In a Word

The Day Before Yesterday, Yesterday & Today

2012-01-30T17:36:00.000-06:00

The day I took this photograph is already a yesterday. Tomorrow it will be a day before yesterday. But, this day is a today, yet I mean to talk about yesterday, in a quiet way.

Yesterday, having decided I wouldn't take more photos of the slim pickings left over after Saturday's mowing, I did an about face. I missed being out there. With restless longing I tried doing what needed doing inside--never too far away from a window--never getting much done. My heart wasn't in it.

The windows need washing. Wasn't in the mood. I did a load of laundry. Cleaned one kitchen counter top. Truth is, I played with the light just a little. I was quite convinced the sun had written me a secret letter. A love letter! A love letter that said "I heart thee" in its own cursive. Can you see?

It is so quiet right now, I hear the white noise coming from the speakers. The day has spent it's youthful hours without television, music, or my own voice. Never realized just how loud the keys on a MacBook are. The sound my throat makes when I swallow is amplified. I hear myself breathing. The air in this room makes sound! Did you know that? Silence has it's own sound? Did you?

I am reminded of Will Smith's character in "I Am Legend." After years of living with the absence of . . . Brb. Simon is caterwauling. He wants out of his and Min's room. Poof! Silence is golden.

. . . Okay, they're free. But, anyway, Neville, the character, misses the sound of human voices, so he talks to his dog. He talked to himself, too, I'm sure.

I am the opposite. I can go for days . . . Sorry. This post is about the photograph up there. Backtracking . . . A little lost, yet determined, I came back and picked up My Therd Eye. There was so much to shoot. Nothing was old, everything was new. Absolutely everything that presented itself to my three eyes had changed since yesterday. I looked down, and there at my feet was rain the red pot collected the day before. Bits and pieces of debris from JC's mowing floated on top. I detected motion! Closer inspection revealed my subject.

Delight, delight, oh sheer delight! My immediate reaction was to try and rescue it. My Therd Eye grew warm in my hand, and I felt it whisper, "Shoot. You will never have this opportunity again." And so I did. It wasn't until hours later that I discovered its companion. Have you found it? Pretty thing, half dressed in red.

I took six photos. The long-legged, long-winged, long-bodied gift needed rescuing. So I rescued it. Gave it mouth-to-mouth, I did. It had the sweetest breath! It's fragile wings beat against my chest--and I knew it still lived.

On my knees I watched it sway on thread-like limbs. It floundered a bit like it thought it still needed to swim, poor thing. It finally dawned that its lady was Luck; I turned it right-side-up; pointed and shot. Dried by the sun, it began to move. It was confused, 'cause it climbed my shoe. Wanting to hug me? Say "Oh! Thank you?"

I dunno. I do know I enjoyed the day before yesterday, yesterday, and today, like there was no tomorrow. Well, almost. When's the last time you had a string of such days?

AIN'T NO SUNSHINE

2012-01-29T02:10:00.003-06:00

Today is one of the few days I didn't take My Therd Eye out for a look-see. I checked on the violets and the sunflowers, but they'd done nothing more spectacular than reproduce, grow taller, more beautiful, and displayed themselves in a wanton fashion that made me sigh real deep. No, I'm not tired of seeing such gold-like-sunshine-compounded, My interests lay in breathing. Yes, breathing.

You see, the air outside is a special mixture. It's no ordinary air. This air is part of the formula for a splendid life. Inhaling it is like drinking cool water from a Mason jar. This air is like swishing crystal clear spring water through your teeth after a meal of fried fish, turnip greens, candied yams and cornbread. You know how good water feels when you're squirting it through your teeth--against your gums, and the mound that's the back of your tongue? Oh, yes, I know you know. Today's air was so good I raised the windows. I lowered the window in the kitchen door, and I had to give in and partake in a leisurely fashion. Translation? I had to go outside and have a sit-down.

JC mowed all the lovely weeds. That clover was so sweet. I was torn between thanksgiving and regret. When there's no real winter, weeds act like they pay the mortgage. They come to visit, like what they see, and send for their relatives. I gave up trying to uproot them all. Heck. I even left the thistles and . . . Wait. I'll brb.

These. I let these be. Their rent is paid for in flowers. Tiny white flowers. Walking on them when I'm barefoot is like walking on cool, buoyant . . . I can't think of anything like it. I just take off my clogs and stand for a spell before moving. There was a time when I couldn't do that. My soles would itch and swell, and big red hives would . . . Let's forget. But, it feels so good, I check my soles just to make sure they really aren't wet. I've got it! It's like walking on cool, buoyant water. For real.

And who doesn't love the dandy little maned fleurs? They like our yard. Knowing they do makes me feel kinda special. There today, but not tomorrow, 'cause JC mowed 'em asunder. Mellow yellows, greens and golds! Oh, the delights our backyard holds. You cannot accuse me of whining about "ain't no sunshine." No, not I. I've got sunshine, and it ain't no lie. Singing: I guess you say, my girls. My girls! Talking 'bout my girls!" My little mellow yellow girls. Used to be they were harbingers of spring. Not here. They show off year-round in my elbow of the world.

Sun In The Wake Of A Storm

2012-01-25T21:35:00.002-06:00

Had to cancel today's session and outings aka errands. Was getting dressed to go out until I took a good look through my window, and I knew I wouldn't be going out. There was water standing in the street. Picked up the phone to call O-Bird, and it rang. Am glad she went home.

Gray skies and steady rain colored the day. Weather men were talking floods. Silver drops against dove gray are pretty things. Muddy floody yucky water is not.

I put on a robe, made tea, grabbed American Dervish, and crawled under the covers. I read until I fell asleep. When I woke the storm was over, so I picked um My Therd Eye, and . . . I know what I want for my birthday. A pair of LL Bean's Wellington's! Don't you love walking in rain? I do, too, except when there are fire ants swimming and floating in the puddles.

I do admire sunflowers. They're hardy. They satisfy my everyday craving for light. These ladies track the sun. They stand up to weather, taking on a little water, grooming . . . See?

They're always open for dinner or even a drink. Hover flies (Thanks Anonymous. Hope you got the dollars.) were teeming today. They drank like bar flies. Snap! You reckon they were rescuing wet pollen, too?

Here's another survivor. Not sure if it's a weed or a bloomer, but I nurture it. I've done the same for what turned out to be Grade A weeds. You never know, right?

This. This is worth wet feet.

Out came the sun

And dried up some of the rain

And the happy snappy limner

Went back inside again.

A LOVE AFFAIR WITH FOOD

2012-01-21T14:26:00.001-06:00

People who blog about food are the most prolific bloggers. True or False? I say "TRUE" and my answer is based on personal experience. My tally? Well, it's about half my tally since I use two separate browsers, but ever other blog seems to be about food. Check out my tally. I don't think it represents actual facts, but . . .

38 FOOD

73 WRITING

7 PHOTOGRAPHY

178 REGULAR FAVORITES (Don't include letter-writing.)

418 EVERY DAY MUST HAVE

(miscellaneous aren't included)

I like good food. It has to be wholesome, fresh, organic if possible, from scratch, not over-cooked, colorful . . . I'm not big on using recipes from online. So, when I saw this . . .

http://www.thekitchn.com/smrgstrta-roundup-15-crazy-sandwich-cakes-164638

When I saw this . . . Well, first it blew my mind. Then it blew my taste buds. My mouth filled with saliva. I covet this cake. This Sandwich Cake. Tell me. Have you ever wanted to lick your screen? If you're tempted, take it from me and don't. No whys, nor how comes, or what happeneds. Just don't do it.

Now I'm craving a tuna sandwich with cucumbers, thin tomato slices, Romaine lettuce, avocado, fresh ground pepper, red and green bell pepper strips, pickles, and Miracle whip on Oroweat 12 grains bread--lightly toasted!

Did it make you jones, too?

Oh, Day! How Do I feel Thee?

2012-01-15T15:55:00.000-06:00

I feel thee so well . . .

There! See?

I felt thee so well

I left thee my finger prints

Werd preceded me

Beauty opened her heart

And beseeched me

To touch her too

So I did

There were signs

And symbols

That beckoned

Like Braille

For the eye

I crouched

I crept

I reached

I swept

Aside branches

For this

And these

I touched this surface with my pinky finger tip

And everything changed

The captured rain shivered

With pleasure

It's good to feel

So good

In a werd?

Feel often, and all.

Even if it hurts.

2012-01-13T18:23:00.001-06:00

Was roaming around in the back yard; not sure why since it was my third trip--idly mindful--hinged on the idea of staving off a bout of restlessness by shooting something. I'd gone for a drive in the warm, golden light of today's Katy-winter-day; it wasn't long enough; I wanted to keep going, into the countryside, but the earth beneath my shoes squelched advice against it. I listened.

Still, I grabbed my bag and actually had to force myself to slow down. I came close to running to the car. I think I needed to get in, back out of the garage and down the driveway-into the street quick-quick, before I lost my nerve. I knew I didn't have anywhere to go, so the sensible part of my self opened it's mouth to say, "You're wasting gas. You'll be wasting time. You know you could be cleaning, and you could do another load of laundry." For real, I could. And life has taught me that time is never wasted. So, don't you know I went? With confidence. Without a plan. 'Cause that's how I needed it to be.

I drove with my window down. That air felt like life itself. The light was the color of a new bottle of Mezzetta extra virgin olive oil sitting on the counter, bathed in anticipation of being drizzled over pale pasta. That light was the color of the corn bread I just took from the oven--all perfect, golden, airy, and looking forward to being enjoyed. Yesterday I tried to swallow that light. I like it in the summer when it's so hot you feel you have to swallow some of those rays, just to keep the air surrounding you from sizzling. When doctors tell you, "Say ahhh," they're secretly teaching you how to open your throat wide enough to swallow some sun. You think I'm lying? Try it this summer. Say ahhh, and let the light spill down your tongue; feel it against your uvula; gulp so that your airway is open for as long as you can stand it. Then swallow. If you don't light up inside, well, then, something is wrong with you. Or you didn't do it properly.

Rush Hour Nets Surprise Results

2012-01-11T00:04:00.001-06:00

Maybe a fitting title could be, "The Act of Being Violet." How often do you act on a hunch? Or are you so busy that you're too deafened by life's cacophony to hear the callings? Could be you're like me sometimes? Maybe you shrug it off, thinking "No way." So way, 'cause either way, today was a good day for heeding.

I was in the backyard, surveying my domain, when they called out to me. Loud and clear they were. Did I hesitate? Did I falter? No way. I barely wiped my feet. Did not exit through the garage. Went through the kitchen, dining room, living room, and out the front door. That's where I almost foundered. The-two-who-stare were within spitting distance. I waved. I walked to within hitting distance, and I squatted. I focused. I shot . . . click-click-click. Three shots. Turned. Cleaned my feet on the welcome mat. Took my time, too. Then I turned the knob and crossed the threshold.

Went upstairs, loaded my prizes. Two out of three weren't bad. The lone delete the only evidence that my hand shook. It shook because they stopped talking, and just stared. Pftt!

It stormed yesterday, last night . . . Oh, glee! Surviving violets were Monday's delight. They are what called to me. There were only three. I love knowing that I sometimes listen--more often than not--to the sounds I hear. Early violets! Hope it doesn't mean there won't be any come spring.

How did I get to be so lucky? Oh, Grace! What are the odds of beauty lasting through the night, for today? Almost like instant replay! Oh! La!

And then there's this! Just for giggles! Captured just as I almost turned away . . . To flee. Now, is it me, or does it remind you, too, of that hard-to-kill monster having fun? No? Okay, Grandma what a long tongue! Still no? Okay, if you say so. But, aren't you curious to know, what that little speck on the left might be?

ADVICE: Don't just stop to smell the roses. Look out for violets, too.

Trying to Avert a Spiritual Crisis

2012-01-09T18:40:00.000-06:00

. . . isn't an easy thing. The way I see it, if I'm faced with it, it's meant to be. It means change is necessary. God knows I am in dire need of change. Where I am just isn't cutting it any more. I am unhappy.

There was a time (not all that long ago, it feels) when unhappiness set me off on a downward spiral. Unhappiness felt too much like depression. Depression is depressed. Depressed is what just what it is. So, when I am down, and cannot seem to get up on my own, or with help, I know it's bad. This isn't like that. This is about this life not being enough. The life I live isn't enough. My spirit is being tamped down, strangled, compressed, and dampened. My self is automatically preparing to hunker down for a long siege--An assault of the worst kind.

I need to avert the prep for battle. There's no need to arm and respond to imagined assaults. There is no need to fight. I surrender. I give in. I recognize the enemy, and it is . . . My self. I. Me. Myself.

So. I will make peace. I will listen, heed, obey the creed. I will avert this looming spiritual crisis from forming--full blown and armed for bloody battle. In a word? I got this.

Q: How Do I Feel?

2012-01-06T15:52:00.000-06:00

A: With my hands! Ha-ha.

No PT today. Was meant to be my first session since the holiday break. I combed my hair. Got dressed in something not quite as wrinkled as a gown that's been slept in my a tosser. I feel good-- better than I have in a while. Things still taste funny, and my ears still hurt. Aside from low energy, I'm good. And, see? I didn't whine. Not much.

There are still gifts to be opened. Gifts to be put away. Gifts to be used . . . Am just too pooped to do it. I do like the light that shines through yonder window, bright. It's a standing invite . . .

. . . to do something besides sitting with chin in hand, thinking I might shower at any moment. Or soon. Yes, soon. Sooner? I am not happy. I am unhappy. Not sad, or depressed, or disappointed . . . I'm simply not happy. Not with this life. No. I am not happy with this stage of my life. Christmas always feels like. . . not so much as a let-down, but more like a wake-up pinch. Life pinches me, as a reminder that I need to get up off my butt, and do what I came here to do.

I make my own unhappiness. Therefore, I am the only one who can unmake it. It's like unmaking a bed, then remaking it. Christmas makes me see that it needs remaking, by pounding home the truth that things don't do it. When you have everything you need, almost everything you want . . . You ask yourself why you want another thing. You know it's not in the getting or having gotten. 'Cause once it's yours, then what? The happiness of having gotten is fleeting--nonexistent. Sure, there's joy in watching others see what you've given, but it doesn't last as long as it takes a kettle to boil. So what's a woman to do?

How do I feel? With my heart. And that's why it hurts, and I'm unhappy--bordering on sad.

Tea & Sympathy Trumphs Empathy Every Time

2012-01-04T23:51:00.000-06:00

I should have been suspicious last night when I had to go to bed early. I'd felt bad all day; a little grumpy, chilly and hot by turn. Nothing tasted right. There was also a little sore throat; my mouth was dry--probably from breathing through my mouth--but by evening I was plagued with an intermittent post nasal drip that switched with a drippy nose. There were little nosebleeds if I blew hard. Nothing significant. Ha! I couldn't be sick. Not at the beginning of a new year!

Everyone gets sick and tired of feeling bad. I joined that support group decades ago, yet here I was again. The Neti Pot might help but I was wary. Those poor people who died from brain-eating bacteria wouldn't be hushed. "But I use sterilized water!" I kept telling myself that, but Wary wouldn't go away. Paranoia wanted in. I thought a good movie would make both go away. So, I watched "Contagion." To keep my mind from turning to gelatinous fear.

And it worked. It ticked me off. What a waste. But. And it's a big but--I learned how vaccinations are made. And, I learned that if the disease is stronger than its host, it kills its host. That's just common sense! "Contagion" was more of a learning tool than entertainment. It didn't teach me much, but it sure fascinated me. I coughed a lot, so I missed patches of dialogue, but I don't think I missed much. Jude Law has a front tooth that kicked out far enough to be a distraction. I kept wondering, "Why hadn't I noticed that before?" I wondered if he bit lips when he kissed. Tsk. Drew blood, I mean. And I didn't like him at all. The character.

There were too many distractions! Like the large zit on Fishburn's forehead. I just know it was acne, and would leave a crater. He used to be so hot. This HD TV reveals too much. All the actors have bad skin. Plus it causes the "dead-people-make-up to look half-done. Comical, even.

Anyway . . . . I went to bed early. Then I kept coughing myself awake. I was cold, then I was hot. I kicked off the covers, then had to turn on the light to find them. I was thirsty. Had to keep turning on the light to get a drink. The last time I remember waking, pale light streaked the walls.

I overslept! I slept through the alarm.

The Green Dragon

2012-01-03T22:42:00.000-06:00

Do you see what I see?

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

2012-01-01T00:12:00.000-06:00

WISHING YOU & YOURS

A WONDERFUL

NEW YEAR!

The Fly That Did Not Fly, To Flee From Me

2011-12-19T01:08:00.000-06:00

The sun didn't show its face today. Didn't stop me from grabbing My Therd Eye, and prowling the south 40, one bit. There was way too much for us to check out. It takes me so long to cover my beat; the birds get their feathers all ruffled and fluffed, and they fly off in a huff. I get in the way of their eating, you see. It's not like they don't return once I leave.

This little guy didn't move though. Not one hair. The back of my hand brushed it once when I adjusted the strap wrapped round my hand. I told Erin it was either dead, tired, having a pee, or just too cold to flee.

It certainly is beautiful. Look at it close up and you will see. It's just as beautiful as you . . . or me. Me is just as beautiful as can be, and I, too, refuse to flee . . . In shame my over bad rhyming grammar. If it bothers you, then go on, flee. Fly! Away with ye! But then again, if you're okay, then stay. And continued friends we'll be.

A SLOW BLEED

2011-12-10T03:47:00.000-06:00

I see something new every day. Life never ceases to amaze, enthrall, captivate, entertain, amuse, surprise, stun, charm, enchant, beguile, fascinate, mesmerize, hypnotize . . .

An overcast day is as beautiful as a day filled with sunshine. Something happens when sunlight is shy. It makes me work harder for sure, but yes, it has its own allure. Things are never as naked as they are when they stand on substance alone. Drab isn't drab when its underwear has flair--like a rare snow hare, without hair, resting in a snow hole.

Nature makes me ponder, and wonder about such things as these. How can it be? A green plant bleeds red that fades to beige. No way!

"Way! Way, I say!" And here's my proof--shot on a winter's day.

Red mercury, in nature's leafed thermometer.

Red ink sketches.

Or lines from an EKG?

They're really quite fetching.

Such colors!

And they're everywhere.

There are surprises, too.

No, I did not lay an egg

But I wonder who . . .

No way, no way,

It simply cannot be!

It's much too soon, you see.

But I really did find this thing in the garden. Thought it was a mushroom. I poked and prodded as gently as possible. I'm not too silly, but if it hatches . . .

Cute, huh? Little potatoes grow in odd places.

Some even come with odd little faces.

A Boiling, Baking, Roasting Day

2011-12-04T18:36:00.000-06:00

Was just downstairs cooking. Today is a boiling/baking/roasting kind of day. So, that's what I did. I boiled a bag of beautiful white navy peas. I'm baking a small skillet of cornbread, and the roasted golden beets, red potatoes, and garlic are almost ready. I have fish to cook in brown butter, but it will take only a handful of minutes. We'll be eating shortly.

BRB. Gotta go take at least one photo.

Here's mine.

Guess who deleted several sentences while I was gone. Yep. Feist. I think she swore, so I had to erase what she wrote.

Here's JC's.

A peek at the common dish we'll share: roasted root begs. A little butter will make the olive oil sing.

See you later.

Happiness Is . . .

2011-12-04T01:51:00.000-06:00

. . . getting that once-in-a-lifetime shot.

This guy was so small I almost overlooked him. But no, he wasn't having it. I kept trying for the honeybee, and he kept flirting with me, or maybe I was just in his way . . . All I know right now, for sure, is: Happiness is this shot.

What's This?

2011-11-30T23:52:00.000-06:00

I will give $1.00 to the first person who tells me what this is.
The pollen-gathering little fly, not the sunflower, okay?

I've Got Sunshine, On a Cloudy Day!

2011-11-25T19:10:00.000-06:00

When it's cold in most states, I've got the month of May. I guess you say, "What can make me feel this way?" Sunflowers! Talkin' 'bout sunflowers! Sunflowers!

Peek-a-boo!

I seed you!

Golden orbs clasped in a green hand blessed with countless fingers. All those fingers hold on gently, to from dropping the gold.

Golden petals multiply ten-fold.

Oh, I'm so sold!

Yet I can't ever bring myself to cut them for inside. Instead, I let them go from infancy to geriatricy, and shoot at will. And even then I am loathe to harvest the seeds. So, I snap the dry stalks, and hide the heads in brown paper bags. I am so proud of my little patch of soil. I enrich it naturally, right along with Mom Nature. And I am rewarded three-fold.

This is the first year I've had three sunflowers wave, "Hey," in the wind. Oh, what a feeling! There are bonus benefits this year. Multiple orbs on a single stalk.

How fortunate am I, to be graced with sunshine on a cloudy day? In a word? Beyond measure!

FROM WHERE I SIT

2011-11-23T22:50:00.000-06:00

From where I sit, I manage to keep an eye on the change that occurs in my little corner of outdoor life. My perch is as sweet as a bejeweled throne, and I act like the queen of Limnerville, as I rule my little domain. I am in charge, and I can declare: Out, you raggedy weed! No! Don't you dare sow your obnoxious seed!

And who pays me any attention? Who does my royal bidding? Well, goodness, gracious, the lone serf who pays homage to my royal self. My, and myself, that's who. I make the rules. I truly do. With silly self-serving airs, and flair, I act out my parts. And there's no one to call me a grumpy old fart.

From where I sit, I rule the world. No taxes! All lapses are my own to rule upon. Like I'd punish myself for laxness. Laxus? Okay, just being lax.

From where I sit, things look pretty good, in my little 'hood. Wait, wait, wait! Don't let bad rhyme make you hate . . . me. Relax a while, as I hone my style . . . And take a peek at at the gold I seek . . . Every single day.

There's this . . .

and that . . .

and yellows much richer than butter fat!

That's pretty much it, from where I sit.

Murder Most Fowl

2011-11-19T03:00:00.000-06:00

Or, murder most foul? Either way, death came calling in Limnerville. A bloody mess of wings and down was left in its wake. Oh, how my heart yearned for the loser. There's no way to tell who won and who lost. There's no way to tell if it was a draw, you see, because the mockingbird and the dove suffered equally.

Enough feathers to make a whole bird lay on the grass--the only evidence that anything more serious than a battle for territory had occurred, until closer inspection revealed eager ants carting off evidence and the spoils of battle: bloodied torn flesh--still clinging to wings-- blood spilled on blades of grass that wicked away the red moisture down to the waiting soil-- and feathers. So many feathers!

It was a battle of epic proportions, I tell you! How do I know, you wonder? I heard it. I heard the screams and shrieks, the rallying cries of flocks. I heard, yet I ignored the sounds, thinking they were the noisy mockingbirds showing off again, or making simple mischief. I never suspected there would be doves engaged; they only coo.

Still, I should have known something was wrong. I have never heard such angry, frightened noises before. Besides, the battle took place right outside my window. It happened two days ago. I took photos yesterday, I watered near the spot, yet never saw anything suspicious. Lesson to remember: Be curious. At every moment.

And, now it is raining. Mom Nature is washing away all evidence, making it difficult for the ACSI, Avian Crime Scene Investigators.

Gone is the DNA evidence, the blood spatter, the patterns of violence . . . All gone in an afternoon storm that matches the intensity of the vicious attack of the two-days-old violence.

***

I sent this sadness riddled e-mail to my loving, sensitive, caring daughter. This is her reply:

"See. Angry Birds."

Here is my own:

LOL! I wrote all that and all I got in return was a pithy reply. That'll learn me.

(An aside: Chicago sure has changed my Erin.)

It's Bee-n a Beary Bee-utiful Day

2011-10-31T18:28:00.000-05:00

Boo!

Have a Happy Halloween!

Dear Everyone,

Look what flew in today! Thank you, Carter the Great!

& Thank you, Misty, the Magnificent! I'll bee back to fill you in later. Oh, if only you knew. But, wait . . . There's more.

Coming soon.

Sincerely sincere,

Limner, the one who has light shining down on her head, and basks in the light of a hundred suns.

RED, TWO

2011-10-29T21:15:00.000-05:00

See? I told you I like red, even unconsciously.

The little canister contains pepper spray.

little paper flowers

Seeing Red

2011-10-28T23:17:00.000-05:00

There is no mistaking it. I like red.

However, I surprised myself this afternoon . . .

while doing a bit of fall cleaning,

also known as preparing for winter.

I opened my little desk drawer,

and I was quite taken

by the amount of red

that was spread about.

Never mind the dust.

Or odd little things like this.

It's a belt buckle, you see.

And it belongs to me.

I had to laugh at this.

See?

A single chop stick

With a cute little dragonfly

that's poised to flee.

What a red letter day

it's turned out to be.

. . . and there's more!

The Flight of the Monarch

2011-10-27T02:50:00.000-05:00

This one didn't make it this year. I found it near the bank's ATM. It's amazing how I managed to espy the little thing there on the ground-- among the dirt and pebbles. Even in death it managed to blend right in with its surroundings. I gasped at the sight of it lying there. The wind caressed it--moved its wings-- and tricked me into believing it was wounded. At first. Hope is always the first thing I rely on when I find injured beauty. I wanted it to be stunned. Maybe wounded, but not dead.

I wonder what happened? What killed it? Did I tear the wing, or was it torn from trauma? Will a partner miss it? Is it male? Female? How long will it last in the little acrylic coffin I made for it from the container my Mighty Mouse came in? Will it be missed? I keep coming back to that. Who will miss it, this flightless monarch?

In a Werd?

2011-10-25T01:43:00.000-05:00

DON'T BE SKERD!

It's only make believe.

Why are women always scripted to run in horror movies

When they have the perfect weapons at the ready?

They should take their mamas' advice:

"Take your shoe

And beat them

Til they're

Black and blue."

Personally? I'd go for the eyes myself.

And, nothing's scarier than a chick with her teeth in her hands. Except having 3 sets.

I say:

"Show 'em!

Then throw 'em.

And run like hell."

(All images © Erin & Limner)

Don't Be Fooled

2011-10-24T21:56:00.000-05:00

Somehow it doesn't look real. It looks like I did it, huh? Maybe a can of paint spilled, then dripped onto the leaves, right?

Well, don't be fooled. This is none of my handiwork-mishap-or fairy work. Okay, I suppose the fairies could have had a hand in it. Maybe they were experimenting with pointillism on a wee scale? Either way it looked interesting. Even reminded me of Erin's new Halloween pumps. Oh, snap! You reckon Dexter could have . . . Nah. No way. he lives in Florida.

Heads Up

2011-10-23T19:27:00.000-05:00

Erin didn't do a lot of trick or treating when she was growing up. I think she's making up for it now. She's hostessing a Halloween party with a good friend. Sounds like they're going all out. Take a peek at some of the props.

BOO!

Car Bling

2011-10-22T20:59:00.000-05:00

I finally got off my duff and uploaded the photos I shot of a car that was in the annual Houston car parade. It was in the parking lot outside our Kroger store. I was the first to start taking photos. Not everyone wants people surrounding their car, but not so for extroverts. The more the merrier, or they wouldn't spend so much time creating art on four wheels, right?

So, I have decided to share an image a day until they are all posted. I used my iPhone; got as many shots as I could. Slowly, several women joined me, all the while, expressing their fear of doing what comes natural. Hope you'll enjoy. Oops! And overlook my mistakenly shooting in movie mode. I was just that excited. The sun was blinding. By the time I'd finished, I had a headache from the glare. Wouldn't have missed it for all the Ray Bans in Texas.

A Bee's Knees

2011-10-22T03:19:00.000-05:00

A bee's knees, ankles, and elbows

are rare sights to behold.

This carpenter is shiny and bold.

Why, oh why, did the glories have to fold

so early, sealing off the pollen gold?

Had I been this guy

I might have turned surly

toward a stalking Therd Eye.

Doesn't it look like he's carrying off his fair lady's wedding dress? Hey! Maybe he's delivering it. He's certainly dressed for it. The spent morning glory is quite beautiful. Yes, I think there's a wedding going on someplace. He shopped for the food, chose the gown . . . Wonder why I wasn't invited?

Singing: Said he, Miss Mouse will you marry me, yonder by that old oak tree?

She: Oh, what will the wedding supper be?

He: Two white beans and a black eyed pea, uh-huh.

Could he have been searching for a wedding canopy here? Or more food? They eat aphids, don't they? Sure wish they did. But, pollen is the thing. Come spring, I will have more of a butterfly/bee garden.

For the Love of Nat Geo

2011-10-20T16:41:00.000-05:00

Do you do Nat Geo, too? I do. And so, I declare my love of Nat Geo. It began when I was a child; it held steady through my teens; I could finally afford to subscribe in my twenties. I have broken off our relationship over the years, only to renew it off and on again, 'til now. There is something about the magazine that makes me loyal. I can't pass one on a shelf anyplace and not stop for a look. On occasion, I have accidentally bought two copies of the same edition. Throwing them away is like throwing away a class yearbook.

I have hidden my secret passion from certain people, who shall remain unidentified, to protection them from derisive comments, mainly from me, but they don't know what they are missing in their ignorance. So. This November's issue is so stunning . . . I had to take it out back with me as I sat and basked in the afternoon sun. Reading never interferes with working on my tan. It makes dinner late, but it just relaxes me, and makes me drowsy. Mmm. Just talking about it made me yawn.

Was thumbing from back to front, when this photograph stayed my heart-my-eye-my hand. I gasped. Or I exclaimed. I cannot swear on a stack of Holy Writ which is true, but since I'm known for doing both, maybe I did both this time as well. Of course I had to grab my Kanteen, my phone, my wits, and dash inside--upstairs--and into my lair. I scanned the page just for you. Here 'tis . . .

Yes, I know about copyright, but not everyone reads Nat Geo, so this might impress a non-reader to buy a copy or subscribe. I mean, look at this bird. It's dancing. Dance, ballerina! Dance!

Didn't you think Black Swan, or even Swan Lake, the second you saw it? Don't be bashful; let your inner artiste loose, and shout loud enough for me to hear you. Say, Yes! Affirm the beauty, the artistry, the life that makes a bird dance en pointe. Art imitates life--hence the swan themed dance. Oh, I love the ballet. Oh, I love swans.

Look at the wings; the just-so placements of the feathers that look like a dancer's long, elegant white gloved fingers. Oh! Oh! Oh! I almost weep. Try to imagine the triumphant witness to such a dance. Being in the right place at the right time? A mere coincidence? I think not. And how I wish My Therd Eye had been so baptized.

This month's issue is filled with page after page of eye-delight. Get your hands on a copy. Read it. Then tell me you didn't run your fingertips over the images, too.

Cravings

2011-10-18T19:13:00.000-05:00

I liked the song "Constant Cravings." Do you remember it? Now I'm craving fall foods--even fall foods paired with dark green summer stuff, like this:

Slices of smoked provolone in the bottom of my bowl.

Ranch Style beans, nice and hot.

Blessings of Tabasco Sauce for some harrumph!

Grated, aged parmesan for a bit of ooh-la-la!

Carrabba's leftover salad from the night before . . .

the best-ever seaweed salad, and . . .

icy cold steaz

to wash it all down

pleez.

Uhmm, crackers on the side.

This, dear folks, is day before yesterday's dinner, aka meatless chili. Oh, yum! Wish I'd saved some. just for you.

Loud 'n Clear

2011-10-16T00:36:00.000-05:00

Do you ever get it so loud and clear that you can see yourself in it?

As I Live & Breathe

2011-10-13T23:19:00.000-05:00

I have met more people than I have missed meeting in this life time. Yes, it is an exaggeration, but not by much. We were a military family.

Know how you always meet someone who's so like you, you think God made you just to be each other's best friend? Well, I don't think I know anyone else who is so like me that I get confused, thinking I've met my Doppelgänger. Here's proof why:

This is my work space. This is my bed.

Bedrest? No problem. I have everything I need:

From books to nuts.

To the left, to the left!

Everything in the boxes to the left?

More of everything else I might need.

A "cute" angle.

A nod to the one who teaches

Gee-ahm-a-tree teacher.

Who doesn't trip over a paper trimmer on their way to the bathroom? No you? Well, boo-hoo! Now, how many people do you know who owns space like this? Haha-ha! Limnerness is such bliss.

Letters, and werds, and irregular verbs . . .

All within reach of my fingertips.

Scary zombies

And, yes! Mummys!

Can be found

In this busy room

Where ideas teem

And bounce around inside my head

When I recline here

In my bed.

Ooo-wee, man

I've got art in a can.

Er . . . in a tin!

Lying to rhyme

is not a crime.

Is it?

I enjoy what I do

Even when I'm a tiny bit blue.

This helps me much.

I get to work it out

The worst part

Having to put things away

At the end of my day.

Where would I be

Without me being me?

Just as I am.

I dunno, but I don't need to know

just yet.

So, it really is okay.

Right?

I'll tell you this

and I'll let you go

How many of me

Could you stand getting to know?

Goodnight.

Sleep loose.

It's safe.

Love,

Limner.

Be Brave

2011-10-12T23:28:00.001-05:00

photo has a ©, image from O 'zine

The look on her face gives her away.

Trying to be brave

All the while she fights nervous quakes

Praying she doesn't make a mistake

Or the limb and vine won't break.

She's doing what we all do

Every day after we wake.

Waling the thin line

Known as

This Life.

***

I used to be silly enough to swing from vines thinner than hers. This month's "Nat Geo" cover story is all about the teenage brain. The author claims we're not insane at that age, but what about before?

I relate to this young girl. I still climbed trees even when I was 16. Hid among the leaves, life was a breeze, as long as I had a book. I hid from Mama, Daddy, siblings, too. They never looked up. After they caught on, beneath my bed, under our home . . . Dust bunnies and bugs left me alone.

A little girl, all elbows, legs and courage. Coupled with imagination and a need for alone time more than made up for having to wear dresses. Hemlines got in the way. Barbed wire and switches made me pray for britches, long before I turned 8. Yes, young girls climbed trees, and old ones wish they could.

Be brave, as you live your best life.

Graphed Life

2011-10-10T02:31:00.000-05:00

I like looking through boxes I've dragged with me from coast to coast. I've packed memories from San Diego to the Carolinas, and north and south. When I lived in S'ville I freelanced. I even did cross stitch designs. Oh, I used to be hot with a needle. And names. I'd graph out your name, tell you what it meant, and add a Bible verse. For a pittance. I just needed to create.

This dirty little dove is a creation I worked on for Easter. Or Christmas. I guessed Easter because of the faint image of the rabbit behind it. I remember doing cute bunnies on a sash that was then tied around a basket filled with goodness. I didn't use the dove but I am happy not to have thrown it away.

Julianna used to be one of my favorite actresses. So much so that I tore this page from O Magazine when they did an Aha Moment on her.

This is her "Aha Moment" quote. Today it doesn't make a lot of sense to me, and I disagree, but this is a revelation meant for her, so good. I think rehashing is good; it can be useful for any tomorrow. And I cannot say I have ever rehearsed the future. My future is created by my todays. Life is no dress rehearsal. Not for me, anyway. See how reading and thinking can make you smarter? LOL. Reminds me of when people used to say, "Don't take any wooden nickels." I was just a kid, but I chuckled to myself, thinking, "Boy, you gotta be some kinda dumb to take a wooden nickel."

I'm glad I didn't toss this page after all. As you can see, I wadded it up; might have even tossed it, but I clearly retrieved it. And here it is. It graces a journal page created two nights ago.

I added this for the sake of common sense.

I have learned that if I think on a thing that's causing me to ponder/wonder/worry/fret . . . Sooner or later the answer comes just as clear as crystal clean creek water. Doesn't the rabbit remind you of Buster from "Arthur?"

And doesn't this look like the number 8?

Sometimes I wish life could be graphed half as easy.

(P.S. This was meant for another place.

But I'm too lazy to change it.

http://inawordtoo.typepad.com/a_limners_life/)

Mama's Got (Another) Brand New Bag!

2011-10-09T00:38:00.000-05:00

The latest in the B&N line of totes.

This one is in honor of Hispanic Heritage Month.

"Floral Offerings" is painted by Blanca Santander.

Visit the artist at http://blancatsantander.blogspot.com/.

Wouldn't a series of her stamps make you write more letters, just to spread the colors? I mean, after all, she did this:

"Recently the United States Census Bureau commissioned twelve illustrations from her for use in books, posters, and calendars to reach out to the millions of people in the Northwest United States region about . . ." Go. Read all about it here:

http://blancatsantander.blogspot.com/

And here:

http://blancateresasantander.blogspot.com/

Heart Blanca's art.

The Stetson 'n Steve Jobs

2011-10-07T00:57:00.000-05:00

The parking lot at Kroger's makes for interesting photo ops. Never thought I'd see the day I'd be stalking, taking shots on the sly. But theses days it's often do or die . . . with regret. The bad shoulder keeps me from lugging My Third Eye every where I go. Thank you Steve Jobs, for allowing my photographic eye to continue its flow. I am partial to my iPhone. It's worth its weight in platinum.

I saw it , this stetson, before I'd finished pulling into the parking space. Could barely contain my glee. Threw caution to the wind, but only after I checked to make sure I'd removed the key from the ignition. You see, iIt's so unusual for a Texan to leave his stetson on the dash. It's true place is between the owner and God. Um, did you know the stetson was invented by John Stetson? Hmm, rhymes with Jetson, huh?

Secret: I'm giving one as a Christmas gift this year; to a young boy who wants to be an honorary cowboy. Not sure of the color. Little boys heads grow quickly. Should I give him a reasonable facsimile, or the real deal? He'll outgrow it before he can turn around. What should I do? Help!

I have cousins, and at least one uncle, Texans tried and true, who have a serious thing for their stetsons. In the old west, a cowboy's hat was as important as their horse:

"It kept the sun out of your eyes and off your neck. It was an umbrella. It gave you a bucket (the crown) to water your horse and a cup (the brim) to water yourself. It made a hell of a fan, which you need sometimes for a fire but more often to shunt cows this direction or that."

I had the pleasure of learning some things about making and caring for felt stetsons when I lived in Colorado. Felting is serious business. Are you surprised to learn that it was a young woman who taught me what I learned? Wish she knew about this nod her way.

Take a closer look. Then you can see. Doesn't it look like it belongs to some ruggedly handsome hunk on tv?

***

Then there's this . . .

Oh, there's more.

Sadness Hides In Shadows

2011-10-06T22:02:00.000-05:00

I try to avoid sadness. It develops into blue then black, before I know it. SO, today I sit, slowly relaxing and letting the dark hold sway. A great man has gone away.

I won't wallow in grief that is much to hard to swallow easily. No, I did not know him personally, but genius deserves respect. I'm trying not to ask "why" again. It doesn't change the pain of loss. Makes me wonder though, who will be the new boss of Apple, and me when it comes to new amazing technological choices. An apple a day still holds sway in my day. Yet, still, and all . . .

So, what of his family? His wife? We feel their loss. I think they know it, too.

They still make black arm bands, don't they? Just in case they don't, I'll let loose my grief in the privacy of shadows.

Rest in peace, dear Steve, I pray.

Respectfully sincere,

Limner.
P.S. In a word? I am mourning.

The Colors of Sad

2011-10-05T21:31:00.000-05:00

Steve Jobs

has

passed on

and it makes me sad.

Most of todays colors leached away

at the news.

This is what remains

in the wake

of my passing-on blues.

Rest in peace.

Cuss

2011-10-03T21:13:00.000-05:00

The price for cussin' just went up. From a penny to a dollar.

I have taken up a nasty habit the last several months. It's getting worse. I don't know why I do it. There's no rhyme or reason to it.

Nephew dug out his bad word jar. There's very little in it so far. I'm wired too tight lately. Dealing with some people makes me want to drink. I think. Only, I am allergic to alcohol, and that stinks.

But now, oh how I rethink

the words I choose

before I speak.

At least I have in the last hour or so.

Circumstance makes the cuss words

In my vocab do a little dance.

With good reason.

So, our youngest sister said:

This is what you do instead

Of going nuts.

Go to the bank

Get a roll of quarters

Then let 'er rip for starters.

Go on, go ahead.

Get it out of your system.

Or just call when you need me to listen

While you go off about our crazy other sister.

Where's my @$%#&* bank card? I cannot seem to find it! To quote dear Wolfey, "Oh noes!"

My Favorite Time of Day

2011-10-02T17:04:00.000-05:00

. . . is when light whispers, "Come, come, let us play!"

And I oblige--I obey.

Once in a Blue Moon . . .

2011-10-01T01:00:00.000-05:00

. . . I find gems like this one. It was parked outside the restaurant today. Wish I could have gone over it with a fine tooth comb, but people get nervous when you get near their cars.

They should be stitched together, but the meds are wearing off, and I am not in the mood at the mo. The pinched nerve is pinching.

Nephew and JC called it a go cart. Said it's all fiberglass. It's still worth photographing. So I did.

Is it just me or does the hood ornament remind you of a stopper for a perfume bottle? I like it. I like people who imagine imaginable things, then make them real. I like the blue. Is this the grille or the radiator? Either way, I like it.

If this were my car, I'd take it for a spin when ever I felt blue. Wouldn't you? Okay, maybe not if the weatherman predicted rain. Nephew pointed out, quite smugly, the lack of windows. I wouldn't want bugs in my teeth, but don't think I'd mind letting the wind blow my mind. How about you?

On Occasion

2011-09-27T23:58:00.000-05:00

On occasion I pass on a thing that grabs my attention, although I know who it belongs to the second I see it. That's what happened the first time I saw this notebook.

Two names came to mind this afternoon, when I saw it again, in a different store.

Which one's cuter, the girl or the pen? Yep, it's a pen. And it has a name. Look for it at kookys.com. Which is your favorite? Mine is the Wolverine.

Wow. Am I behind or what? There are five different notebook covers. How did I miss out? Harajuku Lovers? Another wow. I see mistakes is the drawing. I still like this notebook. And the pen. I want Wolverine and the Silver Surfer. Oh, the Tim Burton Collection is worth coveting. I know someone who might like to have at least one. In a word? Gotta go.

Gotta go spread the word at "Oh, Write Me," in case she stops by.

Why Do I Bother?

2011-09-26T23:08:00.000-05:00

Will someone tell me why I watch The Big C? Huh? Tell me. Come on, gimme me a clue. Why do I bother watching something that's made up--isn't even true? Why do I get involved with a show that wasn't supposed to be good?

And how do I get suckered into caring about a woman who isn't real? She's an actress who's not that convincing, yet I pay attention and get sucked in, and then get all emotional. It's the same way with that crazy assed show "Weeds." I don't watch either one on a regular basis, but sometimes I pay attention, and then I bite a hook.

I almost swore I wouldn't watch any more after they killed off Rita on Dexter, although she weighted him down, and got in his way. Then I tried to dismiss Cathy and that silly cast of characters. Linney is too good-girl to say the f word convincingly, but I love her for trying. But, who wants to watch a show about cancer? Then they killed off Marlene. And the cute guy with cancer. He went too fast. Faster than Marlene. And tonight another one bites the dust. Well . . .
Time to run. Gotta go get Nephew.

. . . to be continued. No time to edit. Byeee!

Loss & the Sadness that Follows

2011-09-24T18:00:00.000-05:00

I have been nurturing this sprawling gift from nature since spring. I've sporadically charted its growth spurts digitally, all the while enjoying the colors, and the dance it performs. It grows rhythmically. Here is an example of its horizontal movement.

It interacts with it's audience.

It's vulnerable, and sacrifices parts of itself so that the stronger parts might live. This happened when it rained last week. The beauty and symmetry are unaffected, don't you think?

It's weathered more than a rain storm. It stands strong against assaults by a weed eater. Well, it stands its ground against the assaults carried out by the person wielding the weed eater.

There's sadness mingled with the beauty here.

The scarred base makes this possible. I am reminded of mothers who take all sorts of abuse in order to protect their children. This plant held countless moments of wonder for me. I checked it every day. I took any number of close-ups, yet kept putting off the day I'd take a shot of the view I love to see through the glass of the back door window. Yesterday's view would have been ideal. But, no, I waited. Kept saying, "One more day. Let's wait and see if the colors change more." Well, one more day became one day too late.

The man who mows mowed down everything I've been nurturing and photographing that's not protected by lines drawn in the grass. He laughed when he said, condescendingly, "Oh, it'll grow back. You'll see." Then he grinned. The man who mows mocks my efforts. He mocks the beauty I see.

One day recently, the man who mows mocked me for expressing how a bank of white clouds against a blue sky moved me. The man said, "We have seen clouds since we were children. There is nothing special about those clouds." Too often the man who mows is cruel in his attempts to belittle me. Like today. He mowed yesterday. I discovered the loss only moments ago, when I stood at the window for a look at the beauty I've nurtured for so long. The man who mows mowed down a bit of the good feelings I have in reserve just for him, when he mowed down my joy. Perhaps some day the reservoir will be empty.

Is it just me, or does that red remind you of rhubarb?

Happiness Is

2011-09-19T00:51:00.000-05:00

Blue sky,

random red,

and rain.

Evidence Of Things Hoped For

2011-09-17T18:03:00.000-05:00

Here lies hope, made manifest.

Evidence

Rain

Something different woke me this morning. It wasn't the usual call to consciousness that I've grown accustomed to. The air in the room was lighter. I didn't sense the weight of cool sheets against my skin. It had nothing to do with pain. No books poked/prodded me to consciousness either. No, it was . . .

I don't know what it was, but I answered its call. I didn't fight it. Didn't mind waking early at all. I slowly pushed my way from under the covers. Turned open-eyed to the drapes--drawn by the blue-gold light that spilled around and atop the edges. Eerie. That's what it was--that light. The rays didn't feel heavy. They smacked of sunlight without the sun.

I wish I could had thought to capture it, just to show you what I mean, because it was, and still is pretty. But, no, I was too busy being amazed. It's been that way all day. The greens are greener. The earth tones are more vibrant, and they compete for attention with the pink of the crepe myrtles, and the white that's left from the morning glories--against the drought-dull background of the back yard, and expanses of parched fencing. Yes, the glories were confused, too. They were up late. Erin calls it morning glory insomnia when they stay up past noon. The light fools them.

And then the rain fell. It was the light. No. The rain sent the light as its messenger. It announced the coming. All who love rain were given notice to be there or miss out. I wouldn't have missed it for the the world. Not this time.

You might think I've never seen rain before.

***

I went from window to window--shooting and just staring. I shot from the front door, and the back door. I shot from the patio, porch, and the back yard. Fat, heavy drops plonked on my head, ran down my scalp, across my forehead, and clung to the tip of my nose. Sure wish I could have showered there on the patio. But, since I couldn't, I took more photos. I shot between the rain drops to keep my camera from getting wet.

Nephew and I gave homage to the long-absent water that miraculously fell from the sky. We've been nursing hope, coaxing cloud banks, sending whispered prayers on waves of wind that seemed to do nothing more than feed wildfires, stir up eddies of dust just to redistribute grit, act as transport for pollen and other unwanted allergens, and dry out already chapped lips.

Those same winds were mysteriously absent during our longed-for shower. No gusts, no whistling, no forcing young saplings to bow down before its might. No. None of that. Just steady, gentle water falling down. Collectively? It dances.

Kill Zone 2 vs Soldier of Fortune

2011-09-09T01:16:00.000-05:00

This is one of the best games of its kind for the Mac OS. Yes, I know that some people might forget it's not real, and no, it's not for children. I am not a child. I know right from wrong, and I am not likely to be a sniper.

Leap into 2011 and check out the latest game I've decided to take on via PS3. Well, I'll take it on proper like once I master the controls. And, the way I see it, is like this: Practice makes perfect. And I intend to take that advice as soon as I learn how to turn on the PS2, and get it to work with the Bose system. Like I told Nephew, "There's no sense in playing if I can't get the sound to work." I don't feel too bad about it. Nephew can't figure out all the wires and remotes in the family room either. Ha!

I watched Nephew play, without sound, until I got bored, but Killzone 2 looks pretty straightforward. I could do without the drawn-out opening dialogue and what not. Just get me to the battlefield.

For those in the know, there's a Killzone 1 and Killzone 3. KZ 1 isn't available. I have to get through KZ 2--knowing KZ 3 waits in the wings.

Pardon the bad images.

Red Up!

2011-09-05T02:07:00.000-05:00

I had a pleasant shopping experience recently. It's worth telling, so here goes.

In all the years that we have shopped at Best Buy, only two visits have been worth the money spent there. In all the years we have shopped at Best Buy, I have been asked if I needed help twice. Past shopping experiences have been so deplorable that Erin canceled her Best Buy credit card. I stopped shopping there for years after that.

Two or three days ago, Nephew and I were in search of a new Dual Shock 3 wireless controller for the PS3. I misplaced the original. I would have said I lost the controller, but I am so sure it will turn up, that I just could not.

So, Nephew was in line at customer service. I decided to look at the controllers myself. I am positive that I gave off confusion vibes, because I heard someone ask, "Ma'am, do you need help?" Since I did, I knew in my heart the person asking meant me.

I turned, and there stood Kevin. I smiled. He smiled back. And, we were off. Yes, he was duly surprised to learn that I was the one in need of a controller, because I am a gamer. From way back. So, we chatted. Yes! I know. A young man and a mom chatted about gaming, its history, game quality, the best and latest games . . . By the time I got around to explaining my situation, Kevin and I were at ease with each other.

Are you shocked to hear that he demonstrated the controller with an actual game running? No? Well, I was pleasantly surprised. I also wished I were as adept at managing the controls as Kevin was. I know, I know. It's my own fault that I'm not, since we've had PS3 long enough that I should be a master controller. Ahem.

Now, let us talk a bit about patience. Kevin must be used to being around older people, because he was more than patient with me. He answered every question I asked. He listened! Yes, he did. He not only listened, he heard me. And not once did he say, "I don't know."

And get this: When it was time to finally show me the controllers, he asked, "What color would you like?" Can you believe this young man was for real, and all? Taken aback, I stuttered. And to recover, I said, "Pardon me?" Well, he asked again, "What color would you like?" Then he commenced to act a little like Vanna White: He waved at an array of controllers in mini rainbow of colors.

He had me at red. Not that I needed to, but I explained, "Red is one of my favorite colors." As luck would have it, there weren't any on display. Nonplussed, the good Kevin left me to check in back. As you can see, they had red.

Next? Choosing a game. "Spiderman" came with our PS3. Ahem. That's how old it is. So, Kevin showed me game after game. That called for another aside conversation. We discussed story lines. Kevin knew every game on display. I asked after "Alice," and he said, "You know it's a very bloody game, right?" I laughed, "Hahaha! Blood doesn't bother me. "Duke Nukem's" dialogue bothers me. Not blood." Had to let him know I was not squeamish. Showoff, me, right?

After all Kevin taught me, I unknowingly chose a less expensive game. He didn't try to steer me to a more expensive one either. Now, THAT's salesmanship. And I will be a repeat customer. All because of Kevin.

There's more to this little saga. Stay tuned. I mean . . . In a word, don't you want to know which game we got?

Limner Regrets

2011-09-04T03:08:00.000-05:00

Cleaning out a cluttered drawer, I found this. I instant regret. I vaguely recall drawing it. I just don't recall why I didn't finish it.

Closer inspection might hold the answer.

No thumbnails. No preliminary sketches. I simply started drawing. I was crazy for those technical pens. Pen and ink. Was always trying to draw something. Now I wish I'd finished. I have sketch books half filled with unfinished drawings. Almost a life-load of limner regrets.

In His Own Words

2011-08-28T19:42:00.001-05:00

When I see letters from hundreds or even decades ago, I cannot help but wonder if prep was part of the act of writing. I suppose some writers had to sharpen quills, collect soot from lamps, make ink first. And what happened when there was no paper on hand? Oops! Let's go kill a sheep?

I know, I know, I'm just being silly. But I do imagine having to set out a little ink pot, sharpening a few quills, and deciding if I should use a half sheet or full. Then, the lamp had to be set just so. There wouldn't be any distractions. Oh! I'd have to have a little sanding pot or blotter, and my pen knife on hand. I'm sure I'd have a lot to say though.

Now, speaking of Tom Jefferson, I easily imagine him in his office or den, sitting at a desk in front of the window in the room where he wrote. I imagine him knowing exactly what he wanted to say. Take this letter as an example:

I cannot imagine his letters having strikethroughs. Can you? Bet he knew how to spell. Am not so sure his letters were all that interesting, judging by . . . Wait. I have to check something. BRB.

***

Well, I was wrong, although I'm not sure this qualifies as a letter, or letter art, but Jefferson didn't have ink erasers either. He was pretty good at mechanical drawings though. Okay, he was a decent draftsman.

I rather like this letter. He writes of his books, his little bolt hole, although "little" is probably an understatement for someone who had slaves. He was also one for falling behind in his correspondence, according to this letter. Makes me like him despite his ugly habits. Tom talks about bouts of CRS that recovered the more he worked at helping his grandson with his Mathematics, which was a favorite subject for him. Oh, I must share this:

"It is wonderful to me that old men should not be sensible that their minds keep pace with their bodies in the progress of decay . . ."

Then he goes on to talk about "our old revolutionary friend Clinton." He writes: . . . "nothing betrays imbecility so much as the being insensible of it." Oh my goodness! Wish I could reproduce the letter in full here.

This line makes me smile: "I find friendship to be like wine, raw when new, ripens with age, the true old man's milk, & restorative cordial. God bless you & preserve you through a long and healthy old age."

Yes, he wrote on both sides of the paper. And in his own words. Oh! You reckon he had a secretary? He complained of rheumatism in his hips, back and thighs. I cannot imagine it skipping his wrists and fingers.

Do you have an old letter share? Yes? Please do.

TH Jefferson

(Written at Poplar Forest Aug.17.11)

At Last!

2011-08-26T21:47:00.000-05:00

It's been such a long-long time since I've taken photographs in my own backyard. There hasn't been much worth shooting. No one wants close-ups of dry grass, dead jasmine bushes, and plants. Seemed like everything living or hanging on went underground. The only things bad enough to strut through the drought were fire ants. And not only did they strut, they came inside--without knocking or a by-your-leave.

I lost 90% of my tomatoes, figs, muscadines, and anything else that held moisture. I didn't mind. The birds needed water, too. I'd turn on the sprinklers and you'd think I'd opened bath houses. Good thing the doves, mockingbirds and their kith and kin don't require soap, or we'd be up to our eaves in bubbles.

Well, after the thunderstorm the other night, I thought I'd check the south 40. Not much to see. Or so it seemed. One has to know where to look. One has to know what to look for. One also knows how to look. (wink-and-nod) Shadows aren't always shadows. Sometimes things hide in plain sight. Sometimes one has to use peripheral vision, but it it's meant to be seen, you will see it. See?

And, if you are ever desperate for something to shoot, plant morning glories! They might blow across your world, but come feeding time, you won't mind. If babies grow in your grass, just yank 'em up and toss 'em in the composter. Or not. Just pull 'em up--roots and all-and get rid of the darlings. Then, company comes, as sure as fall follows summer.

Say, "Welcome to the feast," since they're gonna eat anyhow. And smile!

S.O.A.

2011-08-25T02:59:00.000-05:00

I have tried to watch this show too many times. No matter how hard I try to figure out the whys and huhs of it, they just won't stick. It always, always, always boils down to a bunch of old ass men trying too hard playing at being gangster wannabes.

Most of the main cast from that defunct western, "Deadwood," is in the show. Ron Perlman is still hot, and he needs a pay check like the rest of us, but still . . . It's embarrassing--the story lines they come up with. I mean, unless I fell and hit my head--woke up in the middle--and completely lost the plot . . . Then I need someone to tell me the back story. No. Will someone tell me the whole story?

Explain why and how a group of aging bikers can trek to Ireland to buy guns. They can't get them in the US of A? Oops. Maybe they've all been sold south of the border. And tell me why an attractive female, who happens to be a doctor, breaks the law for bikers. Oh, and someone who works as a hospital administrator just happens to be part of the gang, too?

And Peggy. Peg Bundy without Al. How did that happen? Peg-o-Al's heart used to he a hottie. Now she just looks like a hardened, old Amy Winehouse backup, without the hive. And I always liked Peg.

See? This is what happens when you can't sleep. You surf for entertainment after the eyes go dry from reading. You think: Hmm. This might be worth watching. So you try. You give up. You forget. You try again. What's not to watch? You have the four major gang groups: Irish, Italian, Mayan, and what? Polish? 'Cause so far I haven't seen a single Blood or Crypt (?). Oh! The B&Cs don't ride bikes. I get it. It's about biker gangsters. Old ones. I mean older ones. No wonder it don't fly. Whey gangsters get to be these guys' ages, all they care about is AARP, RVs, Arthritis meds, and selling their Harleys? What do I know?

What do I know? I'll tell ya. "S.O.A." just isn't believable. It's SOL. With me, anyway. Then, again, I've never seen "Scarface" or "The Godfather" either. Guess I'm just not into gangs and gangsters. What about you? Am I missing out?

Pst. They even have an Irish priest! LOL! A rogue Irish priest. And we wonder why they're still fighting over religion over there? In a word? I don't care.

Pst2: Have you seen the commercials with people living behind bars? Ha! If you don't ride a Harley . . . LOL!

Don't Make Me Eat My Words

2011-08-24T00:12:00.000-05:00

When you blog, do you seriously think someone is going to to take notice, read your musings, and goodness gracious--reply? Okay, the truth is most likely a resounding y-e-s. So, with posting comes responsibility. Yes? Okay, yes. But what if your posts are like opportunities to talk to yourself 'cause no one else does. Not about the things that interest you anyway.

I mean, I don't know anyone personally who loves Ancient Egypt as much as I do. So, I blog about things like that, or thoughts that need out, 'cause if I don't, my make-believe head will explode. Yeah, that's how it is. Thoughts spill over from my journals, and since typing is faster than penning, this is what happens.

Did they really look like this, the daughters of Akhenaten?

Was he this beautiful--with long eyes, cheek bones to cry for, and an upper lip reminiscent of a bird's wings? Or was he disfigured because of inbreeding? Is this merely an artist's interpretation of the ideal of the times?

Was she this beautiful in life, or was license taken to idealize and "improve" her looks ala Cleopatra?

What do you think about this one?

(All images are from Rose-Marie & Rainer Hagen's EGYPT.)

All this started with a comment from Georg.

This Is Me On A Good Day

2011-08-21T00:34:00.000-05:00

Today is a good day. Yay! Hey, I say!

It's also a page from an older journal. I think the ad is from O Magazine.

I have had a string of good days. They've been sneaking up on me. Kinda-sorta. Well, I've just been getting enough rest, 'cause I've been sleeping in. I will be so glad when this thyroid thing is straightened out. Nephew and JC have been kind in a non-demanding sort of way. They eat what I plate up for them, pronounce it delicious, and have seconds. When I am too tired to lift a pot, hey, that's cool; the order Chinese, or pizza, or have leftovers.

Am reading "The Hunger Games." Would I have read it when I was "age appropriate?" Not sure. It's a great read for summer. Haven't read "Cowboys & Aliens" in two or three days. I've just been busy. I haven't written a letter all day. Now that's what this is all about. Letter writing, or lack of.

I don't have anything to write about. I haven't done anything worth writing about. My musings aren't worth the ink it takes to write Dear. I haven't taken a decent photo since the grasshopper.

The grasshopper! Ahh! I gotta tell ya . . . Was cleaning a head of romaine. Just peeling away those damaged outer leaves, when I saw something dun colored. Dun. Hmm. Brb.

Yes! It's dun.

So, I saw something dun colored against a creamy seam near the creamy base. A quick look-see revealed a grasshopper. This grasshopper.

See how I'm holding him in the paper towel? I'm no fool. Thought he was dead at first, 'cause he was pale and listless. He wiggled an antennae, then a leg. What to do with him was the question of the day, so I did what came naturally. I photographed him.

Asked nephew what I should do after the photo shoot. Keep or release? I released. What? You thought I was going to let it die a horrible death? You don't know me?

***

I used to wear a little bell on an ankle bracelet. It tinkled every time I moved. A certain daughter whose initials start with the letter E, once commented: "For someone who works so hard to be anonymous, you don't seem to mind drawing a lot of attention." I miss my little bell.

***

I cannot get enough of this image.

Such a good day!

I bid you goodnight.

The Funniest Man Alive

2011-08-19T02:35:00.000-05:00

Seriously, in a word, the funniest man alive is this guy, Colin Quinn. An Irishman? Ha! No. Just a funny dude.

Word is, too, he was on SNL once upon a time. I am not, nor have I ever been a fan. Am not sorry I missed him on the show. Am beyond glad I caught him tonight. I paid to watch "Priest" with nephew. Was surfing, knowing I had to be in bed early, 'since we know "early to bed, early to rise" makes this limner as pissed off as a horse swatting horse flies, if she hasn't had enough snooze time. It takes me four hours to fall asleep for eight. That's some kinda math, but there you have it.

Oh, by the way, I'm sorry for taking time off and away, not that anyone reads five out of my six blogs, but writing is therapy for my head and heart, so I forgive me for not writing for several days (?) or a couple-three weeks. Not to say I haven't had loads to write about. You know me. I am one long-winded sister who loves to write it like it is, even when no one gives a rat's chapped ass. And we both know I'm good at making it up as I go. On the fly. By the seat of my capris and pedal pushers. I like that word pedal pushers. Who pushes a pedal?

Any how, I watched "Priest." Give me a good, new take on the old vampire story and I'll hug Renfield, flies and all. I so like that guy who plays the lead priest. Am delighted to see he's working steady. But I was saying . . . Oh. That Quinn guy is funny. He's a little crude, a little crass, but still funny.

His is that make-you-laugh-at-yourself-and-your-kinfolk-and-everyone-else kind of funny. He doesn't spare anyone. Come to think of it, I think he even mentioned me personally. He saved the good ole US of A for last. Was poignant.

Please watch. Laugh a little. Shake your head a little. Be a little sad. Wallow in it a bit, cause he doesn't leave you there languishing for very long. In no time at all you'll be bustin' a gut, slapping a knee, and lol for real. I promise. Werd.

Imagination Inflation

2011-08-15T22:45:00.000-05:00

Hello, this is the cover of one of three books I am reading. Wanna talk summer reading? Well, there's reading, and then there's reading. I finished Cutting for Stone. Wished it hadn't ended by the time I'd finished. Not sure why I didn't like any of the characters. I more than liked the book. The words melted inside my reading place. I reluctantly picked up Someone Knows My Name. The first pages hooked me. I wanted out by chapter two.

I hated the beginning of Cold Vengeance, but stuck with it because Preston & Childs dangled Constance as bait. Pendergast was a weak shadow of the agent Erin and I fell in love with. Poor writing spoiled the first few chapters. Even I could have written them better, and would not have made the juvenile mistakes P&C made. Shame on y'all.

And shame again for such a piss-poor story line. It read like y'all wrote an obligatory piece of fiction to appease the readers who were on the brink of ditching you because you left Aloysius Pendergast in the bottom of a dusty drawer. The both of you just dragged it out--empty paragraph after empty paragraph--just to keep us hanging and hoping. Well, you can eat my dust, 'cause I bought Cowboys and Aliens.

I got The Hunger Games, too. I read Cowboys and Aliens while waiting for for nephew. Last night the manager turned out the lights in the parking lot. I believe he did it just to piss me off, since I sent him a message after he sent me a smart-assed message that all rides must be in the parking lot by 11:30, like he's the boss of me. I said he should unlock the doors by 11:31 then. I guess nephew told him. But the yolk's on his face. I had a flashlight in my bag. An Ever Ready or what ever you call it. And the batteries were semi-fresh. I read until he unlocked the doors. So pfftt on you.

Anyway, it's time to go pick up nephew. More later.

Illumination for Beauty's Sake

2011-07-27T02:37:00.001-05:00

This is one of the most beautiful postcards I've had the pleasure of receiving. It came via Postcrossing. I wish I could read all that's written here. Everything about it touches the artist parts of me. It speaks to the calligrapher in me. It speaks to the parts of me that appreciate the thoughtfulness of the sender. And if I could pass on this piece of beauty, I would. I would pass it on to Amy Winehouse. I have missed her for a long time now. I guess I will go on missing her for even longer.

I wish the words on my postcard were about beauty, and life, and one-of-a-kindness, and one-of-a-kind-molds breaking after a single cast. If I could make it so, I would write it all down on this little card, address it to Amy Winehouse--address unknown, stick on a stamp, and mail it. Maybe then I could end my mourning for an artist whose songs embraced, and enticed me into embracing in return, after the first notes she flung my way. She illuminated the world of music. Within her lay a part of the mystery of illumination.

Trust In Me, Like I Trust In You

2011-07-23T00:48:00.000-05:00

a © postcard

Etta James sang Trust in Me. Beyonce sang it for the movie, Cadillac Records. Now, truthfully, I haven't seen it, but I bought a handful of songs from the soundtrack. I listen to them a lot when I drive.

Now, the way I see it is, if lovers need trust, and lovers are friends, then friends should be trustworthy, too. I love my friends. My friends are not my lovers though, but my lover has to be my friend. You see where this has gone, right? But, what happens if you think you've made a new friend, and it makes you so happy you could just spit--then from out of the blue, something makes you go, "Uh-oh!" or "Whoa, Nellie!"?

Who do you trust? Who can you trust? I can't even trust myself 100% of the time. And it's not a bad thing, mind you. See, I can't trust myself to feel the same way from one day to the next. I can't trust my instinct if I don't pay attention to it. I can't trust myself to make the same dish twice. Well, that's not all my fault because no ingredients are the same. I can trust me to trust my first impressions because it's instinctual. That won't change. It doesn't mean I'm always right, but in a way I am. First impressions are survival clues.

You have no ideas how many times the people I like right away end up being the least trustworthy, and some of the ones I don't cotton to right away have ended up being life-long best friends. Still and all, I don't like people who . . . Shucks. I don't know how to finish that. Truth is, sometimes I don't even like me. Do you? Always like yourself, is what I mean.

Well, do you?

Do you watch "Memphis Blues?" Why do they make Dwight act like he thinks he can sing? You'd think he could do a better job of lip-syncing. Poor lip-syncing irritates me like my bra chafes around my chest when I'm sweating in 103 degrees of Texas heat. Those bras that are supposed to wick moisture away from the skin? Liars! Where does the wicked moisture go? Next to your skin! Hello-o-o! And why does the announcer whisper in that Keller Edu commercial? Creepy. Means they're lyin'. Instinct!

A Butt-Grinder Kind of Day

2011-07-22T04:10:00.000-05:00

(The Journal Cover that roars.)

I often wonder/ponder how in the world I survive butt-grinding days. Seriously. And if I stick with it, put it on lay-away, to be picked up on a lovelier/saner day--I totally get it. Thing is, when we are in the middle of getting our butts ground, we're so caught up in the pain and gore that's being grated into episodes of life, that we forget to take a deep breath and let it go. It's gonna happen 'cause it's meant to happen, so try to go with the flow, only don't let it flow you. Go, you, instead.

Do you remember the last time you shouted "asshole!" at someone? Now, tell me, why ass hole? In metaphysics an ass (donkey) represents the will. So, basically, we're calling someone a hole in our will. Willful people hate having holes drilled in their wills. That reminds me of a quote by Sherlock Holmes. He told Watson, "Prominent men have prominent noses." It's from A Woman in Green. So doesn't it go without saying that strong willed people have bigger ass holes? And why is ass hole such a bad word that must be bleeped or disguised? We all have one. Will. Well all have a will. Will power. A legal will to see that our wills are carried out.

Now. That brings me back to the butt grinder kind of day. Why does grinding a butt hurt more? Why not an elbow grinder kind of day? Because, for some as(s)inine reason, and the extra s is all mine, being a butt, as in the butt of a joke, or having a big butt is meant to be funny. Really, it's not. And neither is the day I had. It was a Queen of Butt Grinders. It smarts every time I pay attention to it., which is a lot like touching or probing a buttock that's been caught in a grinder. Ouch. (Imitate ET when you think it.)

I promise you (instead of swearing) that every muscle in my body aches (no exaggeration) from jonesing for more adrenaline because the initial rush is heady as hell, and exhilarating. Not too long ago it was frightening. You see, I flew into anger today. Anger was unleashed? Yes. I let anger off its leash today. And it flew. It shook me inside-out. "Upside down it turned me . . ." No-no Diana. Back! Back! It ground its way up from my solar plexus, through my throat, where it rattled (that vibrato thing is still going on) itself into a roar and . . . Snatch! I popped the leash! I saw the energy. Seriously and for real. And I slammed the door of the Honda so hard the air that got between it and me--lifted my blouse--and blew my hair back.

Then that voice whispered, "Shh-h. Hush now." Not easily appeased, it snarled. Eyes started to roll. Then . . . "Stay! Bad girl!" I said, "Oh, hell no!" 'Cause she remembered the days and nights when no one roared for her. So, finally. She roared back, all on her own.

The end of an ass-grinder.

Another Proudest Monkey

2011-07-19T19:50:00.000-05:00

Oh, how amazing, beautiful, artful, special, cute, and evidence of thoughtfulness. Thank you, Motherkitty. This is another image I've seen, wanted, yet never bought. It is magnificent.

The second I saw it, the movie Monkey Business, that stars Harvey Keitel, popped onto my internal screen. I liked that movie so much, and I rooted for the monkey all the way. It was kinder than I would have been had I been in its shoes. I wouldn't have left such a nice letter. ;) My sister, Mina, said the monkey wrote old Harv's character an I am pissed off letter.

People, here is another exquisite, beautifully rendered example of a proud monkey. He can read, write, and is smart enough not to smoke. He's preparing the pipe for his master. You seem a letter arrived from his monkey lover. She is leaving him for another because he is more devoted to his master than he is to her. Oh, oh, oh, the story that unravels is one you shouldn't miss.

Monkey see, monkey do!

(WALTER FORD - Dirty Dick Burton's Aide De Camp 2002 - watercolor, gouache, ink and pencil on paper) I used to be so good with gouache. Wonder if I still am? Hmm. Reckon I should stop wondering and find out, huh?

I AM ONE OF THE PROUDEST MONKEYS

2011-07-11T23:56:00.000-05:00

. . . because I can read.

I can write.

I read this: http://moroccanmaryam.typepad.com/

Now I can write about it.

There is no such thing as coincidence, right? Good, because I made this last night. Tonight I read Maryam's post. Yep, I am one of the proudest monkeys. Are you?

Inside, Looking Out

2011-07-02T01:29:00.000-05:00

This is Feist. She likes the same window ledge Minuet likes. In fact, she's usurped Min's claim on said ledge. See those feline nose smudges? They get there when one or the other perches and wants a closer look at what's going on in the yard below. They press their noses to the glass the same as kids.

I like looking up when I'm outside, and I see one or the other looking down, watching me. Of course I wave with my good arm--like they can wave back. Neither Simon, nor Min have ever set foot outside. Feist has. She doesn't seem to miss it though. Relieved, I try to clean that pane at least once a week. I use vinegar and water since I don't like to use chemicals. Minuet doesn't like the smell. Feist doesn't seem to care much one way or the other.

Feist looking through the window makes a wonderful metaphor for any number of things. I am reminded of good words when I look at the photos of her here. Words like:

Reflections: I seem to be in a reflective mood lately.

Smudges: Looking back often feels like looking through my glasses when they need cleaning. Sometimes I prefer blurred edges.

Down: It's as good as hindsight. It's like looking down from this ~~hill~~ mountain I've hiked. The mountain is clearly a metaphor for life. The hump. Middle age? Nope. Not quite. My grandma almost made it to 100. That was middle age, according to scriptures, which were filled with metaphors and parables and such . . .

Looking/Examining: Introspection. It's great for any age. I need to look back and examine some of the tracks I've left. That reminds me of Feist covering up her spoor. I got tired of sweeping up litter all day after she used the small Feist-box. She covers everything up with such vigor I allowed her to use the big cats box real quick. I had to.

That's what I've done. I've buried some of the past I didn't want to "see." In fact, I might have tried to bury it too well. But, like Grandpa What's-his-name always said, "If you stir up %$#@, it'll sure enough stink." Or was it "If you step in %$#@ . . ."? I guess it doesn't matter one whit since neither Grandpa Vox, nor Grandpa Bud never told me that. See? There I go lying again. In a word? It's called covering up.

Innie or Outie

2011-06-29T22:17:00.000-05:00

I am an "innie" struggling to become an "outie." It's not easy. In fact, it's been downright difficult. It's been hard. There have been times when the struggle has been so hard, I've wanted out.

Death is the backdoor out. I'm glad someone nailed it shut every time I tried to open it all those years ago. When the nails weren't in place, I was fortunate to have someone yanking on the rope tethered round my waist. They'd give it a good yank and slowly pull me back to the center of the room. I can't ignore the rare times I managed to save my own sorry ass. Sorry assed me. That's how I saw myself then. Struggling for light when you're drowning in darkness makes it difficult to spy anything remotely close to a minute glimmer hope, but continued groping, even if you're blindfolded, will save the sorriest of asses.

***

I was startled to see the above burst of white in the evening shade. The plant hadn't bloomed in such a long time. It loves water, and we're trying not to strangle in the noose of drought that has some seeing Texas as a disaster area. In light of that, I reckon the word "startled" is a gross under-description. So, stretch your imagination to get a better picture, if you will.

Anyhow . . . I "rushed" inside, grabbed My Third Eye, and off we went for a close-up look-see. I was so in awe I totally missed the cues that screamed "DANGER, Willa Robinson! Danger!" That's a fire ant alarm.

Fire ants cured me of shaving my legs. So did a lack of thyroid hormones. When they attacked me yesterday I wished for hairy feet. It would have given me fair warning, making the "Danger, Will Robinson" alert unnecessary. Needless to say it, but they ate up my right foot. They lodged in the mesh of my clogs. I danced like I was Nero in Hell, and the Devil was the fiddler without a roof for me to dance on.

That little scenario is reminiscent of my life, so far. I've been "lived on," with very little intentional "living out" being done on my part. And here I go again, camouflaging my meaning with a flurry of mis-directional quickstepping. Shucks, I even made up a word or three as diversional, self-protection. So, here goes . . . One more time:

I've been trying to tell the truth about my life. Especially in therapy. But, is omission lying? What does a body do when the truth sounds too big to be believable, and you know it sounds too fantastical for anyone else? Yet you need someone to believe.

What do you do?

(to be continued . . . )

About that hub . . .

2011-06-25T02:37:00.000-05:00

A one-armed photographer is about as masterful as a one-legged can-can dancer, but we both get the job done. I found the Katy Heritage Society, the Depot, and the Caboose. Just take a gander at some of the things I found.

The three counties Katy is the hub for are Harris, Fort Bent, and, Waller. Imagine that Patty. I promise to go back and take a better photo but for now, this cocked eyed one can still offer a bit of information. I've lived here for over ten years now. I've seen MKT every time I'm in downtown Katy, yet never knew it stood for . . . Get this. It stands for Missouri, Kansas, and Texas. I mean, who knew?

So, since it was shortened to KT, they called the little town Katy. There is a Katy Did, Il, but I couldn't find any sister towns that bear the name Katy.

Wish I had a telegram to send. If I could, I'd send it to Hootersville.

Wait! There's more . . .

Katy Did

2011-06-24T02:20:00.000-05:00

I think it's time I introduced you to Katy. I mean Katy proper. So I went exploring today. My adventure began with a quest for Katy postcards.

When I send postcards to people from Postcrossing who ask for scenes of whereI live, I send scenes from Houston. We are part of the city, yet not all of Katy is. It hasn't been completely swallowed up by the big metropolis. You'll see what I mean if you come along on this mission to discover more about the town and place I call home. The people of Katy did some great things.

In a word? I will explore what Katy did.

My Third Eye Sees . . .

2011-06-16T01:23:00.000-05:00

. . . a lot. My Third Eye saw this and kept a copy. I'm glad I have it. We haven't taken hardly any outdoor photographs for a while now. The drought is slowly leaching the color all around me. So, I thought I'd look at what's been captured, and I marvel at my forgetfulness. Like this.

It appeals to me at this moment

because it reflects how I feel

Damaged

Broken

Forgotten

A little less than

Worthless

Of diminished value

Not worth the ink

It takes

To write relief

In the form

Of a prescription

For pain pills

That will make me

At least FEEL

less fractured

less worthless

less hopeful

And make me

comfortable enough to

be capable of

wiping my own

ass.

Tea for Two & One

2011-06-14T21:50:00.000-05:00

I've told you how bad I am about saving the good things for later, then losing them to time, accident, disuse, decay . . . Well, it won't be that way with my new tea cups. Aren't the two of the prettiest little things you're likely to see me own?

Erin has a red bowl that matches my little tea cups. They arrived today. She has blogged that her red bowl is her favorite to use for eating ice cream. (I think.) I think she's had it for a while, 'cause white shows through the little bumps where the color has been washed or "loved" off.

I couldn't pass up a chance to own cups that will remind me of her each time I use one. They come in pairs. I imagined one for her, and one for me. We'll make a pot of tea next time she's home. We'll set things up on the special tray I bought just for that, and we'll do tea. In the middle of the bed . . .

How about you? Would you have tea with me?

(to be continued)

Wordless Wonder

2011-06-13T23:36:00.000-05:00

In the Palm of My Hand

2011-06-02T17:39:00.000-05:00

In a word? Being confined to my bed doesn't mean I can't ~~work~~ create something beautiful. Stamping is much different from writing, drawing, cooking, pushing a vacuum or driving. It's practically effortless. I don't have to move my right arm very much.

However, it does require a fairly clear head. Trying to stamp a hennaed hand takes imagination. You'll need an overall design on paper, or if you're like me, you create on the fly. A basic understanding of the art, a bit of creativity, and appropriate design stamps will help immensely.

~~You need the right colors.~~ You may use any colors you choose, but I prefer to learn the proper ins and outs of an original art before branching out. For me it's all about respect for an ancient art. I believe basic knowledge will eventually lead to mastery.

Henna is synonymous with body art. Egyptians used it to color their hair and nails. By the 16th century AD, its wide usage had spread to the Middle East and North Africa. It became popular in India, where it was mixed with scented oils, and used to decorate hands and feet.

Designs developed across cultural lines, and "There are three broad distinctive styles that can be defined by geographical area -- Asian, Middle Eastern, and North Africa." (HENNA Body Art, by Mark Smith) The story of henna is worth reading. I like the idea of art in the palm of my hand. I also like imitating a hennaed hand with stamped designs, brown ink, and a blue hand. In a word? I heart henna!

What Was I Thinking?

2011-05-30T01:09:00.000-05:00

Am beginning to see how much I've grown. This is a journal entry from 2009. Sometimes I am so funny. I didn't edit out my box of Crayons.

See that banana cuticle cream? Well, it works just dandy, but it goes rancid before you can use it all. That tape? I think I have a tape fetish. Or I just like tape.

And what's with "Come Play With Me?" What was I thinking? I dunno, but I do know that I should doodle and color more. Okay, I get it. I have Crayons! I'm inviting you to come play with me, for real. Right? In a word? Heck yeah.

Mi Bonita Caja!

2011-05-27T23:31:00.000-05:00

Muy bonita, si?

I obviously left the circle intact, and for a good reason. But, I wanted you to see how my handiwork. All kudos to Marilyn, The Toymaker. My box might not be perfect, but it's perfect for me. No, there are no bugs in this one. I made this one for another special reason. I'll share it with you when it's done.

And yes, I know these projects are for children, but I'm a child too. I am my mother's child. I didn't have access to such pretty free crafts as Marilyn's when I was growing up, but they're available now. So why not have fun, yes? My inner girl will always come out and play. The girl might be older, but she still enjoys making pretty things. Just wait until you see what comes next. You'll want to join me!

Don't you like mi bonita caja? I do! En una palabra? Disfrute!

TO EACH HER OWN

2011-05-26T17:54:00.000-05:00

And so, yes, we all dance to the beat of different drummers. On occasion, some of us come together in a familial dance because we catch the same rhythms for a spell. That's when we rejoice! Like dancing in a conga line! We move our bodies in unison--our feet stomping beats that are really messages that our waving arms and clapping hands answer in kind. Oh, we all dance to the rhythms of Love!

And though we might think we often dance alone . . . There will forever be unseen dance partners. For none of us is ever truly alone. Evidence? Enter the Toy Maker!

. . . who makes whimsical things such as these . . .

Bug boxes! Who knew?

I cannot help wondering how she knew there were so many like me, in need of her imagination, her magic, and her craft. Necessity is verily the mother of invention. And art. And kindness, because The Toy Maker made this for free! She fills full the needs of children. All children!

She leaves her mark in more ways than one . . .

I like her designs that when made, become home to one . . .

of a favorite from my very private collection!

Dear, dear Toy Maker! Hello-o-o-o? Are you there? You are the kindest toy maker, I do declare!

In a word? The Toy Maker is superb!

Unsolved Mystery

2011-05-23T21:08:00.000-05:00

It's been over eleven years since I took this photograph, and to date, no one has been able to identify the marks. I sent a query to the tourist bureau in Charleston. Someone bold and self-assured replied. Said they were sure they could solve the mystery. I sent copies. They never wrote again.

I wonder what would happen if were to offer a handsome reward for the answers to my mystery. In a word? Probably nothing.

What's Love Got to Do

2011-05-20T23:01:00.000-05:00

I almost asked what's love got to do with it, but I answered myself before I could finish. I mean, look at this face. Just look for a second even if you don't like cats.

She'd just had her fill of the milk I'd give her. Sheesh. Even now I'm mesmerized by those eyes. Mom Nature knew what she was doing when she invented kittens. There's nothing to dislike about them. They look at us like this one and it's all over except for the "Here kitty-kitty."

One good look and you don't know if you should laugh or pity the poor thing. I look at her and do both. Then I wonder. But, we have two cats. Don't need a third.

Made a bunch of phone calls. For people who are supposed to love animals, the ones I spoke with sounded like people who were there because they were ordered by some court to show up. If they were doing community service, I wouldn't want them feeding me if I showed up at a soup kitchen.

So, Feist is spending the night. I think I've found her a home. In Chicago. Now, if only I knew someone who owns a private jet . . .

One of the proudest monkeys. . .

2011-05-15T00:32:00.000-05:00

Just a little while ago I lay in the tub soaking, singing along to "Proudest Monkey," and composing inside my head, when it hit me. I remembered this little monkey I've been keeping. Reminded me of myself once I wondered what could make me feel like one of the proudest monkeys, too. I realized that being able to read was one of the best things. What would make you one of the proudest monkeys?

I ATE MY HOMEWORK

2011-05-11T22:56:00.000-05:00

Yes, I ate my homework. I couldn't blame the dog 'cause we don't have one. The cats wouldn't touch this with a ten foot long paw . . . Well, maybe Min would.

You see, I was meant to be practicing taking great food photos. There are times when I cook a meal with the intention of taking step-by-step photos. No, I'm not working for a magazine or something; I've been fiddling around with an Armstrong Family Reunion cookbook since 1997, but I never use exact measurements when I cook, so it's been a problem. I do "a pinch of this, that, or the other," and create recipes on the fly. The good ones are all in my head. I promise to write them down, but of course I never remember to do it. People who want to make a dish they like, usually watch me make it. Hint: It's a great way to get repeat dinner guests.

Now, last night I didn't feel like cooking, so I had Carrabba's lip-licking salad with the hazelnut encrusted goat cheese medallion, a cup of their to-cry-for tomato soup, and my "Limner's Embellished Carrabba's Margharita Pizza." It has a long name but it's lingers in your memory for a long-long-long time after you've had one.

This is how you embellish it my way: Start with their base, the Margharita pizza, then add sun dried tomatoes, artichoke, red onion, . . . Dang! I forget. I can't even remember the embellishments! But no matter, I brought it home and had a wonderful dinner. Except for the salad. The soup and pizza were enough, so I had the salad for dinner tonight. I just added goat cheese crumbles, their house dressing, a few Gulf shrimp, and let me say this: It was so good I didn't mind the oxidized bits of lettuce. Oh! I had corn on the cob with a little sea salt, and a drizzle of extra virgin olive oil, too. I chased it all down with a guzzle of Steaz's lemon tea.

I took a few photographs. I ~~couldn't~~ didn't play around with angles and lighting the way I was supposed to. No one wants a warm salad, right? So, I HAD to eat my homework before I'd finished it. (Burp!)

Basil! There was basil and something else . . . Hmm. What else . . . ?

FAVORITE THINGS

2011-05-09T23:38:00.000-05:00

Are you ever surprised at the things you keep? Do you keep stuff like empty notecard boxes because you like the art work? Do you keep old stationery boxes because they they're from Crane's? Well, I do. I can always reuse a pretty box for good things-- like rubber stamps, old cards and letters, favorite drawing pencil stubs. Rolls of decorative tapes find a home to another. I have a bird's skull, pieces of birds' eggs, pretty little stones, dried flowers, seeds, tears . . .

I've gone so far as to recover lids of pretty boxes. I like to put nice gifts inside, all nested in a gently wadded sheet of tissue paper. But this one? This one has absolutely nothing inside. I simply keep it on a shelf of the cubby in my studio just for looks. I can sit as my desk in front of the window that faces out, onto the street, with the sun lighting up the corners, and pore over the lid until I slip loose from time's tether, and I'm inside a stranger's storage room-garage-cellar. I'm willing to bet you know the name of the artist.

Aha! Caught you looking!

Just what the doctor ordered . . .

2011-05-09T20:19:00.000-05:00

I'm not especially good at mail art. I'm nuts for most of it, but quite frankly, some of it gives me the willies. First time I saw this woman with all the knives, grinning at me from my mailbox, I slammed the door shut and looked around, like I expected her to leap at me from a bush or something. Then, embarrassed, I laughed.

What's the first thing that came to mind when you saw it? She's got one sharp mind? Hahaha! Right? Or, Dang! That's some headache. Thanks Patty!

I say thanks, 'cause Patty got me over the fear hump. Well, maybe not fear, but the willies hump. I cannot count the times I've pulled this out and looked at it. I've studied it. I've pondered, and wondered, and reasoned. I've been to the mailart blog, and let me tell you--you have to be pretty sharp to reach the level of creativity the majority of those artists exhibit. Take a look at my pathetic efforts and you'll see what I mean.

Right off the bat, you can tell I'm old school. Ya gotta love that pocketbook though! There's a story there, too.

Less is more. Right? I should have left Queenie alone, but she's meant to convey a message to someone. I've got to know when to hold 'em, fold 'em, and quit. I still think she's kinda cute, though. Son't you? Queenie is now my official Road Dog - Mail Dog.

In a word? Practice, practice, practice!

Hey, Patty!

Change

2011-05-07T00:07:00.000-05:00

This is a photograph of a notecard I bought at least three years ago. It's one of a set of four. I didn't like two of the photos, so I never used them. I never give something I wouldn't want to own myself. So, the box sat tucked away in the back of a drawer.

I was looking for a stack of ~~lost~~ misplaced letters recently, and found them. There's one more in the set I'm still not crazy about, but I love the tulips so much that I saved two. It's funny how I save some of the things I like. There are times when I've held on too long, and the things I've grasped lost their luster and value to age, or the elements.

I like this card now. I haven't figured out what it is that I didn't like before. What changed? Maybe it's me. Maybe I'm the one who changed.

In a word . . . Change is good.

the missing women

2011-04-29T19:06:00.000-05:00

Another asthma attack forces me to sit this one out. I've stopped whining and complaining about it, though. I have come to the realization that maybe, just maybe, this is Spirit's way of telling me to be still for a while. I'm always doing--even in my sleep.

Feels like I need an excuse not to do anything more than sit, and read my favorite blogs for an hour. Asthma is one I can do without, yet, here I sit.

I visited http://www.alamodejournals.com/ just minutes ago. I love the images. I need to find a substitute for the word love. I feel it is over used, misused, and yes, poorly used by almost everyone. I will spend time searching for an appropriate substitute asap, but it will do for now. Alamode Journals has been a favorite for a long while. If I could take shots like the ones there . . .

While I admired the artful beauty of each image, something kept buzzing my consciousness, like an annoying gnat seeking moisture at the corners of my eyes. Go away! And, "swat!" Since I couldn't swat at my monitor, or my brain, I sat still--in waiting mode--and before I could say "RAID!" I had it. Did you get it? Were you buzzed, too?

What's wrong with these pictures, I asked.

Where are the women? I wondered out loud.

Where are all the missing women? I whispered.

My brain knew something was wrong. I had been remiss in giving the mind "gnat" my full attention. I should have paid attention sooner.

Now, asking, wondering, and wishing, I feel like the question was akin to me standing in the middle of a garden, wanting to ask God, "Where have all the flowers gone?" Yet, I couldn't ask for turning round-and-round, searching for the missing.

Poetry in Motion

2011-04-28T22:10:00.000-05:00

In a word?

We won.

The Black Mamba came out to play.

Again.

What else can I say?

Watching basketball is like watching poetry in motion.

Signs of the Times

2011-04-25T22:39:00.000-05:00

weaponed woman

by Gwendolyn Brooks

Well, life has been a baffled vehicle

And baffling.

But she fights,

And has fought, according to her lights

And the lenience of her whirling-place.

She fights with semi-folded arms,

Her strong bag,

And the stiff frost of her face

(that challenges "When"

And "If.")

And altogether she does Rather Well.

from, she walks in beauty

A Woman's Journey Through Poems

Selected and introduced by Caroline Kennedy

Learning to Relax

2011-04-25T02:41:00.000-05:00

Learning how to relax can be relaxing, too. This is how I practice. I . . .

1) Get a glass of my favorite Steaz.
2) Find the NBA playoff game.
3) Put my feet up on the ottoman.
4) Watch the game.
5) Try not to feel guilty.

Number 5 is the hardest part, although JC was home for the weekend, and he made it easier. He entertained Simon and Minuet. He gave them their pre-bedtime treats, and put them t bed. We had take-out Friday night. I made a big pot of lentil soup yesterday, and we had leftovers today. He should be back in Kansas by now. And, yes, the Lakers lost. ;)

Hope everyone had the best Easter, Passover, or the best weekend you could imagine! In a word, r-e-l-a-x spells at ease.

B-BALL WOMAN HERE

2011-04-21T01:09:00.000-05:00

I like basketball.

I'd rather watch the playoffs than cook dinner.

Sometimes I have to do both.

Thank goodness for the flat screen in the kitchen,

or we'd eat a lot of veggie pizzas, Chinese,

otherwise--or it would come down to,

Every tub sets on its own bottom.

I like b-ball so much

I buy NBA embellishments for my favorite team.

I embellish journal pages instead of scrapbook pages.

I have a top ten list of my favorite teams.

I root for the one on top when they play against each other.

But, no one tops my all-time No. 1 team.

No one compares to MY team.

They won tonight!

When they play, everything else comes second.

No phone calls are answered.

If you are my friend, you know not to call.

If you are my friend, you won't call, 'cause you know I'm watching the playoffs.

Sometimes one of my younger sisters will text me.

Like last night, and the night before.

BTW, Dallas won last night.

My sister wrote: Are you watching the game?

I replied, but only because the game broke away for a commercial: Is pig pork?

She wrote: Hahahaha! Hahahaha!

Then she texted something ugly about one of my favorite players.

I put the phone on the sofa, then I finished watching the game.

Did I mention that we won?

In a word . . . I root for the best.