J: Chipped away at the unyielding stone of my novel. Also wrote a poem for a friend:
Friends turn 29
Turning twenty-nine is the seventeen of adulthood;
Once too young to smoke or drink, now just one rung short
of “I’m in my thirties.”
When I do it this March, I’ll wonder whether this year
will be the time I cram in all the accomplishments of youth
that will make them marvel.
Forget it. Let’s reckon more directly, that we were never more capable,
less foolish or forgetful, or more huge with hope or bristling certitude
than we are this year.
R:
I knitted.
1.31.2011
January 29, 2011
J: I labored like Sisyphus at my novel, typing, scribbling and then scratching and deleting.
R:
I knitted.
R:
I knitted.
1.29.2011
January 28, 2011
J:
R:
After a hectic morning preparing for the exterminators to come, transferring everything I need for a family of five to my mom's and plopping down there for the day and coming night, I forgot to bring with me my knitting. I was able to finally get the last 5 pages of Song of the Lark read--but I hardly think that counts as creative.
R:
January 27, 2011
J:
Also, I wrote an abysmal little bit of prose on the train today, finishing it in awkward places while waiting here or there or driving up and down main street in the snow. It was like the end times, buses sliding off the road, the police only stopping for the most desperate cases. I'll show you some exciting portions of it, but my thoughts were all smashed together - along with my limbs - as we bumped along home, heading into the coming plague of ice, snow, slush and roving bands of barbaric pirates, fighting over the last scraps of food and hunting in packs:
"Now it is the hour of the four wheel drive, and everyone who has got their suv bounds proudly, daring anyone to affront them with emission guilt, certain, with good reason, that the man swishing sideways uphill in his hybrid is filled with jealous helplessness.
I am one of those proud four wheeled mountain goat men, torn between demanding tribute from the victims of sunny day efficiency and the desire to go out like a man who owns a boat, rescuing swimmers from the storm. Now I am the schoolmaster, the superior one. "Maybe if you'd planned ahead," I say, sternly. By ten the roads are littered with abandoned cars, carapaces that document the bold and the foolish with indifference. Even the sure footed trucks are swishing about as though they were steered by rudders. The buses are out of commission; the police are all busy.
Once I make it home, blue lightning, more like a live atmospheric charge hums and crackles in the air, a buzz just inside your ear. The power blinks off in terified response, and then it is dark, and cold, everything cast back a century in a second. We light the gas stove with a match and bring out candles, books, my guitar.
Our neighbor is pregnant, and we meet out on the street. We hardly ever talk, but we exchange phone numbers and offer to drive her to the hospital if it comes to that the blue and humming flashes haunt us all night, and I fall asleep, senseless of the time and certain only of how much seems to have changed."
Also, tragedy! As you can see above, the power went out, and we were pioneers again. You may not be aware of this, but you can't read books published after 1923 by candlelight. Go and try it in your bathroom right now if you don't believe me. But, because of this I couldn't sent my interview questions in to Leodegraunce, or sign my contract with them. So, like a pioneer, who could hew a tree down and build a door with leather hinges, I whipped out my blackberry and clicked SEND on my draft email. I promptly lost 3g coverage. So, roving about with the blackberry held up like a torch, I looked for coverage, finding it, clicking SEND, losing it and wandering around more. Finally it went, and I checked to see if it was in my SENT folder. It was! Hooray! Wait...so were five other copies of the email. Now the editor of Leodegraunce probably assumes I am dangerous and should be avoided. But she is publishing my story anyway.
R:
I knitted today. Actually, I was almost blown up by a power line, but after surviving that I sat at home and knitted, drank a glass of wine, and watched the Art of the Steal (a documentary about the Barnes Foundation that I will probably blog about sometime soon over at Spoon).
Also, I wrote an abysmal little bit of prose on the train today, finishing it in awkward places while waiting here or there or driving up and down main street in the snow. It was like the end times, buses sliding off the road, the police only stopping for the most desperate cases. I'll show you some exciting portions of it, but my thoughts were all smashed together - along with my limbs - as we bumped along home, heading into the coming plague of ice, snow, slush and roving bands of barbaric pirates, fighting over the last scraps of food and hunting in packs:
"Now it is the hour of the four wheel drive, and everyone who has got their suv bounds proudly, daring anyone to affront them with emission guilt, certain, with good reason, that the man swishing sideways uphill in his hybrid is filled with jealous helplessness.
I am one of those proud four wheeled mountain goat men, torn between demanding tribute from the victims of sunny day efficiency and the desire to go out like a man who owns a boat, rescuing swimmers from the storm. Now I am the schoolmaster, the superior one. "Maybe if you'd planned ahead," I say, sternly. By ten the roads are littered with abandoned cars, carapaces that document the bold and the foolish with indifference. Even the sure footed trucks are swishing about as though they were steered by rudders. The buses are out of commission; the police are all busy.
Once I make it home, blue lightning, more like a live atmospheric charge hums and crackles in the air, a buzz just inside your ear. The power blinks off in terified response, and then it is dark, and cold, everything cast back a century in a second. We light the gas stove with a match and bring out candles, books, my guitar.
Our neighbor is pregnant, and we meet out on the street. We hardly ever talk, but we exchange phone numbers and offer to drive her to the hospital if it comes to that the blue and humming flashes haunt us all night, and I fall asleep, senseless of the time and certain only of how much seems to have changed."
Also, tragedy! As you can see above, the power went out, and we were pioneers again. You may not be aware of this, but you can't read books published after 1923 by candlelight. Go and try it in your bathroom right now if you don't believe me. But, because of this I couldn't sent my interview questions in to Leodegraunce, or sign my contract with them. So, like a pioneer, who could hew a tree down and build a door with leather hinges, I whipped out my blackberry and clicked SEND on my draft email. I promptly lost 3g coverage. So, roving about with the blackberry held up like a torch, I looked for coverage, finding it, clicking SEND, losing it and wandering around more. Finally it went, and I checked to see if it was in my SENT folder. It was! Hooray! Wait...so were five other copies of the email. Now the editor of Leodegraunce probably assumes I am dangerous and should be avoided. But she is publishing my story anyway.
R:
I knitted today. Actually, I was almost blown up by a power line, but after surviving that I sat at home and knitted, drank a glass of wine, and watched the Art of the Steal (a documentary about the Barnes Foundation that I will probably blog about sometime soon over at Spoon).
January 26, 2011
J:
As much as I love many of his stories, I learned not to trust O. Henry. That's for the obvious reason that I knew he was going to trick me. He'd always make it delightful and I found myself accepting it with the kind of grudging affection you give to that relative who is always giving people wet willies, or snapping you with a dish towel. I still hold "Mammon and the Archer" very dear because it was the first story of his that I read and what he did with the story had a big impact on me as a writer. But, I mention all of this in the first place to promise you, anyone who's reading this, that I'm not tricking you and this was not orchestrated as an O. Henry trick for the month of January. The month in which we're highlighting our creative pursuits.
On this day, the 26th of January, 2011, I sold a short story. I sold a very small story to a fledgling market for a diminutive fee. It's technically pro-scale payment, which fits my personal dictum to never publish for free no matter what - I think publishing for free sets a terrible example for our youth.
Anyway, you read it here first, and I will update with links and much crowing from the ridge pole when it goes up. You'll be able to read the story, along with a really important and thoughtful "author" interview in the next issue of Leodegraunce (apparently mine will also be in the print anthology, stay tuned for that). I suppose it kind of counts as creative time as well that I spent some time today writing up my responses to the interview questions.
R:
I did not get anything purposely creative done today. I had an important client in the morning, and then the storm hit. I did light a lot of candles though!
As much as I love many of his stories, I learned not to trust O. Henry. That's for the obvious reason that I knew he was going to trick me. He'd always make it delightful and I found myself accepting it with the kind of grudging affection you give to that relative who is always giving people wet willies, or snapping you with a dish towel. I still hold "Mammon and the Archer" very dear because it was the first story of his that I read and what he did with the story had a big impact on me as a writer. But, I mention all of this in the first place to promise you, anyone who's reading this, that I'm not tricking you and this was not orchestrated as an O. Henry trick for the month of January. The month in which we're highlighting our creative pursuits.
On this day, the 26th of January, 2011, I sold a short story. I sold a very small story to a fledgling market for a diminutive fee. It's technically pro-scale payment, which fits my personal dictum to never publish for free no matter what - I think publishing for free sets a terrible example for our youth.
Anyway, you read it here first, and I will update with links and much crowing from the ridge pole when it goes up. You'll be able to read the story, along with a really important and thoughtful "author" interview in the next issue of Leodegraunce (apparently mine will also be in the print anthology, stay tuned for that). I suppose it kind of counts as creative time as well that I spent some time today writing up my responses to the interview questions.
R:
I did not get anything purposely creative done today. I had an important client in the morning, and then the storm hit. I did light a lot of candles though!
1.25.2011
January 25, 2011
J:
Wrote on my novel. And...
R:
I painted.
Wrote on my novel. And...
R:
I painted.
(the artificial light gives it a slightly more yellow tint than it is. I'll try another shot in natural light tomorrow.)
1.24.2011
January 24, 2011
J:
Wrote on my novel.
R:
I chose the hardware for my new (old) cabinet... or at least I narrowed it down.
Knobs: (vote!)
Pulls:
Wrote on my novel.
R:
I chose the hardware for my new (old) cabinet... or at least I narrowed it down.
Knobs: (vote!)
Pulls:
1.23.2011
1.22.2011
January 22, 2011
J:
R:
I worked on choosing a color for my new (old) china cabinet. The colors are Benjamin Moore's Stingray 1529 in high gloss for the exterior and Mascarpone AF-20 in flat finish for the interior. I'll post pictures in the spring when the work is completed on it.
The Weatherbeaten
Sure enough they're still there,
the books I read when I was very young.
They remain in the harbor of the juvenile section.
My brother first encouraged
open ocean travel out beyond these
volumes about melted coins and warlike badgers.
Young men who read are brazen,
and tough enough to handle heavy weather
with sextants for latitude but careless disregard
for wet chronometers,
adrift among the decimals and fictions,
and measureless expanses of trench and massif,
between jagged landmasses.
Some men return and write dull volumes;
entire works devoted to a boy and his tire swing,
desperate stories by old men afraid of forgetting.
Here is one in my hand,
about something as exciting as
a day walking through the forest with one's dog.
But boys wanted adventure,
death, danger and mystery they know is out there,
where old men want to be boys again.
I am a weatherbeaten,
young man, schooled in what really lies beyond,
not quite yet convinced that there's nothing worth wanting
outside my small experience.
I'm young enough to want to want something
in these books where anything impossible could happen.
Too young to wish to be young.
A boy darts past me like a bluefin,
snatching up one about a boy accused of treason.
"They've got it!" said to himself,
as he warily avoids the sailor looming
uncertain and adrift in a far flung foreign port.
R:
I worked on choosing a color for my new (old) china cabinet. The colors are Benjamin Moore's Stingray 1529 in high gloss for the exterior and Mascarpone AF-20 in flat finish for the interior. I'll post pictures in the spring when the work is completed on it.
January 21, 2011
J: Wrote on my novel. And...
R:
I planned the painting I hope to be working on tomorrow evening.
R:
I planned the painting I hope to be working on tomorrow evening.
1.21.2011
January 20, 2011
1.19.2011
January 18, 2011
J:
R:
Today I cut a mat for a new engraving that I was given for my birthday by MP. It was delightful doing something so fine and precise! And I was finally able to use some of the handprinted paper that I carried back from Florence with me. I'll try and get a photo up at some point.
R:
Today I cut a mat for a new engraving that I was given for my birthday by MP. It was delightful doing something so fine and precise! And I was finally able to use some of the handprinted paper that I carried back from Florence with me. I'll try and get a photo up at some point.
January 17, 2011
J:
R:
Today I spent not just 30 minutes, but several hours, being creative! Thanks to Martin Luther King Jr. and J. I was able to finally get down to the National Gallery of Art to see the Pre-Raphealite Photography exhibit with MP and JQC.
A brief explanation of my interest in the exhibit is, I think, appropriate here. I am fascinated by Victorian culture, specially in England, mostly because of what follows it. I was asked by a dear friend recently, in a completely bewildered way, and after over 10 years of friendship--"What do you like about the Victorians?!" So here's a round about way of answering her!
I don't actually like the Pre-Raphealites. I find their subject matter to be cloying (and this due to subsequent mass-market reproductions, not ontologically), I find the style to be stilted and stultifying, the colors garish and lifeless. And the whole enterprise idiotically escapist. HOWEVER, following the Victorian explosion of technological change (think: industrial revolution), societal turmoil (think: the move to the city & Freud), theological paucity (think: Charles Dickens), philosophical and political upheaval (think: Marx & Henry Adams), and scientific expansion (think: Darwin & the cult of the catalogue), folks were left with a culturally undercut, but still significant experience of yearning for a real cultural metanarrative: Christianity. Christianity was abandoned because it was made obsolete by these increadibly rapid and radical changes in thinking in the 19th century. Culturally there was a gap though that had to be filled. Enter the Pre-Raphealite movement, the Arts and Crafts movement, and the resurgence of myth. The Brothers Grimm culled their fairytales at this point and Greek, Arthurian, and Romantic myth provided the subject for poetry and art, even design. I believe this is because people were substituting myth for cultural metanarrative in place of Christianity; in less than 75 years reverting culture to pre-Roman European cult--and all this in the midst of Progress.
So, I always jump at the chance to see more into the world of the artists and thinkers who were engaged in these fascinating and tumultuous ideas--to try and experience more viscerally what was sought after. But more particularly (as I think AS Byatt shows elegantly in Possession), that these questions that were felt as so pressing, so crucial, are still the questions facing us today. We are not truly post-modern. We are Modern and jaded--existing within the space of the questions, without seeking the answer.
I love the Victorians for vigorously seeking after truth, even if they failed in their quest. I love that they saw all of creation as open to their investigation. I love their systematic pursuit and lovely cataloguing of it. I love their desire to maintain a coherence of truth. I love that they asked the questions that we should still be asking.
---
And so on to the exhibit. As you can tell it was stimulating! The photography was lusciously textured--heeding Ruskin's call to try and achieve as must natural detail as possible, without glossing, romanticizing, or shielding the decay or tangle of Nature. It was exciting to see the progression of photography from when it was officially announced in 1839 in Britain as studies of specific objects to framed shots (using old painting techniques such as foreshortening, perspective, and negative space), to then turning the camera on one another, and creating narrative pastiches.
Even more interesting however was the inclusion by the photography curator of a number of oil and watercolour paintings by the Pre-Raphealites to illustrate how both the photographers and the painters were trying to achieve the Ruskin ideal of naturalism.
The paintings by and large were completely uninteresting visually. There was almost no depth of field because they used as vivid colors in the shadows as they did in direct sunlight. They included "naturalistic" detail in cliffs half a mile away, similar to the rocks in the foreground. Oddly, the painters were including detail that they knew was there, but that they could not actually see. The effect was similar to Klimt or icons which deliberately create backgrounds that merge into pure pattern, with less dynamism.
Two years ago J and I attended a lecture by David Macaulay at the National Building Museum during which he was drawing. One of the things that struck me most was his admonishment, as he was drawing a long arcade (row of columns), that he really only needed to draw two or three of them in detail, the rest he could suggest with several brief lines, and your eye would fill in the rest of the detail. The paintings in the exhibit were exactly contrary to this, and therefore incredibly boring to look at.
There was one exception: the watercolors of Dante Gabriel Rosetti. They were dynamic, provocative, energetic, alluring--stunning.
R:
Today I spent not just 30 minutes, but several hours, being creative! Thanks to Martin Luther King Jr. and J. I was able to finally get down to the National Gallery of Art to see the Pre-Raphealite Photography exhibit with MP and JQC.
A brief explanation of my interest in the exhibit is, I think, appropriate here. I am fascinated by Victorian culture, specially in England, mostly because of what follows it. I was asked by a dear friend recently, in a completely bewildered way, and after over 10 years of friendship--"What do you like about the Victorians?!" So here's a round about way of answering her!
So, I always jump at the chance to see more into the world of the artists and thinkers who were engaged in these fascinating and tumultuous ideas--to try and experience more viscerally what was sought after. But more particularly (as I think AS Byatt shows elegantly in Possession), that these questions that were felt as so pressing, so crucial, are still the questions facing us today. We are not truly post-modern. We are Modern and jaded--existing within the space of the questions, without seeking the answer.
I love the Victorians for vigorously seeking after truth, even if they failed in their quest. I love that they saw all of creation as open to their investigation. I love their systematic pursuit and lovely cataloguing of it. I love their desire to maintain a coherence of truth. I love that they asked the questions that we should still be asking.
---
And so on to the exhibit. As you can tell it was stimulating! The photography was lusciously textured--heeding Ruskin's call to try and achieve as must natural detail as possible, without glossing, romanticizing, or shielding the decay or tangle of Nature. It was exciting to see the progression of photography from when it was officially announced in 1839 in Britain as studies of specific objects to framed shots (using old painting techniques such as foreshortening, perspective, and negative space), to then turning the camera on one another, and creating narrative pastiches.
Even more interesting however was the inclusion by the photography curator of a number of oil and watercolour paintings by the Pre-Raphealites to illustrate how both the photographers and the painters were trying to achieve the Ruskin ideal of naturalism.
The paintings by and large were completely uninteresting visually. There was almost no depth of field because they used as vivid colors in the shadows as they did in direct sunlight. They included "naturalistic" detail in cliffs half a mile away, similar to the rocks in the foreground. Oddly, the painters were including detail that they knew was there, but that they could not actually see. The effect was similar to Klimt or icons which deliberately create backgrounds that merge into pure pattern, with less dynamism.Two years ago J and I attended a lecture by David Macaulay at the National Building Museum during which he was drawing. One of the things that struck me most was his admonishment, as he was drawing a long arcade (row of columns), that he really only needed to draw two or three of them in detail, the rest he could suggest with several brief lines, and your eye would fill in the rest of the detail. The paintings in the exhibit were exactly contrary to this, and therefore incredibly boring to look at.
There was one exception: the watercolors of Dante Gabriel Rosetti. They were dynamic, provocative, energetic, alluring--stunning.
1.16.2011
January 16, 2011
J:
R:
Worked on decorating and organizing the house. (My favorite creative activity!)
R:
January 15, 2011
J: I've gotten to where I work rather quickly in the audiotool workstation setup. Here's the result:
One that's kind of danceable:
One that's more aimed at the horizon:
R:
I sat down to knit... and there was the iPad. G and I finished our Treasure Seekers quest--we're rich! We found a cave of pirates gold!! And then it was time for bed. No more iPad for me.
One that's kind of danceable:
One that's more aimed at the horizon:
R:
January 14, 2011
J: Nichts zu verzollen. Es tut mir leid.
R: Knitting whilst waiting for guests to arrive for my birthday party.
1.13.2011
January 13, 2011
January 12, 2011
J: Scribbled a few lines of poetry here and there on the metro. Nothing to report, except I that in between a couple attempts at different things I realized I rather like trochaic octameter. Anyway I wasn't too consistent with that either, because...well...heck, here's the only semi complete anything I ended up with, don't know if it's any good yet or not. But here it is in all its 30 minute, first draft glory (sure, I could technically work on this for a couple days, but what good is the internet for if not instant publication of half baked ideas?).
This either tells you why I don't have anything to report here, or...well heck, here's the poem.
What we mean when we write poems
I have seen and written of infinity in a liverwort
(we think we say it best or maybe first)
My love for you was so vast inside that I set
it against the stars and roaring majesties
like rivers.
Death drug me down the stairs of profound sorrow,
which i described as a prairie fire,
though all we mean is: death is awful, lost in love
you are so lovely, and this small thing makes
us feel small.
R:
Today I stayed up during the highly valued nap-time, to work on my 30 minutes of creative time--because I planned on spending two hours of creative time! I had made Jamie Oliver's roasted chicken and winter vegetables the other night and had a chicken carcass waiting for me in the fridge. I have always wanted to try and make Julia Child's chicken stock--since The Way to Cook opens with it, and this little bird was the one that would suit perfectly.
It was so fun to work on the chicken stock, and well worth doing (After G's first bite she said, "Oh my gosh! This broth is so good! I'm scarfing this."). Now that JO's roasted chicken has become a favorite around here, the stock is going to be making regular appearances as well. It was nice to have a quiet 2 hours to focus on it, and should be able to make it pretty easily in the future. I used the left over chicken (and added one sauteed breast) along with the left over roasted veg for a perfect winter soup.
By the way, Jamie's roast turns out perfectly every single time: the chicken is moist and the skin is crispy, the vegetable are not soggy or melding into one another--they are crisp and brown and oh so good. I've included a picture of the roast as well to tempt you.
It was also nice to get two really good meals out of one.
...look out! Tomorrow's creative time will be taking place in the kitchen as well.
This either tells you why I don't have anything to report here, or...well heck, here's the poem.
What we mean when we write poems
I have seen and written of infinity in a liverwort
(we think we say it best or maybe first)
My love for you was so vast inside that I set
it against the stars and roaring majesties
like rivers.
Death drug me down the stairs of profound sorrow,
which i described as a prairie fire,
though all we mean is: death is awful, lost in love
you are so lovely, and this small thing makes
us feel small.
R:
Today I stayed up during the highly valued nap-time, to work on my 30 minutes of creative time--because I planned on spending two hours of creative time! I had made Jamie Oliver's roasted chicken and winter vegetables the other night and had a chicken carcass waiting for me in the fridge. I have always wanted to try and make Julia Child's chicken stock--since The Way to Cook opens with it, and this little bird was the one that would suit perfectly.It was so fun to work on the chicken stock, and well worth doing (After G's first bite she said, "Oh my gosh! This broth is so good! I'm scarfing this."). Now that JO's roasted chicken has become a favorite around here, the stock is going to be making regular appearances as well. It was nice to have a quiet 2 hours to focus on it, and should be able to make it pretty easily in the future. I used the left over chicken (and added one sauteed breast) along with the left over roasted veg for a perfect winter soup.
By the way, Jamie's roast turns out perfectly every single time: the chicken is moist and the skin is crispy, the vegetable are not soggy or melding into one another--they are crisp and brown and oh so good. I've included a picture of the roast as well to tempt you.It was also nice to get two really good meals out of one.
...look out! Tomorrow's creative time will be taking place in the kitchen as well.
January 11, 2011
J: Played with G and by myself on my Korg nanokey, messing with some analog modeling synthesizer stuff.
R:
I wrote a letter for 30 minutes.
R:
I wrote a letter for 30 minutes.
1.11.2011
January 10, 2010
Sometimes our life is a lot like this. Yesterday was one of those days. I did not complete my 30 minutes.
1.10.2011
January 9, 2011
J:
I took about 30 minutes of uncertain and out of practice baby steps in returning to writing my novel. It's the second time I've decided I should probably scrap a huge chunk of work I already put into it and re-figured how I want to begin, structure, and complete it. It's been almost a year now of research, fits and starts on this...much slower than other writing I've done, and I am intent on completing the thing within the year. Anyway, back on the horse. I don't think most of my work on this will find its way into this blog this month, but it's still a big chunk of what I am up to. As a teaser for anyone reading who might care...the novel opens in one of the 3 performance spaces that comprised the old St. James theater (before it was torn down) in 1899. Our protagonist is onstage beneath the gaslamps before a packed and silent audience. His ankles are shackled, and he raises his wrists to reveal thick, ropelike scars. Speaking into the hushed crowd, he begins to recount one of the greatest lies of his century.
R:
More staining. I'll be bring the table home tomorrow.
I took about 30 minutes of uncertain and out of practice baby steps in returning to writing my novel. It's the second time I've decided I should probably scrap a huge chunk of work I already put into it and re-figured how I want to begin, structure, and complete it. It's been almost a year now of research, fits and starts on this...much slower than other writing I've done, and I am intent on completing the thing within the year. Anyway, back on the horse. I don't think most of my work on this will find its way into this blog this month, but it's still a big chunk of what I am up to. As a teaser for anyone reading who might care...the novel opens in one of the 3 performance spaces that comprised the old St. James theater (before it was torn down) in 1899. Our protagonist is onstage beneath the gaslamps before a packed and silent audience. His ankles are shackled, and he raises his wrists to reveal thick, ropelike scars. Speaking into the hushed crowd, he begins to recount one of the greatest lies of his century.
R:
More staining. I'll be bring the table home tomorrow.
January 8, 2011
J:
G and I played with my Korg M1LE modeling synthesizer for about a half hour, and I was able to show her how, in the words of my old Jazz instructor, "there are no wrong notes...but some notes are better than others."
R:
What a great Saturday! I was able to start staining our coffee table. It's an old This End Up end table, that we have been using for various purposes over the years (shoe depository, Christmas tree stand, actual side table). It's such a solid piece that I am loathe to give it up, but it really isn't my style. So I decided to stain it and see if it would blend more with what we have got going on...
And it is turning out beautifully. I always love working with wood (stripping it, staining it, oiling it)--it is so rewarding to see the grain come alive again after years of use.
G and I played with my Korg M1LE modeling synthesizer for about a half hour, and I was able to show her how, in the words of my old Jazz instructor, "there are no wrong notes...but some notes are better than others."
R:
What a great Saturday! I was able to start staining our coffee table. It's an old This End Up end table, that we have been using for various purposes over the years (shoe depository, Christmas tree stand, actual side table). It's such a solid piece that I am loathe to give it up, but it really isn't my style. So I decided to stain it and see if it would blend more with what we have got going on...
And it is turning out beautifully. I always love working with wood (stripping it, staining it, oiling it)--it is so rewarding to see the grain come alive again after years of use.
January 7, 2011
J:
Recited Verse:
R:
Knitted in the car, in a cocktail dress, on the way to an Epiphany party. I am that dedicated to this resolution!
I'd like to consider it an act of creativity, however ill-wrought and suddenly executed, that I recited three things at the epiphany party. Ambushed by the fact that folks were reciting things, I was limited to what was left in my memory after a few glasses of wonderful champagne, some delectable roasted grapes, a bit of Vin de Noix, and a teeny bit of this thanks to Wandering Pilgrim's discerning taste. I can also confirm that R did in fact knit, with the dome light on, the whole way out to the party.
Recited Verse:From book 22 of the Ilia (Richmond Lattimore translation)
"'Hektor, argue me no agreements. I cannot forgive you.
As there are no trustworthy oaths between men and lions,
nor wolves and lambs have spirit that can be brought to agreement
but forever these hold feelings of hate for each other,
so there can be no love between you and me, nor shall there be
oaths between us, but one or the other must fall before then
to glut with his blood Ares the god who fights under the shield's guard.'
As there are no trustworthy oaths between men and lions,
nor wolves and lambs have spirit that can be brought to agreement
but forever these hold feelings of hate for each other,
so there can be no love between you and me, nor shall there be
oaths between us, but one or the other must fall before then
to glut with his blood Ares the god who fights under the shield's guard.'
Remember every valor of yours, for now the need comes
hardest upon you to be a spearman and a bold warrior.
There shall be no more escape for you, but Pallas Athene
will kill you soon by my spear. You will pay in a lump for all these
hardest upon you to be a spearman and a bold warrior.
There shall be no more escape for you, but Pallas Athene
will kill you soon by my spear. You will pay in a lump for all these
sorrows of my companions you killed, in your spears fury" [ok, I missed three or so of these lines, but the gist was there]
The Panther - Ogden Nash
The panther is like a leopard,
Except it hasn't been peppered.
Should you behold a panther crouch,
Prepare to say Ouch.
Better yet, if called by a panther,
Don't anther.
Except it hasn't been peppered.
Should you behold a panther crouch,
Prepare to say Ouch.
Better yet, if called by a panther,
Don't anther.
Fishing - by J
I know men,
Who will brook no opposition
from a trout.
Who will brook no opposition
from a trout.
R:
Knitted in the car, in a cocktail dress, on the way to an Epiphany party. I am that dedicated to this resolution!
1.07.2011
January 6, 2011
Oh, fine. We played scrabble. Yes it was transcendent. Sort of. Mostly it was fun. We ate curry, drank whiskey (and this weird German digestive that just confirmed a lot of things we all knew about the Germans in the first place) and played scrabble. Then we slept. We really genuinely didn't have time for much more and we're not sorry about it.
I don't want you to think that this means we'll be going "I created a form at the DMV today" at any point this month. I want to believe we're still more on track than that.
I hope you do to. R beat us all by nearly a hundred points due to her very creative arrangements, and my strategy of holding out for spelling "concupiscent" failed me yet again.
Creatively yours,
The Management
1.06.2011
News Flash
George Will has some probing things to say about the philosophical connundrum of free will and resolutions. It's hard to shake the sensation that George Will has achieved such a lofty status as columnist that he's able to sit in the rarified atmosphere of his conservative perch and write about basically whatever the heck he wants to.
Anyway, we're quite often the better for it, and I thought this was fitting for the project.
Anyway, we're quite often the better for it, and I thought this was fitting for the project.
1.05.2011
1.03.2011
1.02.2011
January 2, 2011
J: The sound quality on this is terrible. I couldn't turn up my stereo very loud, and couldn't run a line in to record on the computer. Anyway, here it is.
R:
R:
1.01.2011
Resolution 1 day 1
I can't imagine why, but somehow, for some reason, R and I both woke up today and decided that, having drunk a healthy amount of champagne and eaten an unhealthy amount of sushi, olives, fried rice and assorted aged cheeses, along with a bit of holiday themed Belgian Trappist something or other aleish thing, we both, very organically decided that this would be the day to accomplish a major, mammoth project. Namely, we decided to acquire and install a new Ikea shelf. Not just any shelf either, a massive towering behemoth, hand carved by caged Vikings from iron wood which will sink in water. It is nearly midnight now, and it would be a dim beginning to this project indeed if we started out with nothing to report. So, i am admitting here before i admit it elsewhere....to R that is...that while i was manly and diligent, and moved furniture and speculated about the placement of knickknacks and fed children and swept and dusted and heaved boxes and sliced into cardboard with my new Gerber epic (available wherever legendary blades are sold) I snuck in my creative time.
We agreed, shook on it (well, slapped high fives on it) that fixing up our home would count as creative time. It seemed like a sound idea, but it also felt a bit sour. Not that considerable creativity wasn't at work along with the labor. In fact, in the darkness of my living room, hunched over the flickering light of a computer screen, R's vision for our living room has been conjured into reality behind me. If that's not creative, then nothing is. But all the same, I'm not creative in that way, and I wanted to begin this month, this project, and this year correctly.
You should know, I am used to this kind of creative theft. Over the last years i have written dozens of stories, all of them casually rejected by magazines at one point or another, but they are written. So I know something about making determination find a place for things when needed. Today seemed like such a day, a day to rise to the challenge of mammoth undertakings...which also involve emotionally ravenous infants (which are, for the layman, a lot like soft raccoons that you feel delightfully responsible for).
Most of you reading this know that i am determined to be a published author, and my smash and grab technique for purloining minutes in which to write anything from a single sentence to a line of poetry is pretty well perfected. Nonetheless, today called for desperate measures, and I didn't manage to write. I find writing engages my brain in too engrossing a way when overtaxed by children and shelving units.
Today i made music. Suffering from Ikea thumb ( a real medical condition, ask my brother, he is a doctor) I quickly tinkered up and published two pieces of music I had been humming all day. Here they are, available in mp3 format so you can enjoy the fruits of my first day of resolute labor on the go, or on your stereo system. It is also available in ogg vorbis format, in case you are some kind of nerdy weirdo who uses Linux or something.
I made two, I and am willing to give R one of them if she asks. Either the cool iceberg one, or the pretty mariposa trees.
Happy new year:
We agreed, shook on it (well, slapped high fives on it) that fixing up our home would count as creative time. It seemed like a sound idea, but it also felt a bit sour. Not that considerable creativity wasn't at work along with the labor. In fact, in the darkness of my living room, hunched over the flickering light of a computer screen, R's vision for our living room has been conjured into reality behind me. If that's not creative, then nothing is. But all the same, I'm not creative in that way, and I wanted to begin this month, this project, and this year correctly.
You should know, I am used to this kind of creative theft. Over the last years i have written dozens of stories, all of them casually rejected by magazines at one point or another, but they are written. So I know something about making determination find a place for things when needed. Today seemed like such a day, a day to rise to the challenge of mammoth undertakings...which also involve emotionally ravenous infants (which are, for the layman, a lot like soft raccoons that you feel delightfully responsible for).
Most of you reading this know that i am determined to be a published author, and my smash and grab technique for purloining minutes in which to write anything from a single sentence to a line of poetry is pretty well perfected. Nonetheless, today called for desperate measures, and I didn't manage to write. I find writing engages my brain in too engrossing a way when overtaxed by children and shelving units.
Today i made music. Suffering from Ikea thumb ( a real medical condition, ask my brother, he is a doctor) I quickly tinkered up and published two pieces of music I had been humming all day. Here they are, available in mp3 format so you can enjoy the fruits of my first day of resolute labor on the go, or on your stereo system. It is also available in ogg vorbis format, in case you are some kind of nerdy weirdo who uses Linux or something.
I made two, I and am willing to give R one of them if she asks. Either the cool iceberg one, or the pretty mariposa trees.
Happy new year:
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