind tends to go off of emotion and not common sense.
And we let it.
Now many of us have some control over our minds. An impulse to punch someone in the face or stab someone in the back is quickly dissolved and rationed away as PMS, bad mood, stress, or just Tuesday. Our desire to take off to Paris for the weekend is tempered by keeping our job and our bank account.
Why are we so weak on defending the rest of our spirit?
It’s probably easier for some than others to shut your chattering, wandering, judgemental mind down. To put it in its place. I know it’s a constant battle in my head. I’m not young and blonde and beautiful. I’m 64 and short and pudgy. I’m not a CFO or CEO. I’m more like UFO. But to tell the truth, it’s an uphill battle to shut off and shut up my comparison psyche.
Look at what happens when we “put our mind to it.” We create masterpieces. We decorate our homes, paint pictures, make fantastic quilts and shawls and jewelry. We become writers and teachers and financial experts. We save money enough to vacation, tour, lecture, and learn.
Yet our minds tell us we’re not good enough because we’re a couple of pounds overweight or our hair is starting to turn gray or our job is merely a waitress or a data clerk.
We let our wandering minds wander all over our goals and dreams.
I see it time and again. In blogs and social media, at work, at the gym, at the playground, in shared whispers with friends and family. If only I were… If only I could…We look to an altered version of ourselves to be happy. To be successful. To be in love. Like true peace of mind and soul is out there somewhere.
You all know what I’m going to say. Because you know it’s true.
True happiness isn’t out there — it’s in HERE. In your head. In your aura. Look at how easy it is to take a situation and turn it around. Half empty or half full.
It’s all your choice.
Choose to be happy. Pick positive over negative.
Think it’s hard?
Just try it. Just CHOOSE.
Your soul will thank you.
Artist Darryl Cox fuses ornate vintage picture frames with tree branches found in the forests of central Oregon.
Cox uses many different woods: central Oregon manzanita, juniper, aspen, Willamette Valley filbert and California grapevine are a few of his favorites.
The branches serve as a simple reminder of the materials used to build picture frames, but also create an unusual form factor where clean lines and ornate moulding patterns seem to naturally traverse the bark of each tree limb.
Each piece involves many hours of woodworking, sculpting, and painting.
Darryl Cox says it perfectly: “I enjoy seeking out unique frames, wherever they may be. And, I love being outdoors reclaiming extraordinary tree branches and roots. Especially when most of the time it involves spending a day or two in the forests of Central Oregon, but other wonderful places, too.”
More of Darryl Cox’s gorgeous frames can be found at http://fusionframesnw.com/
Here I am, Friday morning, reading posts and surfing the Internet during my break time, thinking about yet another topic I can blog about. I’m getting so A.D.D. about wanting to post something, blog something that I want to share with the world.
Part of me wonders — who cares?
It’s not like I’m sitting around with nothing to do. I have a busy day job, then most nights I’m either working around the house, writing, or spending time with family and friends.
It’s not like I have hours and hours of down time.
With WordPress telling me daily that there are billions of blogs to check out, why would I want to start a new chapter of this one?
Am I stifled? Bored? Creatively stunted?
I think about all the blogs I follow, and all the blogs I peek in and read — life stories, poetry, artists, travel. They are varied but in the same vein. Just think of all the ones I DON’T follow — cooking, parenting , single life, quilting — the line goes on and on. Wouldn’t someone rather follow an expert in writing or publishing than someone who dabbles in a half-dozen pursuits?
All this jibber jabber means nothing other than I’m thinking of a weekly Friday edition to my never-ending flow of oddities and irrelevance. So what should it be?
Fat Friday — Pictures of great looking food.
Fabulous Friday — Unique places to visit
Food Friday — Same as #1
Faerie Friday — Pictures and Poems about Faeries and their Kind
Fashion Friday — Strange hair, nails, shoes — anything you wouldn’t wear going out on Friday night
Free Friday — apps, websites, anything that’s fun and free
Do you see my dilemma? I think I’ve got too much space in my head. It’s filling up with silly stuff.
P.S. If you like any of the above ideas, let me know. I’ve got to put my Creative Muse to work somewhere...
Okay. Now that that’s over…I took my grand kids to the park Saturday morning to encourage their Adrenalin dispersion. So here is granny, an average-looking 64-year-old, scrubbed, puffed, a touch of makeup, a decent pair of Capri’s and fun t-shirt, feeling good, feelin’ hip, keepin’ up with swings and slides and Jungle Jims. There were two baseball games going on in the background, middle-school types, lots of cheering and hoho’s. Then I looked around at the other mothers.
These women were knockouts. I figured these moms were leftovers from the games, watching their toddlers on the swings and slides and Jungle Jims. Now, I live in a small town. A college town. I’m not saying we don’t have attractive people here, but to have the playground filled with them is an eye-opening experience.
They hung out in pairs and trios, the same short-shorts, long hair, small waistlines, all tossing their hair as they bowed their heads down to read their cellphones, watching their precocious kids talk about their magic beads or ninja moves or playing zombie tag. One of the moms was pregnant, and even her awkward bundle looked great in her top and Capri’s.
Now you must wonder why I chose the word ‘jealous’ to describe my feelings at the time. I mean, there was a time when ~I~ was a young mom taking my kids to the park with ~my~ girlfriends. My friends and I laughed and talked about the kids, our husbands, going out on Saturday night. We’d party at each other’s houses, spend a weekend shopping and stay the night in a hotel, drinking and eating and confessing our secrets to each other. Our kids played together, our husbands told stories together. It was a wonderful circle.
But that seems so long ago.
I think I’m jealous because I remember looking like that. Thinner, thicker hair, clearer complexion. I’m also jealous because these girls have theirwhole life ahead of them. They still can be executives and fashion designers and doctors. Their kids are still little, with soccer and baseball games and field trips and prom still to come. Their children still worship them, still love sharing snuggles and hugs and cuddles.
I know the best medicine for this unreasonable bout of jealousy is to share the snuggles and hugs and cuddles of my own kids and grand kids. To go watch their baseball and soccer games and take them camping and shopping and stay up late. I can touch the memories of days gone by by making new memories today.
I’ll always wonder, though, how I made it through all those younger days without a cell phone.
Maria Sibylla Merian (1647–1717), a German-born naturalist and scientific illustrator living in the Netherlands, was an extremely enterprising and independent woman who managed a successful career as an artist, botanist, naturalist and entomologist.
At a time when natural history was a valuable tool for discovery, Merian discovered facts about plants and insects that were not previously known, such as insects did not spontaneously emerge from mud.
Merian was the first to bring together insects and their habitats, including food they ate, into a single ecological composition.
Merian published her first book of natural illustrations, titled Neues Blumenbuch, in 1675.
In 1699, following eight years of painting and studying, and on the encouragement of the governor of the Dutch colony of Surinam, the city of Amsterdam awarded Merian a grant to travel to South America with her daughter Dorothea. Her trip, designed as a scientific expedition makes Merian perhaps the first person to plan a journey rooted solely in science.
Merian is considered to be among the most significant contributors to the field of entomology — an amazing journey for an 18th Century woman.
More of Maria Sibylla Merian‘s amazing story and images can be found at https://www.britannica.com/biography/Maria-Sibylla-Merian and https://www.theatlantic.com/science/archive/2016/01/the-woman-who-made-science-beautiful/424620/.
Please note: Many Americans are not their politicians. Pride in country goes back much further than 2017. Be proud of who you are, what got you here, and where you are going.
July 4, 2017
It’s also inspirational, spiritual, cosmic, and thrilling.
My problem lately is that I’ve gotten in the driver’s seat of my fourth novel, and although I’ve worked out the story line and am loving writing about my space traveler, I miss writing a short story now and then. I have been perusing various contests and publication opportunities, and I find areas I’d love to try. This one wants a creature story. This one wants supernatural fiction. This one wants pirates and ghosts.
What fun! What adventure! But what do I write about?
I think I hang out in novel land because the writing is long and real and I can keep the same idea throughout the pages. Short stories require separate thought, separate ideas. Unique ideas. And eventually my love of writing starts slipping on the confusing bed of ideas and plots and endings.
Do you hide in one genre over another? Do you have a desire to paint something totally different yet stay within your safe and more experienced area? Or draw something totally out of your comfort zone?
I have a folder of stories, some finished, some barely started. Few would fit into the guidelines I so fawningly follow. Most of my good pieces are written more on a whim of the moment — an impression on the drive home, an interlude between two or more people at the bus stop. My short stories are based on a bolt of lightning that directly hits me. It’s a lot harder if I’m out searching for that bolt.
I often encourage my blog readers to break through your self-imposed sanctions and to go for it. Reach for the sky — or dig deep into the cavern.
I still believe in that.
But I sometimes think it’s getting harder and harder to dig into that fertile creative ground and come up with something new. Something that will fit within someone else’s parameters.
How do you juggle all your cravings? Do you stick with what works or do you find time to experiment and go off in left field now and then? I’d love to know that there are other seasoned and non-seasoned writers who are as confused and excited as me.
Let’s see now…as the website says…think adventures and hauntings at sea, shipwrecks and buried treasure, treacherous waters, sea spirits, ghostly galleons, giant squid, kraken and sailors gone mad.
I can do that…can’t I?
Artist Colin Batty puts an amusingly strange spin on photographs of the past.
Taking cabinet cards from the early 1900s, he uses acrylic paint and crafts entirely new and surprising scenes directly on the image.
It’s so convincing that at first glance, you might not notice the images were even changed.
The amazing part is that Batty does this work all by hand — you won’t find a single image Photoshopped in his collection of cards.
More of Colin Batty‘s amazing photography art can be found at http://www.peculiarium.com/colin-batty.
I am feeling a bit under the weather this eve. I went through my back stories looking for something else (always the case) and found this fun blog from a few years ago. Seems like it’s perfect for my feelin’ down time…
My Irish Wench Muse came to visit me last night. She was all full of her usual Irish self. I wasn’t writing or researching or hanging with my family, so I knew something was up.
“Read yer blog the other day,” she said, smiling, wiping the kitchen table off.
“Oh? Great! Which one?”
“The whinneh one.”
I should have been upset, but how can you be upset at your truthful conscience?
“Whiny? Why was it whiny?”
“A lotta ‘I wants’ and “I’ canna haves’. And no solution. What kenna blog is that?”
I sat straighter in my chair, watching her bend over a drop of gravy and start to scrape it. “Hey! All bloggers get down now and then. It’s part of the creative process!”
“Aye, and a lotta bees sting people when they’re nah looking, too. And they still manage to make the honey.”
I had to see where this was going and fast.
“Well, I didn’t see it as whining. I saw it as voicing the universal truth of too much to do and not enough time to do it all.”
“Nay — the ‘Universal Truth’ is more like ‘Leave your dog inside too long and he’s bound ta poop somewhere.’ That’s why you need a calendar, lass.”
“I already have a calendar at work. And it’s packed full.”
“Do you get everything done on the calendar?”
“Well, duh. It’s work.”
“Then, my darlin’ writer, you need a calendar at home, too. A Grand Poobah Calendar.”
What is that?”
My muse finished scraping the drip and headed towards the crack between the leafs. A dangerous area. “The term is from one of those operas. The Poobah has all the titles and ‘na much else.”
I didn’t get what that had to do with me and my whining…er…woes.
“If ya canna make time in your head, write it down. Make the time on the calendar,” she explained, pulling out a butter knife to scrape the caverns between leaves. “Makes ya look important.”
“But that means I’d have to be — organized! How can a pretzel be organized?”
She shook her head between grunts. Must have been extra crumbs down the crack.
“How does the Gran’ Poobah get things done? Too many titles, too little authority. At least if he writes the bloomin’ things down he can see what he wants to do first. And he can pretend to do everything, even if he gets only a few things done.”
Well, that made sense. I helped her scrape the bread crumbs out of the crack and she smiled her little Irish smile.
“You’ve just got to know how to do a calendar, luv. Jam it with all sorts of rot. Then when you start the day, start crossin’ off. Lines through rot are good for the soul! Makes you pick and choose your rot!” She spit on a slide of old milk. ” You know, I may be a muse but I’ve got other ‘tings I have to do too. I canna babysit you all the time. “
I nodded sheepishly.
“I’m yer creative Muse, ya know. A lot of work goes into finding projects for you and fillin’ your head with ideas and suggestions. Makes my beer turn green half the time!”
“Well,” I said, “you know I love your company. And your ideas. I wish I would have listened to you 20 years ago, before I had grandkids.”
She threw out a hearty laugh. “Darlin’ 20 years ago you had your own kids, and were just as busy! and 20 years before that! ‘Ya dinna have time back then either. But you kept the calendar. In yer head.”
“I get it. I get it. Make a calendar. Put it all down. Bring your plans out of the 4th dimension in to this 3rd dimension so I can get a handle on it and do a little bit of everything instead of none of a lot. I get it.”
Viola nodded and stood. She was beautiful — green eyes, full figure, Irish brogue and all. “Aye. And donna forget — I’m riding up to the cabin with you this weekend. I’ve got a great idea for a poem! Oh, and my sister from Italy is comin’ too! She’s got this wild idea about manicotti and pirates and diamonds and …”
Alaa Awad is an Egyptian-based graffiti artist, and painter known for his graffiti in Cairo and Luxor.
He is best known for his mural paintings created on Mohamed Mahmoud Street in Cairo.
Awad studied at the South Valley University Faculty of Fine Arts in Luxor and graduated in 2004.
Since then he has served as a member of the faculty at the Faculty of Fine Arts as a professor in the Department of Mural Painting.
Unlike other graffiti artists, Awad chooses to paint with a brush and uses acrylic paints rather than using stencils and spray paints.
His intricate paintings can sometimes take up to a week to make not only because of the materials he uses, but because of the complexity of his designs.
Awad’s style aims to remind people of their heritage and past to help them stay true to their Egyptian identity.
His murals are typically multifaceted and multi-layered with each telling a different story.
More of Alaa Awad’s marvelous artwork can be found at http://alaa-awad.com/ and at http://artitssymbolsandmeanings.blogspot.com/2015/05/alaa-awad-power-of-mural-art-of-urban.html
It’s funny to find myself writing a blog on a Sunday morning. I mean, we all should be sleeping in or going to church or going on a bike ride. I have plans for later but for now I have what everyone looks for on a Sunday Morning — inspiration.
Inspiration is all around you.
Having had a crappy end of the week and too much to drink Friday night (I don’t drink so it didn’t take much) and the body hangover of a 64-year-old, it’s easy to be cranky and crabby on this cool morning. But over the weekend I came across two people that truly inspired me to be a better person.
To be a better me.
My first inspriation was my 16-year-old niece. Always on the chubby side, I worried about her. Things may have changed in high school since I went 150 years ago, but teens are still teens, and it’s still easy to make fun of someone who looks different. Being made fun of in junior high, I looked at her through my own insecurities.
Yesterday at a family party I saw the girl again, and she had changed. She was still the smart, funny adolescent girl I’ve come to love, but she was 30 pounds lighter.
I almost didn’t recognize her.
Being a granny-aunt, I feared she did something really drastic. I probably would have. But she is smarter and more grown up than I. More salads, less treats, lots of water. She told me all about it.
And I am so proud of her.
My second inspiration is my sister-in-law. We lost my brother a few years ago, a heartbreaking experience. Not a day goes by where I don’t miss him. His wife took it as well as she could. We all move on, she along with her two awesome kids.
I saw a pic of her and her family on FB this morning, and it looked like she dropped a ton of weight. A ton. She looked like a totally different person. I haven’t asked her yet how she did it, but whatever she did had added 30 years back onto her face. I see my brother in her children’s eyes, and I see a content person in hers.
And I am so proud of her.
My son is another one. He used to be a skinny in track and field in high school. 10 years of marriage and two kids later, he was thicker than he wanted to be. It was as if a lightbulb went off in his head and he turned to healthy eating. 25 pounds later he’s in the gym all the time, an inspiration to me and his kids as well.
I have been on a weight thing myself since January. I have lost a bit of weight, but because I always wear big clothes I don’t think people can tell. It doesn’t matter. I eat healthier now. I walk more, I’m not really into junk food. I eat what I want but I eat one or two bites, not one or two portions. We all work on weight loss our own way. I know my niece did, I know my sister-in-law did.
We all want to live longer. We want to be inspired. We want to be around for our grandkids and our friend’s grandkids. We want to live and love and be able to walk up the stairs without our chests hurting.
Find inspiration in your life. Let it touch your own heart. Whether it’s to lose weight to be healthier or to start writing the novel you’ve always had in your heart, look around you. There is plenty of inspiration around you. Take that first step.
Trust me. You won’t fall. Keep walking. Be your OWN inspiration.
That’s a joke.
I love the idea of being able to instantly sending your thoughts, instructions, and requests immediately to someone else. But instant thoughts often demand instant responses. And sometimes it’s text before you think.
Son (1:21 pm): You have any plans for tonight?
Mom: (1:22 p.m.) Oh sure. Washing some dishes, throwing the ball for the dog, catching up on Deadliest Catch. Nope. Why?
Mom always knows that when son #1 calls it has something to to with the grand kids. His dad gets the friendship calls on the way home from work, fishing story calls, all that. But mom…
Mom (2:35 p.m.) An hour later…
He texted me over an HOUR ago! Does he want me to come over for dinner? Take the grandkids for the weekend? Take me out to dinner? WHAT???
Son (3:00 p.m.) Sorry, I get busy. Can you watch the kids at the park while we clean my office?
No. Never. WHAT DO YOU THINK I’D SAY?
Mom (3:02 p.m.). Sure! Let’s make plans!
I never have a problem with last minute plans for watching my grandkids. They are fun, smart, goofy, and mine. I’d change most any plans to catch an hour or two with them.
I was never this generous with my own kids. Although they have fond memories of their grandparents on my husband’s side, my inlaws had to use a crowbar to pry the first out of my insecure mommy hands. By the time the second one came around 5 years later, my grip was less maddening. I let them take both kids with wild abandon.
Now I feel what my inlaws must have felt:
Give me those babies! What does it matter if we play at the park for 3 hours and jump in every puddle or go to the ice cream store and order an extra large fudge sundae or I take them to Kiddyland? I can take them to the zoo and the farm and the fire station and ride on the train and and and…
Now I am even goofier than my inlaws were. I jump at the chance to have them out to our house (we call it the farm but it’s really just a lot of land) or the cabin (my late father-in-law’s small house up North) or to the park (any park will do).
I know the joy of spending time with someone who thinks the world of you. Whose idea of fun is anything done with Granny. The innocence of youth and the lack of prejudice is enough to swell any adult’s heart.
I only hope I can instill some life values and love values that will grow inside of them as they grow. To value life, friendship, family, and oatmeal raisin cookies.
But my son is going to have to text a little faster. Otherwise one day I will assume that’s what he wants and will show up at his house before he gets home.
Cecelia Webber uses the human body to construct intricate tessellations that represent the natural world.
Each composition can take up to two months to produce, and involves photographing scores of poses; digitally cutting, rotating, and coloring the resulting images; and assembling all of the components together into the finished piece.
The artist also regularly uses herself as a subject, setting a camera timer and then orienting herself for the photograph.
Webber’s deep appreciation for nature, along with her scientific background, gives her a deep awareness of organic forms that she draws upon to concoct pieces bearing a unique interplay between colors, shapes, and models’ bodies.
More of Cecelia Webber‘s magnificent art can be found at http://www.ceceliawebber.com/.
I have a weird way of doing Facebook and Twitter. I am sure there are many out there who are devoted readers of both. After all, if you are following somebody it SHOULD be for a reason, like you enjoy their art or comments or inspirations. That is why I follow bloggers and tweeters.
Having TIME to read all the posts, however, is daunting.
My look-at-twitter-time is usually lunchtime, when I get home from work, and before I go to bed. My look-at-Facebook-time is usually at lunchtime or when I get home from work before I start writing. I must limit myself to those time or else I’ll never get anything else done — housework, writing, and all.
That’s why my method of reading posts makes me chuckle.
Instead of flipping through page after page after page after page (you get it) of tweets or blogs I often just go to a person’s name and read everything they’ve done recently. Even long ago, if I’m on a roll.
That’s why I’m certain those I follow are surprised with a comment months later. Like “Where has that chick been?” But I have found that you get a better feel for that person when you read a number of their posts in a row.
Many of us are pretty predictable with our postings, but now and then we throw something in that seems to have nothing to do with our persona. But it does — more than you realize. Someone who writes serious material all the time can surprise you with an attempt at humor. Inspirationalists who always quote someone else catches you when they quote themselves.
To me, social media is a monster that’s out of control. Too much credit is given to online stories with no face or accountability to go with them. Sometimes we just have to dig our heels in and say enough is enough. To say I like you and what you write, and I will come and visit you whenever I can, but don’t be mad at me if I miss some posts.
I used to want dozens of likes and dozens of retweets. But Earth to Claudia came pretty quickly, though. Check out these statistics.
Total number of registered Twitter users — 695,750,00
Total number of active Twitter users — 342,000,000
Average number of tweets per day — 58 million
Number of active Twitter users every month — 115 million
Number of days it takes for 1 billion tweets — 5 days
Number of tweets that happen every second — 9,100
Total number of Facebook users — 1.94 billion
Total number of mobile Facebook users — 1.74 billion
Total number of likes and shares — 10 million daily
Number of new profiles created — 5 per second
Total photo uploads to Facebook — 300 million per day
Comments posted — 510,000 every 60 seconds
Status updated — 293,000 every 60 seconds
Photos uploaded — 136,000 every 60 seconds
So come on. How many people do you think will read your posts? How many will retweet your tweets? Find a formula of reading and writing that works for you and forget the numbers. I myself like trolling down my lists of whom I follow and picking a name and reading a bunch of their posts. I like commenting on them, too, so they know someone’s passed by. Makes them feel good — and makes me feel good, too.
And isn’t that what writing’s all about?
Mehndi (also called Mehandi) is the traditional art of painting the hands, feet or body with a paste made from the powdered, dried leaves of the henna plant.
It is an ancient form of body art that has been practiced in the Middle East, India and parts of Africa for thousands of years.
The stains are usually cherry-red to brown color, but this can vary with time left on and a range of other factors.
Mehndi is special for many cultures, not just because it is an important part their culture, but also because of how beautiful the mehandi design looks when women are adorned with it.
In western countries, mehndi has gained a great deal of popularity in the temporary tattoo industry.
This art form is an intricately beautiful way to decorate the human body, a talent that is extraordinary and delicate and precise in its execution.
It is an amazing and intricate art form.
This is a big victory for jean-loving employees. Nothing says comfort more than a well-worn pair of Levis. And within certain (obvious) guidelines, t-shirts are the comfort wear of today and tomorrow.
Being an older BoHo chic kinda gal, it kind of amuses me to see the direction of the office dress codes through my past 60+ years.
In my prime I worked in downtown Chicago in the 80s. That was the time of big advertising budgets, big hair, and big shoulder pads. All the women wore tailored suits and dresses so we could be taken seriously. Yeah. Jeans were something you wore around the house to dig in the garden. Not to work.
The years have been turning more and more casual as far as the proper attire for us nine to fivers. Suits turned into pants and tops and pants and sweaters, and accessories turned from Army General shoulder pads to tops that have to have at least two inch straps. We’ve gone from business formal to business casual, and although I liked the idea that shoulder pads made me look taller, I’m willing to let change take over.
So when the freedom of jeansville was brought to my workplace, everyone went wild. Those first few days were seas of blue. Jeans and jeans and t-shirts that went with jeans. Skinny jeans, rolled up jeans, baggy jeans. The place went wild.
Me? I have one stretchy pair of jeans, and two baggy ones. The baggy ones were/are an embarrassment, so I’m relegated to one pair. The blue jean revolution isn’t such a big deal to me, though, for as I’ve gotten older I’ve been drawn to flowy skirts, peasant tops, flowers and sparkles and some narrow-ish pants. I’d toss on a pair of jeans now and then on Fridays, but I’m still fairly old school about work and looking professional, and tops have always taken precedence over t-shirts for me. I mean, damn…I still have a problem wearing pants to church.
The office has calmed down this second week of blue jean freedom. After all, it’s not a novelty any more. Some employees may look for an illicit thrill wearing those expensive jeans with the rips in the knee or t-shirts with bare shoulders between the shoulder and the upper arm, but hopefully those thrill seekers will not get us all in the doghouse for breaking the dress code.
As I reflect on this story, I see it’s really a metaphor for life. Be careful what you ask for, for when you get it, it might not be as exciting as you thought it would be. Everything new eventually gets old, and all that.
But for those days when I am barely dragging my butt out of bed and into the shower and it’s raining and blowing outside and I’m trying to connect with the road to work, the thought of baggy blue jeans and a flowery top don’t seem so bad.
Even if it’s not Friday.
Sometimes an artist’s description by others is as mesmerizing as their art.
Motohiko Odani (1972-) was born and raised in Kyoto, Japan, and received his MFA from Tokyo University of the Arts in 1997.
According to one creative description, “Odani, who possesses a keenly critical understanding of sculpture, has resisted (or taken advantage of) the medium’s conventional image of weightiness or substance.”
“Instead, he has given physical representation to ‘phantoms’ – entirely ephemeral sensations or amorphous phenomena.”
Odani’s works are comprised of complex layers of meaning that defy a singular interpretation, as the artist draws inspiration from various sources including horror and sci-fi films, Japanese folklore, Buddhism, and Futurism.
This last description matches Motohiko’s intrinsic art: “With Odani’s artworks transcending the conventional idea of sculpture and seeking to give visual representation to existence itself, this exhibition pursues new possibilities for artistic expression.”
I think that’s a perfect description.
More of Motohiko Odani‘s amazing art can be found at http://www.phantom-limb.com/ and http://www.thisiscolossal.com/2011/01/motohiko-odani/.
There was a time
The universe expanded before me
Choice was a luxury
Youth my companion
Lost in the sparkle of the stars
Lately the vastness of that universe
Has shrunk before my eyes
The galaxies of choice
Have turned to
Cold hollow moons
Planets of necessity
Funny how small
My world has become
The luxury of time
Exists on fewer and fewer
Planes of existence
In this world and the next
The choices are not the same
As in the days of
Jobs and friends and goals
Now have razor edges
Options have narrowed
Doors once open
Now request verification
Of paths followed
And stars wished upon
In duplicate form
I can no longer shuffle the cards of
Destiny and Delusion
The games have been chosen
Hands have been dealt
Bets are hedged
The world is keeping score
I must play the hand dealt
Watch the glow of dawn
Twist into curls of dusk
Time no longer my friend
Its shadow the scent of musk
Choice is mine no more
My vision has become blurred
Memories have faded
My heart has been broken
By limitations of my body
And the changing of the guard
As they march into the fog
I never forget my heart
The journey that brought me here
I love and I cherish
I live and I learn
But cannot go back
To the land of never was
Even though hope fades
In the emptiness of dawn
And space of my soul
Reality bounds from the sky
Our star’s blinding glare
Reminding me of the truth
All I need to do is breathe
The universe, the stars
Will point the way
And the world of choice
Will open its doors
Claudia Anderson, 2013
My muse was at it again. I was standing in the shower, trying to remember what was still clean that I could wear to work, mentally making a grocery list, and trying to remember to bring a pair of scissors to cut flowers by the roadside, when my spicy Irish muse jumped into my head with a great idea for a short story.
With barely enough time to brush my teeth and curl my hair, I asked her to come back later when I had more time to listen. That evening she returned, but I couldn’t hear her, as I was thrown off by the barrage of super-loud commercials in the background. Once again I was interrupted by the Life Or Death Happy Happy Flim Flam Man.
Every day we are bombarded with advertising, advice, inspiration, and warnings. We are overweight, wrinkled, and messy. Our bodies are toxic and we have yellow teeth. We don’t have time to sort, exercise, chop vegetables or play with our kids. But there is a cure for that ― just ask the Info Man.
The other day on the radio I heard that the infomercial business is a 30 billion dollar a year enterprise. Just think — 30 billion dollars spent a year on ways to clean-up, tighten-up, and detox-up our bodies and our minds. Not only can we firm our thighs and flabby under arms, but we can buy bling from movie stars while we’re firming. We can organize our closet, scrub up doggie accidents from the carpet, and slice up vegetables in one swoop.
How did we ever survive this long on our own?
Most of us wouldn’t mind being a little thinner or have beautiful hair or be able to drain spaghetti in the same pot as the drainer. But these informercials know just how to tap into our low well of confidence. Advertisers do such a good job of pointing out our inadequacies that we buy improvement on the spot without having to think about it or leave the comfort of our sofa. What a convenient way to get better!
I’m not against advertising. I learn about a lot of new products every time I watch TV or read a magazine or walk through the grocery store. I get tired of cleaning up spills on the carpet, and I keep thinking I’m too old for pimples. But finding a solution to my mini dilemmas should be fueled by my judgment, not advertisers. We shouldn’t let our insecurities rule our self-worth. We shouldn’t have to spend hundreds of dollars to feel better, think better, be better.
We have the capacity for unbounded love, compassion, and understanding. From astronomy to astrology, we have the power to discover magic both inside and outside of ourselves.
And discovering the magic doesn’t cost a thing.
There is something wrong when we are told how messed up we really are and how that can be changed with a quick purchase off the Internet. To believe that the answer for happiness and peace of mind is outside of us is playing into the hands of marketers and profiteers who take our money and our trust and leave no instructions behind ― people who have never met us, never sat at our dinner table, never took the time to find out why our closets are so disorganized in the first place.
So go out and buy that great pair of jeans or that diamondish necklace or those celebrity-endorsed pots and pans. But realize that you are just as fantastic in those beat up jeans with the elastic waist, and that your homemade lasagna will taste just as good in your worn out baking pan as it will in the latest non-stick wonder.
Sparkle is free. The fire inside of you is free. Everything else is just hype.
The only infomercial that matters is the one that broadcasts in your heart.
Inspired by the men on bicycles toting impossible mounds of objects he witnessed in Shanghai, French photographer Alain Delorme defies physics with his “Totems” series.
Delorme creates colorful, stylized works that play with our notion of photography as an objective medium.
His series “Totems” surprises with its bright comic book colors and shapes, and ‘can you believe it?’ effect.
The viewer is emerged into a world of exaggerated accumulation, of both everyday objects and towering buildings, an accumulation that has rendered society a slave to the objects it has itself created.
Alain has captured the physical, city translation of the economic growth Shanghai is presently undergoing, in the skyscrapers shooting up in the background, while not forgetting to qualify its success with the walls separating a large part of the population from it.
More of Alain Delorme‘s amazing photography can be found at https://www.alaindelorme.com/.
Some may be able to recite the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World.
One was the Colossus of Rhodes, the other the Statue of Zeus at Olympia.
Although those statues are long gone, there are still many who want to take their place.
Around the world there are a giant statues still trying to touch the sun
And to be remembered as he who watches all
As long as man can build statues to honor and to hope
There will be giant statues
And giant dreams
In an irritating society there are plenty of irritating habits that make your skin crawl and your patience disappear. People chewing with their mouth open, snorting, sniffing, coughing, talking, squeaking…I can go on and on. It just depends upon your tolerance level.
But there is something lately that grinds me even more than all those body noises.
Perhaps it’s because I’m a writer/proofreader/editor it grinds me a bit more than you. But I can’t help but wonder what ever happened to teaching correct grammar — spelling and speaking.
With auto-correct and word anticipation on every computer on the planet, you would think the correct words would just appear. But even auto-correct can’t help with the wrong choice of words. Auto-correct can’t help those who guess at the wrong word or the wrong version of a word.
Grammar isn’t rocket science. It’s common sense. Something that many people lack.
It’s one thing if you type the wrong word. In my haste to get something written, at work and at home, I have picked the wrong form/spelling/tense. Almost always I catch my mistakes in proofreading. But I’ve come across some people — professional people — who consistently misspell, misrepresent, and actually mangle the English language. And often these are higher-ups — vice presidents, executives — people who should know better.
Today a “sponsored” post on my FB account called Grammarly said, “Sick of making grammatical and spelling mistakes? Perfect writing is a click away!” So now there’s another automatic corrector out to help make sense of your nonsense.
I know I sound like an old lady, but at least I am a grammatically correct old lady. They aren’t teaching cursive in schools these days — but have they given up on grammar too? I hear a lot of lazy English these days — hip language, slurred consonants, half words. I suppose most of that is on purpose. Whether that will get the speaker far in today’s working world only time will tell.
But lazy writing will be the death knell.
I know English is one of the most confusing languages around. I mean, how many ways can you spell where? Wear? Ware? But in today’s world that’s not an excuse. When I see a professional letter start out “Goof Morning,” I have issues. It’s one thing to text “you are my breast friend” instead of “you are my best friend,” but not in an letter to the president.
Not everybody is a writing scholar. I know I’m not. But I’ve practiced. I’ve learned. You owe it to yourself to take your time and reread what you write.
After all, not everyone is Rocket Raccoon in Guardians of the Galaxy. Not everyone is cute and furry and can get away with saying, “Well he don’t know talkin’ good like me and you, so his vocabulistics is limited to ‘I’ and ‘am’ and ‘Groot,’ exclusively in that order.”
These gorgeous papier-mâché dogs are made by UK-based artist Lorraine Corrigan in Hounds of Bath.
Lorraine adores sight hounds with their sleek lines, grace and elegance.
She loves to introduce the surprising concept of rolled paper art to those who have never seen or heard of quilling.
Lorraine began sculpting dogs with paper around four years ago and has now developed a sophisticated technique using wires and layers of fine papers from recycled books.
Each piece is individually made to order and develops a unique personality as the finishing touches of the expressive eyes and fine ears are added.
At the end process, due to the use of the text, the piece is almost stone-like in texture.
Each piece is then finished with two layers of sealant wash to preserve it for many years to come.
Spring…Summer…Autumn…all are perfect times to walk around the art gallery. Don’t fret — the art is protected from the elements. The weather is perfect, the sun is starting to set — a perfect time to explore a new and unique artist.
Since this is our premiere, let us showcase something…unassuming.
My trip to North Carolina last year.
No offense to any white-haired men out there driving red sports cars, but…
I rarely see a kid or even a millennial toolin’ down the highway in a jacked up beefed up sports car of any color. It’s almost always a man. An older man.
My first guess is that no one under 60 can even afford an old super sport Vet or a Pontiac GTO. Cars of that vintage are rare and well pampered. Most are lovingly polished and primmed and taken out only on fully sunny days. My second guess is that most millennials haven’t ever heard of a Super Stock Dodge or a 1969 RS/SS Camaro. They’d rather have a Lexus LS 460 L or any kind of BMW. (In most cases I don’t blame them.)
But back to the little old men.
Why do they get to have all the fun?
You remember Jan and Dean…The Little Old Lady From Pasadena…
The Little Old Lady From Pasadena
(Go Granny, go, Granny, go, Granny, go)
Has a pretty little flowerbed of white gardenias;
(Go Granny, go, Granny, go, Granny, go)
But parked in a rickety old garage,
There’s a brand new shiny super stocked Dodge.
Okay. So here’s a granny. Like me. She probably has a couple of kids and a bunch of grand kids. She’s probably worked all her life as a waitress or a baker or a receptionist. Has a tiny pension and lives in a run-down 80-year-old house. All she’s got are a few scraggly gardenia bushes to make her smile.
And ev’rybody’s sayin’ that there’s nobody meaner than
The Little Old Lady From Pasadena.
She drives real fast and she drives real hard,
She’s the terror of Colorado Boulevard.
It’s The Little Old Lady From Pasadena!
Everybody’s saying there’s nobody meaner. Let them try and figure out Medicare and pay the doctor bills and live on social security and trying to walk around the block with a replaced knee and osteoporosis. It happens to all of us.
If you see her on the strip, don’t try to choose her,
(Go Granny, go, Granny, go, Granny, go)
You might have a go-er, but you’ll never lose her;
(Go Granny, go, Granny, go, Granny, go)
She’s gonna get a ticket now, sooner or later,
‘Cause she can’t keep her foot off the accelerator.
So she speeds a little bit. Isn’t it better than following those old fogies that drive 20 miles under the speed limit? Have you ever been behind a driver on the country roads that slow down and look at every field, every farm, every animal? Heck — I’m married to one.
You’ll see her all the time, just gettin’ her kicks now,
(Go Granny, go, Granny, go, Granny, go)
With her four speed stick and a four – two – six now;
(Go Granny, go, Granny, go, Granny, go)
The guys come to race her from miles around,
But she’ll give ’em a length, then she’ll shut’em down.
By the time you get to my age, you get tired of all the bull$hit in the world. You get tired of your taxes going up, gas prices, mortgages, and insurance payments.. You drive home from a rough day at work and all you want to do is freebird the ride home. You’re leavin’ the 9-5 behind! Freedom! Fresh air! Who cares if you’re only going home to catch up on Breaking Bad reruns?
So back to the original statement. White haired old men driving spiffy red convertibles. You may look sexy, you may look debonair, you may have earned that red Corvette convertible you strut around town with.
But just wait. Granny and her red convertible Vespa will be right on your tail.
(Go Granny, go, Granny, go, Granny, go)
Wiesław Wałkuski was born in 1956 in Białystok, Poland.
He started his graphic design education at the Warsaw Academy of Art which he attended for 5 years, during the period 1976–1981.
At the end of his studies he was employed by Polfilm and Film Polski to produce artwork and cover designs.
During this period he also worked with visual studio publishers and numerous theatre groups producing artwork for productions.
Today, Wiesław has more than 200 posters to his name and he continues his work as a poster designer, an illustrator and a painter.