People have been kind to me, and all my followers have come because I visited links to their blogs from other blogs. I have had the pleasure of rooting around on people's blog lists and have added more than forty to my list here. If you enjoy looking at new things, some of these blogs may make you smile or cry or both. And to my newer followers of the last two months, anonymous or otherwise, my old stand by blogs give me every bit as much joy as ever.
That's all I am writing for today. I won't single anyone out -- each blog offers me something unique. Have a wonderful weekend. Gotta go figure out how to paint my fish. I'm stuck, but I'll get there.
Accidental Spring
"Accidental Spring" This began as the background for painting other papers, but became something else!
Saturday, February 19, 2011
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Why Part 2 is delayed--a GOOD reason
I was distracted. TOTALLY distracted. I am about two/thirds done with a coral painting and I decided to give you my work in progress. As you all know I do not have a camera, and the original is about 18 by 22 inches. I had to scan it in seven sections, then tile and blend, and LORD. Anyway, here is a rough idea of what it looks like. Let's see if I can get this inserted properly.
Well, I am not sure how to insert the picture in the right place, but it doesn't matter. I want to put in a particularly lovely coral called a gorgonian fan. It is large, very lacy, and has distinct veining. I have some more subtle touches for othercoral as well, to get the soft coral contrast to hard coral, but perhaps you have an idea. The detailing is left out in some areas because I had to reduce the size of my file. Life with computers. Anyway, I got so excited when I figured out how to get the effects I wanted that writing flew out of my mind. I bet you all understand.
Oh! There. I fixed it. Simple enough and good enough for my needs.
EXTRA NOTE about the pieced together scan: the water is different. It does not have the puffs effects, but, instead, looks like water instead of sky. The scan bothers me that way. I got tired of tiling in scans that ALL had different color intensities and the sea was just AWFUL in my scan, but i see that in trying to just throw sea in there, it's not right. Oh, well. I am writing this when three people have given me wonderful feedback on it, but it's bothered me since I made the document! Okay. Enough. AND, now I have the gorgonian fan corals on there, and have started placing "orange basslets"--a golden orange fish that is longer than it is wide. I may put a couple of the butterfly fish in it. By the way, the particular colors and corals were inspired by a picture of a Red Sea coral bank. Apparently they go nearly to the surface, and down as much as a thousand feet! Why I have the fascination, I don't know--the gardener I think.
You will be meeting the Da Silvas, who remain a cacophonous, marvelous blur, as well as a gentleman on the boardwalk who looked like Burt Lancaster in Field of Dreams, a buttoned up grandma with perfectly precise pixie haircut, playing whiffle ball in her pleated skirt and blouse with the Peter Pan collar, a couple who found both me and my penchant for taking pictures of sand formations somewhat odd, and a furry gentleman from some country that borders the Mediterranean Sea, who thought I should spend my fiftieth birthday with him because he was just such a durned stud. I don't know... they FIND me. Plus, I'll throw in whatever flies into my brain. I am undoubtedly blurring my trips into one endless adventure, but I'm sure I really don't care. The incidents live as if they were yesterday's vacation. I doubt you all care, either.
I also started writing plans for running storytelling techniques for nonfiction workshops out of my home... early on I know I referred to my friend's book. I'll get to that another day as well. I don't want to make my fortune doing that... I think it would be fun, and I would like to have it be something that has the potential to be ongoing and pay me enough for the planning, the hosting and, well, thinking to do it. And I would not compete with published authors--it would be a discovery opportunity for all of us, perhaps. We'll see.
As you can see, though, I've not been absent because of some sort of relapse into morosity... I KNOW the word is "moroseness," but I prefer my word. I did, however, decide that my one big gift to myself from the back Disability money would be a GOOD recumbent bike. It is the one vigorous exercise I can do now, and when I can get to the gym, I really work at it, riding at levels 16-20 for a full 50 minutes. I love the adrenaline rush. Oh, hell, it seems ironic in the extreme that a woman with the heart of an Amazon was put into such a fragile body. On the other hand, I may just have the strongest back on the planet, to have withstood so much and STILL support me enough to keep walking... albeit a tad oddly at times, and not for long periods.
Non-Sequiturs R Us
I am rambling, aren't I. I have never been diagnosed with any sort of bipolar disorder, but I find, when I am truly myself, when my body gives me the most trouble, my mind gets manic. The painting I have included has been done in fifteen minute stints over the course of ten days, with only one day off... and I have probably painted 12-14 times a day, with breaks in between. PLUS I made a homemade shepherd's pie--cooking the lamb ahead, boning it then skimming off ALL fat, caramelizing vadelia onions in sherry and garlic with shitake mushrooms, layering the casserole, making mashed potatoes to put on top... it's a long process to do it the old-fashioned way my mom did, so it would never be greasy.
What else did I do? Tutor. But mostly paint, cook, draw up a little business plan and research and order my bike. Sorry I have not written, but ON to reading what YOU all have written. Did I say before how great it is to be back in here? I have an ongoing argument with a friend who just loathes computers. She feels that all connections that are made and remain online or virtual are not real. I've given up arguing but have told her that I'd have felt hopelessly cut off from the world without my computer. Blogging, to me, is the modern equivalent of old-fashioned letter-writing and correspondence friendships. We can do it all faster, and there are "social networking" venues and business networking venues. And there are blogs, which, for me, are satisfyingly rich and varied. Words from people who think and write differently from me--this is SO important. To think, to wake up, to learn. And if here and there someone has pretended to be from a country he or she is not from, oh, well.
That's all for today. No. Really. I promise.
Well, I am not sure how to insert the picture in the right place, but it doesn't matter. I want to put in a particularly lovely coral called a gorgonian fan. It is large, very lacy, and has distinct veining. I have some more subtle touches for othercoral as well, to get the soft coral contrast to hard coral, but perhaps you have an idea. The detailing is left out in some areas because I had to reduce the size of my file. Life with computers. Anyway, I got so excited when I figured out how to get the effects I wanted that writing flew out of my mind. I bet you all understand.
Oh! There. I fixed it. Simple enough and good enough for my needs.
EXTRA NOTE about the pieced together scan: the water is different. It does not have the puffs effects, but, instead, looks like water instead of sky. The scan bothers me that way. I got tired of tiling in scans that ALL had different color intensities and the sea was just AWFUL in my scan, but i see that in trying to just throw sea in there, it's not right. Oh, well. I am writing this when three people have given me wonderful feedback on it, but it's bothered me since I made the document! Okay. Enough. AND, now I have the gorgonian fan corals on there, and have started placing "orange basslets"--a golden orange fish that is longer than it is wide. I may put a couple of the butterfly fish in it. By the way, the particular colors and corals were inspired by a picture of a Red Sea coral bank. Apparently they go nearly to the surface, and down as much as a thousand feet! Why I have the fascination, I don't know--the gardener I think.
In the meantime, back in "Runaways to redbank" mode....
You will be meeting the Da Silvas, who remain a cacophonous, marvelous blur, as well as a gentleman on the boardwalk who looked like Burt Lancaster in Field of Dreams, a buttoned up grandma with perfectly precise pixie haircut, playing whiffle ball in her pleated skirt and blouse with the Peter Pan collar, a couple who found both me and my penchant for taking pictures of sand formations somewhat odd, and a furry gentleman from some country that borders the Mediterranean Sea, who thought I should spend my fiftieth birthday with him because he was just such a durned stud. I don't know... they FIND me. Plus, I'll throw in whatever flies into my brain. I am undoubtedly blurring my trips into one endless adventure, but I'm sure I really don't care. The incidents live as if they were yesterday's vacation. I doubt you all care, either.
I also started writing plans for running storytelling techniques for nonfiction workshops out of my home... early on I know I referred to my friend's book. I'll get to that another day as well. I don't want to make my fortune doing that... I think it would be fun, and I would like to have it be something that has the potential to be ongoing and pay me enough for the planning, the hosting and, well, thinking to do it. And I would not compete with published authors--it would be a discovery opportunity for all of us, perhaps. We'll see.
As you can see, though, I've not been absent because of some sort of relapse into morosity... I KNOW the word is "moroseness," but I prefer my word. I did, however, decide that my one big gift to myself from the back Disability money would be a GOOD recumbent bike. It is the one vigorous exercise I can do now, and when I can get to the gym, I really work at it, riding at levels 16-20 for a full 50 minutes. I love the adrenaline rush. Oh, hell, it seems ironic in the extreme that a woman with the heart of an Amazon was put into such a fragile body. On the other hand, I may just have the strongest back on the planet, to have withstood so much and STILL support me enough to keep walking... albeit a tad oddly at times, and not for long periods.
Non-Sequiturs R Us
I am rambling, aren't I. I have never been diagnosed with any sort of bipolar disorder, but I find, when I am truly myself, when my body gives me the most trouble, my mind gets manic. The painting I have included has been done in fifteen minute stints over the course of ten days, with only one day off... and I have probably painted 12-14 times a day, with breaks in between. PLUS I made a homemade shepherd's pie--cooking the lamb ahead, boning it then skimming off ALL fat, caramelizing vadelia onions in sherry and garlic with shitake mushrooms, layering the casserole, making mashed potatoes to put on top... it's a long process to do it the old-fashioned way my mom did, so it would never be greasy.
What else did I do? Tutor. But mostly paint, cook, draw up a little business plan and research and order my bike. Sorry I have not written, but ON to reading what YOU all have written. Did I say before how great it is to be back in here? I have an ongoing argument with a friend who just loathes computers. She feels that all connections that are made and remain online or virtual are not real. I've given up arguing but have told her that I'd have felt hopelessly cut off from the world without my computer. Blogging, to me, is the modern equivalent of old-fashioned letter-writing and correspondence friendships. We can do it all faster, and there are "social networking" venues and business networking venues. And there are blogs, which, for me, are satisfyingly rich and varied. Words from people who think and write differently from me--this is SO important. To think, to wake up, to learn. And if here and there someone has pretended to be from a country he or she is not from, oh, well.
That's all for today. No. Really. I promise.
Monday, February 7, 2011
Runaways to Red Bank, NJ: Part I, of Portugal, the Old World, and Drunks
In the late nineties through about 2003, I used to go down to the area around REd Bank, New Jersey and wander the shoreline from West Long Branch north to Sandy Hook. It was like visiting a foreign land.
In the first place, New Jersey made all the hotels ditch the stone causeway walls where they went from the water to the huge banks that led to the roads and boardwalks above. One can walk from one end of the shoreline to the other, with free access to ALL beaches. Coming from the land of This is MY beach and YOU don't pay the dues to be a member—the anti-riffraff state of Connecticut—I found this populist policy refreshing and right. Connecticut's beaches are primarily owned by individuals and private neighborhoods, so that there are few beaches to enjoy for us inlanders, unless we know someone. True, there are some lovely state parks, but on a hot Saturday, those places are blanket to blanket, with occasional foot-wide mazes to reach the water. No, New Jersey had the right idea, I thought.
Most important, though, get this! They PUMPED my gasoline. There was no self-service. I got to say "Fill 'er up," just as we did when I was a kid, and it did not cost more. I was totally beside myself when the guy cleaned my windshield.
I had stepped into another world and back about forty years. Fine with me. One day I walked from the "Town Beach" directly onto the beach of some Hiltonesque hotel and sat right in front of someone on a hotel chaise. Yes, it's true people; I am a rebel.
Anyway, back to some sort of background to what took me there. I am friends with a drummer/scientist who lived across the street from a rock icon's mom. And I would go to see David play and catch up a couple times a year. In between our visits I'd stay at a hotel and wander during the days--LOVED it. His mom still lived in Red Bank and he told me I would enjoy kicking around there.
Another woman's blog reminded me of a particularly magic weekend when I was mostly on my own, as well as other times. I've jumbled them all together because, well, I feel like it! One weekend or six, does it matter?
I made the mistake of not making a reservation, so I got to the shore and had to search. I found a Casa Del something or other, which clued me into the fact that it was a Portuguese establishment. I had spent nine days in a place called Viana do Castelo in Northern Portugal after six weeks in Paris with my sister. THAT is another tale. Let's just say I was predisposed to think this might be fun.
It had a little café behind the motel. I walked in because I was truly starving, since it had taken me until 7:30 to even find somewhere with a vacancy, and I'd been driving since noon. I did not notice the bar, or the young man at it. I did notice that three sides looked out over the docks toward the see. On one side was a river, however... a LITTLE river, true, but a river. In Portugal, we'd eaten every night at about 8, sunset, in the top level of our six floor hotel, which was all window on three sides: one side looked to a river, one to the mountains, and one to the sea. I was lost in memories of sunset, being 22 and having all the waiters cater to the two American ladies... of wearing full length dresses to dinner and having bratty waiters hide the dessert cart from me unless I butchered their language trying to order. Handsom men, half of whom had the last name of Da Silva... I remembered dancing with a man with dark eyes and curly hair who--
"Hey, honey. You got a great chest there going."
I looked up with my best college look that said, "I don't care if you DO have a water bed. I don't care if you are a millionaire. You have bad breath and make me want to run screaming out of the room." That kind of look.
"The face isn't bad. You booked near here?"
"I don't care if I were booked next DOOR to you, as far as you are concerned I am booked in Milwaukee. Got it?"
Naturally, he took this as a yes and sat down beside me No one else was in the room. Have you ever smelled old dead fish, beer and scotch blended? New cologne. Eau de Sludge. He was tall. I thought of my deliverance flame-haired man and suddenly thought gap-toothed grins and hopping lice were quite handsome. (See early blog "Deliverance") In some delusion or perhaps another life, he fancied himself a rafe.
"I'm John and I'm a fisherman. Will you be my catch of the day?"
I am not often left speechless, which no doubt comes as a surprise to you all. I was speechless. All I could do was choke on the leftover soda I'd brought in. I tried my famous "You are a foreign spec of some disgusting germ on my microscope specimen and I must flick you away with a finger nail" look.
He winked and then really grinned and I leaned away. Only it was a booth...
Finally, in those two minutes or hour and a half, a woman came in and promptly slicked John in the head with the tip of her dishcloth and spoke to him sharply in the loudest version of the shooshing language I had ever heard. He leaped up and swore. I know it was swearing because my sister taught me to swear in three languages, one of which was Portuguese. "You never know," she'd said.
Where was I? Oh. Right. He did leap up as he swore and I believe I heard the internationally understandable version of, "Ma, I was just kidding around with her. She liked it..." and blah, blah, blah, as he stumbled out of the room, presumably to another bar to cast his line.
His mother looked at me and said, in English. "You are tired. We don't have nice ladies check in here much, so we make sure you are comfortable, not to worry." Slight accent, and the inevitable tangle of tenses that foreigners make in most languages, I think. But her voice was like music to me, and she pronounced aver single syllable precisely.
She called me a lady.
The place was dingy and I was clearly more than slightly nervous. She gave me ice water, silverware and turned to me and asked, "You ever had Portuguese soup?"
I grinned and said, "As a matter of fact, yes, and in Portugal." Her face was beautiful when it lighted up. Cheekbones and the delicacy that I'd noticed in so many Portuguese women. Her features were delicate and while she looked worn, I think she was about my age. That thought made me smile, since I realized I must look pretty worn myself.
"Where?"
When I told her, she suddenly called out a string of names, and seemingly from the woodwork, four people materialized, all with the Portuguese ample, dark hair, fair skin, and slight frames I remembered so well. The man looked like one of"my" waiters, my special waiter in fact. Unfortunately he was the hostess's husband. I reeled in my brain.
"Soup. Someone bring her soup and bread now. I am sitting." She sat across from me and I found out she had grown up in Oporto, the town my second flight out of Lisbon had landed at. I told her about being driven to Viana and having been delayed by a cow accident, and then another. "Ah, yes," she said and laughed. "This happened all the time. I think there were many stupid farmers near town. The best men were fishermen." She looked up at her husband who smiled back and something in me hurt.
The northern Portuguese serve soup just above summer air temperature. And it had a potato base with some wonderful blend of meats and vegetables and places unknown and I was transported once again as the family shooshed among themselves, allowing me to rest, to eat. For those of you who do not know, in Portuguese, the "s" at the end of each syllable is pronounced "sh," which gives the language a beautiful quality unlike anything else. If you can read Italian or Spanish, you can understand much of written Portuguese. I loved the sound.
We began to simply talk about their country and about my home, until Mrs. YES, Da Silva (Portugual's Smith) took me to my room. The room was clean but terribly shabby. Two of the lights did not work and she looked embarrassed and sent her husband to get extra pillows, light bulbs and something in Portuguese. He came back with two down pillows with embroidered covers, as well as two lamps, not just bulbs. I looked up at her with tears in my eyes. These had to be her pillows. "I want you to sleep. You are tired. You have pain. Something I do not know. I see you at breakfast. We start serving the men at six, but you come at about eight and meet my daughter and grandchildren and we'll eat."
And she was gone. I did have pain. I was tired. I would not see David until tomorrow night and I had all day tomorrow to explore by myself. I could hear the water, and somewhere off, I heard a voice trying to say Connecticut and laughing and I was gone ... I was back in Viana do Castelo, the town where river, sea and mountains met. The town where you looked up to the mountains and saw a glowing castle, seemingly in the clouds. When you looked down to the town at night, it was a pool of lighted marble (limestone, but who cared) nestled below.
Morning dawned in my window, bright, way too early, and completely rose-colored. I was on yet another adventure on my own...
In the first place, New Jersey made all the hotels ditch the stone causeway walls where they went from the water to the huge banks that led to the roads and boardwalks above. One can walk from one end of the shoreline to the other, with free access to ALL beaches. Coming from the land of This is MY beach and YOU don't pay the dues to be a member—the anti-riffraff state of Connecticut—I found this populist policy refreshing and right. Connecticut's beaches are primarily owned by individuals and private neighborhoods, so that there are few beaches to enjoy for us inlanders, unless we know someone. True, there are some lovely state parks, but on a hot Saturday, those places are blanket to blanket, with occasional foot-wide mazes to reach the water. No, New Jersey had the right idea, I thought.
Most important, though, get this! They PUMPED my gasoline. There was no self-service. I got to say "Fill 'er up," just as we did when I was a kid, and it did not cost more. I was totally beside myself when the guy cleaned my windshield.
I had stepped into another world and back about forty years. Fine with me. One day I walked from the "Town Beach" directly onto the beach of some Hiltonesque hotel and sat right in front of someone on a hotel chaise. Yes, it's true people; I am a rebel.
Anyway, back to some sort of background to what took me there. I am friends with a drummer/scientist who lived across the street from a rock icon's mom. And I would go to see David play and catch up a couple times a year. In between our visits I'd stay at a hotel and wander during the days--LOVED it. His mom still lived in Red Bank and he told me I would enjoy kicking around there.
Another woman's blog reminded me of a particularly magic weekend when I was mostly on my own, as well as other times. I've jumbled them all together because, well, I feel like it! One weekend or six, does it matter?
Motel Portugal — Looks are Deceiving
I made the mistake of not making a reservation, so I got to the shore and had to search. I found a Casa Del something or other, which clued me into the fact that it was a Portuguese establishment. I had spent nine days in a place called Viana do Castelo in Northern Portugal after six weeks in Paris with my sister. THAT is another tale. Let's just say I was predisposed to think this might be fun.
It had a little café behind the motel. I walked in because I was truly starving, since it had taken me until 7:30 to even find somewhere with a vacancy, and I'd been driving since noon. I did not notice the bar, or the young man at it. I did notice that three sides looked out over the docks toward the see. On one side was a river, however... a LITTLE river, true, but a river. In Portugal, we'd eaten every night at about 8, sunset, in the top level of our six floor hotel, which was all window on three sides: one side looked to a river, one to the mountains, and one to the sea. I was lost in memories of sunset, being 22 and having all the waiters cater to the two American ladies... of wearing full length dresses to dinner and having bratty waiters hide the dessert cart from me unless I butchered their language trying to order. Handsom men, half of whom had the last name of Da Silva... I remembered dancing with a man with dark eyes and curly hair who--
"Hey, honey. You got a great chest there going."
I looked up with my best college look that said, "I don't care if you DO have a water bed. I don't care if you are a millionaire. You have bad breath and make me want to run screaming out of the room." That kind of look.
"The face isn't bad. You booked near here?"
"I don't care if I were booked next DOOR to you, as far as you are concerned I am booked in Milwaukee. Got it?"
Naturally, he took this as a yes and sat down beside me No one else was in the room. Have you ever smelled old dead fish, beer and scotch blended? New cologne. Eau de Sludge. He was tall. I thought of my deliverance flame-haired man and suddenly thought gap-toothed grins and hopping lice were quite handsome. (See early blog "Deliverance") In some delusion or perhaps another life, he fancied himself a rafe.
"I'm John and I'm a fisherman. Will you be my catch of the day?"
I am not often left speechless, which no doubt comes as a surprise to you all. I was speechless. All I could do was choke on the leftover soda I'd brought in. I tried my famous "You are a foreign spec of some disgusting germ on my microscope specimen and I must flick you away with a finger nail" look.
He winked and then really grinned and I leaned away. Only it was a booth...
Finally, in those two minutes or hour and a half, a woman came in and promptly slicked John in the head with the tip of her dishcloth and spoke to him sharply in the loudest version of the shooshing language I had ever heard. He leaped up and swore. I know it was swearing because my sister taught me to swear in three languages, one of which was Portuguese. "You never know," she'd said.
Where was I? Oh. Right. He did leap up as he swore and I believe I heard the internationally understandable version of, "Ma, I was just kidding around with her. She liked it..." and blah, blah, blah, as he stumbled out of the room, presumably to another bar to cast his line.
His mother looked at me and said, in English. "You are tired. We don't have nice ladies check in here much, so we make sure you are comfortable, not to worry." Slight accent, and the inevitable tangle of tenses that foreigners make in most languages, I think. But her voice was like music to me, and she pronounced aver single syllable precisely.
She called me a lady.
The place was dingy and I was clearly more than slightly nervous. She gave me ice water, silverware and turned to me and asked, "You ever had Portuguese soup?"
I grinned and said, "As a matter of fact, yes, and in Portugal." Her face was beautiful when it lighted up. Cheekbones and the delicacy that I'd noticed in so many Portuguese women. Her features were delicate and while she looked worn, I think she was about my age. That thought made me smile, since I realized I must look pretty worn myself.
"Where?"
When I told her, she suddenly called out a string of names, and seemingly from the woodwork, four people materialized, all with the Portuguese ample, dark hair, fair skin, and slight frames I remembered so well. The man looked like one of"my" waiters, my special waiter in fact. Unfortunately he was the hostess's husband. I reeled in my brain.
"Soup. Someone bring her soup and bread now. I am sitting." She sat across from me and I found out she had grown up in Oporto, the town my second flight out of Lisbon had landed at. I told her about being driven to Viana and having been delayed by a cow accident, and then another. "Ah, yes," she said and laughed. "This happened all the time. I think there were many stupid farmers near town. The best men were fishermen." She looked up at her husband who smiled back and something in me hurt.
The northern Portuguese serve soup just above summer air temperature. And it had a potato base with some wonderful blend of meats and vegetables and places unknown and I was transported once again as the family shooshed among themselves, allowing me to rest, to eat. For those of you who do not know, in Portuguese, the "s" at the end of each syllable is pronounced "sh," which gives the language a beautiful quality unlike anything else. If you can read Italian or Spanish, you can understand much of written Portuguese. I loved the sound.
We began to simply talk about their country and about my home, until Mrs. YES, Da Silva (Portugual's Smith) took me to my room. The room was clean but terribly shabby. Two of the lights did not work and she looked embarrassed and sent her husband to get extra pillows, light bulbs and something in Portuguese. He came back with two down pillows with embroidered covers, as well as two lamps, not just bulbs. I looked up at her with tears in my eyes. These had to be her pillows. "I want you to sleep. You are tired. You have pain. Something I do not know. I see you at breakfast. We start serving the men at six, but you come at about eight and meet my daughter and grandchildren and we'll eat."
And she was gone. I did have pain. I was tired. I would not see David until tomorrow night and I had all day tomorrow to explore by myself. I could hear the water, and somewhere off, I heard a voice trying to say Connecticut and laughing and I was gone ... I was back in Viana do Castelo, the town where river, sea and mountains met. The town where you looked up to the mountains and saw a glowing castle, seemingly in the clouds. When you looked down to the town at night, it was a pool of lighted marble (limestone, but who cared) nestled below.
Morning dawned in my window, bright, way too early, and completely rose-colored. I was on yet another adventure on my own...
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