Hummingbird

This morning's coffee, and I am sipping from my special hummingbird mug. It has a lot of history. My friend Katie, who has a special talent for gifts, gave it to me when I left I home for college. She had filled it with quarters--enough for a term's worth of laundry. It was a brilliant gift.

I kept my laundry money in it for years, but the mug was updated at one apartment to holding toothbrushes. The delicate shape and beautifully worked design brought a touch of class to the bathroom. It stayed in the bathroom through several moves, but when I moved in with my mother, the hummingbird mug was packed carefully and I didn't see it for a while.

On my most recent trip home, I found the mug and brought it to my new place. It was crusted with years of mineral build-up, and I imagined it would remain only decorative. But with enough soaking, and John's tireless scrubbing, it came clean, and now, for the first time in its history, it is coffee mug. It is light, and it is beautiful. It brings a touch of class to my mouth every sip.

You say it's your birthday

Okay, so it's not my birthday. It's not even Fiona's, not really, but since her birthday is on a Sunday (my work day), we're letting her think it is.

The family came and ate sandwiches and strawberries and strawberry cake, and drank strawberry-pineapple-apicot fizz, and doled out presents. Fiona's favorite present was the doll crib from Aunt Kristina and kids, although Amelia was heart-broken to leave it. She nearly pulled her mother's shoe off in an attempt to keep them here longer. Pretty clever kid!

Now Fiona is painting with her new watercolor set. This is her second painting of the day. The first one took two sessions to complete. During the earliest, John went down, asked her how the picture was coming along and she told him "it's not where I'd like it be yet." Wow.

Then after she got up from her nap she asked to watch John's Craftwerk video and got started on another painting. Is she cool 3-year old or what?

Anadama

Yesterday Fiona and I made Anadama Bread (from a Martha Stewart recipe), and it turned out phenomenally. It's the best bread I've made in a very long time, although I imagine part of it is that I really kneaded the bejeezus out of it.

I thought I would write a fantastic post about the joys and wonders of bread making, but I can't bring myself to put two words together this morning. I think I am still routed to music. John gave me a lesson about his sound-editing program, so I was mixing up some tunes. Okay, one tune.

It is amazing how long it takes to edit music. I am taking two tracks from a videogame soundtrack and editing them together to make a soft, electronic song. It's my lullabized version of Ico (that's the game). It's not as easy as you'd think! Lots and lots of cutting and pasting; lots and lots of listening. My ear muscles are so flabby--it almost hurts to tone them up. Also, I'm sure there are a lot more features on the program that I just don't know how to use yet that would make the process more fun. Still, it's addicting!

Kinda like making bread.

Thought

Has anybody else thought that when it comes to money, the flimsy one dollar bills have men on them. The long-lasting coins are women!

*$%! Technology

So the computer is having a little trouble with the Internet at home. I have thought of a couple of super posts, but they'll just have to wait until I'm not illicitly posting at work.

Ahh. The slow beauty of a spring day. So many people want to go to the zoo--the museum is quieter than the library. My boss is taking a one hour lunch. I am slacking. And boy does it feel great!

A fine, fine day

My boss bought us Easter candy! We are chowing down on Robins' Eggs. Aren't those the single best reason to celebrate Easter?

I used a clever line today: I don't celebrate Easter, but I do celebrate chocolate. Actually, I love Easter. My family never, ever made a fuss about the Jesus side of things (since neither of my folks are Jesus followers), and always made a point to focus on the important side of the holiday: eating. Always lots of chocolate, lots of eggs (deviled, of course) and either ham, or lamb. Usually potato salad, peas and some kind of green veg--in good years, asparagus.

The beauty of spring vegetables can not be over-praised. Delicious, tender, brilliantly hued and green! Freshly green, and not the whites of starchy roots or the yellow of the squash family. For the first time in months, green is dancing on our plates.

Happy spring! Happy Easter!

Wicked

Today, a book review/rant. I finally read the book Wicked, by Gary Maguire. [I might have his name wrong, because I am typing this in a hurry, and don’t have the book handy.] What a disappointment! Maguire took a thrilling, menacing figure of children’s lit and turned her into a flat, neurotic mess, the product of a broken family and personal disfigurement. Elphaba–his name for the Witch–is powerless, defanged (literally losing her dangerous baby teeth and growing only standard-issue chompers), and merely reactionary.

All the critics said this was such a fantastic portrait of evil and wickedness. I felt completely let down. Elphaba was no more evil than my shoe, stinking after a long walk. If Maguire had written a story about a truly cruel and dangerous woman, and not the passive, flopping green thing he created, he could have made a really great book.

Oh! I almost forgot! Maguire also ruins Oz. All its creepy, wonderful enchantment is smoothed over into an unhappy America/Kafka realm. I liked it, actually. It was a dark and dangerous place to visit–and it was the right realm for Elphaba. It’s the sort of place that encourages re-acting and not acting, paranoia, not proactivity.

So I guess my problem isn’t that "Wicked" sucked or was crappy. It’s that it’s a fine tale on its own, a fine tale that didn’t need to stand on the shoulders of any other book. There was no need to lift Glinda, Oz or the lamely applied "Wicked Witch" labels–his characters would have been fine on their own. Better off, really. It all comes off as a lame marketing attempt that waters down the real story, which is neither wicked nor witchy, but simply sad.

Wicked

Today, a book review/rant. I finally read the book Wicked, by Gary Maguire. [I might have his name wrong, because I am typing this in a hurry, and don’t have the book handy.] What a disappointment! Maguire took a thrilling, menacing figure of children’s lit and turned her into a flat, neurotic mess, the product of a broken family and personal disfigurement. Elphaba–his name for the Witch–is powerless, defanged (literally losing her dangerous baby teeth and growing only standard-issue chompers), and merely reactionary.

All the critics said this was such a fantastic portrait of evil and wickedness. I felt completely let down. Elphaba was no more evil than my shoe, stinking after a long walk. If Maguire had written a story about a truly cruel and dangerous woman, and not the passive, flopping green thing he created, he could have made a really great book.

Oh! I almost forgot! Maguire also ruins Oz. All its creepy, wonderful enchantment is smoothed over into an unhappy America/Kafka realm. I liked it, actually. It was a dark and dangerous place to visit–and it was the right realm for Elphaba. It’s the sort of place that encourages re-acting and not acting, paranoia, not proactivity.

So I guess my problem isn’t that "Wicked" sucked or was crappy. It’s that it’s a fine tale on its own, a fine tale that didn’t need to stand on the shoulders of any other book. There was no need to lift Glinda, Oz or the lamely applied "Wicked Witch" labels–his characters would have been fine on their own. Better off, really. It all comes off as a lame marketing attempt that waters down the real story, which is neither wicked nor witchy, but simply sad.

The Lonely Doll

About a year ago, Fiona and I checked out a book from the library. It was called Edith and Mr. Bear, and I was immediately enchanted by the story. Edith could have been me as a child: a natural liar, fearful, pouting, charming. She was an utterly believable child. And the photographs looked so real that I had to marvel at them. We sought out other Edith books, and bought the first in the series, The Lonely Doll, for Christmas.

On that shopping expedition, I found a book I couldn’t afford at the time. Called The Secret Life of the Lonely Doll, it was a biography of the enigmatic photographer who captured the story of Edith and her bear companions. I finally read it this weekend. I was blown away by Dare Wright and her life’s story. It was not a happy life, but it shared something with the lives of other women I have admired, and I found it inspiring.

Dare, like my heroes Tasha Tudor, Georgia O’Keefe and Frida Kahlo (of course Frida, and always Frida!), crafted a world that supplemented her own specially grown identity. She spent her lifetime carefully pruning her self to make a creature as desirable and as adorable as a doll, and she tweaked her surroundings to support that fantasy creation. And while that eventually led to her own miserable ending, I can’t help but admire the achievement. What strength of will to change the world to suit yourself!

Side note: I began painting yesterday and could do no wrong. Today, I practically butchered the damn thing. Why, why are hands so hard?

Loose thoughts

Not a good day to generate a real post. Fiona has a cold and I have brain scramble. I start a project, forget it, remind myself about it, forget it again. I did manage to get my beebalm planted and mix up some homemade cereal. It smells good, but so far tastes bland.

I'm trying to get back into my old writing project, but the going is rough. The old computer ate about 8 chapters (the best ones, of course), and since I haven't done any writing in about a year, I am rusty as all fong. It hurts to be this lame again.

Well, that's it. Sort of a jive first post, but what the heck. At least it leaves the door open for improvement!

Back in the Saddle Again

Wow. After a whole year, I'm back in the Internet business, and ready to get going on some serious Blogger butt. Sniff. I've missed it.