For the consideration of rain, and, too, thank you for trees, and too, to have thought of dew on a just-mown lawn under evergreens next to just so-placed midwestern lakes, dolloped blue, and too for sending us the thunder last night, for putting the internet on the ‘fritz’ on one of the last of summer’s eves, everyone of a sudden without their screens, and, by George happy to ‘hang,’ play board games, like the old days — before screens — because You had solved the puzzle of what to do, what to have for dinner – had divined already the idea of dinners — delivered — had made clean-up a snap with Your thought of dishes made of paper — how kind of You to have made life easy. Too, the sheer brilliance of You to have thought ahead into forever, to have filled my car’s gas tank into perpetuity to “full.” Best, yet of all Your inventions, to have created the blessed angel in charge of sound. The air lock one, the closed airplane doors sound, and me, on the inside, by celestial surprise a gift. Me, bumped up to first class, alone, the charming ‘bing-bing-bing,’ the ‘no going back bell chiming’ — a wry touch by You. Oh, You. And me — your ever-humble servant — leaving in minutes on an all expense paid trip won at the grocery checkout. The millioneth customer. My reward from a scratch and sniff game card at Ralph’s as I paid for chicken parts – organic — oh, what delight I had won a trip away for the next few weeks — or more — should You so desire – from all this domestic bliss. That, when and if, You should think to send me back home to ‘chaos central’ from my trip of a lifetime, say, around the world, that You might allow me one teensy weensy request, that I may fit into my jeans — my old Jordache jeans from college – and, that then — when, and if — my dear Lord – upon my return — after Paris, after London, after Carpi — that, going forward you might find me ample parking infinitum mid-Wilshire — at high noon – henceforth, maybe too, please find me someone to file my god-damned taxes forthwith – maybe with a more substantial refund in the mail — a six-digit-sum multiplied by twenty — from the last twenty years – so I may once and for all redo this hovel and that You might see to it that the tree trimmers up the street in the neighbor’s trees for the last six weeks might bust a saw — or two — or, better yet be sent on permanent hiatus for the rest of the year. Signing off for now, so help me God, your friend on earth, me. Amen.
Sited along the coastline of Eastsound, Studio #6 offers garden and cloud vistas that are intimately captured in many of Mary Jane’s breathtaking vessels. Spending hours at a time on leather-hard clay, Mary Jane cuts through her pieces allowing the spaces to bleed into each other, revealing a fresh, complex new balance.
The relationship of form, the tension and interaction between the exterior and interior spaces of a piece intrigues me.”
This past year I have been working on expanding my vision and techniques. I am enchanted with bringing more movement, spirit and fantasy into my pieces, breaking out of repetitious viewpoints and esthetics and providing my viewers with new visual roads to travel on.”
A native of Altadena, CA, grew up embracing the forms of the Craftsman Style which surrounded her. For two years Japan was her home while she studied weaving and sumie painting, all the while absorbing the…
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Someone’s read my thought bubble! Thank you.
What do you do?
Washingtonians are so career-driven that “what do you do?” is typically the first question people ask in this city. I find it difficult to articulate what I do sometimes. To say I’m a teacher seems limiting in some ways. To explain that I teach English leads to confusion. To answer that I’m a college professor receives stares of doubt. To say I’m a writer seems too grandiose.
What I did.
At age 14, my first job was through a summer work program, and I was assigned to be a janitor at a clinic. Picture me mopping floors in a figure eight stroke. Later in college, my first job was as a telemarketer, a very humiliating and painful job — people hang up or they shout, scream, call you names then hang up. After I quit that job, I worked as a shoe salesman at Florsheim. I…
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Full Disclosure: Met Howe at this year’s Sabotage Awards on a panel regarding the Culture of Criticism. Review copy provided by Vintage Books.
Review:Loop of Jade is Howe’s first collection, in part an account of the poet’s journey to Hong Kong and China to learn about her and her mother’s past, in part a set of imaginative lyric adventures taking in Kung Fu-tzu, Pythagoras, Titus Andronicus, LA Confidential, Cormac McCarthy and Chinese political blogging, amongst others. I’ve slated writers before for wielding their education like an overseer’s whip; Howe’s poems are close-read and empathetic explorations into each text that recognise their value as real-world artefacts above and beyond their capacity to bestow literary authority. The giddying breadth and scope of attention the book achieves is held together by Howe’s calm-but-engaged, precise-but-emotionally-present narrative voice, its open-minded, casually unshakeable dedication to presenting uncomfortable and occasionally devastating stories and ideas…
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Finally science we can use.
There is a lot of science that goes behind deciding which wine goes best with your chicken, seafood or steak dinner, but what if I was to tell you which wine would go best with the kind of day you experienced? The data is out, and studies now show that certain wines pair up best with different parenting situations and child behavior.
The world’s most renown wine sommeliers have released this list exclusively to us at Life as a Rambling Redhead. Lucky for you, we are kind enough to share this life-changing knowledge. Parents everywhere are rejoicing.
We just want what’s best for your sanity.
Listed below are the best Wine Pairings for all stages of parenthood.
1. Riesling pairs perfectly with an explosive poopy diaper.
If your newborn baby had an explosive bowel movement, leaving your hands literally shit-stained from the yellow substance we call “poop”, we suggest chugging a glass of Riesling immediately. Riesling…
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Who brings along a little time, should really have a look at the AW 12/13 collection of the young, chinese designer Yiqing Yin. With “Spring of Nüwa” she presents artful pleating, feather details and cut outs and creates wonderful organic volumes with layers of shimmering surfaces – like a romance meets a future world.
Very beautiful and very sophisticated.
Wer ein bisschen Zeit mitbringt, sollte einen Blick in die AW 12/13 Kollektion der jungen, chinesischen Designerin Yiqing Yin werfen. In “Spring of Nüwa” präsentiert sie kunstvolle Faltungen, Details mit Federn, Cut Outs, und erschafft wunderschöne, organische Volumen aus Schichten schimmernder Oberflächen.
Sehr sehr schön und anspruchsvoll!
Muriel Brandolini is a decorator in her own world – where all is beauty, dazzling the eye and feeding the senses. NY Times once crowned her “the newly minted arbiter of Haute Bohemian Chic”.
An emerald green silk velvet pouf centre stage in a living room.
Brandolini grew up in war-torn Vietnam after her Father’s death age 3. Quite a journey then: from chasing GI troops in 60’s Saigon for sweeties (where my aim was to establish a candy trade monoply on my street) to the ‘World of Muriel Brandolini’ published by Rizzoli last year.
Along the way she lived in Paris, modelled, arrived in New York with her 1 suitcase, got hired on: I can sell anything, married Italian aristocracy, worked for Vogue and found herself a decorating career after her rental apartment was photographed 11 times in one year. It reads like the back cover of a…
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By the time you read this the caballeros of Altadena will long be done. Done leaning back on their homeward mounts, done clip-clop climbing the too narrow sidewalks north of Lincoln near the stables toward Castillo, done stomping code of crisp days coming. Clip clop, clip clop, the sound of clocks, clip clop, a knock-knock joke, clip clop, a slow castanets, hoofs on concrete, quarter horses, half-bloods, the chestnut mare with wild eyes, clip clop, dusk dropping into chaparral baskets, under cover of crimson sky. Mexican wedding cookies, crusted bread, churros, callouses, chores, tradition, pair of tan hands caressing trust, squeak of shifting leather, dungarees, chaps, changing directions. A “Chk-chk” kiss catching back of cowboy cheek and chops, smooch between amigos, chums, confidantes. Quixote, time you and me headed home.