But instead I'm going to tell you only this:
You are extremely sad that you don't live here and therefor can't eat this ice cream.
20 August 2011
There's so much I could tell you.
09 May 2011
Called out.
I keep getting called out by Jenny, and it's starting to be embarrassing. How long since I posted anything? Ummmm..... What can I say? I have nothing to write about! Okay, not exactly true, but most things get shared on Facebook or by email or in hours-long phone calls or via Twitter (gasp!) or the couch for Fancy Lady Writing Group (whenever any pieces actually get finished, which for me, I am loathe to admit, is rare). I feel as though I have nothing to report. Apparently, nobody from the old bloggin' crowd has much of anything to report. We have ceased amusing each other in the interworlds. Updates about children and angst and developments and whatnots have slowed to a crawl. I suppose everyone is busy living their lives instead of chronicling them. It's fine. I mean, it is what it is, right?
Except, of course there is a lot going on! People are building businesses and moving to Hawaii and starting school and putting themselves out there and traveling and producing sweet babies and raising adorable and brilliant children and buying houses and having 50th wedding anniversaries, recovering from trauma, mourning their fathers and trying to figure out what they want to do when they grow up (or turn 60, whichever comes first), seeing estranged family members, ignoring estranged family members and I don't know, all kinds of stuff, good and bad. All that blessed good and terrible messiness of life. It's a weird time we live in and so much hopeful positive delicate weird change is swirling around mixed up with the terrifying and the fear and threats of destruction across the planet and the cosmos. "May you live in interesting times" says the proverb, and boy howdy do we ever. Arab spring, climate change, Palestine, space program, elections, economies, China, food systems, ocean of plastic, peak oil... I have to stop the list, it's making me palpitate.
With a nod to the dangers of ignoring the bad to our own detriment, I must say that these days I try to focus on the goodness, the possibility, the promise, rather than the worrisome fearful terrifying and uncontrollable things. Do your best. Work with what you have. Make good choices. Don't stress to the infinitesimal details of each decision. So much is outside our reaches anyway. What am I trying to say, here? I really don't know anymore, but I feel like a beer might help me figure it out.
06 January 2010
14 December 2009
01 November 2009
Etsy Makes Me Seethe With Envy.
Not material envy as much as creative envy, but seethe with it I do. Have you perused the site? It's the creative girls' wet dream, er, I meant to say a creative girl's Ebay, heh, yeah. It is also a bridal jackpot of crazy goodness, by the way (but that's a post for another time - and possibly another blog? I don't know, I'm still debating on that point, will keep you posted).
It, Etsy, is totally amazing. But it also makes me squirm with discomfort, as I spend far too many hours clicking next-next-next on the infinite returns to my search queries. I squirm because a) I have no money to spend on such non-essential things just now and b) it's not really the time, GlobalFinancialMeltdown-fully speaking, to be on the consumer kick (except it is, because that might help solve the whole insane crisis just a tiny bit, but then again see point a). On the other hand: it is supporting individuals in the economy; it is almost all art; it is helping to foster a more regional and/or alternative economy (in some cases more than others, I suppose, but especially here in Portland where a lot of the Saturday Market vendors have etsy pages) beyond the reach of the Walmart/Big Box/Trendoid culture that chewed us up and spit out in Roaring 90's/Insane Aughts. Still, I personally should not be augmenting my wardrobe (have fallen in total love with that crazy 18-in-one dress, oy! Am I nuts? I'm a little nutso, right?) at the moment, or fantasizing about all the lovely hand painted dishware I want to possess. Nor should I be spending all these hours imagining MAKING all the lovely handmade items I'm lusting after in the etsy coffers.
Because c) that is really what it comes down to. Not only to I want to own these things, but really I want to MAKE them. But with too many things on the old To Do list as well as the hey-that-would-be-fun project list (and far too many items uncrossed off of both, I might add) as well as the continually pushed back things-I-keep-meaning-to-get-to-like-buying-a-house-and-having-kids-and-stuff stuff, it would be insane to start yet another is-she-really-going-to-finish-it? project or fifty-three. However, since that's never stopped me before (and since I think we're pretty solid on the first-comes-love-then-comes-marriage-then-comes-baby-in-the-baby-carriage - who knew I'd wind up being so traditional? ha ha) please keep your eyes out for cheap plain white dishware for me, won't you? It's all part of the new kitchen in the new house that we will totally get around to buying one of these days soon.
On a semi-related note, I'm reading this vaguely self-helpish book by Barbara Sher called "Refuse to Choose" (yeah, yeah, don't judge, it's an awful name I know, and sadly the subtitle is even worse) that posits that some people (she calls them "Scanners" - I suspect someone could really use a verbiage coach to help polish her brilliant ideas, I'm just sayin') are naturally disinclined to choose a single focus, direction or profession. They are, instead, predisposed to fits and spurts of creative energy, ideation and inspiration, but are inhibited by an increasingly specializing and speciality focused society that requires a single focus or direction at one time and doesn't allow for much jumping around, and, well, blah blah blah and so forth (it's actually a good and useful book, I really am not intending to mock it - though I may just be saying that because it totally justifies my entire existence, but anyway...).
So there's an exercise in there that has the reader draw a floor plan/map of their home and then walk through it and write down every project (conceptual, finished, barely started, never past the supply-purchasing phase, all of it) and mark them down in each room where they sit/live/were conceived of/etc. And I must say: As an exercise? Totally. Effing. Fascinating. As a reality check? Honestly a little depressing, because man is that floor plan jam freaking packed. You would think by looking at it that the only things furnishing this place were unfinished craft projects, stacks of scribbled on paper under strange art materials, undulled tools, and dusty instruments.
Of course any and all creative/crafty/planning energy these days is all being siphoned off into the tubular world of Wedding Planning (duh dun duuuuuuuum!). And work stuff, client web sites and marketing writing and project planning, of course. Of course? Um, yeah, not really. It's all about the wedding "art and vision" right now, I'm sad to admit - seriously, I'm *that* girl all of a sudden. Example: Mark and Jess brought the kids over in their costumes tonight and caught me watching videoed photo montages from random weddings. Complete with heartstring-tugging background music. In the dark. Oy. At least it's all internet these days, no trees were harmed in the making of this bridal porn!
And that leads me back to the oh-so-many wedding related things to discuss. Venues. Kilts. Girls, I have some ideas about your ensembles. So, probably going to create a moment-in-time blog for the discussions of all that biz. Not sure I can stomach it living here. We'll see.
It's all good, nothing need be decided now. The only thing I need to worry about now is my addiction to all things Etsy, DIY and bridalscape smut-y.
It, Etsy, is totally amazing. But it also makes me squirm with discomfort, as I spend far too many hours clicking next-next-next on the infinite returns to my search queries. I squirm because a) I have no money to spend on such non-essential things just now and b) it's not really the time, GlobalFinancialMeltdown-fully speaking, to be on the consumer kick (except it is, because that might help solve the whole insane crisis just a tiny bit, but then again see point a). On the other hand: it is supporting individuals in the economy; it is almost all art; it is helping to foster a more regional and/or alternative economy (in some cases more than others, I suppose, but especially here in Portland where a lot of the Saturday Market vendors have etsy pages) beyond the reach of the Walmart/Big Box/Trendoid culture that chewed us up and spit out in Roaring 90's/Insane Aughts. Still, I personally should not be augmenting my wardrobe (have fallen in total love with that crazy 18-in-one dress, oy! Am I nuts? I'm a little nutso, right?) at the moment, or fantasizing about all the lovely hand painted dishware I want to possess. Nor should I be spending all these hours imagining MAKING all the lovely handmade items I'm lusting after in the etsy coffers.
Because c) that is really what it comes down to. Not only to I want to own these things, but really I want to MAKE them. But with too many things on the old To Do list as well as the hey-that-would-be-fun project list (and far too many items uncrossed off of both, I might add) as well as the continually pushed back things-I-keep-meaning-to-get-to-like-buying-a-house-and-having-kids-and-stuff stuff, it would be insane to start yet another is-she-really-going-to-finish-it? project or fifty-three. However, since that's never stopped me before (and since I think we're pretty solid on the first-comes-love-then-comes-marriage-then-comes-baby-in-the-baby-carriage - who knew I'd wind up being so traditional? ha ha) please keep your eyes out for cheap plain white dishware for me, won't you? It's all part of the new kitchen in the new house that we will totally get around to buying one of these days soon.
On a semi-related note, I'm reading this vaguely self-helpish book by Barbara Sher called "Refuse to Choose" (yeah, yeah, don't judge, it's an awful name I know, and sadly the subtitle is even worse) that posits that some people (she calls them "Scanners" - I suspect someone could really use a verbiage coach to help polish her brilliant ideas, I'm just sayin') are naturally disinclined to choose a single focus, direction or profession. They are, instead, predisposed to fits and spurts of creative energy, ideation and inspiration, but are inhibited by an increasingly specializing and speciality focused society that requires a single focus or direction at one time and doesn't allow for much jumping around, and, well, blah blah blah and so forth (it's actually a good and useful book, I really am not intending to mock it - though I may just be saying that because it totally justifies my entire existence, but anyway...).
So there's an exercise in there that has the reader draw a floor plan/map of their home and then walk through it and write down every project (conceptual, finished, barely started, never past the supply-purchasing phase, all of it) and mark them down in each room where they sit/live/were conceived of/etc. And I must say: As an exercise? Totally. Effing. Fascinating. As a reality check? Honestly a little depressing, because man is that floor plan jam freaking packed. You would think by looking at it that the only things furnishing this place were unfinished craft projects, stacks of scribbled on paper under strange art materials, undulled tools, and dusty instruments.
Of course any and all creative/crafty/planning energy these days is all being siphoned off into the tubular world of Wedding Planning (duh dun duuuuuuuum!). And work stuff, client web sites and marketing writing and project planning, of course. Of course? Um, yeah, not really. It's all about the wedding "art and vision" right now, I'm sad to admit - seriously, I'm *that* girl all of a sudden. Example: Mark and Jess brought the kids over in their costumes tonight and caught me watching videoed photo montages from random weddings. Complete with heartstring-tugging background music. In the dark. Oy. At least it's all internet these days, no trees were harmed in the making of this bridal porn!
And that leads me back to the oh-so-many wedding related things to discuss. Venues. Kilts. Girls, I have some ideas about your ensembles. So, probably going to create a moment-in-time blog for the discussions of all that biz. Not sure I can stomach it living here. We'll see.
It's all good, nothing need be decided now. The only thing I need to worry about now is my addiction to all things Etsy, DIY and bridalscape smut-y.
27 October 2009
I Blame Facebook.
When you've started blogging purely to keep up with bloggity-blah and distant friends, and then all of those up-keepers end up on Facebook, chatting and photo-sharing and thumbs-upping away, why would you bother to continue with the keep-ups-ing in the blogosphere?
That's right. You wouldn't.
Unless you had a kid or two, and lots of non-MyFace addicted or non-tech savvy family and friends needing to be kept informed of the goings on in the non-electronical areas of your life.
Unless you maintain a semi-anonymous persblogonality while in the throes of law school, as a place to comment on culture and happenings and random thoughts and all the unspeakable gossips of the intense campus/community/field into which you have begun to dip first your toes and then all the various appendages into, and about which you would not dare risk snarkifying in the SpaceBook realm due to the long, long, loooong memory of the oh-so-mature folks and future colleagues therein (but which really must be shared with friends, family, and the world at large because OH COME ON, PEOPLE, SERIOUSLY?!!).
Unless you simply want to write it all down and remember because your brain, well, your poor rusty brain is beginning to forget the day-to-dayness of it all and it would be nice to have a record of just what the eff all the time has been spent upon...
But if you started tap tap tapping away in a blogger window not just as a connection to the far-scattered friends and loved ones, but as a connection to the words that tended to escape, to the page and to the pages, and to the Giant Bubble Machine of a world out there, with so much going on every minute - spit out at you via RSS feed or Headline News or Alerts in the inbox - well, Facebook doesn't do a very swell job with all of that, I'm afraid. In fact, I'd say it manages to almost instantly (within a few replies, anyway) trivialise or diminish most everything posted or discussed within its pages (and I say that despite the experience of having the very choicest news of MJ's death being broken to me via Twitter/FB feed from a cousin in Italy, a full 30 minutes before CNN changed their headline from "grave condition" to "DEAD" - - - of course that's a moral of the story for another time). You may disagree. That's fine, I'll allow it. Let's chat about it over on my wall, shall we?
But really, I should never have stepped away, because Facebook (though I do love you, you sweet, innocently addictive crackpipe you) is no place for the in-depth, for the thoughtful, for the lengthy.* It is a place for photos, photo-essays even, edged with storytelling captions, but lacking any graciousness for the story itself. It is the land of the virtual connection, the shorthand, the easy way to reach out and click "Like!" and let someone know you are thinking of them, that you know they are out there, that you give a shit about what they are doing and saying and snapping and sharing. And for this I maintain many, daily, truly heartfelt appreciations and admirations. However, it is hardly the venue for the longer, harder, dare I say fancier braindumps and certainly not for the writings and the by-products of the (now rare) ass-in-chair, brain-to-hand scribblings, tappety-tappings or snip-snap cut-n-pastes. It's no place for the actual, I fear.
So I blame Facebook. And the sweet flood of relief of post-inauguration America-the-Beautiful that made it okay not to think but. at. all. for a few months in the blissful thereafter. And I blame therapy, of which I've certainly had too much by now.** And laziness. And indecision. And travel to California. And not getting into graduate school, AGAIN. And ambivalence. And efforts elsewhere, in strange small piles of intention and (in)action. And oh oh, gardening, the garden! I totally, lovingly, longingly blame the garden! And about a million fluid ounces of love and contentment from the constant stream of houseguests that fluttered through our giant drafty house from May to October (love love love).
But now there is no excuse. And barring babies and grad school or any tangible plans at taking over the world with my verve, vim and vigor, I'll just have to stick with what pours out of the pockets between the cranium and the sacrum and see what takes shape back here in this blackness.
So - Hi. How've you been keeping yourself these days, months and years?
*I claim none of those but the third. Ahem.
**Though I can justify the time in years (if not the money in dollars) by the simple math of twice-a-month = double the length of the process versus the standard once-a-week analysis. Right? Right.
That's right. You wouldn't.
Unless you had a kid or two, and lots of non-MyFace addicted or non-tech savvy family and friends needing to be kept informed of the goings on in the non-electronical areas of your life.
Unless you maintain a semi-anonymous persblogonality while in the throes of law school, as a place to comment on culture and happenings and random thoughts and all the unspeakable gossips of the intense campus/community/field into which you have begun to dip first your toes and then all the various appendages into, and about which you would not dare risk snarkifying in the SpaceBook realm due to the long, long, loooong memory of the oh-so-mature folks and future colleagues therein (but which really must be shared with friends, family, and the world at large because OH COME ON, PEOPLE, SERIOUSLY?!!).
Unless you simply want to write it all down and remember because your brain, well, your poor rusty brain is beginning to forget the day-to-dayness of it all and it would be nice to have a record of just what the eff all the time has been spent upon...
But if you started tap tap tapping away in a blogger window not just as a connection to the far-scattered friends and loved ones, but as a connection to the words that tended to escape, to the page and to the pages, and to the Giant Bubble Machine of a world out there, with so much going on every minute - spit out at you via RSS feed or Headline News or Alerts in the inbox - well, Facebook doesn't do a very swell job with all of that, I'm afraid. In fact, I'd say it manages to almost instantly (within a few replies, anyway) trivialise or diminish most everything posted or discussed within its pages (and I say that despite the experience of having the very choicest news of MJ's death being broken to me via Twitter/FB feed from a cousin in Italy, a full 30 minutes before CNN changed their headline from "grave condition" to "DEAD" - - - of course that's a moral of the story for another time). You may disagree. That's fine, I'll allow it. Let's chat about it over on my wall, shall we?
But really, I should never have stepped away, because Facebook (though I do love you, you sweet, innocently addictive crackpipe you) is no place for the in-depth, for the thoughtful, for the lengthy.* It is a place for photos, photo-essays even, edged with storytelling captions, but lacking any graciousness for the story itself. It is the land of the virtual connection, the shorthand, the easy way to reach out and click "Like!" and let someone know you are thinking of them, that you know they are out there, that you give a shit about what they are doing and saying and snapping and sharing. And for this I maintain many, daily, truly heartfelt appreciations and admirations. However, it is hardly the venue for the longer, harder, dare I say fancier braindumps and certainly not for the writings and the by-products of the (now rare) ass-in-chair, brain-to-hand scribblings, tappety-tappings or snip-snap cut-n-pastes. It's no place for the actual, I fear.
So I blame Facebook. And the sweet flood of relief of post-inauguration America-the-Beautiful that made it okay not to think but. at. all. for a few months in the blissful thereafter. And I blame therapy, of which I've certainly had too much by now.** And laziness. And indecision. And travel to California. And not getting into graduate school, AGAIN. And ambivalence. And efforts elsewhere, in strange small piles of intention and (in)action. And oh oh, gardening, the garden! I totally, lovingly, longingly blame the garden! And about a million fluid ounces of love and contentment from the constant stream of houseguests that fluttered through our giant drafty house from May to October (love love love).
But now there is no excuse. And barring babies and grad school or any tangible plans at taking over the world with my verve, vim and vigor, I'll just have to stick with what pours out of the pockets between the cranium and the sacrum and see what takes shape back here in this blackness.
So - Hi. How've you been keeping yourself these days, months and years?
*I claim none of those but the third. Ahem.
**Though I can justify the time in years (if not the money in dollars) by the simple math of twice-a-month = double the length of the process versus the standard once-a-week analysis. Right? Right.
19 January 2009
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