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February 2006

Brought To You By Nike: Just Do It, Dammit

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On Sunday Morning, Jimmy Carter, 82, said that he started painting when he wrote a novel and the publisher was looking for a painting to use as the cover art. So President Carter decided to paint it himself.

An artist can have two masters.

Just imagine what a person could do if she just believed she could do it.

You need a painting to hang over that sofa? Give me a few weeks and I'll see what I can whip up.

If only it was as easy as that. Or maybe it is.

Talent?

Don't confuse ability with talent.

Talent's twin is fear and the two are never apart. They conspire to keep us in our place. They allow us to live our limitations. They rejoice when another  person throws down the brush/pen/welding torch/violin/bat and declare they are in fact, human and not divine.

Nature/nurture is not a conundrum. Genuis is a rare gift. The rest of us are just clay and we have to wrestle, seize, shape, force, extrude, and then hone our "talent".

If you have the desire and the willingness to sit down and confront the blank page - over and over and over again - your talent will emerge. It won't develop in spite of you; it will only develop with all your sweat, fear, doubt, and perseverance.

Then you too, at age 82, can win the Nobel Peace Prize, write a novel, and do the cover art.

And that ain't peanuts.


000_0187 There's a lot of noise outside-  truck noises, engines roars, beeping. Finally  have to stop blogging and get up and look. The city is finally cleaning up the mess outside from the storm. There's a front-loader that my friend, Teri, could drive, picking up the logs and branches and battering the giant trunk. I think the theory is that the giant fallen trunk will fall to pieces if the operator bashes into it enough. Strange. I'm just glad to see they are doing it because there was some trash talk about them not picking it up since it is not a city tree and it would be really unfair for my next-door neighbor to have to pay for it since the tree fell onto her yard. As it is, she had to pay to have the top of the tree removed from her yard because it was on her yard and legally neither the city nor the other neighbor was responsible to pay for it  ( storm + healthy tree = Act of God).  Now if they would just come and collect the giant wires that laying on the street, all would be back to normal. (The photo above is not from our street, but is the front of the huge football field of debris from the December on Cape Cod.)

All my neighbors are now eyeing their trees with a cynical glare. I am afraid that by spring they'll be a rush on taking them down and I'd hate to see our neighborhood denuded. We have lovely, old trees here: maples, oaks, European weeping willows, even some elms, and birches. They soften the small lots and jumbled houses. If people would just learn to have them properly pruned and not turn them into giant, inflexible toothpicks,  we'd be safer. In front of our porch are three birches - we lost one a few years ago. I've decided we need to buy two more this spring and plant them so we have a little stand of birch. I love their white, chalky, striated bark.

I saw the first advertisements for seedlings in the NY Times this week. I was so excited!  I don't plant from seed anymore, except for sunflowers and morning glories, but just seeing the seed packs and little buds lifted my heart on a cold, January day. I've been looking for some narcissis to pot inside but I appear to have missed the season. The Holland tulips are flooding the market right now and the supermarket was engorged with their colorful heads. I think I have to spend a little money and get several bunches over the weekend. I for one, am having my little tulip head colored also - those gray roots are peeking through the scalp, only they don't bring colorful flowers, just more gray.


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A little breathing room mid-week and I allow myself to cook a meal of rich meat napped with tomato sauce and escarole glazed in olive oil and garlic. Somehow a Baby Watson cheesecake finds its way into my cart....and into my mouth. Best of all, a mid-winter gin and tonic, my second this week. Thanks, M. for reminding me of them.

I have so many thoughtful and wise readers who offer counsel when all I want to do is go to work and scream "I quit!" and then come home and draw all day. No chance of that anytime soon but the exchange lets me see some work matters with clarity and I addressed them with managers and some of the steam escapes from my little potboiler.

Another flurry of art-making to finish a project that should already be in the mail. This morning I'm looking at my worktable and surveying the contents like a forensic scientist. I apparently am into crafty stuff these days; more gimmicks and less pure drawing and painting:

  • clippings from a children's illustrated dictionary from the 1950's.
  • foil tape in 1/4 and 1/2 size (which I can't find to buy again)
  • little hinged frames perfect for countersinking into books
  • Diamond Glaze that dries like glass in the frames
  • the ubiquitous glue sticks
  • matte medium
  • eyelets
  • small hammer
  • twigs
  • hand-dyed silk ribbons
  • pages from a tiny, very old prayer book
  • ripped up pages of watercolor paper painted with vivid colors
  • a Starbucks cup with the remains of an eggnog latte
  • No, I won't be drinking that

I'm leaving it all there since I have another journal to work on this weekend. This one is all about birds and feathers and nests. I am one of the last people to work on it so it's hard to come up with something original that hasn't already been explored. I have an idea, though, and I think Saturday morning I'll be doing something involving tissue paper and splatters of coffee. That's all I'll say, but if you try it, use freeze-dried crystals of instant coffee. Smells yummy when done, too.


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Lights are on, TV blaring, heat pumping - life is back to normal as far as power goes.

But what about other areas where power is important?

I'm talking about earning power, career power, political power.

Mr. Pom and I are feeling bereft of those kinds of power.

Mr. Pom and I are tired.

We are whiney about being bossed around by younger people (and we don't mean our kids - at least not this time).

Our jobs are long, demanding, and not very "fulfilling" at mid-life.
Remember when we all thought our careers would be "fulfilling"?

I can't think of the last time I thought that.

Good grief, we are the cartoon couple of the man in the gray suit.

Middle-aged, middle management, unrequited dreams.

I think I hear the voice of Willy Loman downstairs.....

I do believe it is time for a change.

Stories are needed of inspiring life changes - post them here, post them now.

It's my version of show 'n tell. 

You can include pictures if you give us a link.

Fodder for grey January days.


Blowin' In The Wind

There was a mighty wind blowin'
Early Wednesday mornin'
The Pomegranates were brushing their teeth
Having just woke from their sleep.

Mrs. Pom was staring in her closet
Waiting for an outfit to hop out it
When a big gust came, shook the house
The lights in turn, they went out.

Down from the third floor
Ran The Princess
When an even bigger blast
Made her decide sleep was in recess.

Mother and daughters ducked
As it seems something was out of luck - 
Windows rattled and the blinds flew
Daughters yelled: check out the view!

Ouch

Trunk

Pole

Crossstreet

After that, plans for work and school
Became a game for fools
Trapped in the house by limbs and wires,
We stared at each other and looked out at the mire.

Mrs. Pom decided to
Risk life and limb
Drove over wires and risked a ticket
Because her trial the next day,
She needed  to prep it.

Cold and tired, the intrepid Pomegranates troop
Persevered - though some flew the coop.
Daughters were bundled off to sisters' beds
While Mrs. Pom followed where Mr. Pom led -

Defend the house we must!
He said and put up a fuss.
So  fires were made and blankets were laid
But once night fell
The view made Mrs. Pom yell:

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There was such a mess for so many days,
even NBC News put it in play,
Coming not once, but twice, but never for me
Our house and Mr Pom was featured
For the nation to see.

But even fame has its limits
And after four days  of being a brick
It was hard to say
Of what we were  most sick.

Just when it appeared that another
Night we would have to endure
From the street came the sounds
Of trucks galore.

Men in hard hats
From Ohio to be exact
Drove across states
To deal with our fate.

Help

Ladders were hoisted
Wires were foisted
Trunks were split,
And finally, lights were lit!

After
1
After2

As you can see,
it's still a mess
many neighbors are still telephone-less.
We, however, have lights blazing
And hope the wind won't be a-raising.

Thanks to all who wrote in
And offered words of support
And in return,
I apologize for this poetic tort!



I'm writing this quickly from our freezing home, having found a wireless connection in our neighborhood. We had a major storm here on Wednesday morning and a huge tree fell across the street, bringing all the power lines down with it. We've been without electricity or heat since then and our street's is closed due to live wires hanging everywhere. Stan and I have been sleeping here, bundled up, and the girls have been staying here and there. No sign of this getting resolved quickly since the city and Con Ed are working on the main roads first. Just from my windows, I can see our downed tree, a tree smashing 3 cars further down the street, two trees down in the little cemetery I wrote about, and the telephone pole on the corner is cracking and only staying up due to the wires it's leaning on.

I was lucky to pick up someone else's wireless this morning, but I'll be writing more from my sister's over the weekend. Gotta get up the nerve to jump out from under the covers and get dressed for work.  What fun!


Yarnbig

I am watching The Princess trying to fill out the forms for her college yearbook. We (I) threw out the original order form by mistake. We (I) had to go on line and find the customer service number and request a new one. Now it is due and I made her sit down and put it all together. She can't figure out how to do the sales tax (21 y.o. psych major and sales clerk at Banana Republic). She  seals the envelope and forgets to put the check in. She takes extra envelope, then forgets to put the proofs in.

She is punishing me for losing the original order form.

Mystery Man went back to school today. Called to tell me that he's on his way out to buy cleaning supplies for his frat room which is overrun with  mouse poop. Seemed he didn't want to set traps and come back to 4-week old dead mice, so they had a party. Isn't a good thing we spend $3600 a semester for him to live in the frat house instead of the nice clean dorms? Visions of disease and Hanta Virus accompany my dreams. But after some of the "hijinks" that MM has performed in the past week, I am not all that upset.

The Teen chimes in with the fact that we (I) missed the deadline to put a congratulatory ad in her middle school yearbook. In my defense, Mr. Pomegranate gave it to me the night before it was due when I would have had to find a) baby photo of her; 2) come up with artwork, and 3) witty saying. While I was at court. I meant to call and get an extension, but there was no number on the order form, just an address.

Actually, it is a tradition for none of the Pomegranate children to get congratulatory ads in their yearbooks. Usually cause they never tell us. But this time they did.

I promised to make a beautiful ad for her that we will paste into the front cover, with a 100 copies to give all her friends.

She is not amused.

Now Mr. Pomegranate is going on as fathers are wont about money and comparing the children to blood-sucking parasites needy puppies who never get enough attention.

Happiness does not reign supreme in the Pomegranate household tonight.

Sigh.

But there is a can of chocolate frosting in the pantry that only I know about....




The Surface of My Desk

is not always visible - in fact, it rarely is as my method of work is to dive into the middle of a project and let it metamorphasize into whatever it needs to be. This leads to pulling supplies off shelves and by the end of the day, I'm working on my lap and my desk has become a giant storage facility. A New Year's intention it to stop this craziness and leave the surface of my desk at least one-half empty so I when I need to work, I have a clean, uncluttered area inviting me instead of a huge mess that sends me screaming from the room.

Desk

And yes, the other half of the desk is still piled with fabric, stamps, acrylics, and other junk, but that's okay - this is the area protected by  the self-healing mat.

My artroom is small and was probably designed to be a nursery, but trust me, the  only thing being birthed in it now is creativity, and it takes a lot of creativity to fit everything I use into the space. Mixed media artists need a lot of junk, and despite my intentions to go minimalist, I don't think it will ever happen. I do  like my little window under the eaves where I watch my neighbor's cherry trees evolve through the seasons.

Studio1

To my right is the closet door that I painted the first weeks we moved in. I didn't like working with a closet full of stuff next to me. I don't think it is good feng shui, but the room has a closet door, door to the hall, and door to our bedroom, plus two windows and a cut out for the chimney, so I don't have much choice. I decided the best way to deal with it was to make the door into a totem of glowing paint, sacred words, and mementoes from art retreats and gifts from fellow artists. Many layers of Lumiere paint and stamped images make it glow in the right light and it is a warm and inspirational presence that looks over my work.

Door

I could use a studio as big as our second floor - but who couldn't? I try to dedicate certain areas to certain activities. By the window overlooking the front yard, I keep the sewing machine, beads, embellishments, and special mementoes from my grandmother and my aunt,  who was a great seamstress. The spools of thread were all hers and I used them to make a valance for the window and hung vintage optician lenses from them.

Window

I'm not entirely done organizing. The shelves that wrap around the left of the desk need a good cleaning and organizing. Time to get rid of the wooden boxes that once held clementines and change over to clear storage boxes. But not now - our after-Christmas budget is also very minimalist.  And one last repository of hidden gems and junk is the top of the pine armoire that holds my books, magazines, and journals.

Armoire

This will wait to another weekend. Today, I have more CLE tapes to listen to and this book to play with.

Bk

I wrote about this lovely book last fall but never had time to do more than look through it. Today I intend to play in it and make one of the following - or all 3 if it goes quickly.

Mallo
Tom
Case

Winter Sundays - meant for cutting out bright, fluttery scraps of fabric, listening to beads rattle in muffin tin organizers, and making small bits of things meant only to bring smiles.


Retraction Redaction Redux

Dearest Readers, please do not attribute the remarks in the prior column to  this artist's significant other. I was speaking metaphorically, uh, for the most part. I wouldn't want to hurt Mr. Pomegrantes's feelings, since he is my greatest supporter and has unlimited faith in my abilities. He  may not understand what I create, but he always appreciates it, even if he cannot adequately express it. Consider it a cautionary tale for those artists who find their love and support from left-brained, linear types - they balance us, provide stability, and together we create the perfect combination of yin and yang - so don't expect them to react outside their parameters of understanding anymore than they expect you to muddle through the annual tax returns.

(Whew. Now I can relax.)

Today is Friday. The work week has not been too grueling. Mr. Pomegranate dragged me outside last night after dinner and we took a walk in the 50 degree weather. I had just sat down after making dinner and was reading the paper. I still had on my work clothes. I did not want to go. My foot hurt. I had to go the bathroom.

He didn't care. He shoved me into my coat and dragged me out. I complained for a block and refused to make small talk as I limped down the street. After a block or two, the kinks in my legs worked out and I began to relax a little. There was a bright three-quarter moon and we strolled arm in arm around the neighborhood. A block from our house is a family cemetery that dates the 1700's and used to contain the homestead of one of the earliest families in the area. We've never  been inside the low, wrought iron gates and climbed the small rise, but my daughter tells me that she cuts through sometimes when she walks home from the bus if she thinks bigger, annoying kids are following her. We decided that walking through in the dark was not the wisest thing, but one of these days we're going to visit and see exactly who is buried there. For years,  the legend was that Aaron Burr is buried there, but a quick googling reveals that he is not.

We cam home chatty and relaxed and he told me that tomorrow night we're going for a half hour. We'll see. I wouldn't want to shock my system too much. And who knows how long this unseasonable weather will last? There were a bunch of twittering birds on a bush in the parking lot at work. I wanted to warn them to fly away, go, shoo, before an ice storm catches them mid-flight. Surely 60 degree weather in mid-January is evidence of global warning and we shall all perish eventually.

But for now, I'm not complaining.




Making Art that No One Sees.

Over at Loudenmouth, the new blog by Jennifer Louden, The Comfort Queen, she's talking about her new passion of making art and the feeling that her art needs to be seen by someone. Does it make art sweeter if you  have an audience? I know it does for me, I like that little extra zing that comes when someone tells me that they love what I wrote/drew/collaged, etc.

Artists are generally very insecure souls. We never have enough feedback on our work - positive feedback, that is. It's like we are learning to walk again each time we make something and we need to hear someone saying, "come on baby, come on, one more step, you can do it", and of course, we love to see a pair of outstretched arms to run into, preferably those of our mother who will love us unconditionally despite whatever dreck we are producing in our studio.   

In general, artists tend to fall somewhere on the low side of the maturity scale when it comes to emotional stability. I know. I am one. The swing factor on moods is considerable, generally regulated by the number of people bursting into spontaneous applause when they see your work, or, the lack thereof.

It's hard to be an artist in the 21st century. There's not many people running around clapping you on the back for that great drawing you did of the polar bear at the Bronx Zoo. And generally, there are few readers for the quatrain to which you devoted a better part of the weekend writing. The invisibility factor feeds the swing factor and the clash produces a great, combustible fire of egotism going up in flames.

And that's when you turn to your significant other and say the words. What words? The very words designed to put the counseling back into your marriage. The words that make partners feet turn to ice and tongues swell to gargantuan proportions. The words that you desperately try to hold back saying, until you are blue in the face and feel ready to vomit. The words uttered by every artist at some point each day: "What do you think of this?"

Herein lies the problem: once the artist has uttered those small, banal words, seemingly casual, but oh, oh, so very important words, her entire identity, nay, her entire life now hangs in the balance as she awaits the reply to this wolf of a question clothed in sheep's clothing."What do you think of this?" What do you think of my art? What do you think of my creativity? What do you think of my devoting endless hours to this project? What do you think of my aspirations as an artist? What do you think of me calling myself an artist? What do you think of everything I've worked for my entire life that is represented in this 8" X 10" collage made on 300 lb. hot press watercolor paper that I have painted, layered, glazed, glued, adhered, wrote, stamped, drew, and embossed and poured my entire "oeuvre" into.

Do you think it is any good?

The poor, naive  significant other, spouse, boy/girlfriend, acquaintance,  - but never fellow artist! - the poor shmuck now has his Hobsonian choice: truth or beauty. Truth, yes, your mother taught you that honesty is the best policy. But beauty, ah, she lies between us like silk sheets and if the right response is uttered, those sheets will be pulled back to reveal all that is happy, good, and right in the world. Go for truth, and feel the howling winds lift those sheets back and reveal the naked underside of hell.

The worst part is - the shmuck doesn't even know there's a choice. He just knows that it doesn't look like the Mona Lisa, so he's not quite sure what to make of it. Colors are pretty, but kind of loud and it  doesn't go with anything in the house. Not sure what that stuff is hanging off of it, and those shiny things stuck on it - are those refrigerator magnets? The sketch, well, it doesn't look like anyone he's ever seen. But before he's even processed that much of an critique, his super ego shuts him right up and he thinks he is safe by doing  what anyone on the edge of a cliff  would do. He opens his mouth. He moves his tongue, he exhales through the vocal cords and he says those dreaded, dangerous, war-mongering words:

"It's very nice."

Nice.

Very nice.

Very Friggin' Nice.

Daisies are nice. Puppies are nice. Babies are nice.

Art is NOT NICE.

A roar erupts from the artist. The piece is thrown to the ground. Doors slam. People retreat. A chill descends. Sounds can be heard of marriage licenses being ripped, art supplies trashed, and weeping, copious weeping. Journals are slammed onto desks and pens are heard furiously scribbling across page after page while the artist is muttering, nicenicenice, until the poor significant other is reduced to banging on the door and apologizing - for what he knows not. He scurries to rescue the piece from the garbage can, props it up on the TV, finds a frame from an old class picture and sticks it in.

Honey, honey, come out now, stop crying. I like it. I really like it.

The sniffling stops. A door cracks open. A face, blotchy and red pokes out.

"You do?"

"Yes, I do. It's very, very uh............pretty."

PRETTY!!!!

They'll be no sleep,  on silk sheets or otherwise, in the house tonight.





 


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Black, grey, and Christmas tree green are the colors I see from my window. The sky is indeed like the inside of an oyster shell and I am curiously content with the monochromatic view. The excess of the holidays has almost disappeared. There are a few pockets of startling color and whimsy still enlivening the house. The mantel has not been relieved of its collection of trees and Santa Clauses and the round tilting oak table in the dining room has become the repository for crystal ornaments, straw angels, feather trees laden with tiny needlepoint pillow, and ceramic trees. I am in no great hurry to pack it all up and let the weekend ebb away without doing more than hauling up the plastic crates from the basement.

The girls have gone into the city and asked me to accompany them. I was pleased that they wanted my company, a bit suspicious that they wanted my underwriting, and ultimately not enthusiastic to spend the day trooping around in the cold and sampling exotic pizza and frozen hot chocolate. I am ready for a purge, a fasting, my forty days in the desert. Here it is the day after the Epiphany, and I am looking up when Lent begins. It may be just post-Christmas guilt, misgivings about the bills arriving and the wonder what we spent it on. Or I am turning away from popular pasttimes, anxious about jobs and money and health concerns: in short, my usual anxieties ratcheted up and brought into full relief by the backlight of stark black and white days.

I've been in the house for three days. I've traveled no further than my sister's house down Beechmont Drive. I am happy to sit in the big Morris chair, feet on the ottoman, hearth on my right, laptop plugged in and course material fed to me in earphones. The role of student agrees with me. I have always been most comfortable with a book in front of me and a notebook opened next to it. A smooth pen that glides across lined pages, a cup of tea, concentration furrowing my brow, notes taken in short spurts, doodles in the margin, and the world shrinks down for me to the printed word and my summary of it.

As I listen, I browse through Mrs. Dalloway and wish I was accompanying her to pick out the flowers. I imagine leaving the house in the morning with my fashionable coat, proper gloves, and hat. I imagine returning home and spending the afternoon in the drawing room on the second floor  where I sew on bright little things and entertain visitors, pouring tea from a porcelain pot into eggshell-thin  blue and white cups from China. I could be witty and mysterious and smile when callers admire the vase of narcissi and jonquils. I am a  study in blue and white and yellow to match the interior. My little black and white dog sits at my feet, a punctuation of contrast to prevent the scene from being too saccharin. I am aware of how my hair curls around my face and how straight my back is as I work the needle.

As I needlepoint, I  turn my fingers under to hide the ink stains and bitten nails. I discreetly shift on the divan  to relieve the pressure on my leg and the slight numbness in my foot, keeping up with the repartee while I wonder if the nerve damage portends a more mortal injury, I wonder how long I must continue with this engagement because the light is fading and there is a canvas on my easel waiting to return to the  back border of the garden. Really, he is an insufferable bore and my journal with the red leather cover is  on my table in the morning room where I write my correspondence and keep my household accounts. I think of my fountain pen with the pearl barrel and then realize that there is a pause in the room as he waits for my reply, but to what I have no idea. I rise from the divan and, begging his pardon, and with a bemused glance, murmur something about Flaubert and ring for the maid to bring up the menu for the dinner party that night. Another dinner party. Another evening of entertaining. Another evening of words not written and canvases laying bare.

But I am here, fully in the 21st century at midlife. I've read these novels, written papers about them, before but remember little of them. And I imagine understood little of them then.  I do remember winter afternoons in the deepening dusk, in tutorials held in the  cramped offices of professors whose faces lit up as we discussed the view from Mrs. Dalloway's bedroom and the sound of the bells all over London, and the disappointment of marriage and age and health, and I think they understood that we didn't understand any of it all, that with our long hair and seamless faces we were just grasping at straws and more lonely than we ever imagined we could be in middle-age with a house full of kids, a spouse, money to buy nosegays and books and paints. Now I understand. I understand Mrs. Dalloway and To the Lighthouse. I understand Woolf.  I think I understand why she walked into the river, pockets full of stones. I forgive myself my college-age pretensions that I understood it then. I am glad I don't have any copies of the papers I wrote, and I blush when I remember my  twenty-something angst that thinly veiled an arrogance at a woman who bought flowers for a life. I forgive myself for it now.


Nominate ME!

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I've never done this before.
But here goes:
Nominate pomegranatesandpaper for a 2006 Bloggie either in best written blog or best-kept-secret blog.
Okay?
Enough said.

I am the Queen of Multitasking.

I did in fact get to some of the items on yesterday's to-do list. And some others - eh, tomorrow is another day. But right now I am listening to an online law course***, knitting, reading emails, and jumping up and down in between for the wash.

The tree, you ask? Out The Door, courtesy of the girls, who took off the ornaments, myself  the lights, help from the hard-working husband who walked in the door to take off the top strand of  lights and star on the top and dragged it outside, and The Princess who vacuumed up the needles. Go team!

***You may have noticed that I didn't have the online law course on my list. That's because I didn't realize until late yesterday that I had totally screwed up my continuing legal education obligation. We have to do 24 credits every two years. No problem there - if you remember when the two year cycle is. I was certain that I had registered last year and thus, had another whole year to take classes. However, Friday's mail brought me the dreaded envelope with the Office of Court Administration on the outside, and that means I have about 6 weeks to earn 24 credit hours. S0- thank you Lord for the internet, because I am sitting by the fire, knitting in hand, taking notes, and listening on line to a course in insurance law. Sure beats having to take a live class, which means missing work (not that I wouldn't like that but the office won't) or scurrying around to different campuses after work. Unfortunately, it puts a crimp into my winter nesting time when I catch up on reading and art projects.

I don't feel too badly about it, though. These days I'm lucky if I remember my name. Life seems stuffed to the gills at all moments with work - kids - husband-art-writing-family-mom-sisters-friends-doctors-dentists-hair-and don't forget , this blog!
But I'm not complaining. I'm getting really good at juggling. At it's all food for the fodder, i.e. the blog.

It's been a nice day despite the unexpected obligation. I began with making myself a great cup of coffee, "Nauset Blend" from Fancy's Farm on the Cape. Had some eggs and toast. Taught The Teen how to hard boil an egg. Watched The Food Channel with the girls while we undecorated. And got a lot of rows down on the scarf that I started last year. Pink tweed with white angora on size 8 needles in a ribbed stitch. If my hand holds out, I might get it done this winter, or I may be knitting it next January, too. I have some luscious Touch Me Chenille in black that has been waiting to be knit up into a "vintage-style scarf", & I would like to get to it this year.

Back to work - new load ready to go into the wash, need to make chicken and rice for dinner, and then one more segment of the course before we go to my sister's for cake for my other sister. Ta Ta.


Only My Best Intentions

What I should do today:

1. Take lights off tree
2. Drag tree to the curb
3. vacuum in tree area
4. take down decorations off mantel, living room, and dining room
5. Get The Teen to take down outdoor decorations
6. go to cleaners
7. Mail back the IPOD clock/radio we gave Mar for Christmas because it doesn't work
8. buy Mar a birthday gift
9. go to Alicia's tonight for Mar's cake
10. Write one section of novel
11. Do two deposition summaries for work
12. Continue working on art for next submission to ClothPaperScissor due 2/1
13. Have one more eggnog latte at Starbucks before they tell me they're over for the season
14. Perhaps try the new cinnamon latte, tho generally I don't care for coffee and cinnamon
15. Stop by Target and buy pink polka laptop bag, but bring laptop with me because I understand the bags are on the small side.
16. Deposit checks at bank before CPS cancels them
17. Pester Mystery Man, who is still in Fla with the girlfriend and who has only called us once.
18. Use the goddamn Gazelle before I turn to pure fat
19. Miss Stan because he has to work
20. Laugh at this list, stay in bed reading the New York Times, run out after lunch and get mar a little gift, pick up a latte on the way home, light the fire, continue reading My Staggerford Journal, and don't move until church on Sunday.


Frippery Friday

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I am blogging at Borders, which I think is so "in" that if I jump up too fast, I'll jostle about ten other laptoppers doing the same thing. Whenever I come here, I always hope that I'll see someone sketching so that perhaps we might strike up a conversation and then start a little cafe des artiste thing going. There was a man to my right who had a big, thick notebook, but he was writing. I hoped he was journaling and not doing chemistry notes as there are a lot of med students who hang out here. But he left too quickly. Then there was a woman who definitely had a small sketchbook with random images on it. It lay open on the table as she ate soup and talked LOUDLY on her cell phone headset, thereby giving that appearance of a wacko talking to herself. So I felt no camaderie with her, especially when she switched from Spanish to English to describe someone as an "asshole". Glad she left.

I took the day off because still under the weather.  The bug I had at the beginning of the week is not entirely gone, but I'm home because I did something weird to my hip. I'm sure it's connected to my knee. Yesterday it was a struggle just to walk down the hall and instead of dragging my butt through court and then an afternoon of sitting, I decided to just take the day off and rest. So I really shouldn't be sitting at Borders, but I thought they'd object if I brought a recliner.

I organized my notes on the NovelOneMayNotName and wrote a short section. I am going to write another section this afternoon and then print everything out this weekend after i set up the new printer. I'm at that dangerous zone where I had to put it down for so long due to the holidays, that I've almost lost the scent of the trail and i absolutely must pick it up again today or it will go underground, to emerge at it's own will or be beaten to death with dull, deadly constipated prose.

What are your creative plans for the weekend?


For years, I never owned a camera because my sister, Marietta, was the designated family photographer. She took wonderful photos and had taken many classes in photography and even studied in Italy. But last year for my birthday, Mar gave me a digital camera and you all have benefited from the gift by virtue of the many photos that now illustrate the blog.

When we were in Cape Cod, Mar and I often did the dueling camera bit where we both were whipping around taking shots. Mine are okay, but they never compare with Mar's. She has the eye for subtle composition that I have to trip over before I notice it.

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I took over this photograph, and I actually did trip over it before my family pointed out the writing in the sand. Thank God I have people who point out the writing in the sand....Mar also has the determination to wait out a great photos, such as these stunning shots from New Year's Eve. She stood in the drizzle on the freezing sand at midnight and took these shots while I had my nose pressed up to the car window, the heater going, and my jacket on like a blanket. I'm pretty sure someone famous said that 99% of a great photos is showing up. Or maybe not.

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I'll be  posting more of her photos with my posts and I'm sure you'll enjoy them.


In Case You Were Wondering.

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(photo by M. Benedetto)

For all the ....two.....of you who were concerned, I did in fact make it through my first day back. Though hampered by swollen sinuses, a roiling stomach, and desire to  put my head down on the desk and pass out, I did okay.

The blog will have a stripped down look for awhile whilst I figure out what to do next. I think it appropriate for the post-season. I often strip the house of doo dads when I take down the Christmas decorations. Seems a nice cure for the excess of the past six weeks.

I'm hot on the trail of a new story, inspired by some of the "numbered" writings I've done here over the past two months. My goal is to write a page a day. Pathetic? Sort of. But doable with a job and other commitments.

What I have gotten completely away from is keeping a sketchjournal. The blog and the digital camera have  been taking up too much of my time and making me lazy. I will start illustrating again, before I'm kicked off the illustrated blog ring.

The Teen is plahying the drum set that some fools (us) got her for Christmas. Did I mention my sinuses were swollen? ah, I give up. It's a time for total inanity, like Scrubs. Then sleep.  Good night.


How far am I from breaking my New Year's Resolutions on Tuesday morning, 7:00, January 3, 2006? Pretty close. Cold. Dark. Raining. Snow and sleet later this morning. Reading the scroll of school closings and wondering the hundreth time - why the hell didn't I become a teacher? Right. All those kids. The classroom. Sound of chalk squeaking on the board.

And I have a sinus headache.

Work awaits. 24 cases to be prepped for trial on Thursday and Friday. Must remember to print out trial calendar through April so we stop adding dates to already crowded trial days.

So I am officially declaring this NOT the first day of back to life. I am considering this a warm-up day where slothful behavior will be tolerated if not encouraged. Thus, I can go and get my latte and scone without tremendous guilt; I will be late; I will tiptoe past The Gazelle lest it try to trip me as payback for not exercising. And I will NOT have a breakdown when i walk into the office and see the piles on my chair. Instead, I will push it all aside and concentrate on the enormous task at hand.

And then I shall come home and cry.

No - I will be brave. One cannot live on the beach, at least if one wants to eat and stay warm. And those pesky kids still need supporting....there are those bills piled up in the mail basket. Oh, Christmas, why are you so cruel?

Note to self: if you take a vacation on the last four days of the year, then arrange a pact with the devil for a lottery win because going back is a lot harder than leaving.

And that's all the whining I will make here as I have been chastised that I should "just get a new job" if I hate it so much. Thank you for that insight, dear Reader. I never thought of that.

Warning: Resolutions do not provide for turning off the snarky this year. Use your own key.


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(Photo by M. Benedetto)

Christmas week and vacation time as fragile as the silvered glass ornaments from my childhood home. The unexpected diversion of seeing the New Year break over the Atlantic Ocean caps a week of luxurious solitude. It almost feels like too much, this reprieve, and I worry about a surfeit of happiness as only a Sicilian can.  Then the smell of summer smacks us in the face as the wind shifts off the sea  and we break into a race to see who can out dance the waves. My heart expands to bursting  as we hold hands and navigate a snow fence maze and spill out onto the beach to be greeted by Happy New Year 2006 written in the wrack line.

What more can I ask for - my husband's familiar hand; my daughter running just far enough ahead to remind us of what little time we have left with her under our wings; my sister's sharp eye as she shoots the scenes we make. The wind is strong at our backs and pushes us along the shore well beyond where our frost-nipped hands and ears can endure.

So much luxury of time and ease with ourselves. We slip in and out of the sense of summer and reorient ourselves to Christmas lights and Auld Lang Syne on the very shores where we usually swim. Down coats replace swim suits but there are still surfers in the water and their black hooded heads make them look like strange ducks on the last day of the year. Later, we sip champagne and eat roast duck, lobster, and oysters, groaning as we have just one more spoonful of creme brulee. It is easy to fall asleep in the car with the heater on while we wait for  fireworks and honking horns to tell us that the second half of the millennium decade is upon us.

Today we are giddy with an unplanned day. We drive from one end to another, popping in to favorite beaches, following trails into the woods, window shopping and reading the "Closed Till Spring" signs.  Too soon darkness falls and the first day of the year falls under the spell of the low cloud cover. We are suddenly chilled and somber walking through the twinkling lights of Provincetown and take the long way home, past the shuttered cottages while I wonder for the hundreth time which one Eugene O'Neill called home.

No resolutions here. I bring back three shells, one intact, two in pieces, to remind me that not all good things arrive whole. Some appear in bits and pieces and it takes a keen eye to find them and a steady hand to stitch them into a pleasing pattern.