::::

lots of work on my artwork this weekend.

hope it's a good one for you all :)

still thinking about canada.

ontario's corn fields and cows

from one of Lydia's comments,
Letters to a Young Poet, Rilke.

Whoever looks seriously will find that neither for death, which is difficult, nor for difficult love has any clarification, any solution, any hint of a path been perceived; and for both these tasks, which we carry wrapped up and hand on without opening, there is not general, agreed-upon rule that can be discovered.

But in the same measure in which we begin to test life as individuals, these great Things will come to meet us, the individuals, with greater intimacy.

The claims that the difficult work of love makes upon our development are greater than life, and we, as beginners, are not equal to them.

But if we nevertheless endure and take this love upon us as burden and apprenticeship, instead of losing ourselves in the whole easy and frivolous game behind which people have hidden from the most solemn solemnity of their being, - then a small advance and a lightening will perhaps be perceptible to those who come long after us. That would be much.

the other half of summer - dorset, canada.

::::

AT THE RIVER
by Louise Gluck

One night that summer my mother decided it was time to tell me about
what she referred to as pleasure, though you could see she felt
some sort of unease about this ceremony, which she tried to cover up
by first taking my hand, as though somebody in the family had just died—
she went on holding my hand as she made her speech
which was more like a speech about mechanical engineering
than a conversation about pleasure. In her other hand
she had a book from which, apparently, she’d taken the main facts.
She did the same thing with the others, my two brothers and sister,
and the book was always the same book, dark blue,
though we each got our own copy.


There was a line drawing on the cover
showing a man and woman holding hands
but standing fairly far apart, like people on two sides of a dirt road.

Obviously, she and my father did not have a language for what they did
which, from what I could judge, wasn’t pleasure.
At the same time, whatever holds human beings together
could hardly resemble those cool black-and-white diagrams, which suggested,
among other things, that you could only achieve pleasure
with a person of the opposite sex,
so you didn’t get two sockets, say, and no plug.

School wasn’t in session.
I went back to my room and shut the door
and my mother went into the kitchen
where my father was pouring glasses of wine for himself and his invisible guest
who—surprise—doesn’t appear.

No, it’s just my father and his friend the Holy Ghost
partying the night away until the bottle runs out,
after which my father continues sitting at the table
with an open book in front of him.

Tactfully, so as not to embarrass the Spirit,
my father handled all the glasses,
first his own, then the other, back and forth like every other night.

By then, I was out of the house.
It was summer; my friends used to meet at the river.
The whole thing seemed a grave embarrassment
although the truth was that, except for the boys, maybe we didn’t understand
mechanics.

The boys had the key right in front of them, in their hands if they wanted,
and many of them said they’d already used it,
though once one boy said this, the others said it too,
and of course people had older brothers and sisters.

We sat at the edge of the river discussing parents in general
and sex in particular. And a lot of information got shared,
and of course the subject was unfailingly interesting.
I showed people my book, Ideal Marriage—we all had a good laugh over it.

One night a boy brought a bottle of wine and we passed it around for a while.

More and more that summer we understood
that something was going to happen to us
that would change us.
And the group, all of us who used to meet this way,
the group would shatter, like a shell that falls away
so the bird can emerge.
Only of course it would be two birds emerging, pairs of birds.

We sat in the reeds at the edge of the river
throwing small stones. When the stones hit,
you could see the stars multiply for a second, little explosions of light
flashing and going out. There was a boy I was beginning to like,
not to speak to but to watch.
I liked to sit behind him to study the back of his neck.

And after a while we’d all get up together and walk back through the dark
to the village. Above the field, the sky was clear,
stars everywhere, like in the river, though these were the real stars,
even the dead ones were real.

But the ones in the river—
they were like having some idea that explodes suddenly into a thousand ideas,
not real, maybe, but somehow more lifelike.

When I got home, my mother was asleep, my father was still at the table,
reading his book. And I said, Did your friend go away?
And he looked at me intently for a while,
then he said, Your mother and I used to drink a glass of wine together
after dinner.

::::

old photo taken with my even older canon-
half busted not to be trusted relic from 2005.

from the bottom up.

my take on shepard fairey

he's a layman's artist... arrested 14 times- usually disseminates his startling, hip images via the street and lackluster (cynical) hope for viral mass appeal. "absurdist propaganda" is his mo. he created the hope image without any affiliation with obama's campaign... obama's savvy design people caught it quickly and asked him for a slight redesign.

and an iconic image was born ;)

fairey on this image: "this is an iconic, confident image that isn't just about pandering to the lowest common denominator."

one more:

this blog made me laugh.

when I lived in Spain my friends & I would hold "mullet spotting" contests.

it was all fun and games until my friend dated one of them (see photo).

after a month and a half I finally got up the nerve to ask this foreign man
for a chance to give his hair a glory tug.

my friend still brings it up, calling me the "bane" of her "zaragozan romance."

It was so worth it.

things to be cheerful about:

• crisp boyfriend-sweater-weather.


• mum & pops visiting this weekend and our pending san francisco trip.


• steaming lemon tea w/dab of honey.


• sampson’s day of primping & pawing .


• new loves and old loves and all the loves in between.

friday!

laguna beach

i carry your heart -

i carry your heart with me (i carry it in
my heart) i am never without it (anywhere
i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing, my darling)
i fear
not fate (for you are my fate,my sweet) i want
no world (for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)

ee cummings

have an incredible weekend!

thurzzzday

silverlake.

one more obama post.

Elizabeth Alexander's "praise song" written for Obama's inauguration.


Each day we go about our business, walking past each other, catching each others’ eyes or not, about to speak or speaking. All about us is noise. All about us is noise and bramble, thorn and din, each one of our ancestors on our tongues. Someone is stitching up a hem, darning a hole in a uniform, patching a tire, repairing the things in need of repair.

Someone is trying to make music somewhere with a pair of wooden spoons on an oil drum with cello, boom box, harmonica, voice.

A woman and her son wait for the bus.

ALEXANDER: A farmer consider the changing sky; A teacher says, “Take out your pencils. Begin.”

We encounter each other in words, Words spiny or smooth, whispered or declaimed; Words to consider, reconsider.

We cross dirt roads and highways that mark the will of someone and then others who said, “I need to see what’s on the other side; I know there’s something better down the road.”

We need to find a place where we are safe; We walk into that which we cannot yet see.

Say it plain, that many have died for this day. Sing the names of the dead who brought us here, who laid the train tracks, raised the bridges, picked the cotton and the lettuce, built brick by brick the glittering edifices they would then keep clean and work inside of.

Praise song for struggle; praise song for the day. Praise song for every hand-lettered sign; The figuring it out at kitchen tables.

Some live by “Love thy neighbor as thy self.”

Others by first do no harm, or take no more than you need.

What if the mightiest word is love, love beyond marital, filial, national. Love that casts a widening pool of light. Love with no need to preempt grievance.

In today’s sharp sparkle, this winter air, anything can be made, any sentence begun.

On the brink, on the brim, on the cusp -- praise song for walking forward in that light.

"We're All Gonna Die - 100 meters of existence"

the 100 meter photograph...

Simon Hosberg.

I, too, sing America.

I, too, sing America.

I am the darker brother.
They send me to eat in the kitchen
When company comes,
But I laugh,
And eat well,
And grow strong.

Tomorrow,
I'll be at the table
When company comes.
Nobody'll dare
Say to me,
"Eat in the kitchen,"
Then.

Besides,
They'll see how beautiful I am
And be ashamed--

I, too, am America.


Langston Hughes.

a new day.

christopher david ryan's.

the time has come to set aside childish things...

starting today we must pick ourselves up, dust ourselves off,
and start again the work of remaking of America.

I hope.

mondays.

image from Daniel Eatock.

Everyone Is Afraid of Something

Dannye Romine Powell

Once I was afraid of ghosts, of the dark,
of climbing down from the highest
limb of the backyard oak. Now I'm afraid

my son will die alone in his apartment.
I'm afraid when I break down the door,
I'll find him among the empties-bloated,
discolored, his face a stranger's face.

My granddaughter is afraid of blood
and spider webs and of messing up.
Also bees. Especially bees. Everyone,
she says, is afraid of something.

Another fear of mine: that it will fall to me
to tell this child her father is dead.

Perhaps I should begin today stringing
her a necklace of bees. When they sting
and welts quilt her face, when her lips
whiten and swell, I'll take her
by the shoulders. Child, listen to me.
One day, you'll see. These stings
Are nothing. Nothing at all.

photographic excursion tomorrow:::

from Loan Nguyen's site

::::

my baby sister is making the drive from san francisco today!

what are all of your plans for this weekend?

da? da.

ice skating in holland, from KAPturer's photostream.

they are skating in the netherlands!

I just heard a whistling skater on NPR. Dutch people are too funny...
when I spent time in Amsterdam I saw my old au pairs EVERYwhere
and realized they must all have been Dutch!

a conversation between Dad (mine) and his ten pound dog (Sophie) as recorded by my mum.

Dad: So Soph, do you want to take a hike over for a skate on Jim's rink?

Sophie: (complete silence)

Dad: Or do you want to go cross country with mum and me?

Sophie: (complete silence)

Dad: I'm going to fire up the 'que for lunch! Do you think I should have ribs or Canadian Bacon?

Sophie: (complete silence)

Dad: And how about those Leafs eh?

Sophie: (complete silence then some chewing sounds as Soph wanders off and finds Dad's slippers...)

more obama style::::

obama style::::more to love!

dominomag.com reports that michael smith
was tapped to decorate the white house.

from the article: Smith describes how as a 10-year-old boy in Newport Beach, CA, he regularly redid his room in the style of various foreign countries, ranging from Spain to Russia.

cassie, my younger sister, used to take it upon herself to report
on various countries worldwide, from Spain to Africa to Russia.

hm....

herb lubalin.

so jen & bob.

12.25.08

pushing ninety degrees today.

walker evans, polaroid prints.

What To Do the First Morning the Sun Comes Back
by Roseann Lloyd

Find a clean cloth for the kitchen table, the red and blue one
you made that cold winter in Montana. Spread out
your paper and books. Tune the radio to the jazz station.
Look at the bright orange safflowers you found last August—
how well they've held their color next to the black-spotted cat.

Make some egg coffee, in honor of all the people
above the Arctic Circle. Give thanks to the Sufis,
who figured out how to brew coffee
from the dark, bitter beans. Remark
on the joyfulness of your dishes: black and yellow stars.

Reminisce with your lover about the history of this kitchen
where, between bites of cashew stir fry,
you first kissed each other on the mouth. Now that you're hungry,
toast some leftover cornbread, spread it with real butter,
honey from bees that fed on basswood blossoms.

The window is frosted over, but the sun's casting an eye
over all the books. Open your Spanish book.
The season for sleeping is over.
The pots and pans: quiet now, let them be.

It will be a short day.
Sit in the kitchen as long as you can, reading and writing.
At sundown, rub a smidgen of butter
on the western windowsill
to ask the sun:
Come back again tomorrow.

all the king's men.

I just finished All The King’s Men by Robert Penn Warren. Good book, although difficult to get through, especially at the beginning – I know Warren is known for his novel approach to Southern speak, but in the beginning… I was going slower’n a bread wagon with biscuit wheels. The story picks up towards the end… overall, the book is an insightful and well informed foray into the world of American politics… all about graft and corruption and hope and promise. As Lydia pointed out, a very fitting read for the times. One of my favorite points: That we will never be OK with the future until we are OK with the past. And vice versa. Inextricably linked to this insight is another Warren makes regarding parents and children. He writes,

When you get born your father and mother lost something out of themselves, and they are going to bust a ham trying to get it back, and you are it. They know they can't get it all back but they will get as big a chunk out of you as they can.

Jack Burden, the main character, describes his mother:

For years I had condemned her as a woman without heart, who loved merely power over men and the momentary satisfaction to vanity or flesh which they could give her, who lived in a strange loveless oscillation between calculation and instinct…

After he sees she isn't this way, and he sees the truth about her:

I had given my mother a present, which was a lie. But in return she had given me a present, too, which was a truth. She gave me a new picture of herself, and that meant, in the end, a new picture of the world. Or rather, that new picture of herself filled in the blank space which was perhaps the center of the new picture of the world…

And that meant that my mother gave me back the past. I could now accept the past which I had before felt was tainted and horrible. I could accept the past now because I could accept her and be at peace with her and myself (433).

banksy-boo

remember this guy? banksy! when I lived in London I made it my sole purpose to find his satirical stencils.

fyi for those of you who think I'm referring to a muppet baby: banksy is the art world's angsty, pimple faced teen. he is sort of anonymous, his art is usually politically and inappropriately placed, he's a cult hero... what more is there? wikipedia.

:::::

I can't get over these amazing photos from cup of jo.

taken by the talented max wanger.

if you haven't seen them, you should see them.

have a happy, joyful weekend!

campaign poster

bauhaus poster (I would think the most well known)

This is why I love the Obama campaign. Check out this poster (ok, from 2008, still relevant!) publicizing his Berlin address. Remind you art students of anything…?
It’s a total Bauhaus tribute.

::::: this might be old news to many of you, but it's my first time seeing it.
yes, sometimes I do live under a rock when it comes to current events:::::

:::::

this ---> poladroid project

it's about time.

shame!!

resolution:::

to quit smoking.
by 2010.
yeah.

2008 round-up::::::

The comments on my last post are amazing. All of you women (and a few men) mean so much to me... I feel privileged to be able to share my life in this creative, unexpected way. And to be involved in all of your sharing, each of your journeys? Is an honor.

As a salute to the new year I am taking an idea from one of my favorite bloggers, Sara from Sarkastic – you post the first sentence from the first post of every month in 2008. I added the image (if there was one) as well.

::::::::::::::::::

February 2008: my first blog entry! So very California, so very cliché.

March 2008: (the last supper)

I don't love you as if you were the salt-rose, topaz
or arrow of carnations that propagate fire:
I love you as certain dark things are loved,
secretly, between the shadow and the soul.

April 2008: i'm thinking of a project for april. any medium, just a project. any ideas?

May 2008:
A dog is one of the remaining reasons why some people can be persuaded to go for a walk.

June 2008: June will be my month to try new things...
today's event: I have never before broken my tooth, my phone, and my heart (all by myself) in the span of 24 hours.

July 2008: my last summer as an unemployed, college student bum.

August 2008: [somewhere i have never traveled]

September 2008: I'm alive! but I am with out internet. I will be back to regular posting soon :) hope you all had lovely holidays.

October 2008: Different writing utensils & machines.

November 2008: Good design is not a matter of wealth, much less of the chic, the latest thing.

December 2008:

Pale gold of the walls, gold
of the centers of daisies, yellow roses
pressing from a clear bowl.

my birthday...

...spent with friends.

hope you all are having wonderful weekends :)