(blows dust off the blog)
This thing on? (tap tap tap)
Today tastes like cardboard and sawdust, like bitter almonds, like dandilions and pine needles.
It's not likely to get better any time soon.
First I was delayed because I was thisclose to a finished object, then needed the perfect picture to display said object and then . . .
Well. Then. I'm not ready to talk to those who ought to know, so I won't let them find out on the blog, and I may never be ready to share with the web as a whole.
I talked about needing a picture of a platespinner to pop up when I was just too busy keeping everything in the air to post. So when there's too much to say, and nothing to share, I'll do the emo thing and post poetry instead.
Pride
Even rocks crack, I tell you,
and not because of age.
For years they lie on their backs
in the heat and the cold,
so many years,
it almost seems peaceful.
They don't move, so cracks stay hidden.
A kind of pride.
Years pass over them, waiting.
Whoever is going to shatter them
hasn't come yet.
And so the moss flourishes, the seaweed swirls,
the seaweed pushes through and rolls back,
and it seems they are motionless.
Till a tiny seal comes to rub against the rocks,
comes and goes away.
And suddenly the stone is split.
I told you, when people break, it happens by surprise.
--Dahlia Ravikovitch
Showing posts with label Poems. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Poems. Show all posts
Monday, November 03, 2008
Friday, April 25, 2008
Insert Evocative Title Here
Today tastes like chinese long beans, like rapini, like underripe cucumbers. Bitter. But I like it. Because it is bitter and because it is my heart. 1
It's one of those weeks where everywhere I turn, everyone does it better than me. Whatever it is. Whoever they are. I'm hip-deep in exchanges where others are posting swag and swag to be, and I look at what I have planned, and it looks like a dog's breakfast.
I'm busting my hump to chart a lace pattern. It's one of those times where you read the written pattern--multiple of 18 plus 1--then you check the actual directions and count stitches for the first row . . . and notice that you have to have 25 to work across once. My math may not be the best, but when I take off my shoes and count, 18 plus one DOES NOT EQUAL 25.
But it has been charted by someone else, and used to good effect. I have a plan to use it to great effect, if I can only get reality to cooperate with my dream. I may be smoking something. Won't be the first time.
Oh, I got it charted, with a great deal of skull sweat and test knitting. My hair caught fire two-three times, but it's charted. Now all I have to do (she said modestly) is reverse the pattern while keeping the character of the stitch.
You can stop laughing now.
You Big Dawg Knitters are nodding along--you know it's not just a matter of working the directions backwards. You know it's not even as simple as working from the last line to the first and reversing decreases.
Did I mention that this pattern has unbalanced increases on the knit side that get decreased away on the purl side? If it actually works, there will be a knitting wonk post to beat all knitting wonk posts detailing my thought processes as I flipped the lace. This is one of the Holy Grails of knitting--figuring out how to take a pattern you love from the bottom up and make it work top down.
I know this. I know that I may be Galahad here, cursed to see it once and never to grasp it.
And yeah, I'm doing this to myself. I'm looking over the shoulders of a couple of knitalongs where some knitters are discovering that there are patters where you have to --gasp-- pattern on both rows without resting, OMGBBQ! Yup, I have it in me so much nearer home to scare myself with my own desert places. 2
So I go to write on the Neverending Story Project. I have a lot of catching up to do. Amazing how they pile up when you don't get that story a day done each day. I'm banging along with my perpetual duo, and each story, due to the brevity of the format, feels like a scene in a chapter rather than a chapter in its entirety.
And I have the sinking feeling that I'm telling the same parts over and over and even fifty-five words is too long to forestall tedium. And on the other hand, if I collected them all into some sort of order, I might well have something worth exploring one of these days real soon now.
So I go to read my email. And Li'l Brah has posted a poem on his blog which not only piques my curiosity (really? Give up the chance to fanbabble at Shakespeare and Lincoln???) but containes that amazingly evocative line "I would give up all the fallen leaves in Gesthemane" and now I can barely see out of the bright green lenses that are my eyes. (I got even. I sent him a poem by Rumi. Hah!)3
So, in order to close with something gone right, there will be knitting:
(Eventually. I haven't made time to block the completed item yet, but will stick a picture here soon soon.)
Summer in Kansas, done Helen's Lace, Bucks Bar colorway. I started this shortly before I broke my hand last winter, and it was one of the first things I picked back up, solely to prove to myself that I could still knit lace.
Probably not the best choice. The silk kept catching on the Velcro of the brace, and I couldn't use my right hand the same way, and yeah, the pain pills interfered with the counting somewhat. ("Five, six, seven, thirteen, yellow . . .")
About halfway through, I realized it was literally riddled with errors and I wasn't going to be able to change patterns. So I ripped the whole thing out back to the cast-on row, made charts and charts of what I was doing and where I was going, and started. All. Over. Again. After the New Year.
Once I had all my tools in place, this was a fun little knit. Even the gazillion rows of the border where I had to have the charts handy for every stitch, and cheered when I finally turned the middle corner.
Not entirely unlike turning the middle finger.
1. Google Stephen Crane and "In the Desert."
2. See Robert Frost's "Desert Places."
3. Li'l Brah, hope I didn't out you to the 'rents here. Butcha know, you shouldn't post it to the intarwebs if you aren't willing for your mom to find out . . .
P.S.--And in yet another example of serendipity, the quote of the day for a group I read was this:
"The artist's personality, built upon strong desires and compassionate vision, is by its nature prone to depression. Therefore an artist will be visited by depression as a matter of course; his job is to recognize how his own thoughts and feelings contribute to his sadness. He can discourage these visits by affirming his freedom and worth, by remembering to love, and by gently encouraging himself to believe in a world of renewed possibilities. Depression may be natural, but still the artist can dispute and overcome it."
--Affirmations for Artists by Eric Maisel
Talk about your basic Godsmacks . . .
It's one of those weeks where everywhere I turn, everyone does it better than me. Whatever it is. Whoever they are. I'm hip-deep in exchanges where others are posting swag and swag to be, and I look at what I have planned, and it looks like a dog's breakfast.
I'm busting my hump to chart a lace pattern. It's one of those times where you read the written pattern--multiple of 18 plus 1--then you check the actual directions and count stitches for the first row . . . and notice that you have to have 25 to work across once. My math may not be the best, but when I take off my shoes and count, 18 plus one DOES NOT EQUAL 25.
But it has been charted by someone else, and used to good effect. I have a plan to use it to great effect, if I can only get reality to cooperate with my dream. I may be smoking something. Won't be the first time.
Oh, I got it charted, with a great deal of skull sweat and test knitting. My hair caught fire two-three times, but it's charted. Now all I have to do (she said modestly) is reverse the pattern while keeping the character of the stitch.
You can stop laughing now.
You Big Dawg Knitters are nodding along--you know it's not just a matter of working the directions backwards. You know it's not even as simple as working from the last line to the first and reversing decreases.
Did I mention that this pattern has unbalanced increases on the knit side that get decreased away on the purl side? If it actually works, there will be a knitting wonk post to beat all knitting wonk posts detailing my thought processes as I flipped the lace. This is one of the Holy Grails of knitting--figuring out how to take a pattern you love from the bottom up and make it work top down.
I know this. I know that I may be Galahad here, cursed to see it once and never to grasp it.
And yeah, I'm doing this to myself. I'm looking over the shoulders of a couple of knitalongs where some knitters are discovering that there are patters where you have to --gasp-- pattern on both rows without resting, OMGBBQ! Yup, I have it in me so much nearer home to scare myself with my own desert places. 2
So I go to write on the Neverending Story Project. I have a lot of catching up to do. Amazing how they pile up when you don't get that story a day done each day. I'm banging along with my perpetual duo, and each story, due to the brevity of the format, feels like a scene in a chapter rather than a chapter in its entirety.
And I have the sinking feeling that I'm telling the same parts over and over and even fifty-five words is too long to forestall tedium. And on the other hand, if I collected them all into some sort of order, I might well have something worth exploring one of these days real soon now.
So I go to read my email. And Li'l Brah has posted a poem on his blog which not only piques my curiosity (really? Give up the chance to fanbabble at Shakespeare and Lincoln???) but containes that amazingly evocative line "I would give up all the fallen leaves in Gesthemane" and now I can barely see out of the bright green lenses that are my eyes. (I got even. I sent him a poem by Rumi. Hah!)3
So, in order to close with something gone right, there will be knitting:
(Eventually. I haven't made time to block the completed item yet, but will stick a picture here soon soon.)
Summer in Kansas, done Helen's Lace, Bucks Bar colorway. I started this shortly before I broke my hand last winter, and it was one of the first things I picked back up, solely to prove to myself that I could still knit lace.
Probably not the best choice. The silk kept catching on the Velcro of the brace, and I couldn't use my right hand the same way, and yeah, the pain pills interfered with the counting somewhat. ("Five, six, seven, thirteen, yellow . . .")
About halfway through, I realized it was literally riddled with errors and I wasn't going to be able to change patterns. So I ripped the whole thing out back to the cast-on row, made charts and charts of what I was doing and where I was going, and started. All. Over. Again. After the New Year.
Once I had all my tools in place, this was a fun little knit. Even the gazillion rows of the border where I had to have the charts handy for every stitch, and cheered when I finally turned the middle corner.
Not entirely unlike turning the middle finger.
1. Google Stephen Crane and "In the Desert."
2. See Robert Frost's "Desert Places."
3. Li'l Brah, hope I didn't out you to the 'rents here. Butcha know, you shouldn't post it to the intarwebs if you aren't willing for your mom to find out . . .
P.S.--And in yet another example of serendipity, the quote of the day for a group I read was this:
"The artist's personality, built upon strong desires and compassionate vision, is by its nature prone to depression. Therefore an artist will be visited by depression as a matter of course; his job is to recognize how his own thoughts and feelings contribute to his sadness. He can discourage these visits by affirming his freedom and worth, by remembering to love, and by gently encouraging himself to believe in a world of renewed possibilities. Depression may be natural, but still the artist can dispute and overcome it."
--Affirmations for Artists by Eric Maisel
Talk about your basic Godsmacks . . .
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
In Spring, the Dholes Come Out to Play . . .
I love having guests over--they find the most interesting things in your library. Books that you loved once, books that you had laid aside and forgotten. Books that you chain to the shelves so they don't wander off.
My younger brother discovered this gem hiding under the bed, and together we spent an evening perusing Blake Williams' Songs of Insanity and Excoriation. I think the Fair Use provisions should let me share this one sample with you.
The Shoggoth
Little shoggoth, Who made thee?
Doest thou know What made thee?
Gave thee life and bade thee feed,
Gave thee toys that scream and bleed;
Gave thee such a fearsome mien,
Unholy, loathsome, and unclean
Gave thee mouths to gibber and wail,
Under hill and over dale?
Little shoggoth, Who made thee?
Doest thou know What made thee?
Little shoggoth, I’ll tell thee,
Little shoggoth, I’ll tell thee.
The Elder Gods, deep under seas,
As you may see in temples’ frieze.
Built you strong and built you sound,
Ruled you till you gained the ground;
Then, throwing off your masters’ yoke,
You bent the Earth until it broke.
Little shoggoth, tekili-li!
Little shoggoth, tekili-li!
I'd write more, but someone's tapping at the window. I should go and let them in. BRB!
My younger brother discovered this gem hiding under the bed, and together we spent an evening perusing Blake Williams' Songs of Insanity and Excoriation. I think the Fair Use provisions should let me share this one sample with you.
The Shoggoth
Little shoggoth, Who made thee?
Doest thou know What made thee?
Gave thee life and bade thee feed,
Gave thee toys that scream and bleed;
Gave thee such a fearsome mien,
Unholy, loathsome, and unclean
Gave thee mouths to gibber and wail,
Under hill and over dale?
Little shoggoth, Who made thee?
Doest thou know What made thee?
Little shoggoth, I’ll tell thee,
Little shoggoth, I’ll tell thee.
The Elder Gods, deep under seas,
As you may see in temples’ frieze.
Built you strong and built you sound,
Ruled you till you gained the ground;
Then, throwing off your masters’ yoke,
You bent the Earth until it broke.
Little shoggoth, tekili-li!
Little shoggoth, tekili-li!
I'd write more, but someone's tapping at the window. I should go and let them in. BRB!
Tuesday, July 03, 2007
Filching From the Masters Series: The Next Installment
Today tastes like diet peach-flavored green tea. Flat. Chemical. Harsh.
Although I have been hard at work on the red shawl (my fingers may be permanently tattooed with dye on the index and middle finger of my right hand, like a nineteenth century clerk's mark) completion continues to be elusive. I knit on the thing going to work. I knit on it on the way home from work. I knit on it at lunch. I get about six rows per day, which is half a repeat (more or less) and at this rate it will take . . . twenty days to get to the edging. ( whacks head on the keyboard inhkj.fcdahdhewkhd; DESPAIR.)
And, of course, the Project Fairies have not taken pity on me and worked on some of the objects which have been quasi-abandoned in my quests to complete the projects that fill me with passion right now. Gareth's binkie is a forlorn charcoal heap. The Castle binkie languishes in a clashing swoon. The bowls remain unfelted and un-knit. (I refuse to discuss the books that await covers, pages that need polishing, and the unbound signatures stacked in the garage. Nope. Not gonna talk about the ATC's and decos that just need glue and postage. NOPE. NOT GONNA.)
Thus, everything is pretty much the same as it was when I posted pics last week. I'm not sure why I feel like there ought to be a whole lot more. Perhaps that will change--I have the Fourth off, so plan to be up burning the midnight oil on the red shawl and the Scarf of the Apocalypse. And then burning daylight in front of the DVD player clicking away on both projects. If the internal alarm clock (or the cats) get me up at the usual time, I may just give up and haul my carcass onto the couch to play podcasts and knit and knit and knit until Gareth gets up and we can work on the Netflix backlog.
Meanwhile, I'm going to follow my rule regarding what to do when you have nothing new to show--steal a dead poet's work and filk it into knitting. Y'all know this one:
Choosing the Next Project From the Growing Stash
Whose list is this? It’s mine, I know–
Scribbles and arrows to and fro
Footprints of a rambling mind
Potentialities all aglow.
To knit for charity would be kind,
Each stitch with a prayer entwined.
Or to wrap a friend with loving arms
Of lace. Or socks. But they wouldn’t mind
If I yielded to the charms
Of a shawl for me. Ah, but the harm
Is that it’s very late. I should keep
To the schedule set by the tyrannical alarm.
My bed looks warm, my pillow deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And yards to knit before I sleep,
And yards to knit before I sleep.
Indeed.
Although I have been hard at work on the red shawl (my fingers may be permanently tattooed with dye on the index and middle finger of my right hand, like a nineteenth century clerk's mark) completion continues to be elusive. I knit on the thing going to work. I knit on it on the way home from work. I knit on it at lunch. I get about six rows per day, which is half a repeat (more or less) and at this rate it will take . . . twenty days to get to the edging. ( whacks head on the keyboard in
And, of course, the Project Fairies have not taken pity on me and worked on some of the objects which have been quasi-abandoned in my quests to complete the projects that fill me with passion right now. Gareth's binkie is a forlorn charcoal heap. The Castle binkie languishes in a clashing swoon. The bowls remain unfelted and un-knit. (I refuse to discuss the books that await covers, pages that need polishing, and the unbound signatures stacked in the garage. Nope. Not gonna talk about the ATC's and decos that just need glue and postage. NOPE. NOT GONNA.)
Thus, everything is pretty much the same as it was when I posted pics last week. I'm not sure why I feel like there ought to be a whole lot more. Perhaps that will change--I have the Fourth off, so plan to be up burning the midnight oil on the red shawl and the Scarf of the Apocalypse. And then burning daylight in front of the DVD player clicking away on both projects. If the internal alarm clock (or the cats) get me up at the usual time, I may just give up and haul my carcass onto the couch to play podcasts and knit and knit and knit until Gareth gets up and we can work on the Netflix backlog.
Meanwhile, I'm going to follow my rule regarding what to do when you have nothing new to show--steal a dead poet's work and filk it into knitting. Y'all know this one:
Choosing the Next Project From the Growing Stash
Whose list is this? It’s mine, I know–
Scribbles and arrows to and fro
Footprints of a rambling mind
Potentialities all aglow.
To knit for charity would be kind,
Each stitch with a prayer entwined.
Or to wrap a friend with loving arms
Of lace. Or socks. But they wouldn’t mind
If I yielded to the charms
Of a shawl for me. Ah, but the harm
Is that it’s very late. I should keep
To the schedule set by the tyrannical alarm.
My bed looks warm, my pillow deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And yards to knit before I sleep,
And yards to knit before I sleep.
Indeed.
Thursday, January 11, 2007
This Is Just To Say . . .
I have posted a picture
of the gift that I made you
(that you have not received yet
because of the storm)
to my blog, here.
And thus, spoiled your surprise.
Could you please pretend
to have failed to read this?
Or at least,
to pretend to enjoy it
when the wrapping is torn?
Ok, I guess we've established that when I have nothing to say, I'll filch from William Carlos Williams (i.e., December 3, 2004 "So Much Depends Upon a Writing Exercise"). Shamelessly.
But at least I'm cribbing from a master. Oh, and without further adieu, here's the photo that's gonna get me in Dutch with the Dowager Empress:
It's a book for holding ATC's. We both participate in swapping them, and sometimes interchange between ourselves. I have made her sign a contract in blood that when she uhm, "no longer has need of her collection" I GET IT. Heh. So really, doing cool stuff for her that's ATC related is really doing cool stuff for me . . . oh, that was the "out loud and gloating voice," wasn't it. My bad.
Anyhoo, it's a single needle, single sheet coptic stitched book. The interior boards are covered with art paper, the exterior boards were a board game of some sort that a fellow artist snagged at a garage sale. No pieces, no notes on the board itself, just black and white spaces, and holes in the outside. I noticed that the bigger holes were very nearly almost ATC size, and well . . . that was that.
I'm glad to finally have it done--I put aside just about all my "art for me and mine" this last year doing art for others via swaps and such. The next project is to re-make a deco for me. I assume the original was either lost in the mail between artists--or languishes on someone's worktable--or got thrown away. Dammit! It was one that was important to me, so much so that I bought duplicate materials just so I could make a copy for me to fill and hold on to.
I'm glad I did--I have not seen the materials I'd need for a couple of years now. had I not snarfed them and stashed them, I'd be completely out of luck. Now i just need to pull them out and have at them. I may make color copies of some of the ephemera to help me fill the pages . . . or not.
P.S.--Blogger notes that this is my 200th post! Happy bicentennial to me!
of the gift that I made you
(that you have not received yet
because of the storm)
to my blog, here.
And thus, spoiled your surprise.
Could you please pretend
to have failed to read this?
Or at least,
to pretend to enjoy it
when the wrapping is torn?
Ok, I guess we've established that when I have nothing to say, I'll filch from William Carlos Williams (i.e., December 3, 2004 "So Much Depends Upon a Writing Exercise"). Shamelessly.
But at least I'm cribbing from a master. Oh, and without further adieu, here's the photo that's gonna get me in Dutch with the Dowager Empress:
It's a book for holding ATC's. We both participate in swapping them, and sometimes interchange between ourselves. I have made her sign a contract in blood that when she uhm, "no longer has need of her collection" I GET IT. Heh. So really, doing cool stuff for her that's ATC related is really doing cool stuff for me . . . oh, that was the "out loud and gloating voice," wasn't it. My bad.
Anyhoo, it's a single needle, single sheet coptic stitched book. The interior boards are covered with art paper, the exterior boards were a board game of some sort that a fellow artist snagged at a garage sale. No pieces, no notes on the board itself, just black and white spaces, and holes in the outside. I noticed that the bigger holes were very nearly almost ATC size, and well . . . that was that.
I'm glad to finally have it done--I put aside just about all my "art for me and mine" this last year doing art for others via swaps and such. The next project is to re-make a deco for me. I assume the original was either lost in the mail between artists--or languishes on someone's worktable--or got thrown away. Dammit! It was one that was important to me, so much so that I bought duplicate materials just so I could make a copy for me to fill and hold on to.
I'm glad I did--I have not seen the materials I'd need for a couple of years now. had I not snarfed them and stashed them, I'd be completely out of luck. Now i just need to pull them out and have at them. I may make color copies of some of the ephemera to help me fill the pages . . . or not.
P.S.--Blogger notes that this is my 200th post! Happy bicentennial to me!
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
The News from the Salt River
The Dowager Empress herownself sent me a wonderful poem, one that’s a keeper, so I’m putting it up here for all the Tonstant Weaders to viddy--
Look
The moon thumbs through the night’s book.
Finds a lake where nothing is printed.
Draws a straight line. That’s all
it can. That’s enough.
Thick line. Straight toward you.
-- Look.
Rolf Jacobsen
(1907-1994)
Translated from the Norwegian
By Olav Grinde
That's lovely. The only problem is I hear it read in Garrison Keillor's voice, and then a monologue about Norwegian poetry ensues . . . and how Norwegian is such a frugal language that the poor guy didn't have enough vocabulary to title the poem without using one of the words in the body of the poem . . . and how Rolf stayed up night after night after night . . . and how he asked his friends Sven and Oley for help, and they contributed the only two words in Norwegian he hadn't used yet--"Pig," said Sven, and "Turnip," suggested Oley.
And you can probably hear the rest of the monologue contained in the air conditioner's hum, so I'll spare you that.
Some days it does not pay to be one of all the children who are above average.
Look
The moon thumbs through the night’s book.
Finds a lake where nothing is printed.
Draws a straight line. That’s all
it can. That’s enough.
Thick line. Straight toward you.
-- Look.
Rolf Jacobsen
(1907-1994)
Translated from the Norwegian
By Olav Grinde
That's lovely. The only problem is I hear it read in Garrison Keillor's voice, and then a monologue about Norwegian poetry ensues . . . and how Norwegian is such a frugal language that the poor guy didn't have enough vocabulary to title the poem without using one of the words in the body of the poem . . . and how Rolf stayed up night after night after night . . . and how he asked his friends Sven and Oley for help, and they contributed the only two words in Norwegian he hadn't used yet--"Pig," said Sven, and "Turnip," suggested Oley.
And you can probably hear the rest of the monologue contained in the air conditioner's hum, so I'll spare you that.
Some days it does not pay to be one of all the children who are above average.
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
Just for Today
Just for today . . .
I will eat my vegetables.
I will drink my water.
I will take every opportunity to exercise.
Just for today . . .
I will not whine.
I will not say, “But it’s not fair!”
I will not drag my feet.
Just for today . . .
I will do the right thing, even when it sucks.
I will keep my promises, especially those I made to myself.
I will put one foot in front of the other, and celebrate progress made.
Just for today.
I will eat my vegetables.
I will drink my water.
I will take every opportunity to exercise.
Just for today . . .
I will not whine.
I will not say, “But it’s not fair!”
I will not drag my feet.
Just for today . . .
I will do the right thing, even when it sucks.
I will keep my promises, especially those I made to myself.
I will put one foot in front of the other, and celebrate progress made.
Just for today.
Sunday, December 12, 2004
Tis the Season (or the Seasoning?)
In this family, we celebrate Adverb in January with my parents, about 24 days after Christmas. We send out Adverb invitations, pile our gifts on the Adverb table, and open them up all together. We'll probably hold the traditional Adverb barbecue outside on the porch--after all, this is Arizona.
The cats really really wanted to write the Adverb invite song this year. They had a lot of fun posing for the photos last year. You see, usually we'll parody a Christmas carol to make it more appropriate for Adverb. Last year, we did "I'll be Home for Adverb" with photographs for each line. I explained to the cats that we'd already set a date, so we weren't doing formal invites this time. They were very disappointed.
Then they asked if they couldn't write the song, at least. I told them that they could, and set out a roll of newsprint and some poster paint, as well as a saucer of eggnog to get them in the holiday spirit. Perhaps I shouldn't have put on Madonna's Christmas album, becuase this is what they came up with . . .
Santa Monkey, we've been hearing all about you, lately
You puffly stranger monkey
Santa Monkey, with the big bag of treats on your back.
Santa Monkey, we've been very good cats this year
Only threw a couple of parrrrrrrties
Santa Monkey, with the big bag of treats on your back.
We hardly ever drove the car
(And when we did it wasn't far)
Only down into Mexico
And then right back, nice and slow
Meow meow, meow meow meow
Santa Monkey, surely we could have some shrimp toes, I s'pose
We've been at least that good
Santa Monkey, with the big bag of treats on your back.
Santa Monkey, we'd really love to have a big bag, to drag
Filled up with jerky
Santa Monkey, with the big bag of treats on your back.
Santa Monkey, you know we love tuna water, we gotta
Get thumbs to open the cans
Santa Monkey, with the big bag of treats on your back.
We've been good for minutes on end
All for you, our stranger friend
Please now make it worth our whiles
We'll show you our Cheshire smiles
Meow meow, meow meow meow
Santa Monkey, did we mention that we also like cheese? Don't tease
And kindly skip the crackers
Santa Monkey, with the big bag of treats on your back.
Hurry through the cat door tonight
With a big bag of treats on your back.
The cats really really wanted to write the Adverb invite song this year. They had a lot of fun posing for the photos last year. You see, usually we'll parody a Christmas carol to make it more appropriate for Adverb. Last year, we did "I'll be Home for Adverb" with photographs for each line. I explained to the cats that we'd already set a date, so we weren't doing formal invites this time. They were very disappointed.
Then they asked if they couldn't write the song, at least. I told them that they could, and set out a roll of newsprint and some poster paint, as well as a saucer of eggnog to get them in the holiday spirit. Perhaps I shouldn't have put on Madonna's Christmas album, becuase this is what they came up with . . .
Santa Monkey, we've been hearing all about you, lately
You puffly stranger monkey
Santa Monkey, with the big bag of treats on your back.
Santa Monkey, we've been very good cats this year
Only threw a couple of parrrrrrrties
Santa Monkey, with the big bag of treats on your back.
We hardly ever drove the car
(And when we did it wasn't far)
Only down into Mexico
And then right back, nice and slow
Meow meow, meow meow meow
Santa Monkey, surely we could have some shrimp toes, I s'pose
We've been at least that good
Santa Monkey, with the big bag of treats on your back.
Santa Monkey, we'd really love to have a big bag, to drag
Filled up with jerky
Santa Monkey, with the big bag of treats on your back.
Santa Monkey, you know we love tuna water, we gotta
Get thumbs to open the cans
Santa Monkey, with the big bag of treats on your back.
We've been good for minutes on end
All for you, our stranger friend
Please now make it worth our whiles
We'll show you our Cheshire smiles
Meow meow, meow meow meow
Santa Monkey, did we mention that we also like cheese? Don't tease
And kindly skip the crackers
Santa Monkey, with the big bag of treats on your back.
Hurry through the cat door tonight
With a big bag of treats on your back.
Friday, November 12, 2004
A More Personal View
“In Flander's Fields"
By John McCrae
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
My grandfather, who turned 98 years old this July, is a WWII vet, the last of his division. Those of you counting on your fingers, with a grasp of history, are probably shaking their heads about now.
“Pearl Harbor – the incident that caused America to involve itself in World War II—was December 17, 1941. Your grandfather would have been in his forties by the time America began drafting! Didn’t he have a family started by then? He should have been able to back out honorably due to age and familial obligations.”
Well, yes, but instead he chose to accept the responsibilities that accrue to adult males in America, and answered his draft summons. My mother, the youngest of his five children, was old enough to remember her father before he left for war.
And of course, she was old enough to remember when he came home, suffering from what would later be called “shell shock” and then “post-traumatic stress disorder.” He literally was not her father any more, and for some time, my grandparents lived apart in order to preserve the marriage.
Now, as mentioned, he is a 98 year old widower, and time has assumed a particular plasticity for him. Someone will say something that sparks a memory, and for the moment he’s back in whatever time it was, and relates to the speaker as if they were someone back there with him. Now, if you float along beside him, he’ll tell the stories that hurt too much when they had to go through conscious filters.
My father was lucky, he served time in the Navy just after Korea, and just before Viet Nam.
However, neither my husband nor brother have put in their hitch. Neither has children. Neither is over 35.
Do I worry? Yes.
By John McCrae
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
My grandfather, who turned 98 years old this July, is a WWII vet, the last of his division. Those of you counting on your fingers, with a grasp of history, are probably shaking their heads about now.
“Pearl Harbor – the incident that caused America to involve itself in World War II—was December 17, 1941. Your grandfather would have been in his forties by the time America began drafting! Didn’t he have a family started by then? He should have been able to back out honorably due to age and familial obligations.”
Well, yes, but instead he chose to accept the responsibilities that accrue to adult males in America, and answered his draft summons. My mother, the youngest of his five children, was old enough to remember her father before he left for war.
And of course, she was old enough to remember when he came home, suffering from what would later be called “shell shock” and then “post-traumatic stress disorder.” He literally was not her father any more, and for some time, my grandparents lived apart in order to preserve the marriage.
Now, as mentioned, he is a 98 year old widower, and time has assumed a particular plasticity for him. Someone will say something that sparks a memory, and for the moment he’s back in whatever time it was, and relates to the speaker as if they were someone back there with him. Now, if you float along beside him, he’ll tell the stories that hurt too much when they had to go through conscious filters.
My father was lucky, he served time in the Navy just after Korea, and just before Viet Nam.
However, neither my husband nor brother have put in their hitch. Neither has children. Neither is over 35.
Do I worry? Yes.
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