O Wad the Gift the Giftie Gie Us . . .

Today tastes like melted gum, fried eggs, and concrete. It's summer, and the humid is rolling back in.

So, in the immortal words of the bard, it's always interesting to see how we really appear, to see ourselves as others see us. I love wordclouds, where the net does an impersonal search of your blog according to varied and arcane criteria and shows you what you really talk about. Not the genius posts in your head, not the tastes and textures of the words betwen the words, but what's in black and white there on the page. What did you really say?

Barnum Statements

Today tastes like black coffee and illicit doughnuts snuck out of the kitchen. Shhhhh . . . don't tell my diet.

Barnum statements are good clean fun, so long as you don't take them to heart, but sometimes they cut a little closer than is exactly comfortable.

And so sometimes I'm actually moved to post a result. Witness below:

Your result for Are You a Jackie or a Marilyn? Or Someone Else? Mad Men-era Female Icon Quiz...

You Are a Bette!

You are a Bette -- "I must be strong"

Bettes are direct, self-reliant, self-confident, and protective.

How to Get Along with Me

• * Stand up for yourself... and me.


• * Be confident, strong, and direct.


• * Don't gossip about me or betray my trust.


• * Be vulnerable and share your feelings. See and acknowledge my tender, vulnerable side.


• * Give me space to be alone.


• * Acknowledge the contributions I make, but don't flatter me.


• * I often speak in an assertive way. Don't automatically assume it's a personal attack.


• * When I scream, curse, and stomp around, try to remember that's just the way I am.

What I Like About Being a Bette

• * being independent and self-reliant


• * being able to take charge and meet challenges head on


• * being courageous, straightforward, and honest


• * getting all the enjoyment I can out of life


• * supporting, empowering, and protecting those close to me


• * upholding just causes

What's Hard About Being a Bette

• * overwhelming people with my bluntness; scaring them away when I don't intend to


• * being restless and impatient with others' incompetence


• * sticking my neck out for people and receiving no appreciation for it


• * never forgetting injuries or injustices


• * putting too much pressure on myself


• * getting high blood pressure when people don't obey the rules or when things don't go right

Bettes as Children Often

• * are independent; have an inner strength and a fighting spirit


• * are sometimes loners


• * seize control so they won't be controlled


• * figure out others' weaknesses


• * attack verbally or physically when provoked


• * take charge in the family because they perceive themselves as the strongest, or grow up in difficult or abusive surroundings

Bettes as Parents

• * are often loyal, caring, involved, and devoted


• * are sometimes overprotective


• * can be demanding, controlling, and rigid

Take Are You a Jackie or a Marilyn? Or Someone Else? Mad Men-era Female Icon Quiz at HelloQuizzy

Don't know so much about the childhood bit--any of my First Life peeps who knew me when want to weigh in on the comments?--and will probably never know about the parent bit; but all of section 2 is spot on; and statements 1,3,5,6,7, and 8 of section one are correct; as are statements 2,3,4, and 5 of section 3.

Yes, sometimes we are "are extroverted, affable, and sociable, while at other times you are introverted, wary, and reserved" to snitch a bit from Forer's paper.

Whoops!

Today tastes like paper, sand, and plastic bags from the cleaners.

Blame it on the turkey. I seem to have slept through a week. No knitting, no writing, not even a cribbed poem.

You Are Midnight

You are more than a little eccentric, and you're apt to keep very unusual habits. Whether you're a night owl, living in a commune, or taking a vow of silence - you like to experiment with your lifestyle. Expressing your individuality is important to you, and you often lie awake in bed thinking about the world and your place in it. You enjoy staying home, but that doesn't mean you're a hermit. You also appreciate quality time with family and close friends.

What Time Of Day Are You?

I should have something to talk about soonish . . . or maybe laterish.

I Won't, I Won't, I Won't

Because sometimes, the plates all come tumbling down.



I've hit this meme before but somehow it hasn't become stale. (For me at least, what think you, o Tonstant Weader? Dull as the bright shiny toy on December 26? Rather play with the box it came in and the ribbons?)

And interestingly, the album title is what's moving and grooving for me today. What am I evading? What am I accomplishing by evading it? And what will happen because I'm not doing something I should? Will the walls all crumble? Will the world end in a whimper of micro-black holes?

Or will I find space I hadn't anticipated, like when the parking lot is full up, and you turn around to leave, then just as you pass by the first row, someone backs out right in front of you. Like when you forget your lunch and your wallet, so you rummage in your desk for that half a granola bar you swear should be there, and the boss tips you a twenty for your hard work this week. A moment of unexpected grace as the parachute blossoms above you and you are caught in the arms of the wind.

My Own Little Sally Fields Moment

Today tastes like champagne and popcorn, like cotton candied grapefruit, like sugar pickled garlic.



You like me! You really like me!

I'm not a big dog in the blogosphere, and I never set out to be. When I started, I was looking for a project diary, where I could track finished projects and look back at what I had wrought, because sometimes the rows seem endless. However, a lot of me gets tangled in with whatever I do, so this became a mindwipe place, where I could pre-emptively mourn my cat one week, babble about lace esoterica the next, and dabble in surrealism whenever the mood struck me. My posts are often pictureless and convoluted, with a side of word salad in this 'yere Lunchbox. An acquired taste, if you will.

It can be work to get through my prose, and sometimes the joke is subtle.¹

Uhm . . . this is not how it's s'posed to be done. Quick frequent posts, often with a purty picture, with broad general appeal.

Which makes it all the sweeter when I hear from a fan. Nici sent me the above award, and in order to accept it, I need to do the following:

1) Put the logo on your blog -- Done!!
2) Add a link to the person who awarded you -- Thanks Nici!!
3) Nominate at least 7 other blogs -- Done!
4) Add links to those blogs on yours -- Done!
5) Leave a message for your nominees on their blogs.--Done!

Before my head gets too big to fit through the door to my office, I'm listing and linking seven bloggers who make a difference to me.

Belinda first--she's partly to blame for my mixed media love. I followed her through a gazillion Yahoo groups when she ran 'em. Bless her altered heart and belly. Find her here.

I want to grow up to be Anne Hanson. Gracious, witty, with an amazing sense of design. I've linked a ton to her with the "Flippin' Spades" post, and I'm doing it again. Check out the Little Nothing Scarves. Makes me think about moving where there's winter just so I could wear them more than one day per year.

Maybe I could warm up by being Andrea of Bad Cat Designs. I knit the Veil of Isis (more on that next week) and found it delightful. This was my first beaded project, and now I see little sparklies everywhere.

Ellis Cooke is nothing short of astounding. Just go and look at this. Uhmagah.

I have the world's biggest girlcrush on Patti Digh. Her essays rock my world. Yeah, she has more webawards than I can shake a stick at; yeah, she has a book out, yeah, she doesn't need me bragging on her from this dark little corner of the web, but for the three or four of you who read this and haven't found her yet, go and read and read some more.

And Fleegle. OMG, Fleegle. She can out lacegeek the lacegeekiest folks, and she has the bestest toys.

I would have nominated Braen, my number one fan. She's kept my light shining and reminded me that I'm not just screaming into the void here many times. I can't find her blog though, I get a feeling that Braenstorm washed away. So a candle and a link in memoriam. Go here to see her cards.

I'm still giggling, Nici. You made my week.

1. This is one of those times--a footnote to the blog (complex) and subtle indicators of mischief afoot. Notice how the comma IS NOT a hypertext link. This means there are TWO links, one for each clause. Click 'em both, you don't wanna miss out.

Muse Musing

Today tastes like long beans in oyster sauce, red bean paste in sesame balls, and pencil shavings. Dim sum in the classroom.

Some of the bloggers I read and feed from are questioning the purpuse of their blogs. There are those who wish to make money from their writings, and understand that (a) you have to post regularly and (b) you have to post things that have value to the readers.

So the question becomes, does a trump b? Is it better to post regularly about whatever randomness floats through your head (butter beans! Scissors! Lee Iacocca!) in order to have regular postings or should one keep the focus of one's blog narrow and tight in order to hold on to one's hard-won audience?

And while it seems as thought I splatter just about anything in these pages, this isn't my only blog. This is more about what I'm creating in the moment, minus a whole bunch of process blather. I mean, really--how many shots of one knitted square at a time are you willing to sit through? Do you really need bit by bit ATC assemblage musing?

I note, though, that the blogs I actually READ are more about one little slice of the author's life, where our interests intersect. I know Fleegle spends time in Japan as an embroidery student in addition to her knitting, but I couldn't tell you the names of her kids. 37 Days's author doesn't talk about her hobbies, and the only way I know what she does for a living is in the context of the retreats she holds once a year.

Interesting.

Auntie Meme

Today tastes like rice krispie squares, vaguely sweet and dull. Not quite there, somehow, although crunchy and textural. Like a meme when they're fun. So--a tossaway post in honor of a tossaway day.

The Band Meme

Here’s how it goes. You are about to have your own band’s CD cover. Follow these directions to the letter. It’s fun and requires no thought at all. Go to……

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Special:Random
The first article title on the page is the name of your band.
http://www.quotationspage.com/random.php3
The last four words of the very last quote is the title of your album.
http://www.flickr.com/explore/interesting/7days/
The third picture, no matter what it is, will be your album cover.
Use your graphics program of choice to throw them together, and post the result in your own journal because it’s more amusing that way.



I'm vaguely amused. Happy Friday!

The Circus Is Leaving Town . . .

Today tastes like stale carmel corn, deep fried everything when the oil needs changing, and hot dogs of dubious origin. The Embellished Circus is folding its tents and closing down.

What is/was the Embellished Circus, Spike? A really great Yahoo Group devoted to mixed-media in all its sparkly gluey glory. This was the first group I ever sucked it up and juried into. They had a group blog for showing your latest work. I loved the swaps because the subjects were always novel and challenging. But the moderators realized that the time devoted to the Circus was eating into art time, so they're cutting loose and moving on.

I totally understand their decision. There's only so many hours in the day, and while I can always make more money, I can't make more time. Thus I refute the "time is money" argument. They aren't equal.

And that's why I'm not jumping into the air waving my arms screaming that I'll take it over and keep the clowns in line. I have creative projects of my own that need tending to, as well as group efforts that I need to play my part in to fulfil, and by the way, I need to work to earn the money to support all this.

So as the barkers tuck their slum away, the calliope groans to a halt, and the lights of the Ferris Wheel go out, I'll be slinking back to my trailer, wiping off the greasepaint, and removing my rubber limbs.

A good gig while it lasted.

Blogiversary--Three Years and Counting

Today tastes like roasted garlic on crusty bread, like milk chocolate covered raspberry jelly sticks, like Pigma Micron pens, pencils, and heavy luscious watercolor paper. Like things that are simply meant to come together, like auspicious confluences.

Three years. 250 posts. Awareness of the moment. All together now.

I Stole This From Artella . . .

Artella is a most excellent website/newsletter/purveyor of goodies/provider of classes/subject of inspiration/tool not to be without. Go here then come back.

And I just thieved a prompt from their newsletter. Bad Spike.

"First, you must use the phrase "I never saw it coming" somewhere in the piece.
"Second, you must include something about a meal.
"Third, you must incorporate the following words:
"Automobile, Coupon, Display, Identity, Knee, Jaguar."

Right. Here we go:

If I had known what Monday had in store for me that day, I would have gone back to bed and hidden with my head beneath the pillow. Seriously, I never saw it coming.

I should have known when the alarm went off, and I groped around for the snooze button, only to manage to turn the whole darn thing OFF. And then I slept in, like the proverbial log, until about T minus ten minutes from "Oh shit."

I thought about calling in sick that morning, hopping around the bedroom with one leg in my pants and juggling the tasks of drinking some coffee, combing my hair, and getting lunch put together. Breakfast? Who has time for that?? If I called in, I thought, I'd have time to make bacon and eggs, pancakes and juice. I could read the paper, I thought, clenching my teeth around my coffee cup's rim as I pulled on my socks, tipping my head back for a swig. I could do that, clip coupons for tonight's shopping (no, I didn't get to the store this weekend, why do you ask??) and then go in to work around lunch. I could miss all the rush-hour traffic, have a nice easy morning, and still be a hero! I could skip the makeup to look authentically washed-out, moan a little, run for the bathroom at varying intervals, and weakly clutch my forehead, murmuring no, no, I simply HAD to come in and finish this presentation--my responsibilities wouldn't let me rest.

But no, here I was in the garage, turning the key in the Jaguar (what my ex always referred to as my "identity display." There was some truth in that--I'd wanted a look-at-me car all the way through high school and college, and when I could finally afford an automobile worthy of the full title (as opposed to just "a car." A car is what you drive to a job. An automobile takes you to your career.) then I'd gone ahead and acquired it. What else was I working for?)

He never could make up his mind whether he was yuppie or boho. He wanted a sugar shack to boogie-woogie in--as long as the investment would appreciate; came with a hot tub, golf-course perfect lawn (maintained by someone else, please); living room filled with the latest styles in decor (ditto); sumptuous master bath (ditto); and children who were both perfectly mannered while free and uninhibited. (Oh, and ditto to that last part, too.)

At the same time, I was to be liberated (but not to make more than he did), a full and equal partner (who deferred to his decisions over anything more important than the color of the polish on my nails), and to have a fulfilling career so long as I could be home in time to cook a hot nourishing dinner for all of us just like his mother would. With the kids freshly scrubbed and dressed for dinner. And me, polished, poised, and hanging on his every word.

Do I need to explain what happened next? Sheesh. Thank heaven I got out of that BEFORE we had the progeny running around. I wasn't that hepped on being a mommy with a partner (though how MUCH of a partner I would really have had is debatable); going it alone would have been infinitely worse.

So, here I was, going it alone. It would have been nice to have a partner to carpool with, I thought, sitting and seething in the parking lot that is rush-hour traffic in this corner of the world. Watching mothers zip by in their SUV's, using the carpool lane because they had a baby on board, and a child in the front passenger seat. Wasn't the point of carpooling to take additional cars off the road?? Were they issuing licenses to kids who hadn't mastered sippy cups yet? Would it be ethical to borrow children from the neighbors and deliver them to daycare services by my office, I wondered.

Inch. Stop. Inch. Stop. Into the tunnel where you can't see what lies ahead, can't anticipate what the flow of the traffic will look like and change lanes to avoid the jam until you're in the thick of it all.

And that's when it all stopped dead. That is, deader than usual. I sat there for a whole song and commercial cycle, and we weren't budging. People around me honked for a bit, and then I saw the folks a little further up getting out of their cars. Clearly we weren't going anywhere for a while. Good--now I had a readymade excuse for being late. Too bad I hadn't had any way of knowing--I could have had that Sunday morning breakfast I'd fantasized about.

I shut off the engine, started walking up the lane. Suddenly, the ground shivered, and the light at the end winked out. I heard screams, and a wave of people began running from the dark end back towards the light. I kicked off my shoes, and spun to keep ahead of the wave of panic.

I was able to slip over to the side and avoid the crush in the middle. I saw people trapped by cars, unable to get back into the stream, scrabbling over hoods to avoid falling and being trampled by the stampede.

Once I was out of the tunnel, I turned to look back, like Lot's wife. A very human flaw, curiousity. I could see over and behind the tunnel, to the blocked side.

A foot. A foot the size of a Volkwagen bus tipped up on its end; toes, arch and heel. Callus on the heel. An ankle, presumably leading to a calf. The knee was hidden by the mouth of the tunnel, but the thigh dwarfed the puny skyscrapers that make up the Phoenix skyline, such as it is.

The first of the giants had fallen.


Okay, not fantastic--you know what I mean, plenty fantastic, but not Litrachure For the Ages. Not every forced fiction (i.e., fiction with a mandatory set of words included) is gonna be great.

Hmmm. Now I'll have to post "A Thankless Task" next week so y'all can compare and contrast.

The Canonization of St. Ishida

Today tastes like . . . chicken. Chicken chicken chicken, chicken chicken. Chicken? Chicken, chicken chicken, chicken chicken. With black truffle salt. And black truffles. And portobello mushrooms. With Pinot Noir. (All right, a 1996 Domaine de la Romanee Conti La Tache, if you must be specific.)

Li'l Bra, who blogs under his real name at Noir Chicken Studios occasionally anoints saints to his personal canon. Until recently, I didn't have anyone I'd want to spend eternity with . . . until now. (Hence the foregoing tribute. Now commences the real post.)

Tatsuya Ishida is the author, artist, and driving force behind
Sinfest, a webcomic that swings between male/female communication issues, cute animals being cute, and philosphical study. With a side of frat-boy humor. I've read and loved his work for years. The Hand of God, Slick and 'Nique, Squigly, the Devil, Zen Dragon, and Bhudda. And Percy and Pooch. Good times.

But it wasn't until I read this, his essay about the nature of temptation, desire, detachment, and compassion, that I realized I needed him in my personal pantheon.

Namaste.

Stochastic Generator Pr0n

And while we wait for inspiration to drop out of the sky and hit me on the head, we present the latest quiz results:





No use trying to fight it, you're an eight-sided die, a d8. A fine example of simple elegance, the d8 is one of the least appreciated types of dice, and is often neglected. You are known to be quiet and shy, outward traits that conceal viscous sarcasm and mean wit. You are very smart, yet wise enough to hide your intelligence --the quicker they find out how smart you are, the sooner they'll put you to work-- which is something you can do without. People call you dark and pessimistic, or moody and cynical. You find little point in arguing.

Take the quiz at dicepool.com

Who knew??

Dis Connect, Dat Connect

Today tastes like the cough drops I favor--the Smith Bros. lemon. They're like lemon drops that wandered through a mint field, lightly kissed with menthol, light and breezy. Almost more breath freshener than cough drop. (Menthol burns my mouth and sinuses--I'd rather eat wasabi! Especially mixed with some soy, on nice thin slices of ahi tuna . . . is it lunchtime yet?)

The Jungiverse¹ has seen fit to drop a bunch of references to connectedness and e-mail and the internet (and how all this "connectedness" is taking us away from each other) in my in-box today. I know that this won't go away until I sit down and process it.

So, the quandry of the day is that cell phones, e-mail, and the Internet itself all foster communication. And yet, and yet, with all our e-friends whose blogs we read, all the email groups that we yatter on endlessly with, all these opportunities for connection leave us disconnected from those who are all around us. We seem to communicate more with glass screens between us, and less face-to-face and voice to voice.

And I got to thinking about that. That and the monkey trap that IS the Internet--I can spend hours with my fist trapped in this jug, clutching at grains of inspiration (Oook, I could do this!! Accckkk, I could do THAT! Yipe yipe yipe, this looks like FUN!) And all the while, I'm reading email, looking at sites, taking notes on another blog, and hours later, when I finally stand back up and let my gaze drop to the middle distance, I have . . . a handful of notes and a head full of ideas. BUT I HAVE NOT PRODUCED ONE DAMNED THING. And it's midnight or thereabouts, and I'm too tired to go and do anything with everything I have gleaned.

So I set it all aside for later. But we all know about the mythical later. Later never comes. Because tomorrow arrives, and I go back to the web, and I find a whole bunch more to ooook and ackk and yipe at.

Ironically, though, the internet is what got me into the art things I do. The 'net has given me names and places and people who do what I do (and some who do it better) that I would never have found on my own because of the circles I travel in. I have a caravan of practically arty creatives to hang with--that's NEVER been lacking in my life. But the web brought me to diverse groups of folken with balkanized interests (there's probably an email list somewhere for gay, lefthanded, vegan bookbinders who crochet) and that's where the real learning takes place. Not in the hourlong seminars where you can get a taste of what the doing of a thing is like, but the real in-depth stuff, where conversations can spin out for months regarding the terpsichore of pin-dancing.

So on the one hand, I have more stimulation than monkey mind can realistically handle. I have real people in my life, and virtual people in my life that I hold "real" conversations with, and with whom I trade "real" projects.

The problem, as I see it, is in navigating the fine line between happily stimulated and totally overwhelmed.




1. That Great Big Subconscious in the Sky. One the one hand, why would an omniscient and omnipotent eternal being take a personal interest in a moniscient monipotent limited being such as yours truly? But on the other, from where I stand, the Universe does INDEED revolve around moi.

Weblogs and Diaries and YouTube, oh my!

Was just directed via a blog to this amazing link. The author discusses diaries of old, blogs of last year, and YouTube viddies of today. What intrigues him is the shift in the meme of memory recording.

I tried keeping a diary several times when I was young--it seemed that every couple of years a well-intentioned relative would gift me wiht a li'l bitty diary with a li'l bitty padlock on the cover (and a picture of cute kitties, or a girl in a sunbonnet) so I could write down all me girlish secrets.

Well, even with a padlock I couldn't keep it going. It seemed the pinnacle of silliness to gush over how cute the boys were, and write my name blended with that week's favorite--Mrs. Spike Weisenheimmer, Mrs. Spike Jones, Mrs. Spike Schmooladoo. Especially because I was rather androgynous in my pursuits--it appeared that if I were ever to marry, the wedding party would consist of eight groom's men . . . and eight BRIDE'S men!!

And even with a padlock, I distrusted that anything I wrote would not come back to bit me someday.

And er, well, now I blog. And share my thoughts with however many readers pop by. The fact that I know not how many hits this spot on the web generates probably tells you how much I'm writing for external consumption. (If that don't do it, the paucity of comments might. I prefer to think it's quality over quantity. That's why I moderate--to keep out the spam, and the "Dittos, Rush" junk. If your say is important enough to you, you'll sign in to get past the gatekeeper, and I'll post what you have to say. Spammers generally don't have the patience; it's a numbers game.)

But now, as you have probably observed, and have certainly read if you followed the link above, it seems that the point of having secrets is to share them with as large an audience as is humanly possible. The more scandelous and gossipy, the better, it appears. Breaking the rules and wild behavior which used to be clutched to one's heart and relived over drinks with fellow instigators a safe distance in time later (statute of limitations, and all that) are now recorded via cell phone with video, edited for content (get the dull bits out), and posted on the web to share with one's chums, the school, and whoever else pops by.

It reminds me of nothing more than children playing by the pool--if Mama doesn't look and see you turn the backflip, did it really happen? Looka me, Ma! Looka me!!

Ooooops. I Did It Again

I loved this one meme, where you google your name and needs and post the top ten things that pop up.

So I did it again, to see what the Internet thinks I need now.

1. Spike needs help coping with his chip.

2. Spike needs a scrub.

3. Spike needs to give "Carpocalypse" to another station.

4. Spike needs a Mommy and/or Daddy.

5. Zach is all the Dad Spike needs.

6. Spike needs you and he can't lose his mother like that.

7. Spike needs an honest good hearted male role model in his life.

8. Spike needs a doggy jumper for the winter.

9. Spike needs a new pair of boots.

10. Spike needs to be protected from disease.

Ah, but don't we all??

Blogiversary

How could I let the month of October pass without a comment that it's my second blogiversary! I've actually stuck with this thing (more or less) for two years! [checks posting schedule] Nope--missed March 06 and December 05. That's what happens when you refuse to do quiz results just for the sake of another post.

And that brings me 'round to the subject of this post. I've been slooooowly realizing that you can do a thing, or you can do a thing online, but you can't do both. Not really.

And now for the context around that statement. I knit, I art (note the small "a" in that), I write. I belong to many many many Yahoo groups about knitting and mail art and journaling and stuff.

And I see that a lot of the people blogs I had links to have faded away. The folks who got me going on Blogger have folded up shop, other people whose prose I admired have stopped posting, and a few folks that I recently collected onto my roll have posted saying that they had realized it was ride their hobbyhorse, or blog about every moment mounted.

And I have a few folks whom I read every time I get a minute, though I don't blogroll them, people whose blogs have formed the basis for books and such, and I no longer feel connected with them the way I did three years ago when I started reading blogs.

And on the lists, list moms have commented that the LIST is eating up the time that they used to use to make the subject of the list, and while it's nice that the list was much beloved and enjoyed, it's time to close up shop and get back to their lives.

And I find that more and more, I'm starting to feel that I'm writing about what I do more than I'm actually doing. I feel that I post here when I have good news to share (although as mentioned before, if I don't share all the bad news because I don't want the outpouring of sympathy [or worse yet, the casual, "Sucks to be you! Hope things get better; loveyabye."]then I certainly can't expect to share good news and have others understand why it's good news.) but I don't share my whole life--or even a whole part of any of my life. (Shocking, isn't it? I don't even share all my knitting with my Tonstant Weaders.)

And it takes time to produce this stuff. It takes time to come up with the subject, land fingies on the keys, set up photos, crop and fix the photos, and then put it all together for consumption.

So I really dig where folks are coming from when they say, "I'm getting off this merry-go-round; I'm going to go and explore my ideas, meet my muse at the board and DO a bunch of these things that I've been thinking about and exposed to, so I'll have the object in my hand rather than another blogpost that will be read and discarded like any other article from the newspaper."

Will there be a year three? Or will we close the Lunchbox and eat out instead?

Dutiful Meme

Today tastes like peanut butter and muffin tin liners. The weather is a wet flannel blanket just out of the dryer. When you can’t think of anything to say, but know you should say something, surf the web for inspiration.

So you’ll just have to imagine the posts I was gonna write about the walk this morning along the canal (insert shades of Ray Bradbury here, both the sci-fi and the Doug Spaulding) where I talk about the hordes of black bumblebees dangling on their wings and droning among the glories pastel fields of Russian Thistle blooming mellow pallid violet among the grey-green leaves, with the fireworks of yellow stamens in the early morning light. Too bad, I’m going to do a meme theme here.


1. YOUR ROCK STAR NAME: (first pet and current street name)
Taffy Verano (obviously I do Spanish cross-over like Shakira)

2. YOUR MOVIE STAR NAME: (grandfather/grandmother on mother's side first name, favorite sweet)
Bonnie Gelato

3. YOUR "FLY GIRL/GUY" NAME: (first initial of first name, first two or three letters of your last name)
Eree (hmm, rather goth to be called a name that rhymes with “Eerie.” I like it.)


4. YOUR DETECTIVE NAME: (favorite animal, name of high school mascot)
Alpaca Matador (that’s almost like a superhero name)

5. YOUR SOAP OPERA NAME: (middle name, city where you were born)
Llewellyn Albuquerque (goes well with the rock star name, no?)


6.YOUR STAR WARS NAME: (first 3 letters of your last name, last 3 letters of mother's maiden name, first 3 letters of your pet's name)
Ree’ettvis (ok, I just had to put a glottal stop in the middle of that screech. Wow.)


7.JEDI NAME: (middle name spelled backwards, your mom's maiden name spelled backwards)
Nyllewell T’terrag (looks more like Dragonriders of Pern, doesn’t it?)

8. PORN STAR NAME: (middle name, street you lived on)
Llewellyn Jen Tilly

9.SUPERHERO NAME: ("The", your favorite color, last product advertised that you remember on TV (or favorite)
The Chartreuse Attorney

Spike Needs to Post More Often . . .

. . . but right now, Spike is undergoing meltdown. (Today tastes like heavy water and chocolate.)

Too much life, not enough time.

Just realized my blogiversary was October 6. Ten days ago. If I send my blog roses, will it forgive me? Will it call my name in the midddle of the night? Will it put an arm around me during the long hazy grey lead days of winter to come?

Or will it sniff and tell me to find comfort among the postcards and knitted froghair lace?

Found a meme that looked like fun; results below. You go to Google, punch in "{your name here) needs" and then post the ten results to your blog/journal/external brain. I deleted the really gackin' Buffy references, cause, well, I can. If you've gotta see 'em, you have fingers, too.

1. Spike needs a scrub.
2. Spike needs volunteers.
3. Spike needs to go and resketch the entrance for Yancy #2, this can be done during the week.

4. Spike needs to move them to a earlier time,people are not gonna watch this at 11pm.

5. Spike needs to have something to aim for, to win the girl, lose the girl, something like that.

6. Spike needs to figure out who he is.
7. Spike needs to freely make that decision.
8. Spike needs a hit original show.
9. Spike needs a home where someone is home a lot during the day.
10. Spike needs to be able to mark events as "consumed."

Ok, memes are one short step up the evolutionary ladder from Quizilla posts, but every babystep counts. See ya in 1d6 + 1.

I Swore I'd Never Never Never Do This

but here it is, Thursday and I haven't touched the blog.

It's been busy here. Had company this weekend, so this week has been dedicated to doing all the things I would have done on the weekend.

And of course, had several epiphnies which must be 'splored, except I have to finish off the other projects I'm in the middle of so I can clean up, rather than pushing piles of half-finished art around and around.

So I'm really anxious to get back in the studio, which is wunnerful, but I gotta work, and o'course work is busy busy busy, so I'm working late, which means I have less time for everything I wanna.

And I guess this lameoid post is an attempt to get more original text than quiz result crappity posted so I don't feel bad when I flip the switch and run away again to make serendipity squares and scribble words normally seen only on vocabulary flashcards on 'em and call it art.

Tho' this particular quiz crappity is closer than most. Enjoy.

How to make a Spike

Ingredients: 3 parts anger 3 parts courage 5 parts instinct

Method: Add to a cocktail shaker and mix vigorously. Top it off with a sprinkle of caring and enjoy!

Username:

Personality cocktail
From Go-Quiz.com

100 at last!

I started this list a while ago, when someone on another list posited what you would be missing in your life if you didn't craft. I started listing what holes there would be, and when I hit 25 in nearly as many seconds, I realized I had some serious blog-fodder--if I weeded out all the repeats. Thus began the quest for 100, based on those ubiquitous "100 things about me" lists. I mean really, do you come here to find out my hair and eye color???

Installment 1 is here; 2 is here, 3 is here and the last part is below. I may have to pull this together and slap it on my sidebar. Or not.

76. Just look at the vocabulary I’d have missed!
77. The shared mythos of the cats
78. The foreboding sense of doom when I finish a project for Terpsichore and
wonder if I can pull it off again, or if the well is truly dry
79. The swimming head when ideas flow faster and faster
80. The dry feeling when I begin making the physical project after having thought it out for weeks
81. The low when you see you pulled out maybe 85% of your vision (I want it ALL, dammit!)
82. The high when you actually get 95% out in the real world
83. The ecstasy when you get 75% of what was in your head--but it's BETTER than your vision
84. Living for the times when number 83 actually happens
85. Trading cards and meeting people
86. Characters and plots
87. Would I travel? Probably not.
88. And I wouldn’t have travel journals to make notes of the trips in.
89. Especially not handmade journals.
90. Of which I need to bind another (this should probably be repeated six or eight times.
91. I wouldn’t be exploring a visual vocabulary
92. And let’s not forget my time as an artist’s model
93. And how cool it is to go to a gallery and recognize people’s work BEFORE you see the names
94. And the stories about posing in odd places
95. Like the warm spring day outside the Fine Arts Building
96. And that summer up in the mountains
97. What would I talk about at parties?
98. I wouldn't be an Excel junkie
99. I would, however have enough room at my desk for the computer.
100. But I'd miss the email and snail mail from other countries.