I love: them.

I love: big timers.

a brief list of my favorite “pretty” blogs.

First, there is The Sartorialist - infallible style.

oh, joy! Who writes about “inspiration, design, style & other cool things.”

Second, a well known, often linked to blog called decor8.

Abby, who I have talked to on flickr – she is a sweetheart.

great prints, fabrics, patterns

The grandaddy of all photo sites (in my opinion) Shutter Sisters

Madti – long live the Polaroid! Oh, how I will miss that milky sweetness.

3191, a year of evenings. Also check out their year of mornings!

this one makes me happy! glad I found it - pun intended.

Noticing Project, appreciating the little things.

Another noticing little things blog: happy mundane.

Who are your favorite big time bloggers?

I love: Halley M.

Let me tell you a little about Halley.

She is one of my favorite friends.

She is the strongest woman I know, by far, and lucky for me she lives right down the street.

She puts up with me when I miss the ex.
She puts up with me when I hate the ex.
She puts up with me when I love the ex.

She is tall and blond, with eyes the color of polished jade and a laugh that ripples through a room.

She grew up in Northern California.

She shares my love for frozen yogurt and LOST.

When I make her angry she says, "Robin, I'm angry." When I make her happy, she says, "Robin, I'm happy."

Her honesty and boldness inspires me on a daily basis.

Her, Jen and I have a standing Saturday date. We go dancing, I throw out some spastic moves, drink red bull - then we give our numbers to cute boys (or girls) at the end of the night... (truth be told, I have never done this, I can't muster enough nerve).

And lastly, I love the way she stands in the world.

*Who are your best friends? What are they like?

I love: Dorothea Lang.

Migratory Cotton Picker, Eloy, Arizona, 1940

Migrant Mother, Nipomo, Cal. 1936

She is known for her FSA photographs- FSA stands for the Farm Security Administration, one of FDR’s economy jump starters from the New Deal. Her images captured the human cost of the depression.

Some background: In 1918 she opened a portrait studio in San Francisco, but when the Great Depression hit, she abandoned her formal work for the street. By 1933 she quit her commercial work entirely, and focused on taking photos of the “forgotten man” -

Later, as the Depression gnawed through the country, she took photographs revealing rural poverty – the exploitation of migrant laborers and sharecroppers.

She had this pinned to her darkroom door:

The contemplation of things as they are, 

without substitution or imposture, 

without error or confusion, 

is in itself a nobler thing 

than a whole harvest of invention. 

- Sir Francis Bacon

I love: fresh air.

on a walk with Sampson.

i love: bloggers in recovery.

also, how can I self diagnose my disease? How can I self diagnose a disease I am powerless over and that tells me I don't have a disease? This is why there is a "program" of one drunk talking to another: I need you to diagnose me (through experience), give me some strength (tell me what you did) and give me some hope (what is your life like now).

on a walk with Sampson.

I am still a little shy about being sober, but I'm throwing hesitancy to the wind and offering my favorite slew of good recovery bloggers. I find experience, strength & hope in each of these strong, resilient people.

A woman on a spiritual path running parallel to mine. She helps me immeasurably, through her blog, her emails - her honesty. Check out her blog here: Recovering Wino.

She is so funny. Really. Check her out at Sobriety is Exhausting.

This woman is all talent. Great writer. WriterQuake.

This guy- I know, can you believe it? a real, live man- keeps me humble and happy.

Martha is a woman who walks before me. Way before me, but I still see her shadow once and awhile.

Sometimes my Dad tells me – “if we all throw our problems in the middle, I bet you would take your's back real quick” – that’s how I sometimes feel about Child Lost. Her strength is inspiring!

She is graceful, and beautiful, and lovely. Twelve Beads.

This lady is 75 years old and blogging! What about that DON’T you love? A shout out to Ginnie.

Last but not least, the head honcho of recovery blogging, this Irish Friend of Bill’s blog. It’s the go-to (more like run-to) blog for all us AAer’s ☺

from the book: .... we hope we have made clear the distinction between the alcoholic and the non-alcoholic. If, when you honestly want to, you find you cannot quit entirely, or if when drinking, you have little control over the amount you take, you are probably an alcoholic. If that be the case, you may be suffering from an illness which only a spiritual experience will conquer.

Blog of Distinction (way too dignified for this blogger)

1218 awarded me with this! this made my day : ) 

giving this award to my Mother, who has been working hard over at JEN. she's my maternal muse! 

I love: something I can't describe.

I love: Franz Wright.

He was born on the 18th of March in Vienna. His father was James Wright, an established poet who won the Pulitzer. Franz also won the Pulitzer, for his collection, “Walking in Martha’s Vineyard”….

He writes short poems about his experiences as an addict– and his way back to sobriety. 
Everything is very small, very miniature. He can capture the world on the head of a pin.

Here is a poem he wrote about alcohol, suggested by Evan:

Alder Street

Alcohol's effect (on us):
how was it Lowry described it--
A dead tree struck by lightning
which thereupon miraculously
blossoms.

And what then? Always,
always comes the
then what:
I speak of

the Fear.

Too well what I refer to one of you will understand!

Having one of your own, too well you know
the idiot I have to babysit
to keep him from sleepwalking off
to a package store somewhere
or conning some doctor even dumber than he is
into prescribing his death.

And then one about erotic love: 

Say My Name

I'd be entombed
inside a period
in the closed book
in the huge dark

of St. Paul's
where we used to meet,

wafted

downaisle toward
banked sunlight-colored candles.

I'd be in your mouth,
in that huger dark:

body that stands for the soul.

Word that means you are loved.

I love: Pops. Part Two!

I know tomorrow is mother’s day, but I promised a two parter on Pops… poor timing, but a good message!

My sisters and I are very blessed. We have not only an incredible mother, but an incredible father, as well.

I don’t know how to describe my father in a way that honors him to the extent he should be honored. So hopefully an excerpt from a story I wrote in 2002 suffices.

Context: My Dad and I used to play racquetball all the time. This story chronicles our many racquetball games - and, most importantly, our last one.

from the beginning of the story:

We always play on the fourth court, Papa and I. Now that I have a car I meet him here Wednesdays after school. It all started when I was eight years old and busy filling a suburban quota: beginner’s tennis. We still have a picture hanging in our bathroom of me in ready-stance, blond hair plastered to my head and a look of intent concentration tensing my face. That was most likely day one. Papa was picking me up from yet another tedious lesson, where the instructor would leave me for drinks in the club house while I was forced to contend with the ball machine. After being pelted by my eighth tennis ball, I decided that was enough.

later on....

I watch my Papa step onto the court, the way I have watched him for years. First he does an embarrassing Richard Simmons pacing back and forth across the ulterior wall- then, stopping where I previously positioned myself for my own stretches, he starts bending his knees and jumping a little, finally stretching a right arm to the ceiling.

Papa is a sports prodigy. His presence commands an intimidating and calm fear in his opponent; his decided steps trample smooth and firm on any chance of my ever winning. But his true genius derives from the psyche- ultimately he is a pleasure to play with. He gives compliments where compliments are due, insists on handicaps when needed, willingly offers tips of counsel to the middle-lower class of sports. He played me when I was eight- an eight year old flopping around the court, thinking slamming into the four walls is humorous- and never once did he raise his voice or grope his neck in frustration.

“I think your gonna beat me today Charlie. You want to serve first?"

He has said this for ten years now, almost in precisely the same way- an optimistic tone rings in his voice, only a little strained by years and years of victory.

“Nope, you can serve. You might need the advantage, old man”.

He just grins and takes the center. I watch my father, still fit and healthy at 49, bend his back with perfect ease- never checking his form, as I do, he can feel his form, like we know how to breathe. His eyes squint, accenting his crows feet- smile marks from too many belly laughs.

He beats me at the first game 15-11.

“Good game Robin Bobin, lets go get some water”.

I walk behind him down the hallway, trying to step where he steps, just once snagging his heel.

“Water grande” he says to the bar tender. She laughs, I turn pink.

I pivot on the high chair, ready to rattle off the anti- public corny jokes lecture, but instead I say,“Dad how come you have never let me beat you? I mean, you would think that a father would at least cater a little bit to an eight year old. But you never even let me gain a point, not one.”

“Let you win? But you can win. I won’t let you win if you already can win. And if there were no chance, we wouldn’t play.”

Swinging my legs from the high hibiscus chair, sipping a grand water grande, I loved my father. The feeling storms through you, like charging horses and you just love and love until your body slackens and can not endure more emotion. His belief in me extends past racquetball, extends into my marrow, so that all of me knows and all of me believes too.

So I kissed him on the cheek and said:“Thanks Pops. Lets go back and play some more.”

The next game I won, so the score was 2-2. Now this isn’t a marvel: I have been somewhat successful in coming back the second game for about two years now. It is the third game that always gets me, the third game that I can never win.

Sprinting across the court, chasing after a little blue ball, I knew the game would be close- he was trying to run me out. True, I had him running also. But the shots he was giving me! In racquetball, a key shot is close to the corner, extremely low, so that it can smack the ground in half a second and erase whatever chance you had to get there. At one point I actually tripped trying to make a shot, hitting my head against the right wall.

“Good try!!”

The boisterous comments bounces back to me five times over. Enraged, I decided to show him a good try, as I rubbed my throbbing temple.

Before I realized it I had him. It was as quick as that, and suddenly I found myself closer to the end. Here I was- ready to serve, 14-13, me. So many times I wanted this, but now that I am here…. If I beat him- he is centered behind me, I can hear his breathing- I beat him. And if I beat him, I will be able to beat him; will he be angry with me? Will this ruin casual Wednesdays, racquetball Wednesdays, our days? It might make things awkward between us- my fears ate through my mind like a virus.

But I am my father’s daughter: I have his heart. I arched my back and hit the ball with every last sliver of force I could find- the shot was perfect, just like he always taught me, to the corner and quickly down. I win. I won.

Slowly, I turned around.

“Ah you got me. Good game Robin, great game. Lets go get some frozen yogurt.”

He looked older to me. His white hairs seemed to be charging in a mad race to take over his skull, and his crow’s feet were pronounced and saddened. I noticed the mild hunch of his shoulders, the wrinkled skin hanging on the backs of his hands. I wanted to hug him, to jump on him like when I was little, to let him tousle my hair and call me Charlie.

But I didn’t. As he walked to the back wall’s door, I saw his reflection in the court's window. I realized his eyes were wet, a sad smile dancing on his lips.

But I guess, eventually, we all beat our fathers.

I love: Pops.

This is a two parter - one part today: My Mum's view of my Dad.  Second part tomorrow: my view!

I met Bob the summer before I started college. I fell instantly in love - and I mean INSTANTLY. I went over to Poppa's to ask if my friends and I could use Poppa's giant back lawn to play football. Bob was there visiting from Brown. He didn't say anything to me because he was busy wolfing down a burger and a coke and getting ready to beat Jim on the tennis court. He didn't even offer to play football with us!! 

In spite of this rejection (how dare he!) I mentally developed a plan that would have us dating by the end of the summer. It worked. This simple plan involved a yellow bikini and lying out on the dock and other innocent stuff. 

Anyway, in the fall, when we went to our different colleges, I had many doubts about this 'new summer love of mine'. But then we started to write letters to each other (these were the dark ages remember - no cell phones invented and internet wasn't even a blip on the radar). So this letter from your Dad is one of many that I've saved that I don't mind sharing at all!

It may be hard to read I'm typing it out. Bob swears this is the first and probably the last stab at poetry he will ever write... oh the loss to humanity!
____________________________________________________

(circa 1976)

have your jokes been funny

your days sunny

if you don't ask why

you'll never learn to fly

how's your dad's leg

have they taken out the peg?

say hello to your brothers

and of course your mother

don't forget Sandy

she's a real dandy!

I'd turn red

forgetting old Fred*

but to Jenn** the most

she's the one to toast

soon I hope

love love Bob

p.s. a better letter later

* Fred was Mom's dog. 

**Jenn - Mom spells her name "Jen" - but Dad never listened, and spelled it wrong every time!

I love: John Heartfield & Hannah Hoch. Proto-Photoshoppers.

creepy, eh?

the bourgeoisie is "wrapped up" in propaganda. and check out that halter! it's like wiemar- style s&m!

hannah hoch, cut with a kitchen knife. 1919.

John Heartfield was born in Berlin, and by 1918 he was immersed in the ever so happening dada scene – he anglicized his name to protest the nationalism and anti-British attitude in WWI Germany. Comparable to me renaming myself Robin Bin Laden to protest the war in Iraq... actually I kind of like that?

His five minutes of fame occurred in the 1920’s and 30’s – and his five minutes of notoriousness occurred in the late 30’s to 40’s – one of Hitler’s first laws was that nobody could print photographs of him or the nazi party with out official consent. As you can see, Heartfield didn’t abide by the rules - and subsequently landed at the top of Hitler’s shit list (a long, long list).

He was a smart artist who pioneered graphic design, specifically German photomontage. You can see snippets of Dada influence in his whimsical and poignant, irreverent and anti-natzi work.

His montages comment on the rise of mass media and propaganda as they relate to the political atmosphere in the Weimar republic.

I just like him. Thought I would include him in May’s things I love.

The third image is from Hannah Hoch, another originator of photomontage, and another dadaist. She swung from men to women and back to men. I like her, too.

I love: artistic, creative, intelligent (and women) bloggers.

when I was a wee blogger (three months ago) I thought I had discovered a unique way to keep in touch with friends and family. I had no idea I was jumping down a rabbit hole!

There exists a wealth of creative, artistic bloggers out there… here are a few who have inspired me to keep blogging, and “keep creating,” as Diana from please sir says.

disclaimer: I read tons of other blogs, but these are the ones who I consistently read and comment on – and these are the bloggers who comment on my posts, as well. I don’t mean to leave anyone out! I am doing a different “recovery” blog section, so (ahem, Lana), I haven’t forgotten you!

first, we have an old favorite, wayfaring wanderer. talented, beautiful, and poetic. 

then another robin, from a bird in hand, who is creative, funny, and gives amazing advice.

a cup of jo, one of my personal role models:

Mrs. French! This lady rocks! find her at bliss. 

my friend from the Midwest, who keeps everything funny: la dolce vita

I LOVE her photographs, her finds, and her nifty photoshop skills: please sir blog. 

have to include sizzle, who writes beautifully. 

toothfairyadventures is a kindred spirit - I don't know why, but I feel connected to this blogger!

she makes me laugh... and laugh... and laugh. sarakastic

a wonderful, whimsical artist whose blog I recently stumbled upon: looney bin art

whenever I need to be inspired I read about her creative life: amy t sharp. 

I admire this woman’s strength and positive attitude. She’s another role model! 1218.

another flip flop wearing, sunshine lovin', socal girl! gorgeous footsteps in the sand 

I so appreciate each and every one of you! Thank you all :)

I love: Omar.

this is a post from my best friend, omar. i have written about him many times before. i love this person with all my heart! here's why: 

After a year of marriage my parents were informed that my mother was incapable of conceiving. In spite of this, my parents tried in vain for several years to have children. After five years of failure, they began looking into adoption. It was only after they narrowed down their choices that my mother discovered that she was pregnant with me. My sister was born a little less than two years later. Simply by existing, my sister and I have brought my parents the greatest joy. It’s an interesting feeling.

Perhaps this explains Mom’s insistence that her little children abstain from “ordinary clothing.” No jeans or t-shirts for me as a toddler. I wore sailor suites, home-made shirts, pirate garments, and mini-tuxedos to the movies.

My sister, Sofia, and I were the best dressed children in Baltimore, without question. It’s probably more accurate to say, most uniquely dressed. Mom was always photographing us in our interesting clothing. She would stand back, make some ridiculous face, fumble with her camera, and I would start laughing, lost in my own world while Sofia remained perfectly fixated on the camera.

We lived in a beautiful, early 19th century Colonial-style house in Baltimore. The basement had concrete floors, a series of dog kennels my father had built when he unsuccessfully dabbled in dog breeding, and very dim lighting. It was humid, moldy, and there were old, rusty power-tools my father hung on the walls and never used. In short, it was a dungeon. For several months, my sister and I believed that our parents were the king and queen from some forgotten country, seriously. We would search the entire house for jewels, much to my mother’s dismay when she saw me toting around her necklaces like a pirate carrying away his booty. Perhaps this is why my mother designed a sailor suite for me, perhaps but probably not.

So Mom, I have no idea why you dressed me as a sailor, but I love you for it.