here's a look at one of the ickiest places in my home: my bookshelf. no, seriously, you can see the dust in the photos. (i also posted these on my FB) - the best discipline is self-embarrassment. hopefully, by the time i return, i'll have a cleaner space to show. egad!!
our marilyn just gets better and better. a much earlier post shows her beautiful but lacking a colorful background and some other finishing touches. my guy finally completed her a few months ago and i just think she's stunning and fills our living room wall in a way that strikes one's senses.
Scavenging has proved to be one of my long time favorite hobbies. Here's a beauty we snagged at an estate sale. She's devious and feisty looking and not trying to be anyone's friend...yikes! She turned her back on me within 1.2 minutes of me trying to get to know her.
education. what happens when women completely covered in muslim apparel go to the bank or the airport and must present and confirm identification or are stopped by police? do they break with strict religion and lift the veil? or...how does it work? surely their husbands can't do it all - surely somewhere in the U.S. a fully covered muslim female has been faced with having to confirm her identity. gera asked and I honestly don't know the answer or enough about the custom(s)--even though many of my students (some I've known for a few years) wear the hijab---and quite stylishly. it's something I'd like to know too...if they lift the veil how does that break in tradition affect them, if at all...
when gera and i go scavenging for our flea market spread, from time to time we come up with some old tell-tell stuff. this 50s florida advertisement was taken apart and i used it to make a collage. the art of thought.
Why is that we .... because we can't speak perfect.... That we must be.... And why do others demand that....is a must in order to.... Why? Isn't it better if we....non-native....speakers that to....is to....
A few students cried because they didn't pass my class, but in the end the tears turned to gentle laughter behind smiles. I pose the question: can you image if I were trying to learn your language in which there is no present, past, or future tense?
Here's a quote full; the first line takes my breath away:
Beloved imagination, what I most like in you is your unsparing quality. The mere word 'freedom' is the only one that still excites me. I deem it capable of indefinitely sustaining the old human fanaticism. It doubtless satisfies my only legitimate aspiration. Among all the many misfortunes to which we are heir, it is only fair to admit that we are allowed the greatest degree of freedom of thought. It is up to us not to misuse it. To reduce the imagination to a state of slavery--even thought it would mean the elimination of what is commonly called happiness--is to betray all sense of absolute justice within oneself. Imagination alone offers me some intimation of what can be, and this is enough to remove to some slight degree the terrible injunction; enough, too, to allow me to devote myself to it without fear of making a mistake (as though it were possible to make a bigger mistake). Where does it begin to turn bad, and where does the mind's stability cease? For the mind, is the possibility of erring not rather the contingency of good?
my great grandmother had a host of old dolls dating ooweeback! this little beauty from her unintended collection reminds us that cloth diapers and safety pins were a noteworthy fashion AND a nod to momEarth. if only we could go back...of course then...we'd have the washing machine going more than often...yet...it's still fun to think about.
gera hand makes these in his sleep. we sell them at the market like buttermilk hotcakes
i'm lost in reading and figuring it all out...preparing for those big, lengthy, conference length essay with which we finish off the semester in grad school - i've done my research, now i just need to start writing. i still have about four weeks AND i have a stack of papers and quizzes to grade...my students aren't happy with me right now...oh well...
gera's handmade vase that ladies just love to buy - we bicker over pricing these - but it's his show
more lips. it's funny but guys and little kids tend to buys these more than any other group.
i get on his nerves when i ask, so...are you gonna make some black and brown lips? we'll see. i'm so annoying at times...it's fun though!
over spring break (a nice time away from graduate studies and teaching), i think i watched way too much CNN. i was thinking about tiger woods, his supposed (rather quick) come back and could not help but think of Oedipus and how the chorus acts as conscience. even though the masters tournament draws and houses the prestige of prestige fans, someone is going to heckle. and what if that person yells what used to be a common phrase of support "in the hole"...? yikes...a conscience check if ever.
though a good king to his people, Oedipus's pride destroys him, but it also prevents him from perpetual incest...i wonder where tiger gauges on pride, today? i wonder if the golf chorus will be able to whip him morally? i'm still on the 'probably not' side of things, but one never knows..
something is very, ever wrong with this cartoon drawing of gabourey. what happened to her beautiful dark skin?
respectfully, i have to say this artist at toonpool.com is sending that same-old message, perpetuating the same-old stigma that light-skin is better...that dark skin is socially unacceptable, a lesser. my daughter wouldn't be too happy about this...
every now and then i sit down and write a letter. here's an old atlas map book put to good use, addressed to Sussex. the envelope idea is first borrowed from long time friend, Spring Warren, Author of the notable Turpentine and put into action again by the influence of blogbud Andrea at found-art blog. Thanks gals!
i was thinking the other day about E. M. Forster's Howards End and how the telegram replaced love and letters:
"'To think that because you and a young man meet for a moment, there must be all these telegrams and anger,' supplied Margaret.
'I've often thought about it, Helen. It's one of the most interesting things in the world. The truth is that there is a great outer life that you and I have never touched--a life in which telegrams and anger count. Personal relations, that we think supreme, are not supreme there. There love means marriage settlements, death, death duties. So far I'm clear. But here's my difficulty. This outer life, though obviously horrid, often seems the real one--there's grit in it. It does breed character. Do personal relations lead to sloppiness in the end?'
'Oh, Meg, that's what I felt, only not so clearly, when the Wilcomxes were so competent, and seemed to have their hands on all the ropes.'
'Don't you feel it now?'
'I remember Paul at breakfast,' said Helen quietly. 'I shall never forget him. He had nothing to fall back upon. I know that personal relations are the real life, for ever and ever.'
...sort of like email has replaced the same and so so much more--a personal read of emotions and physical appearances...being able to gauge whether someone is disturbed or experiencing an honest moment of excitement, whether that person is happy for you or merely faking support.
somehow being locked into this kind of technological connectedness is bitter-sweet. it's our end and our new beginnings...i hope however, from time-to-time, one can...sit...and write...a love letter or a...letter...from time-to-time.
i continue to write to my deceased grandma, my Big, at least once a year. each time i write something different addressing one of only three of her letters. my response usually covers what's currently going on in life, with me, in general, my thoughts and opinions about a political issue or the like. it would be a wonder, i'd like to believe, to look back at them over time, but they are sealed.
the letters she wrote my daughter and me are so few. they are so much fun to look at. i still can't believe she only made it through sixth grade because she was able to accomplish so much. one of her letters is included in an earlier post; it could be this one. these days, i hardly ever go back to see what i've previously posted.
It's May 2012 and nothing has changed since November.11. I am all smiles at my relationship and myself. My honey and I continue to amaze each other on a daily basis. We're still ever so 'in' with each other. I completed my MA in literature last May and I'm teaching four college English courses to really smart students. I am hopeful to enter a doctorate program soon. This way, I can run out.All is scary good.
upon hearing your voice life again expands like moon crest like pomegranates swell to the sun and you are patient because god calls
when he came for you this morning you were bent into the flower bed singing black hymns so he left you alone until this third afternoon but even then he found you elbow deep in jewel weed with a mouthful of figs from a nearby tree again he waited because each time seemed to him an inconvenience and a wrong moment
and it was your persistent humming that drove him up and back until he could get his timing perfect he waited another day or so until
your gardening tools rest into porch corners your paring knife shines deeply into a drawer your hair comb lies slanted in a shoebox your wedding band hides in the mattress your fishing rod stays stolen
the sound of your voice desires to sing or hum but this time is perfect he has covered you like lavender-colored silence but he has also added streaks of olive green and pink because this is what the other soul-folk has told him to do and he has become tired in the process and therefore begins to rush sonances of your body he finds you the least complex when you are not outdoors digging in that garden, humming hymns and thriving and for a moment he questions his own timing its perfection and everything goes accordingly until he finds you have buried fruit peels and wandering jew petals underneath your back this does not anger him but it tilts his agility to deliver you and in his own questioning and presence of smells that he cannot privilege all this over powers his choice all this reels his otherwise perfection into letting you go
when i see you sitting in the plush squares of limitless St. Augustine your eyes are lit like crystal warmed soil releases from each of your hands
how did i get to this point this point of knowing you for you are nearly a century old