I've moved!

Thanks to Ave, I've finally got my new site, http://meredithpurvis.com, up in something resembling an orderly fashion. Check over there for new posts!

My Heart Belongs to You

A month between posts is not how blogging is done. But then, I like to break the rules every now and then. And thinks have been busy. The move is more or less complete, and I'm back to school for my last year in the program. Gasp! It's almost all over and I can't quite believe it. Now I have to figure out what to do next.

Speaking of next, on the top of my list is figuring out my wordpress blog and getting myself back into blogging. Expect random bits and pieces here as I try to reenter the habit over the next few weeks. Like the above photo (the title of which is the same as this blog title), from a photo walk with Miss Emily. You should check her out her blog. She's crafty, creative, and has one heck of an eye for photography.

For now I must away to write an analysis of the book project I just completed. Hooray homework. Seriously.

A Warm Spot of Sun

I put off my shower this morning for a few extra minutes so I could enjoy a warm spot of sun with the kittens. It's been busy of late, so those moments in the early morning light gave me a chance to center myself. It was nice, I suppose is what I want to say.

I should also add that I think Nutmeg is truly more dog than cat.

A barbed needle to the finger

I've wanted to try needle felting for quite some time, but I've been slow to get around to it. I purchased a bag of mixed wool samples at the Maryland Sheep and Wool Festival back in May, and I've poked around trying to find felting needles ever since with no luck. I also contemplated attempting to sew my own throw pillow to needle felt, but was intimidated by the directions (I want to sew, but I think I should only attempt one new craft at a time if I'm to avoid total dejection at my newbie-ness).

This weekend I finally got around to buying a cheap throw pillow, and as luck would have it I met up with Miss Emily for lunch and she was kind enough to loan me her felting needles. I sat down last night with wool, throw pillow, and needles, and threw caution to the wind. The process is simple. Take wool, place it on pillow in general shape you want (I went with circles cause it seemed easy), then start stabbing the wool with your needle. Repeat over and over and over.

In an impressive display of dexterity, I only stabbed myself once. I'm pretty pleased with the results, though if I had it to do over I'd get rid of the nasty greenish brown spot (baby poop, anyone?). This is definitely something I'll continue to explore, and I'm looking into buying my own set of needles.

A place that just feels right

Ave and I are in New Mexico this weekend for his friend's wedding celebration. It's reminding me how much I love it here. The colors, the smells, the weather. It just feels right.

I've got wheels of polished steel

I've got tires that grab the road...

Got to see Cake this weekend at Artscape. It was fantastic. More from me later (when I'm not perilously close to being late for work), as I'm officially out of school!

Oh sweet summer, how I've missed you

Summer school is about to come to a close. My independent study ended comfortably if rather unceremoniously today, and tomorrow I will turn in my final project for the book design class. It's been an incredibly stressful eight weeks (and I've had the migraines and break outs to prove it), but it was worth it, and, better yet, it's all but over.

First a quick recap:

I designed three books, the last of which is being flattened under my mattress as we speak. As I look back over my work throughout the class, I can really see that I've made strides even in so short a time. My final book is a collection of poems I wrote around the time I moved out to New Mexio. I had collected them all into a chapbook called Changing Weather which I never did anything with (not entirely true, I did submit it to a chapbook contest judged by Densie Duhamel, which I obviously did not win). I've mixed the poems with photos I took both in Missouri and New Mexico to really help convey the landscapes that the piece revolves around. I don't know that it's the best writing or even the greatest photos, but I'm gosh darn proud of myself. Here's the cover and a couple interior spreads:




My independent study gave me an opportunity to really pursue my interest in experimental writing, and I read 2.5 novels (House of Leaves, you beast, I will finish you yet!), too many poems to count, and a few whatsits in between. I also wrote regularly (and more than usual), which was good.


And looking forward:
Ave and I will be making a trip to New Mexico at the end of the month for a celebration of his friend's wedding. I'm so looking forward to seeing everyone and being back in a place I love.

As for the rest of the summer, I intend to take regular walks, reacquaint myself with my camera, do some serious reading, and try to keep up the writing. It's not much, but it's all I need.

Groping my way to the finish

I'm coming into the homestretch on summer classes and though it's been a real doozy so far I can see the light at the end of the tunnel (how many cliche phrases can I use to describe this?). But seriously, things have been busy. On top of my typical work schedule (which is always always always hectic), there's been the book design class, the independent study on experimental writing, a visit from my brother, helping Avelino's mom move to her beautiful new house, planning an unexpected but more than welcome trip to New Mexico at the end of the month, and an unexpected and unwelcome cold/sore throat. I've enjoyed it all (except the being sick part), but am looking forward to my first week of laziness and nothing to do after work.

I'll be back and blogging once my classroom obligations are fulfilled, but in the meantime, here are a couple fun things I've discovered in the past few weeks:

1. Harper Collins' Fifty-Two Stories, a story a week for a whole year. They've got 27 up so far, a mix of classic and contemporary. (Via Neil Gaiman's Twitter feed. He's @neilhimself).

2. The Book Seer, a fun little web project where you input the name and author of the last book you read and it gives you recommendations for others.

And now I must away to work.

Alas, poor blogger! I knew her...

Sadly for this little blog, I've been so wrapped up in class lately that I've had no time to post anything. Someday I'll get back to it, I promise.

Lens love*

I bought a new 70-300 mm lens that is macro-enabled (probably not the technical term) which means that at a certain focal length I can use it to shoot macro. It's not the world's best glass, because I can't afford that, but I'm pleased with its capabilities. Anyway, all that mumbo jumbo aside, I love my new lens. Here's just one sample picture to explain (I hope) my adoration.


This is not the post I promised in my last post, just a post to tide me over.

Coming soon...

A blog about my brother's visit and all that I've been doing these last few weeks and why I'm so crazy busy. I'm just not sure when I'll get to it. But I'm promising myself it will be sometime this week.

I'm itching

to get my hands on some old leather and take a crack at leatherbound books. This little video from Etsy is responsible. Margaux of theblackspotbooks is doing some amazing work. I'm just not sure where to find any old chairs. Though there is a purse or two in my closet I won't be using anymore...where are my scissors?

Screaming with my mouth shut

I can't write. Nothing. My inner editors are crowding out my poems. They stand around poking fun and casting stones at every single word that I put down. It's loud. And it's driving me crazy. I don't know how to shut them off. I've considered an exorcism. I cast them out into the bodies of goldfish, swimming aimlessly, sucking in water, no noise except for the trickling of a filter in the background.

But they come back. They always come back.

Cutie or Cruelty?

I can't decide. But she's certainly a precious little girl. And at least she looks more or less like the three-year-old she is.

Believe it or not, at least half the song is in English.

What it is and how to write it

I've been geeking out lately and reading several books on the craft and practice of writing. (And buying an embarrassing number of books in general...I wants them).

Last night I worked my way through Lynda Barry's What It Is. It's a beautiful graphic-novel type book chock full o' colorful illustrations and collages (I particularly love her magic cephalopod). It is part autobiographical recounting of her journey into art, part sharing of her process, and part guide to nurturing your own creativity (complete with activity book!). And it's definitely worth a look. She poses some interesting questions. Here are few of them:

Is a dream autobiography or fiction?

After we read a book is it inside of us?

Do memories have mass?

Those are the kinds of questions worth pondering.

Another book I'm currently in the middle of is Writing Alone and With Others by Pat Schneider. I'm not sure what I expected when I picked it up, but it's one of the best purchases I've made lately. It's a hefty tome, some 380 pages including the suggested reading list. I'm early on in it still, but it's one of the most comprehensive books on writing I've ever seen, and I appreciate how Schneider is able to make well-informed suggestions on how to tackle writing while simultaneously recognizing that not one thing works for everyone. She repeatedly encourages her reader to adapt exercises and suggestions to their own style. Here are a few little bits from this book:

"Everyone is a writer. You are a writer. All over the world, in every culture, human beings have carved into stone, written on parchment, birch bark, or scraps of paper, and sealed into letters--their words. Those who do not write stories and poems on solid surfaces tell them, sing them, and, in so doing, write them on the air. Creating words is our continuing passion. We dream stories; we make up stories, poems, songs, and tell them to ourselves. All alone, we write."

"Craft is essential; I will work all my life at craft. But craft is not the same thing as art. Craft is the knowledge of how to mix blue with yellow on my palette, but art is the courage to dip the brush into the paint and lay it on the canvas in my own way."

And with that, I'm off to bed to sleep away this headache and dream of becoming a selkie. Yes. I watched The Secret of Roan Inish tonight for the first time since I was a little girl. It was delightful.

This Craft of Verse*

I've been reading Borges' This Craft of Verse this week, slowly working my way through chapters on the odd lunch break here and there. Thought I'd share a few of the best bits:

On poetry in general:

"Poetry is not alien--poetry is, as we shall see, lurking around the corner. It may spring on us at any moment."

"Let us suppose, for the sake of argument, that I have written a beautiful line; let us take this as a working hypothesis. Once I have written it, that line does me no good, because, as I've already said, that line came to me from the Holy Ghost, from the subliminal self, or perhaps from some other writer. I often find I am merely quoting something I read some time ago, and then that becomes a rediscovering. Perhaps it is better that a poet should be nameless."

"...we know what poetry is. We know it so well that we cannot define it in other words, even as we cannot define the taste of coffee, the color red or yellow, or the meaning of anger, of love, of hatred, of the sunrise, of the sunset, or of our love for our country. These things are so deep in us that they can be expressed only by those common symbols that we share. So why should we need other words?"

On metaphor:

"What is really important is the fact not that there are a few patterns, but that those patterns are capable of almost endless variations."


On the telling of a tale:

"...the ancients, when they spoke of a poet--a "maker"--thought of him not only as the utterer of those high lyric notes, but also as the teller of a tale. A tale wherein all the voices of mankind might be found--not only the lyric, the wistful,the melancholy, but also the voices of courage and hope."

"But perhaps (I may have said this before; I am sure I have), perhaps the intentions of the poet are not that important." (This really gets at one of the points I was trying to make in my earlier blog on workshopping)

And my personal favorite:

"Sometimes, looking at the many books I have at home, I feel I shall die before I come to the end of them, yet I cannot resist the temptation of buying new books."

*title taken from a book of Borges' collected lectures.

One to go

So last night was the MFA graduates reading. I took my friend Emily, and I helped work the sales table. All the students who will complete the program this spring read and presented their final books for sale. As they were last year, they were all wonderful.

So wonderful, in fact, that it launched me into a bit of a panic attack when I realized that in a year I'll be doing the same thing. I'll have a finished manuscript. I'll need to make a bunch of books. I'll be graduating. My train of thought when something like this: oh my god these are so beautiful i'll never be able to make anything as nice holy crap i'll never have enough writing to fill a book oh jeez what's my book going to look like what paper will i use panic panic panic i don't want to leave school meltdown what will i do without school!

Anyway, after I got over the panic I was able to enjoy the reading, and I've got pictures of the books up over at my flickr page, but here are a few more shots.

On Workshopping: a response

A friend of mine recently expressed some chagrin with the process of workshopping, and I wanted to add in my two cents.

I understand the frustration many people feel with workshops, and I think that people often give advice that isn't worth following or that doesn't take your work where you wanted it to go. I've been in a lot of workshops in a lot of different places (from an undergraduate classroom to a writing collective to the graduate program at UB), and every time I start a new workshop, I ask myself if it's worth the frustration. And again and again, I find that it is.

One of the best pieces of advice I ever got from a writer (one who is published, and quite successful) is to find a group of writers/friends you trust to read your work and give you feedback. This writer then turned around and said "but don't listen to them." He gave an example of a story he wrote that everyone told him was garbage. He put it away for 20 years. Then by chance he took it back out and realized it was actually pretty good, and he got it published.

The problem with a workshop class is that you don't necessarily "trust" the writers in the room. Maybe they have less experience writing than you, or maybe you come from such different writing styles or backgrounds that it's hard to cross that gap.

But what's good about any workshop is that you've got a room full of readers telling you how they reacted to your work. And it's important to think of them as readers. The fact that they write helps them more easily articulate their feelings, but it's their role as readers that matters. It's like a focus group to find out how your words are perceived, if what you meant is getting across. What they say is worth listening to, even if you don't take their advice. It will help you look at your poem in a different way and get some of the distance you need to revise. And I honestly mean that. I'm always really enamored of my poems when I start, but then during workshop I get a chance to look at it with a critical (not judgmental; there's a big difference) eye and, with my readers, reconsider if I've said what I want to say, if my work is effective, etc.

The best example I can give is a poem about lightning I recently had workshopped. When I brought it in, I was feeling really good about it. I felt like I had gotten my somewhat bittersweet, somewhat sinister point across. I knew people were going to pick up on the feeling of stasis, on the fear of getting involved with the world instead of just watching from a window. But they didn't. A lot of people thought the poem was childlike. They wanted me to tighten here and expand there. They liked this image or phrase, but they didn't get (or even hated) that image or phrase. Some got a vague sense of foreboding because lightning+umbrellas=bad. Some just didn't get it at all.

I didn't agree with everything everyone said, and I'm still in the process of revision. I'm not going to change everything everyone pointed out. As a matter of fact, unless I agree with someone's change, I won't make it. I may tweak the entire poem. I may cut and add and copy and paste and take something out only to put it back in, but I'll make my own changes.

But just hearing everyone talk about it showed me that I still had work to do. And I'd much rather have them say, "well, I think this stanza needs some stronger images" or "i think your pacing is off here" or "the way you've phrased this is confusing, and i'm not sure what you mean," than "i like it" or "it's okay" or "maybe you could make it funnier?". Because vagaries mean nothing. They don't show me where the reader got really pulled in or totally lost. I'll have no idea which image really spoke to the reader or which word I misused. And even if I don't agree when you tell me that you would really like to see me change "scrumptrulescent" to "fabulous," you may cause a small spark in my brain that leads me to "ambrosial." Or you may point out something I never even saw (like that my use of "heave" has a potential double meaning that's worth exploring).

And so I'll go back and work on my poem some more until it's moved from first draft to something worth sharing with an audience, something that will move them or make them think. Because what's the point of putting my work out there if what I want to say doesn't get across?

The point of a workshop is not self-validation. It's not about getting everyone to love your work. That's just never going to happen. It's about beta-testing your work. Unless you don't ever plan to read your work aloud or have it published or generally put it out in the world in some form or fashion, it's probably good to see what your audience will think


I think that sometimes people get discouraged in workshops, or think that the only way to get positive comments on their work is to tailor their writing for the class, so they turn their writing into a parody of the group's aesthetic preferences. That's the wrong way to go about it. Every week I will write for me, what I want to write. I have to trust myself and my artistic vision or I'll be paralyzed into never writing anything, into needing the approval of someone else just to put pen to paper. And I'm not always going to have people around to give me honest feedback. But I'll take it when I can get it, because I want to improve my writing. Because in the end, I'm not just writing for myself. I'd really like to have an audience, and I don't want to lose them after just one stanza.

I'm indulging myself here, so deal.

Okay, I try, really I try, not to be ridiculous on my blog. But, I'm going to be ridiculous today (perhaps it's all the How I Met Your Mother I've watched in the last few days...maybe Barney's getting to me). I went to see if my Youtube video had gotten any views, and it had. Eight views, to be exact. Nothing to spectacular, but I was happy enough with that. Then I looked down at the related videos that were popping up. The top three? Randy, my classmate (you should check out his work); Neil Gaiman's Blueberry Girl; and the Dresden Dolls. I have no idea how those related videos are generated (a search of Youtube's help reveals it's based on "certain factors"), but I'm in pretty good company. I may never be famous, but my video is related to something by Amanda Palmer and Neil Gaiman. I'm feeling pretty legend- ... wait for it... -ary. Ok, yep, officially reached too much HIMYM and not enough sleep. I'm off to bed.

Here's the screen shot for proof:

Something bright before something bleak

A shot from the Maryland Sheep and Wool Festival. More at my Flickr page.

A Night in the Ring

Uploaded my final project to YouTube today. I think it looks pretty good, given my relative lack of knowledge of any sort of video making/editing. Feel free to take a look and let me know what you think. I'm thinking I may also post a Quicktime version over at Flickr.



Now to put the finishing touches on my project analysis essay. I can't believe school is almost over!

Baaaaa

Spent today at the Maryland Sheep and Wool Festival. It was fantastic. I'll have images later, but for now, a fun video (found via my friend Emily):

Boo!

Why it's important to scare children (there are actual reasons...)

We're off to the Maryland Sheep and Wool Festival today. I am definitely looking forward to it. Sheeps. Sheep dogs. Possibly Alpacas? One hopes. Must away and get dressed.

Hot air balloons and other interesting bits

I went to see Neil Gaiman read/speak at Washington College yesterday evening. A part of the PEN World Voices Festival, it was fantastic. Perhaps the best reading or event I've ever been to. It had changed venues several time and wound up being held outdoors on the campus green, which was just delightful, given the weather. Neil gave a wonderful reading. He really brings the books to life in an amazing way. There was also a fantastic Q&A with Joshua Wolf Shenk and audience members got to chime in at the end with their questions. Neil read once more, then graciously agreed to sign books. Never once impatient, Neil gave thoughtful answers to all the questions and personalized each book (complete with doodles).

And now, I shall share a few of the bits of wisdom I learned from Mr. Gaiman:

1. There is a non-existent sequel (follow-up novella?) to Stardust called Hellflyer, wherein Tristram goes to Hell in a hot air balloon.

2. On the matter of originality: "You tell your stories new. You tell them honestly and they'll be yours."

3. On so-called writer's block: "I don't believe in writer's block. I do believe in being stuck. We're smart, that's why we're writers. We came up with writer's block because we're clever. We make it sound very special."

and (I'm paraphrasing most of this one) On an off day, "every word is rubbish." It's like writing through a migraine, except you don't have a migraine. On a good day, "words drip from your fingers like liquid pearls." But it's never as bad as you think it is. It's also probably never as good as you think it is.

4. On piracy (ARRRRGH) and digital rights management:"The danger most writers face is not piracy, it's obscurity."

5. To new writers looking to be published, he advises building a trusted set of readers and showing your work to those people, but also that you don't listen. In effect, trust them, but also trust yourself. "Plow your own furrow and go your own way and believe in yourself, if necessary, to the point of madness."

And with that, I must be heading off to work. But I had such a wonderful time I couldn't not make a post. I'll leave you with my cheesy fan photo (was so embarrassed to ask for it, but so entirely pleased I did):

Drawn in

Blue jeans

Different phases of life come with different pleasures. As an adult, one of those pleasures is blue jean Fridays. I'm not entirely sure how I feel about the fact that getting to wear jeans is something to celebrate, but I'll celebrate it anyway.

Cerulean Blue Hue

Some days are unquestionably good days. Like a day when you find out that you are indeed set to graduate in Spring 2011 and may still get an opportunity to teach, a day when you talk to an old friend you haven't seen in years, a day when you go for a walk in your neighborhood and breath in the smell of earth and flowers and spring, a day when you work on a painting and do a little writing, a day when you wash the dishes, a day when you save enough time to do a little reading before bed.

Today.

And you can see his heart glow

Frog eats Christmas tree light and glows, survives: http://www.boingboing.net/2009/04/22/frog-eats-christmas.html

Well worth a look. Super fast, I'm running late this morning post.

Umbrellas and Daffodils

my life in the last few days. rain and the end of daffodil season.

Raspberry Rum

So, perhaps you were unaware, but space has a flavor. That's right. Raspberry and rum. I can think of flavors I like better. Space, you're not impressing me with your hoity toity fruit and classy alcoholic beverages.

Read up on it: http://bit.ly/9U7ux

What if space tasted like Natty Boh and plums?

some thoughts on rain...or, when you can't think of what to write, write about what's right in front of you.

I love the rain. I love the smell, the sound, the way the thunder makes me feel small and pressed into the ground. And I love writing when it's raining. And writing about the rain. And thinking about going out to dance in the rain, but being afraid of being struck by lightning.

Not bad for a Tuesday.

Poems for lunch

Ilya Kaminsky reads from Dancing in Odessa, which we are currently reading in my poetry class. Well worth a watch. An important thing to note is that he's been deaf since he was 4. I'm in awe of his words.



Part of the University of California's Lunch Poems reading series.

A little something for your Monday evening

Ahh, the pleasure of the internet.

Perfect rainy afternoons

What a perfect afternoon. I am here, with a warm cat snoozing on my lap, trying to write. Probably failing, but trying. It's not easy work, getting the letters of the alphabet to recreate the sound of an old typewriter. But that's what Martin K. Tytell deserves, and so I'll keep on trying till I get it.

It feels good to sit down to write. For that to be my purpose. Like a nice long stretch after a nap.

Blogger ate my post.

Blogger just ate my post. I'm so annoyed. Here's the post in a quick recap because it's too late and I'm too irritated to rewrite.

I went to Barnes and Noble today.
I bought an awesome and really inspiring magazine called Somerset Studio: The Art of Paper and Mixed-Media that made me want to do something with my hands but also made me lament the fact that I'm not one of those people who does my art everyday which led me to wonder why that is.
I've just finished Claudia Rankine's Don't Let Me Be Lonely: An American Lyric, and really enjoyed the passage that goes like this:

A father tells his son the thing he regrets most about his life is the amount of time he has spent worrying about it.

Worry 1. A dog's action of biting and shaking an animal so as to injury ore kill it, spec., a hound's worrying of its quarry; an instance of this. 2. A state or feeling of mental unease or anxiety regarding or arising from one's cares or responsibilities, uncertainty about the future, fear of failure, etc.; anxious concern, anxiety. Also, an instance of cause of this.

It achieved nothing, all his worrying. Things worked out or they didn't work out and now here he was, an old man, an old man who each year of his life bit or shook doubt as if to injure if not to kill, an old man with a good-looking son who resembles his deceased mother.

I loved it, and it reminds me of me. You should read Rankine's book.

The end. Stupid blogger.

Empty Sundays

I love empty Sundays. They're like wide-open promises of all the things you could do. So I take naps and read and visit my favorite little restaurant. And now I'm running late, but I'm going to let that roll right off.

Onions have layers.

Funny video. But only if you're not excessively cheerful.


FDA Approves Depressant Drug For The Annoyingly Cheerful

Blush, shuffle, downward glance

I haven't posted at all in the last week. Not only have I not posted in the last week, I haven't thought about this accursed blog in the last week. Not once. It's been a crazy, crazy time for me, with something going on every day and little time to myself. As a result I'm feeling run down (run down enough to make myself sick) and in need of a break. A good, long break. But that's not going to happen any time soon. So I'll just have to dig in and keep plowing forward until I have a few moments to just relax.

And in an act of penitence for my non-posting last week, I'll post doubly this week. That means a post a day, more or less.

Yikes.

Cute Monday

Cutest thing I've ever seen.

Falling behind

What is it about this time of year that just makes me want to throw everything to the side and go out wandering and picking flowers? It is not helpful to finishing up the semester.

She plays wipe out on the drums

This has been the longest week ever. I'm a homebody, and I've been out and about every night this week. I am feeling wiped out. On the drums or otherwise. But I did go to the school library today. I love it there. It's almost always empty on my floor (fiction and poetry section). I can peruse the books in peace, just smelling old paper and binding. But today there was another girl. I think we were both disturbing each other just with our mutual presence.

Anyway, I'm off to read American Gods.



*Thanks to Ben Folds for the blog title.

Interesting twitter project

Twistori.

After our conversation in class this evening and during my frazzled, late night attempt to write up an exciting proposal for an innovative web project, I stumbled upon Twistori. Exploring the human condition and emotions through tweets. Nifty. Now if only I knew Java, I too could do something stunning.

to do lists

there is little in life so satisfying as checking things off a to-do list. like classified ad projects. and e-book projects. and reading novel projects. done and done!

In the middle of it all

My Saturday was eaten by the "too much stuff to do" monster. At least the first half of it. The second half was spent in good company, running all over Baltimore, listening to music, and swilling drinks. Hence my self portrait at the Otto Bar.

crash

apparently i don't feel like blogging. and haven't for 10 days now. i think i'm in a crash. i haven't done anything creative lately. a bit of writing here and there as dictated by class, but otherwise, nada. i haven't made much use of my camera. i haven't made a book. i haven't connected with my hands, my art for awhile.

i'm sure i'll spool up soon to burn myself out again.

random thought: in one of my poems, I refer to daffodils as the color of jaundice, and a friend thought this was strange. i said i was going for an eerie/bitter feel and shrugged it off (i can call it jaundice if i want and to heck with you, i thought). then i wrote another poem about a long-dead cat of mine and daffodils worked there way in there, too. there is something about daffodils. they are an interesting part of me, my life, my set of metaphors and myths. they are my favorite flower. they make me happy because it means spring is (almost) here. but there's something mournful about them to me. i don't know what.

i'm going to write a poem. it probably won't be about daffodils.

I saw my first daffodil this weekend. And I loved it. And then Avelino picked me another one we saw. 'Cause he's sweet like that.

But this weekend's been a strange mix of incredible laziness and achievement. All 18 loads of laundry done, grocery shopping done, household shopping done, paper purchasing done, work on never ending market bag done (by which I mean continued...this is getting ridiculous). Followed by something like 8 hours of computer game playing done, no book making done,laziness done.

A good weekend. Now if it would only warm up and be spring already.

Oh for heaven's sake.

More ridiculousness in relation to CPSIA.

A mess that he don't wanna clean up

random thoughts for the day:

1. A search for "paper" in itunes proves that it is a popular song title component (paper bag [from two different artists], paper shoes, paperweight, paper aeroplane, paper thin walls, paper doll [and bonus points if you can name the artists]). Scissors is not so popular.

2. Ebooks are interesting things and it seems one loves them or hates them, but that not many innovate with them.

3. My cats are keeping the fu manchu alive as a mustache of choice

4. Sundays spent playing neighborhood art teacher (you should paint whatever you want, small child i've never seen before) are rewarding.

5. Springing forward is never as bad as you think it will be. Especially not if you spend all weekend pretending it's already happened. Equally important is that you think of it as pouncing (thanks, Steve).

6. Imagining that you've solved one of the great mysteries of existence (some things will just always suck) is a good way to feel prematurely smug and secure in yourself before you get knocked down again.

7. I exist in peaks and valleys.

8. Some (crochet) projects just never end.

9. 40% off art paper is a heavenly thing.

10. The Graveyard Book (Neil Gaiman) is delightful and frightful and envy-inducing.

11. Just add one to throw things delightfully off balance.


*Nod to Fiona for the blog title.

i don't believe in checking the weather

self portrait projects are hard when you don't particularly like looking at yourself. and you're too lazy to come up with cool concepts everyday.

that said, i'm off to be outside. and hoping it doesn't rain, cause it sort of smells like it might.

Insomnia strikes again

Why is it that I'm always tired except when it's time to go to bed?

absent-minded findings

Have spent a good portion of my evening searching for an oldish-looking, pen-and-ink illustration of the human heart that's in the public domain. I have yet to find one, but I did find this:


Dream Anatomy, an exhibit by the National Libraries of Medicine.

And then I flipped through the Urbanite and found this.

I love how doing nothing can yield something.

My site is live

Not the fanciest of sites, but it seems to be working. I'll be poking around with it more tonight to make sure no links are broken.

Signs you're a bonafide writer

I watched Vicky Cristina Barcelona this weekend. I loved it, which is no surprise. I have a thing for Woody Allen's sense of humor. I also have a thing for Spain. And Javier Bardem. And well, Penelope Cruz definitely deserved that Oscar. But more than anything, the character of Cristina, who seems to be trying on different personas and artistic outlets, reminded me of myself.

I'm always doubting myself and my writing. Even I'm getting tired of hearing it. Perhaps it's part of my mysterious, writerly persona. Perhaps it's just obnoxious and I need to get over it.

With that in mind, I've been trying to decide how you know when you're a writer, some real road signs that will shut up my inner skeptic. I think I found one today.

I wrote a poem. And it sucked. And I didn't care. It didn't say what I wanted to. It's not particularly original and the imagery isn't so hot. But it doesn't matter. Because I wrote it for no other reason than that I needed and wanted to. And because I'll keep rewriting it till it's right. And that's it, right there. That realization that just getting something on paper is an accomplishment accompanied by the unabashed recognition that revision is just a part of the process.

If only Tu-tu were mine.

Being sick sucks. It's uncomfortable and miserable. But, it also means a lot of time on the couch, which has its perks. And guilt-free movie watching. So, tonight, as I was perfecting my couch potato form and watching one of those guilt-free flicks, I heard the most pitiful mewing. I hauled myself off the couch and went to look out the window. No cat. I opened my door. No cat. I decided to venture further out, and one flight down there was the cutest kitten I have ever seen. Just look at this face:

I carried her up to my apartment, making plans for a "did you lose your kitten" poster and falling in love all at the same time. Of course, Nutmeg and Squishy were not pleased with the interloper's presence. The kitten wasn't thrilled either, and outdid both the adult cats with a display of fuzziness and hisses. But we settled down a little as I thought about what to do and who the cat might belong to.

I decided to knock on the door of the one family I knew who owned a cat. Of course, it was theirs, and I collected the little ball of fuzz and took it home, my heart breaking already. The owner informed me her name was Tu-tu, and the little part of me that I have to keep under lock and key so it doesn't run wild through the SPCA and bring home all the stray animals started to cry. But I handed Tu-tu over and headed back to my couch, where Nutmeg and Squish were very relieved to find out that this had all been a very short-lived arrangement.

And now, even though I should be heading to bed, I'm not because I am terrified that the family doesn't love the kitten, that they shoved it out the door trying to get rid of it and every time I hear a door open, I peer out like a crazy woman to make sure Tu-tu isn't back in the stairwell.

See, the woman didn't seem particularly upset when I asked if they'd lost a kitten, didn't seem relieved to have it back.

"It's my daughter's kitten," she said. A scene played in my head of some sweet girl who loved her kitten and the poor, beleaguered mother who was tired of scooping the litter box, couldn't afford the vet bills, was tired of the mewing, and saw an easy chance to just let little Tu-tu go.

"Oh, honey, Tu-tu must have run away," I could hear her tell her daughter in the little movie in my head.

Because something in that woman's voice and face didn't say "I love this kitten and am so glad she's back." And I can't understand how anyone could feel anything less than love for Tu-tu. Or for any other kitten or puppy or cat or dog.

Am I probably crazy? Yep. Does that family probably have a normal amount of like for the kitten, and it was late on a Monday night and the mom was tired and hadn't yet realized the cat was missing. I hope so. Does part of me want to slip a note under the door offering to take Tu-tu if they've decided they don't love her? You better believe it. But a bigger part of me says they'd think I was a nutso cat-napper.

Yes, I've accepted my fate as the crazy cat lady and general bleeding heart. And so I'll sit here a little longer before I go to bed, even though I should already be asleep, and listen for the sound of doors opening and closing and the thin little mew of an abandoned kitten.


In other cat-related news, Nutmeg and Squish received a care package from their country cousin, Wallet. They were understandably thrilled and have already given their new toys a run for their money.

Books going the way of the Dodo?

Check out this article on Read Street, the Baltimore Sun's book blog. I'm still digesting it and don't really know how to articulate what I feel about the idea. The idea of books being done away with makes me want to weep, and yet I keep thinking about how the things I know and love today are that way because they changed. But the thing about books is that they've been around in more or less the same form for so long that the thought of losing them is particularly sad.

Sock fishes and pillow stairs

One of the most beautiful music videos I've seen in a long time. I heard the song itself a few days ago and jotted down a piece of the lyrics as quickly as I could. I went searching for it today online and discovered the video, which I think I could watch over and over. The song is by Oren Lavie, and it's called "Her Morning Elegance."

Kazooish

Listening to Stina (a friend from Silver City) on KZMU in Moab, UT. If you're sitting around wondering where to get your music fix, consider listening online at kzmu.org

Thoughts on shuffling

Excellent essay by James Wolcott in the latest issue of Vanity Fair on the subject of death and the baby boomer.

Slipping off the mortal coil is no excuse for slacking off. Only in America could the prospect of dying be promoted as a motivational tool to rack up frequent-flier miles. Bookstores and Web sites abound in self-help guides listing the 10 (or 100, or 1,000) things and places you must do and visit before you die (there's even a 100 Birds to See Before You Die catalogue), as if life were a race through the supermarket aisle to grab as many experiences off the shelves as possible before collapsing at the checkout line.

I've not often contemplated my own mortality, but Wolcott presents an interesting discussion of the business not of dying, but of facing one's own impending death. As a writer myself, it was a good reminder not to get too wrapped up in one's own importance and wisdom. Read the piece in its entirety.

And, because no one knows death better than the tall, dark, and cowled man himself:

"PEOPLE'S WHOLE LIVES DO PASS IN FRONT OF THEIR EYES BEFORE THEY DIE. THE PROCESS IS CALLED 'LIVING'." ~Death in Terry Pratchett's Last Continent

Little pieces of happiness

Happiness is three-day weekends and Mondays without work.

The best Valentine ever.

This video:

Rockwell would be pleased.

Hooray something fun and worthwhile for my Project 365 self portrait series!

wrinkled as a walnut shell [excerpts]

I'm currently reading The Space Between Us by Thrity Umrigar. It's a beautiful story of Sera and Bhima, an upper middle-class Parsi woman and her housekeeper, respectfully. I've found an honesty in this story about life and prejudice that one seldom sees. One excerpt in particular has stuck with me:

From the time she was in her teens, Sera has been fascinated by this paradox--how a body that we occupy, that we have worn like a coat from the moment of our birth--from before our birth, even--is still a stranger to use. After all, almost everything we do in our lives is for the well-being of the body: we bathe daily, polish our teeth, groom our hair and fingernails; we work miserable jobs in order to feed and clothe it; we go to great lengths to protect it from pain and violence and harm. And yet the body remains a mystery, a book that we have never read. Sera plays with this irony, toys with it as if it were a puzzle: How, despite our lifelong preoccupation with our bodies, we have never met fact-to-face with our kidneys, how we wouldn't recognize our own liver in a row of livers, how we have never seen our heart or brain. We know more about the depths of the ocean, are more acquainted with the far corners of outer space than with our own organs and muscles and bones. So perhaps there are no phantom pains after all; perhaps all pain is real; perhaps each long-ago blow lives on into eternity in some different permutation and shape; perhaps the body is this hypersensitive, revengeful entity, a ledger book, a warehouse of remembered slights and cruelties.

But if this is true, surely the body also remembers each kindness, each kiss, each act of compassion? Surely this is our salvation, our only hope--that joy and love are also woven into the fabric of the body, into each sinewy muscle, into the core of each pulsating cell?

That leaves me only one thing to say: read it.

Garden of Forking Paths: Fork 3

The Garden of Forking Paths . It puts me in mind of Einstein's Dreams by Alan Lightman. It is a story that does indeed require a lot of though upon reading, but if you let it wash over you, it is easier to digest.

I've always had an interest in theories of time. Pondered just how it is that time unfolds or circulates or bends or collides. Needless to say I haven't got an answer. I just continue to exist in whatever reality this is.

At the end of what I would call a rather exhaustive search for information on Borges' story, I still have only found one (working) example of the story as a hypertext narrative.

But the crown jewel of my search is this website, which explores the idea of the hypertext narrative, with focus on it's relation to Borges (and Vannevar Bush, who did important work with analog computing, the atomic bomb, and the idea of the memex). It is even a hypertext narrative itself.

She also links to two beautiful hypertext works (as a note, there's some adult content in both of these):

Caitlin Fisher's These Waves of Girls

Shelly Jackson's My Body

The Garden of Forking Paths: Fork 2

The Garden of Forking Paths
Originally uploaded by magic fly paula

After spending hours this week searching for hypertext versions of this story, I am beginning to feel a bit discouraged. I have quickly come to realize that a gajillion people out there have taken inspiration from, written critical discourse on, and quoted from Borges’ story.

And broken links abound.

One dead end was more interesting than all the rest. That is that Stuart Moulthrop, a professor at UB, created his own hypertext version of GFP, called “Forking Paths.” I was quite disappointed to discover, however, that it is not available anywhere online. It is only available through something called New Media Reader, which one can purchase for $45 if one is so inclined. I am not, sadly.

Another interesting and seemingly dead end is this website, which pulls up simply a picture of a labyrinth, nothing more (at least so far as I can tell).

This website seemed promising, but if there was an ability to navigate from the main page, I couldn't figure it out.

And what I started to realize as time slipped by, was that the internet itself is a garden of forking paths. Presumable, we students all started out from the same (or a very similar) place, and have wandered through the garden, all winding up in different places. This action, more than anything, seems to me to embody the story.


Sticks, flowers, and rocks I’ve found on my wanderings through the garden:

Eastgate (publisher of hypertext works)

Conceptual art inspired by GFP

Tekkalogue, a chronicle of innovative new media

Navigating the garden

Garden of Forking Paths: Fork 1

Our assignment for electronic publishing this week was to read Jorge Luis Borges' The Garden of Forking Paths and then look for examples of the story treated as hypertext narratives.

Example the first (quite literally)

I found this example on Wikipedia's article on Borges' story (it is one of the most linked to hypertext versions). It is the first hyptertext version I looked at, and yet I think it is worth posting, simply because I like the design so much. It simple takes parts of the stories and links you to them from different words in different passages (indicated by red, underlined links). The design isn't super fancy, as a matter of fact, you can see some raw edges, but I like the asthetic, the feel. I think it provides a good example to start with when considering other hypertext versions.

P.S. If you're just interested in reading and thinking about the story, this website has some useful info on themes and study questions.

P.P.S. Visit this website for a sampler of songs entitled Garden of Forking Paths to download and listen to while you read and consider Borges' story.

Curiouser and Curiouser

Thereafter Benjamin contrived to break something every day, but he did these things only because they were expected of him, and because he was by nature obliging.
F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button

I haven't seen the movie yet, and I didn't know it was based on Fitzgerald's short story, but I did learn today that the movie makers are facing a lawsuit. Read all about it at Read Street, the Baltimore Sun's book blog.

And if you're feeling, ahem, curious, check out Fitzgerald's story here (in it's entirety).

Wise and wizened.

Tomorrow I shall go forth and have two wisdom teeth extracted from my head. I am not thrilled about this idea.

I asked the dentist if could have the teeth. He said that normally they send them away with all the other biohazard materials, but that I could have them. I would just have to remind him beforehand or he'd forget.

Something about my teeth, forlorn at the bottom of an orange biohazard bag, made me sad. And I got to thinking about some scrap of memory that I had. Some long lost recalling that Jews must save all the body parts of a person to bury them. I think I heard about it in reference to terrorist bombings in Israel, and that people have to go out to look for the pieces of their loved ones.

(Thanks to Google, I know that this is in fact true and that Orthodox Jews save teeth, amputated limbs, and excised appendixes for eventual burial.)

There is something about that idea that appeals to me. According to The Encyclopedia of Jewish Medical Ethics, "The body of a dead Jew retains sanctity even after death. The body is not just a container which houses the holy soul, but the body itself has intrinsic holiness."

I'm not Jewish. In fact, I'm only mildly religious at all, so I come at it from a slightly different stance. It seems to me that this body is what we go through life with, it is our companion, our host.

I know it seems absurd to feel connected to one's teeth, particularly those teeth that wait so long to appear and then have no particular function except to, at best, simply exist and, at worst, cause severe pain.

But I've spent all day tonguing the little stub of a tooth back there and trying to imagine it's absence. It's a lonely type of feeling.

And so tomorrow, when I walk into the dentist's office, I will ask him to save my teeth.

Safe Haven

Teterrimous. A word (meaning) most foul. I adopted it today on savethewords.org, a website collecting and offering sanctuary to a deluge of forgotten and unloved words. A few choice words:

pigritude
pantdress
mulomedic
seplasiary

With such beauties already in existence, there's no need to invent your own (though if that tickles your fancy, don't let me stop you).

If you are a writer, a reader, a speaker, a lover of language, I recommend you check it out and do your part by taking in one of these fallen words. Love it, use it tomorrow in a sentence. Astound friends and family with your burgeoning vocabulary.

In addition to being a generally worthy cause, the website itself is beautifully designed and quite fun to peruse. There is sound, so if you're sharing an office or room with someone, check your speaker volume.

For the love of craft: Bring the CPSIA back to reality

Save handmade!!
Originally uploaded by jelene

There's been a lot of buzz in the craft world and blogosphere lately about the Consumer Product Safety Improvement Act of 2008 (CPSIA). This act (which goes into effect on February 10) will impose strict testing requirements (namely for lead) on all those who manufacture a wide range of products for children.

Now, I'd be the first to jump on board and say that lead exposure is a good thing to be worried about, but the CPSIA seems to have taken a good idea and acted on it quite blindly. My favorite examples are ones like this, which was featured in a CPSIA article (full article is well worth the read) in the Washington Post:

Jamie Kreisman owns Beka, a small company in St. Paul, Minn., that makes wooden puppet theaters, easels and blocks. Kreisman sent one of his best-selling items, a 68-piece set of natural wood blocks, for lead testing by an independent lab. He paid a U.S. lab $500 to confirm that his unfinished blocks were in fact unfinished blocks.

There literally are not words for the redundancy of such a test, and the redundancy of an Act that would require such a test. But wait, it gets worse.

When I first heard about the CPSIA, I took that to mean that people making clothing and toys for children were virtually going to have to shutter their shops due to the restrictive cost of testing. That was distressing enough. But then I discovered that it extends much farther to school supplies, books, and so on, and would also affect thrift and consignment stores. It even applies to libraries and children's books. (Charm City Craft Mafia has more on that here. If you only read one link in this blog, read this one. Seriously) And though I'm not a maker of items for children, I think that the CPSC needs a serious dose of reality. Quite frankly, I'm just not sure how well this plan was thought through.

Fortunately, today the CPSC announced that it will be allowing a one-year suspension of the testing while it reviews the CPSIA and the planned methods of enforcing the CPSIA. And while a sigh of relief can be heard from the entire crafting and handmade community, it ain't over yet. The folks at Etsy have this to say about it:

We are so pleased that artisans and vintage sellers got their voices heard. Your hard work is not over; we must continue to play a role in advocating for small business people throughout the coming year.

Read the full article and CPSC press release over at Etsy.

So many people out there have said it and said it better, but I hope that the review of the CPSIA proves fruitful. To place such an onerous burden on small business owners and entrepreneurs seems to me to show complete ignorance of the reality of small business. And more frightening, it demonstrates a complete lack of appreciation for all the beautiful and functional art that is being created.

I think that Sweet Pepita sums it up best in her blog on the matter:

If our country bans handmade children's toys and clothing and books and God knows what else due to the prohibitively expensive cost of testing, we will lose a huge part of our history. We will lose stories. We'll lose the connection between maker and owner. Our relationship with the ordinary and special things in our life will become meaningless. What would a sociologist or historian have left to study? What would they have to say about a completely homogenized childhood?

I'm not the first to speak up about this. Hell, I even missed the blog-in two days ago. But it's well worth speaking up for. And so I urge you to help these artists and crafters. Write a letter, send an email, sign a petition, or post a blog. The links below can point you in the right direction.

Useful links if you're interested in helping support handmade children's products and the people who make and sell them:

To read more than you can likely understand about the CPSIA, visit this US Consumer Product Safety Commission (CPSC) website.

The Handmade Toy Alliance has a great summary of the CPSIA, including why it's right and why it's wrong. They also have a petition for you to sign and a Facebook group for you to join.

Visit Etsy to learn ways you can help.

Momsrising.org has a convenient form email (which you can edit to your heart's content) that you can send to the CSPC. You don't even have to be a mom to send it.

there's a mouse about the house: a tale from 4 perspectives

thud thud thud thud thud thud thud thud thud thud thud I can feel my heart pounding through my chest and I'm not sure how I got here but man I gotta get out. Holy Mouses, what is that? pointy ears, 18 times my size, pointy teeth and a definite look of hunger (perhaps underscored by stupidity and laziness) in its eyes. That's a cat. Try not to panic. Okay. Panic. I am going to die.

from the wings we here a voice yelling, "squish, what the hell are you doing? chill out." this is followed by barely audible mutterings of "my cats are ridiculous, what is up with them tonight?"

I've got the little morsel fixed in my stare, and I can see him begin to waver as he falls under my spell. Just a few seconds more. And who said I couldn't be an accomplished huntress if I didn't have all four feet? Honestly. They have no idea. Cause I'm stealthy and slick and I've got the look. Yeah, the look that makes small furry creatures with long skinny tales freeze in their tracks.

an orange tabby enters from stage left

hey, what's going on, dude. why are you making so much noise? holy cats, what is that! it's a toy, right? play play play play. it kind of reminds me of my favorite toy. except it's a little bit bigger. and it twitches like that stupid buzzing mouse toy the owner brought home once that i hate. wait a minute. it's a MOUSE! a real one. whatta we do, whatta we do, whatta we do. hold on. i've got these claws. and maybe i can catch it and drown it in the water bowl.

a slight hiss

Would you go away fatso. I've got this under control. And the owner doesn't even know what's going on. This one is mine. So just get lost.

mouse tears across the room followed by two cat-like blurs. owner realizes something is not quite right and gets up to see what exactly has transpired.

Oh my god, a mouse! Nut, Squish, leave the mouse alone! No, go away, don't hurt it!

Owner, Nut, and Squish form wide and very penetrable semi-circle around mouse. mouse freezes.

thudthudthudthudthudthudthud what do i do! i'm trapped and they're going to eat me and what is that giant not-cat thing that's yelling so loud and i'm too young to die and maybe if i stand here really still they'll get confused and think i'm just one of those stupid mouse toys that are lying all over the place. oh why wasn't i born bright blue with a neon pink tail? i'd be safe then. oh god oh god oh god.

owner, continuing to admonish cats, backs away quickly, making a run for the kitchen and a suitable dish under which to trap mouse, only to return to find that mouse is in between the bookshelves.

Oh crap. You stupid cats I told you to leave the mouse alone. Get away!

Owner gets on hands and knees, desperate to grab mouse before he disappears under something, but it's too late. Mouse slips under the bookshelf. Owner desperately begins pulling books from the shelf and stacking them on the floor, all the while glancing crazily about to make sure that mouse doesn't escape in another direction. the cats stand guard as well, trying to slide their paws into the too small space between the bookshelf and the wall.

CRAP CRAP CRAP CRAP. Nutmeg and Squish, this is all your fault!

cats look at owner with disdain

our fault? we'd have had this mouse dispatched of if you hadn't stuck your big nose in our business.

Owner wrestles bookshelf away from wall, but mouse is far too intelligent for this and scoots with the bookshelf, staying safely out of sight.

haha, you'll never get me now. thudthudthudthud.

mouse's triumph is frail and tenuous, ending all too soon, as owner leans bookshelf at bizarre angle against the wall, allowing cats access to mouse's furry little body. mouse shoots across the carpet, around a bag of yarn, past a shoe, over a shoe box, pursued hotly by cats and owner. he races for the cover of a chair, a coffee table, the craft area, but nowhere is tight enough to feel secure. still pursued, he makes a desperate run past the kitchen, down the hall, and into the bedroom, ducking behind a dresser.

No, not the dresser! Stupid cats, leave the mouse alone!

Owner runs back to the kitchen in search of something bigger than a drinking cup, feeling that a larger container will increase the likelihood that she'll be able to catch the mouse despite slow reflexes. she settles on a casserole dish. not ideal, but it will have to do.

Okay mouse, I don't want to hurt you. Just come out and I'll catch you and put you outside. I promise.

Cats circle like hungry sharks waiting for the last stranded sailor to give up and sacrifice himself to their whims. Owner peers under dresser, shoos cats away, then decides locking cats in the bathroom will help solve this problem and make mouse trust her.

Mouse, where did you go?

Owner rips all the drawers out of the dresser, picks it up and moves it across the room, jilts lamps and piles of books, heaves on the mattress trying to peer behind the bed. Mouse has vanished.

Come one mouse. You don't belong here. You don't want to be here. It's not a safe place.

Owner considers that mouse's presence is sure confirmation of something she's long suspected: that her apartment seriously needs cleaned. She also ponders the old adage that if there's one their must be two.

Okay mouse, I don't know where you went, but you can stay as long as you promise not to bring any friends.

Owner cajoles, hoping that mouse will poke his head out to thank her. She continues shoving furniture and piles around, even looks under a teddy bear in search of mouse. After a few minutes, she lets the cats out.

Okay cats, find the mousie!

Cats stare at owner incredulously.

who do you think you're kidding? you've ruined this whole thing for us, bub. we're not finding your stupid mouse.

Cats wander in to living room. Owner sits on floor of room clutching casserole dish to her chest, glaring down the hall at her worthless cats.

You cats are worthless. The cartoon cats on my pajamas would be better at mouse catching than you.

Owner sighs and begins righting upturned furniture and lamps, slides drawers back into the dresser.

I think I'll call him Maxwell.

*editor's note: it should be explained that Maxwell "Houdini" Mouse has yet to reappear, and has probably burrowed deep into the box spring of owner's bed. It should also be said that owner and owner's landlord are extremely grateful that cats did not kill Mr. Mouse on the oatmeal colored carpet. For entirely different reasons. Owner is convinced that every sound she hears is Maxwell scurrying for the nearest exit, and will spend rest of evening in slight state of panic, but for some reason feels more compelled to blog the episode than clean her obviously messy apartment.

and now for something completely indifferent (or, homework assignment 1)

We've been asked to explore websites that present a creative narrative. I find this challenging, because it's not something I spend much time seeking out. And I'm not entirely sure how much wiggle room that allows. Would a blog count? I don't know. But here are some of the things that have struck me.

1. The Big Picture

This website presents news stories in photographs. And I suppose most would say news stories really don't fall under creative narrative. But it is certainly a narrative, and a creative way to approach it. And in my own writing I often use news stories or photographs as a jumping off point, so I feel a particular connection to this.

I think what makes it work is that it actually allows its images to be big and striking. Instantly the viewer can be taken in by the images. I think it works because, while it does provide the news story, it gives the viewer the time to get lost in the images, to imagine what the story might be, or even to apply the story. And each image is selected to carry an entire narrative in and of itself. But the images also work together as a larger narrative of our time, current events.

As for what's not working, I'd say the layout. I give it credit because it is a news site, but I think it could be so much more striking if they let the images take center stage. Perhaps an all black background, and a mouse-over to read the stories. Right now on my monitor, the first photo is cut off by the "fold" of the website.



2. PLZMARRYMEKTHX

This one is done by a friend of mine from Missouri. It's open marriage proposals to a variety of famous women.

The thing that I enjoy about it is the subject matter (it makes me laugh out loud), the one, which is consistently tongue in cheek and wry, and that it's not an idea I ever would have thought of. I'm pretty convinced that Thomas should be headed for internet stardom.

The only thing I would change is the frequency of his posts. I'd like to see more. And if he did that, a more individualized blog template might be suiting.

3. Postal Poetry

I love this site. The collaboration between photographers and poets. The narratives of the poems are typically quite short, but there's a sense of whimsy and joy to most of them that I love.

I struggle to find anything I would improve. I like the clean design, the way it centers on the narrative while accomplishing the basics (providing info on the project, submissions, etc.)Perhaps if it were my website, I would tweak the color and typography, but something in the plainness of it allows the design to take backseat to the stories.

Other interesting sites that didn't make the cut for my homework assignment:
Center for Digital Storytelling (good idea, decent design, execution feels a little cheesy to me)
The Flickr Creative Comments group (interesting idea and application, but didn't feel quite like what we needed to look at for this. and i find it incredibly irritating that you're only allowed to post on Mondays. It's limiting and inconvenient.)

Announcements, announcements!

I've started school tonight. I'm actually in class right now. An electronic publishing class. Wherein we are required to blog three times a week. Offered the choice to make a new blog or maintain the old, I'm going to stick with the old. Because if I don't, I'll abandon this poor fledgling blog.

And since this blog has no express purpose at the moment beyond my musings (usually focused on some aspect of my creative life) it seems suiting. So, in addition to my not-so-regularly-scheduled posts, you can expect three bonus posts per week.

Cheers!

Paper and Ink

This morning, I groggily picked up the January/February issue of Poets & Writers (yes, bathroom reading. it's good for the soul.), and flipped open to a random page. And on that random page was a little paragraph about the work of an artist named Richard Baker. The paragraph began:

"As more readers choose a nifty gadget like the Amazon Kindle over a hefty new hardcover, or a flashy iPone application such as Stanza over the soft dog-ears of a well-worn paperback, those who still appreciate objects made solely of paper, ink, and glue will likely respond to the work of forty-nine-year-old painter Richard Baker."

Baker did a series of beautiful paintings of book covers. Two selected images in Poets & Writers were of Nabokov's Lolita and Sontag's Against Interpretation.

But what really got me was not the images, not the intro, but this quote from Baker himself:

"Books have always been important to me. As physical objects they are powerful fetishes, icons, containers of every conceivable thought and/or emotion. They come to stand for various episodes in our lives, for certain idealisms, follies of belief, moments of love. Along the way they accumulate our marks, our stains, our innocent abuses--they come to wear our experience of them on their covers and bindings like wrinkles on our own skin."

He's said it so well that I don't know that I can add to it. But I can say this: it is true. So true. And reading that felt, in a way, validating for my sometimes obsessive love of books and ink and paper. It made me realize why I chose a graduate program with a book arts component rather than just a writing program.

Because I love books. From start to finish. From the writing of the words to the building of the spine and covers.

Ever since I first realized I was a writer (waking up in the middle of the night with words for a poem pounding around in my brain), I've struggled with why I don't obsessively sit down and write. With how I can fall into a black hole while crocheting something or making a print, but I'm too intimidated to even sit down and pick up a pen or pull out my lap top and put words on the page. The way I can't achieve that sort of focus when it comes to my writing.

And lately, that's scared me a little. Made me wonder why on earth I was getting a degree in writing. Wonder what kind of charade I thought I was putting on.

But something about Baker's words reinforced something I think I already knew, something that the kind folks at UB have been trying to hammer home for nearly two years now: There is no right way to create something. There is just the act of creation, in whatever form that takes. And there is a joy in that. Though I may not sit down daily (or even weekly) to write, when I do it makes me so happy. And that's what's important. Not quantity. Not publishing a book. Because once it's written, it's written. And that moment is over.

In the writing world people often talk about how important it is to distance oneself from one's early draft because one is all too prone to love something horrible at that beginning stage. And it's largely true. But I think that love should be relished. Because it is fleeting. Because there is all the time in the world for polishing and editing and criticizing.

And the books and writing are precious. Perhaps not everyone will agree that it's good enough. Perhaps some will be put off by the cover, or the title. But these books do become our lives.

I remember the first book I ever loved. I read it over and over again. The title and author have slipped from my memory, but I can remember the cover, the story of a young girl and her gypsy friend, the evil eye. Most importantly, I can remember how it felt to love story, to cherish a book, to read the words I knew so well over and over and over again.

I can remember the books I've tried to read but never finished. Books I felt I had to read to be literate, to earn my English major street cred: A Confederacy of Dunces and On the Road. The one I actually did make it through: Junkie. I was so pleased with myself when I turned that last page.

My most recent book obsession: The Twilight series. It took my back to my teenage love of all things vampire. And it convinced me to finally take on Dracula. Which I'm still working on.

The last book I read that made me cry. I put off reading it for years, convinced it was just a stupid trade paperback not worth the time of day. But when Ave's mom handed me her copy of Marley and Me, I thought, "What the heck. I need something to read." And read I did. And laugh out loud. And weep. Though that crazy Labrador Retriever may not be the next Gatsby, the story feels genuine, something I'm coming to appreciate more and more. I believe every word that John Grogan writes.

The book that made me want to be a writer: A Moveable Feast.

And I've read and loved these books, regardless of genre or technical merit. And I do mean the books. I've loved the stories, but the books themselves hold a unique attachment for me. Anyone who knows me has seen my overflowing bookshelves (and probably knows there are more books in Missouri that just haven't been shipped out here yet). I form an attachment to the books I read. They have been my companions, and I am reluctant to let them go. If one is lost I rarely replace it because it just wouldn't be the same book.

Over the years that love has deepened, particularly as I add the books my friends have written to the bookshelf. And as I've learned to make the books themselves. I understand the thought and time and dedication that go into each one. That $8 paperback on the shelf may not seem like much with it's flimsy cover and tissue like pages, but it is. And the price of a $25 hardcover may feel like way too much to pay, but really, when you think about it, it's not.

So, at the end of this very long-winded post (which I should probably edit down but just can't bring myself to cut), I won't be buying a Kindle. As I've said before I'm a creature of paper and ink, and so I'll continue to revel in the smell and touch and sight and sound of books, of glue and bookboard and paper and ink. Because it's a little touch of reality.

And because all those books make for an extra layer of insulation in the house, or so says a certain writer that I know.

Read the little article in it's entirety and see some of Baker's work here.

Works in Progress

I'm in my last week before classes. It really snuck up on me. I suppose it always does.

And so now I'm counting down the days till Monday and thinking that perhaps I need to purchase my textbooks. Find out what they are, even.

And I'm thinking of all the projects I didn't get done. The writing I didn't do. The time I wasted. But it was relaxing. And I did get some things done, or at least started.

My current works in progress:


A gocco self portrait (per my earlier blog, I'm using the term self portrait somewhat liberally) of the beautiful high heels I wore to the New Mexico State Society Inaugural Ball (the actual shoes are black, but I wanted to add some color, and couldn't figure out how to make all black work). I have two more color layers to add before this is complete. This project was inspired by Paper Scissors, who is doing some gorgeous work with her gocco. My shoes aren't nearly as well done; she's got some really amazing shading. But I loved the idea, and it stuck in my head.


My latest crochet project, a market bag from a pattern by Knot Sew Cute, easily one of my favorite Etsy sellers. They have delightful patterns.

As my weekend winds down I'll be trying to finish up these projects and probably starting one or two others. And I'll be shelling out for text books. I keep telling myself busy is good.

A shrunken head on Gocco

The aforementioned shrunken head (aka today's self portrait).

I love my print gocco. I love it. I've only done two screens and I'm head over heels. The sad part is that since they're no longer making gocco supplies, I'm reticent to just go nuts and try lots of things out. It's frustrating, because I feel like if I were able to dive in with abandon I'd learn things a lot more quickly. Here's my newest print:



But, in some small way, I suppose, the lack of supplies is a blessing in disguise, since it's really forcing me to think about what I want to do and be careful not to screw up the screen-burning process. The lamps are like gold, and I don't want to waste any. Like having a film camera, it takes slow, deliberate, well-thought out execution.

But the instant gratification seeker in me is seriously bummed out.

In other news, I've learned to crochet, and I'm seriously addicted. I've got several patterns I'm working on and books with more patterns in the mail. Huzzah!



Anyway, I have to go to bed, because I'm trying to break myself of the "stay up till 1:30 even though I have to work the next day" habit.