Lived as Art

Typesetters Drawer

2012-01-13T13:47:00.000-06:00

This was one of my little pre-holiday projects, which was inspired by things I saw people doing on their blogs. I found an old typesetters drawer, but couldn’t bring myself to paint it. I specifically looked for one that wasn’t terribly valuable because I knew I would be drilling holes in it to accomplish what I wanted.

Drilling the holes proved somewhat daunting because the angle is a bit tough, and there isn’t much space to work with. However, I think this would be an utter pain to do completely by hand as it definitely made a difference to have very small starter holes to screw the hardware into.

The results satisfy my needs. At least I finally have a way to display some of my favorite pendants and get a few earrings out of my jewelry drawers.

Desolation leads to greater love

2011-12-30T03:32:00.000-06:00

I've had a real epiphany with regard to myself as an artist after this long "dark night" which is I suppose the point at which one ceases to need any outward sign or external acknowledgement of one's state of being.

I struggled for a long time with disillusionment, because I don't care to make art that is marketable, that fits into the canon, that attempts to help one set of people feel more enlightened through contact, or that signals wealth or privilege or intellectual superiority; I don't care to overtly attempt to manipulate societal norms either through willful conformity or rebellion beyond the point that my very existence and action will inevitably do. All I ever really cared about was inquiry, reflection, and discourse. I don't care anymore about making "my" mark or gratifying the angst created my own struggles with mortality. I never could make art as an ego driven act, and I have never liked the cult of the genius. To me, art and aesthetics is a pure communion whereby ones own mind interacts with the wonder and terror of all things and thingliness; but study of art and aesthetics should be taught alongside the study of politics and war.

There have been so many reasons, all personal, for my estrangement from the "art world" and I will not pretend that there has not been a period of great bitterness and anger, but also I've had to struggle with that chasm one gets to as an innate nihilist. How do you do things when you are constantly asked to justify them? Is there a point, a higher purpose? If there is not, then what is there about *you* that justifies their being done? Is making a genuinely pointless act in dire earnest not a terrible and irreconcilable contradiction?

I have killed most of my ideas because I let other people's agendas control my inspirations due to the fact that on a deep level I know quite well that I simply want to see some things. I want them, and that is pure will and ego. At the same time, one can want for the perceived good of others which is still will and ego just as one can want randomly for self gratification, which has never worked for me as an approach. I've also struggled with the fact that to me the idea trumps all. I've had many ideas of mine stolen, and I can't bring myself to mind. Love of ideas is alien to love of self in my mind, and having something come through me to others is an end in itself. If an idea survives me, then it is beautiful. After my death I won't know anything. This fear I've carried, this desire to create a legacy, it poisoned me when I realized it may not be possible. It allowed others to control me and use me to generate their own ideas. But I think the poison was good medicine in time. The weakness and vulnerability were all my own because I am by nature one who creates, and this requires weakness and vulnerability where remaining faithful to one's own vision requires induration. One must learn to open and shut like an oyster and to remember that every pearl is a little life.

Now I'm engaging in a process to start documenting some of my ideas. I'd like to share them. Some I will try to accomplish, some I would love to collaborate on, and others I hope will just inspire some one else.

Christmas Wrapping

2011-12-18T20:22:00.000-06:00

It's that time, and I am still buying presents. Well this year I have been trying to be more organized, and one thing I realized is that I have too many art magazines. What to do? Well, I always say I'll use them for this or that and then never get around to it so this year I decided to use some of the pages for my wrapping paper. The more I do this the more I like it. You can even weave the pages. I'll try to post a picture of all the presents together when I'm done, but for now here it is in all its simplicity. Torn pages taped together and wrapped with some ribbon, or curled paper.

New Song: The Choosing

2011-12-04T12:11:00.001-06:00

I wrote this song yesterday and recorded it last night. I'm sorry if the video quality is poor. I'm not very good at this.

Lyrics as follows:

We're searching for reasons but we won't find one 'cause there was no reason for what was undone, none for undoing, and none for the memory.
Love's just a word we use when we need to believe it's true, 'till we convince each other it must be you.
Forked tongue of reason might shatter our lies. Blink and the scales fall away from our eyes, each thinking the other can rescue these pretty things.
Oh love can be anything. It's heaven or hell, you choose, whatever you believe in until you're through.
Looking for reasons, but we won't find one 'cause there is no reason for what may become, none for becoming, and none for the ecstasy.

Coral Blossom Cocktail

2011-10-30T20:38:00.001-05:00

This was my cocktail experiment for the night. I'm very happy with it. I bought some Maraska Cherry Wine to try in place of Maraschino liqueur. I can't say that it's the same (it's really not even close), but now I have this bottle of very sweet earthy Cherry Wine to use.

I was trying to think of something to consume a little of it and came up with this very simple sweet but not too cloying drink. I like it. I couldn't find something just like this so I decided to name it after the pretty coral blush color. I'll probably forget about this tomorrow, but if anyone wants to try it the recipe is as follows:

2 oz Vodka (I just used Titos)
1/2 oz St. Germain
1/4 oz Maraska Cherry Wine

Pour ingredients into an ice filled shaker, shake, and strain.

My take on the 53%

2011-10-28T11:13:00.002-05:00

This is not a good recording. I made it with my iPhone during practice. This song is about 95% complete. The middle section just isn't right yet, and I haven't quite worked out the right lyric there either.

Click here or on the image if you're curious to hear the progress.

Lyrics below:

I heard you calling from the street. It seems you woke up and can't get back to sleep.

You never knew until you tried that no one would be there to hear you cry.

Tell the liars you believe in that you're fighting for a cause, but the cause won't run the water until the windmill takes up arms.

Did you drop your dollar in the ballot box, and pray for its return? Well it doesn't matter anyway, the bridges have all been burned.

Home sweet home again. It seems you've seen this place before, but you're outside it now and there's no answer at the door.

You only dream when you're asleep, but where's that princely kiss to wake you when you can't quite scream?

The man who bet against you, said he'd be there by your side and you knew he really meant it because he said it with a smile.

Something's got you frightened of your neighbors and crying in the night, but it couldn't be the darkness 'cause you've already shut your eyes.

Home sweet home again. Another bolt across the door, beggar or prisoner, either side is nothing more.

Not terribly Creative: Now with more Absinthe!

2011-10-18T21:35:00.001-05:00

I don't have anything interesting to post.

Actually, I wrote a song about the recent protests which I think voices my opinion on the state of my country in my own way. I just don't have the stuff to record it though, which makes me very very sad. It makes me so sad I decided to make a drink and forget about it all for the night.

Here is an unintentional little still life. I've been thinking a lot about things and thingliness as well. In my mind I imagine a project whereby I photograph and document every single item I own. The stupidity and the overwhelming weight of these things, their history, and how little my life means in the context of these objects fascinates me. I used to study art history, and in a sense I can see how much and how little our things say about us. In this picture:

A cut glass very like my family's old antique set from on of my maternal grandmothers. This is not one of those as mother decided we shouldn't use them anymore. These I think she bought on impulse at some estate sale or antique store. I like them a lot.

Inside the glass is the drink I made tonight. I decided to drink some of the absinthe I bought. The absinthe is green, and usually I avoid the green varieties except the clerk at the new liquor store I found (which sources violet liquor, St. Germain, and maraschino) insisted I buy this one instead because he likes it better. He took nearly twenty dollars off of the tag to entice me to switch brands, so I did. He is right about the taste. It's very good. Anyway, I decided to prepare it in the modern pyrotechnic fashion. Then for no reason I decided to drip some violet liqueur into the bottom so it would have a neat little shadow underneath. Mercifully this tastes very good. Oh, and I used some Perrier instead of tap water because our tap water tastes terrible. I thought the carbonated water might be unpleasant with absinthe but it's definitely not.

Behind the glass is a sort of tiered candy plate that folds up when not in use, and some books that I could probably part with.

To the right is a little sculpture some one gave me as a gift of the fountain from Bosch's Garden of Earthly Delights and the card that went with it. I like it. I'm not much for kitsch or display, actually. Even as a child I didn't really appreciate toys.

There's a ribbon laying across the shelf with a Texas charm on it. If I had to guess I'd say that's my mother's. She's much more of a hoarder than me. I typically keep only things I use and things that are simply waiting with me while I live-- mausoleum garbage.

Also in the photograph I can see a little ceramic bowl I bought at a craft fair because I'm very fond of ceramics. The bowl can not be used for food because the glaze is leaded, but I used to keep a bit of water in it to display a glass egg that had a beautiful translucent shade when wet. Since I have cats now, I can't do that.

After writing all of this, I have almost finished the absinthe in that glass. I'm amazed by how buried I am in hateful little objects!

It would be nice to start clean; but that would also represent such a loss. I love some of our old things, the family portraits and stupid junk. Still, things left in a room like this one, they take a deathly air don't they?

I'm Back!

2011-09-24T21:21:00.000-05:00

I basically have nothing to say. In my absence from this blog, I turned 30. So, here are some pictures from my phone.

This particularly awesome cake was made by Spiral Diner. It's vegan. That's pretty funny considering I'm not even a vegetarian. But if my vegetarian friend's moral stance is correct when he says that it matters when you order a vegan salad while your friend orders steak, then this act of veganism was, like, my single moral action that evening.

Also, I highly recommend the "chupitos" at La Duni.

Depression Cake Part Two

2011-06-04T20:17:00.000-05:00

I liked that recipe so much I decided to change it. I think this really turned out nicely, it has a rich fruitcake taste and the addition of wine makes it suitable for all types of depression, no?

1/2 cup caramelized peel, cut small

1/2 cup raisins

1 cup pitted dates

1 cup brown sugar packed

1 cup water

1/2 cup red wine

1/3 cup shortening

2 tsp ground cinnamon

1/2 tsp ground cloves

1/2 tsp ground nutmeg

3 tbs white poppy seeds

1/3 cup walnut halves

1/2 tsp salt

2 cups sifted flour

4 tsp Baking Powder

1 tbs Vanilla

Caramelized Peel:

1 cup water

1/3 cup wine

peel of one very large orange and 1/2 very large lemon

Boil peel in the water until it is reduced and they have softened. Then add a cup of sugar. Get distracted when you realize that water decals can be printed on your computer which means that you can design your own nail art and print it out. The sugar should just start to... uh... caramelize. Pour out the browning sugar water through a strainer, you should have some near crispy sugary peel. It really tastes good this way, but there's a fine line between deliciously browned and burned to a crisp.

Put the peel back in the pan.

Pit the dates and slice them up, pressing them into a cup measure to get one cup. Put the brown sugar, dates, raisins, walnuts, shortening, seeds, spices, and salt into the pan and add the wine and water to it.

Boil for three minutes at a rolling boil. Cool.

Sift the flour and baking powder into a bowl and add the fruit mix to it.

Stir it up and pour it into a loaf pan.

Bake for one hour at around 350 degrees.

This really turned out good though I was certain I'd blown it a few times (damned add).

Now I can't wait till that decal paper comes in though/

Eggless, Milkless, Butterless Cake

2011-05-28T18:12:00.003-05:00

Gotta love a cake that knows what it isn't. I found this recipe in an old Rumford Complete Cookbook from the 40s. Apparently the recipe is WWI or depression era. I was intrigued by the raisins and spice in this recipe because I like fruit cakes in general. I'll try to get a picture up later. The recipe is as follows:

1 cup brown sugar packed
1 1/2 cups water

1 1/2 (12 oz) raisins
1/2 cup candied peel, cut small
1/3 cup shortening (I used palm oil vegetable shortening because it has no trans fats)
1 tsp ground cinnamon (I probably used 2 tsp really)
1/4 tsp ground cloves (1/2 tsp at least for me)
1/4 tsp ground nutmeg (see above)
(I added about 1/4 cup white poppy seeds)
1/2 tsp salt
2 cups sifted flour
4 tsp Rumford Baking Powder (confession: I used Clabber Girl)
1/2 tsp vanilla (1 tsp for me, thanks)

Preheat the oven to around 400 (you'll turn it down to bake though)

I didn't have candied peel, so I made some. Just cut the peel off of two lemons and chop it up. Then boil it in about 1 1/2 cups of water until the peel softens nicely. Then add about a cup of sugar and boil it until it's sticky and soft, and not too hard to chew. I didn't want to waste the lemon taste so I actually used the water left from this as the water in the recipe, adding about a half cup to replace what had boiled away (I actually poured it off into a measuring cup to see how much was there and then made up the difference to get the desired amount). I think this worked nicely.

Put the peel and water back into the pot they were boiling in and add the raisins, brown sugar, shortening, spices and salt. Boil this together for three minutes. Cool.

Reduce the heat in the oven down to 325. Grease a loaf pan (I used a glass 9 inch loaf)

Sift the flour and baking powder into a bowl and pour the cooled fruit mixture into it, or if you used a big enough pot you can sift the flour mixture into the fruit. I don't think it really matters. Stir it up very well.

Pour the cake mixture into the loaf pan just after it has all mixed together and bake it for one hour.

This cake is really pretty good, very moist and rich with a slightly crunchy top crust. It's also vegan!

Such Thoughts

2011-05-23T08:40:00.001-05:00

This is a new song. I wrote it on my lunch break and recorded it before I went to bed because I was afraid to let it go.

Well he came in the color of concrete and trash

but he paid by the drink with his eyes on the glass

the bar tender asked him said what will it be

he said I don’t think it matters any poison suits me

I’m thinking such thoughts what’ll bust up my head

thinking such thoughts what’ll bust up my head

Don’t waste your pity, it runs through like a sieve

my friends are the kings of the dreams they now live

but every foundation I’ve laid for my own

gives way and brings them to rubble and stone

I’m thinking such thoughts what’ll bust up my head

thinking such thoughts what’ll bust up my head

Well the bartender said don’t you know what you love

you find and pursue that and that is enough

Said the old man if I had a clue what that was

do you think I’d be sitting here drinking this stuff

thinking such thoughts what’ll bust up my head

Came a man who sat by him said that sure is tough

but you’re doing no good for any of us

some people are worthy and some people are not

and if you aren't the former you’re better off shot

thinking such thoughts what’ll bust up your head

Nightmare Analysis

2011-05-21T17:09:00.003-05:00

You have been warned. I haven’t been able to get this dream out of my mind, and so I’m going to post it here along with the feelings I think It represents in me. People who hate dreams—this is about dreams.

The Dream:

I went to visit my father at a house that felt like home. This house was not one I have actually lived in, and my father was actually absent in the dream. I simply was aware that I was visiting my “father” at “home.” We had come into possession of a litter of kittens, perhaps eight or so small and slightly fluffy kittens with white, tortoise-shell, and tabby coats. I planned to take two kittens when I returned from my father’s house, but did not know which kittens yet. I had a fondness for one tortoise-shell kitten though. I also planned to help my father find homes for the others, and to pay for them to be altered. While I was staying there I came home earlier than expected. I kept hearing strange cries. I went outside and realized it was some kind of muffled and distorted sound. It was then that I noticed a plastic wrapped box in the pond in our back yard. I had a sick feeling, a sort of horror, and on instinct I jumped into the pond. This pond, as things in dreams are want to do, was quickly becoming a lake. I had to dive in and swam back to the shore with a shoe box wrapped up in a plastic bag with rocks in it. The kittens were crying so loudly. I ran inside with them and managed to save them, but I could swear I could still hear crying. Then it occurred to me that I couldn’t find the tortoise-shell kitten. I ran back outside but it was quiet. I went back into the water, only to find another shoe box. In this box, there were only drowned kittens. I pulled them out and lined them up on the shore, my mind still convinced I could save them. I looked at their drowned wet bodies until I thought I would die as well. In the box, someone had left a wad of cash. I went inside and woke up.

The Analysis:

This isn’t a terrible metaphor for my life really. Things happen, and some things that happen are purely cruel. In saving what you can, you may only be saving what you happen to save. Sometimes the world drowns your kittens. What you love may die, and nothing will bring it back. But someone will probably pay you for this. And you do have some kittens left, after all. Besides, if you had known there were two boxes you’d have tried to save them all. Could you have done that? Perhaps you would have drowned also. And... you did take the money.

Still, I’m mourning my fucking kittens.

Blenheim

2011-05-10T06:34:00.000-05:00

Pigeon

2011-05-09T22:15:00.000-05:00

While waiting for the bus to Blenheim, I amused myself by taking pictures of this pigeon.

Victoria and Albert - Ascentions

2011-04-23T19:28:00.000-05:00

Victoria and Albert- The Deathly

2011-04-23T19:25:00.000-05:00

Christ

2011-04-22T21:24:00.000-05:00

Tiger

2011-04-22T21:19:00.001-05:00

Three Small Museums

2011-04-18T00:47:00.001-05:00

Not to be derailed, here are photographs from three small museums in Oxford, the Museum of the History of Science, Natural History Museum, and the Bate Collection of Musical Instruments.

Two generations of lighting in a the fabulous stairway of the Science Museum

Beautifully painted scope

I'm told they actually play these from time to time. Click to enlarge the pics, btw

Globes

Childsplay: I think that might be Walton and Algernon there.

Christopher Wren's Crest

The area surrounding the Museum of the History of Science is very beautiful. I snapped a picture of this young man walking in front of the Sheldonian, which is also where we sat to eat our cupcakes on the day of the Chocolate Fair (a.k.a. Cupcake Day).

If I get back to Oxford I'd like to see both the Ashmolean and the Natural History Museums again.

The building of the Natural History Museum alone is worth visiting

But there's also this guy

How appropriate

I could looks at rocks all day

Tucked into a side room in the Music Faculty building, the Bate Collection of Musical Instruments is actually an amazing chance to get about as close as you will ever be allowed to in a museum to some beautiful 17th century instruments.

I guess you can tell I have a bias towards keyboard insturments

And now I will recall a very old joke which was posted on a plaque explaining the origin of one of the instruments:

According to George Abbot, Archbishop of Canterbury at the time, 'The man hath more music than honesty and is as famous for marring of virginity as he is for fingering of organs and virginals.'

We interrupt this travelogue to vent about vapid news stories

2011-04-17T23:59:00.002-05:00

I try very hard to ignore the "news" that pops up when I log in to check my various non-work email accounts. Usually, this is not news that conveys any insight into world events, nuanced analysis of financial information, or really anything that deserves the attention the invariably flashy image begs the eye to linger on.

Every once in a while I see something that is so bad I know I'll have to read it. Typically this will happen any time the word "women" appears in the title. A particularly evil offender in this category is the "what women want" or "what women are saying" article. Because really, all guys want women and all women are the same. If you just get the magic cunt-key it won't be all tricky and confusing like you're having to deal with some kind of person with their own logical constructs and emotional triggers.

And now I will whine about having read just such an article, though I knew better than to open it.

For Guys: A guide to girl talk

The title is already off to a terrible start, implying that women must not be taken at face value. Oh no, that high pitched yammering noise that women make is actually a secret code. The last thing you should do is listen to a woman and respond to what she says directly! Oh heaven forbid.

If you’ve ever spoken to a woman, it’s fair to say you’ve been confused by one.

Fuck nuts, this doesn't even bury the punches. I wonder what the lady at the checkout line in the liquor store *really* meant when she said "That will be 45.23" and took my debit card.

Yes doesn’t always mean yes, no doesn’t always mean no, and most of us have once in our lives even admitted, “Well, I may have said that, but I didn’t mean it.” What’s with all the mixed messages?

No doesn't always mean no? Now where have I heard that before? Everyone contradicts themselves some times or experiences conflict. The idea that this is some kind of fault in women specifically though has nothing to do with that common human ability. As a general rule though, just take no as no. If some one wasn't sure enough to say yes it's the better mistake to make for all involved.

“Women communicate by giving subtle suggestions instead of being literal, so we can check for positive reinforcement before we continue. We want to be careful about the impact we have on the other person,” explains Sharyn Wolf, CSW, a psychotherapist in New York City. But while figuring out what women really want can be difficult, it’s not impossible. So follow this guide to “girl-speak.” These are some of the things you might hear a woman say as you meet, date and woo her — and the code for reading between the lines.

Women are forced into this because they walk a narrow line which is enforced by such things as death, poverty, loss of status, physical and emotional torture. If you want a person who has to live balancing that much bullshit to be honest with you then you will have to work hard to gain their trust. You will not do this by telling them they can trust you. You will do this by encouraging their honesty with positive reactions, and being the sort of person they can be honest with for as long as it takes them to become honest with you. Then you must maintain that level of trust after that point. Sound like a lot of work? Yep. People are a lot of work.

What she says: “You’re really sweet, but I have a boyfriend.”
What she means: “You’re really sweet, but I definitely don’t want to date you.”
Why she says it: It’s a classic weekend night scene, somewhere in public. You see her sitting by herself and figure it’s as good a time as any to make a move. And it’s all going so well — she’s smiling, she’s answering your questions — until she drops the bomb that she has a boyfriend. Now, she may be telling the truth. But more likely this “boyfriend” is merely a ploy to get you to back off fast. “I use that line all the time; it really works without hurting a guy’s feelings too much,” says Claire McKimmie. “It shows immediately that there’s nothing more to say.”

Or she has a boyfriend. Honestly though, one doesn't need to get any further than the "but" here. This is fairly direct. Why not just take it at face value. She's not interested in pursuing a relationship with you, for whatever reason. You don't need a reason because people who don't care to be in a relationship with you don't owe you anything. So fuck off. If your only interest was in getting into something with her and she's not interested then you have no reason to hang around further. If you do have some other reason for continuing to talk to or interact with her then enjoy that.

What she says: “Why don’t I take your number and I’ll call you?”
What she means: “There’s no way I’m giving you my number, so why don’t I take yours?”
Why she says it: Even in this day and age, most women like to be pursued, so if we really like you, we’ll happily hand over our digits and wait for you to call. Pretty much the only time we’ll ask for your number is — sorry — when we want to keep the ball in our court and, well, never see you again. Other not-so-great responses: “Why don’t you email me instead,” “You can get my number through our mutual friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend Marcy” or “I’m listed.” Trust us, if she likes you, she’ll make it easy for you to call.

This woman hates phone calls and therefore is unlikely to either give or take a phone number. Exceptions are made for people she has grown fond of talking to through other means, and for friends who live overseas where visits in person are unlikely. What she probably means is that she doesn't want to be stalked or called obsessively. This woman just doesn't hand her phone number out except on her business card and email is not only the preferred, but the absolute best method of contact.

Otherwise you can call. Just don't expect an answer.

What she says: “Oh, sorry, I already have weekend plans.”
What she means: “I don’t necessarily have weekend plans, but you’re calling so last-minute I’d feel like a loser if I admitted I was free and took you up on your offer.”
Why she says it: As much as we all say that The Rules is an outdated tome that brews trouble between the genders, there are still some things we can’t let go of. And one of them is that we don’t want to accept plans with you last-minute, because we don’t want you to think we’re that easy to catch. “If a guy waits until Friday to ask me out on Saturday, I’ll probably say no,” says Claire Arnaud. “He has to work for it. And if he doesn’t have the patience to call back next week, too bad, that’s his loss.”

No, if I don't have anything to do lined up then doing nothing *is* my plan for the weekend and you weren't invited because you didn't give enough notice. Sorry you thought of me too late. Now go fuck off and find some one who is desperate to be around you. Conversely, if hanging out with you at the last minute seemed like a fun thing to do that night don't think I was sitting around waiting for you. I have been treated really badly by guys who think because you are flexible with Friday nights that you're just not a *real* woman. I mean not the good kind.

Fuck all of that.

So if I say I'm busy, I'm fucking busy. You know, you could ask what's going on and maybe I'd invite you along with what I'm doing? In fact, I might just call you and see if you want to do something! Now there's a mind fuck for the article writer and her (yes, of course it's a her) audience.

What she says: “This feels good, but we really shouldn’t.”
What she means: “I want you, bad, but don’t want to get burned.”
Why she says it: The night is winding down, and it’s time to decide whether she should hold ‘em, fold ‘em, or soldier on into the morning light with you. So if your date isn’t telling you a flat-out “No,” “I don’t want to,” or “I don’t like you that way,” chances are she really does like you — and want you — that way. She’d just rather wait a few weeks or months until she knows you’re not a love-’em-and-leave-’em type. “It’s possible she’s been in the position before of becoming intimate with a man and wanting to hear from him and then not hearing from him — and she doesn’t want to make that mistake again,” says Wolf. So if you’re a guy who really does want the relationship to go further (be honest now), it’s worth telling her so to see if she’ll change her mind.

Why she says it: She's married, you're 14, she has HIV. Remember that whole meaning of "no" thing? I like the bit at the end "it's worth telling her so to see if she'll change her mind." Best to get the manipulation started early. Look, some times things that feel good are things you know are terrible decisions. Personally, every single fucking time I've had that "I want to but shouldn't" feeling and gone on and done the thing... it was wrong. So what she's saying here is STOP.

What she says: “So, what have you been up to?”
What she means: “Why haven’t you called me? Are you seeing someone else?”
Why she says it: If we haven’t talked to you in a few weeks and then you suddenly start calling again, all we want to know is, What the heck took you so long? But because we want you to think we’re laid-back “Hey, whatever” women, all we dare squeeze out is a general inquiry. “I don’t want him to know I care,” says Emilie Giroud Capet. Our biggest fear? That you’ve been calling other women instead of us. Whether that’s the case or not, you’re best off filling in your missing weeks with very unromantic things. “I’m hoping he’ll tell me he’s been working really hard,” says Emilie, “or better, that he’s been really sick.”

Or she's just trying to start a conversation with one of the most ambiguous and general statements a person can make.

What makes me laugh is that due to all this bullshit, what I consider a basic default level of interest in another human being has some times been interpreted as unabashed affection. It isn't. I ask most people what they've been up to when I haven't seen them in a while. Though not seeing some one you fuck regularly in a long enough time with no contact *could* mean more.

In that case the way I'd tend to phrase it would be "What do you want?" though.

What she says: “So, tell me about Diane.”
What she means: “Should I be threatened by Diane?”
Why she says it: When a man brings up another female’s name in the midst of a story, a woman’s internal panic button is pressed — she fears that you’re talking about her because you’re secretly attracted to her. So until you make it clear you wouldn’t touch Diane with a ten-foot pole, our insecurities will lead us to assume she’s a wasp-waisted blonde who laughs at your jokes — and you’d love to be her boyfriend. So if Diane is attractive and available, please don’t say, “She’s really cool.” Instead, try, “Diane’s just someone I work with. Wow, she can be annoying sometimes. Some guys at the office are drawn to her but I don’t get it; she’s not all that.”

If she should be threatened by Diane then she should be threatened by Diane. Go on and tell her whatever Diane signifies. If she shouldn't be threatened by Diane but is, well then you have another decision to make and so does she. Same goes if she should be threatened by Diane. Why lie?

"So tell me about Diane"
"Oh, I don't know. She's this really cute intern. I guess I have a crush on her but she's way too young to be interested. She likes Herzog films almost as much as I do though. We have a lot in common, which is rare at the office so I've been kind of showing her the ropes, you know?"

Why the fuck not? What do you have to lose? Especially if you have a shot with Diane? Least your current partner gets some chance to grapple with reality this way.

What she says: “I love the way you smell.”
What she means: “I love you, but I don’t dare tell you I love you before you tell me you love me.”
Why she says it: “I just told the guy I’ve been dating for three weeks that I loved the way he smelled,” says Lili De Monseignat, “but it’s more him that I love than his smell.” Then why hold back? Because women know that telling a guy we love him before he tells us could be too much for him to handle. “It’s too soon to tell him I love him, because he’ll freak out and run away!” says Lili. But if you want to be loved, perk your ears up for the word itself. “I love your dog,” “I love your apartment,” “I love the way you dress,” and “I love that you love Indian food” are all signs that something big is bubbling underneath that little heart of hers. In other words, gentlemen, please be gentle.

Sex. They dropped the ball in a big way on this one. She means you fucking smell good. If you're wearing a nice cologne or she likes your shampoo that may be a factor, but in general she means she'd fuck you. Love?

Well yeah, love is something that often manifests in appreciating the unique things that make that person who they are. Personally though I find specifics much more pleasing than general statements.

Why read so much into things?

"I love you" is shorthand for a lot of things.

But "I love your collection of 19th century erotic lithography" means something much much better!

Tattoos are for 'Lesser People'

2011-04-17T08:05:00.001-05:00

I've never been a fan of the taste of Starbucks brand coffee. I don't quite understand the overwhelming popularity but I suppose it appeals to enough people because it's very loved, even in England. Not to be outdone at anything though, the English have their own chain of corporate coffee. They invented incorporation, after all. Well, as much as the Greeks invented civilization at least.

David and I did a taste comparison. He ordered black coffee and I ordered the only coffee drink I like besides a double espresso: Soy Latte with 2 honeys.

I have to say, especially where the black coffee Americano is concerned, that Costa is better. I noticed that English coffee tends to have a much darker and richer taste. I assume the preferred roast is slightly different there. This American prefers tea and always has. I'd take green tea with barley over anything, but that's another matter.

Incidentally, I got a taste of more than just the coffee in England that day. That evening I had changed into my tall boots because the thin soles of my ballet flats failed me. We went to The Kings Arms, which in general I like a lot. They make a great steak pie. As we were leaving though my eyes caught a young man looking at me. His hair was red and his cheeks were rosy, or perhaps he was a little drunk, and he looked at me with a frozen and tortured gaze. Pure horror and disgust. I realized he was looking at my legs. I had forgotten about those tights, and I suppose from across the bar the tiger peeking upwards at my inner thigh was quite convincing as a real tattoo. I've never had some one stare at me with utter disgust quite like that. Not sincere shock and and terror like that. I found myself staring at his face just as he found himself staring at my legs. I'm not sure he even ever saw my face, but I smiled at him.

In the morning, wearing that outfit with the tights pictured, we had been stopped by a homeless man asking for change who balked at my tights as well but with a better sense of humor about it all.

"Look at those bloomin' tights! I thought they was tattoos!"

We gave him some money and had a laugh about it. For what it's worth, when one encounters the unusual it's generally best to greet it without fear.

Two Drink Recipes and more Pictures

2011-04-16T22:39:00.002-05:00

What could be more appropriate for one who rails against the division of sacred and profane than a cocktail bar and restaurant in a former church? FREVD, on Walton street of all places, is one part Greek Revival Church, one part cocktail bar, and one part art gallery. Amazingly, it works. Everything here feels significant.

FREVD - A significant dog.

FREVD

The Eagle and Child was apparently frequented by literary greats such as Lewis and Tolkien. I sat in a corner, as I'm the sort of person who feels most comfortable wedged between wood panels, and we talked of Catholics and the monarchy. How appropriate.

They also had Makers Mark.

Eagle and Child

Eagle and Child- That's Makers Mark in that glass

And a more classic cocktail bar for contrast. One can have almost too much fun with all that mirrored tile.

Brown's

Drinks made with the stuff I bought in the Duty Free shop while waiting for my plane.

Recipe One: Blossom

2 oz Elderflower Cordial

4oz Club Soda

1 oz Orange Juice

1 Tbsp Fresh Lemon Juice

over ice

Recipe Two: Bison Piss

2 oz Zubrowka

1 Tbsp Fresh Lemon Juice

Dash Vanilla Extract

2 - 3 tsp Agave Nectar

Ice. Fill up the rest of a short glass with club soda.

Now that's a fucking lobster!

2011-04-15T14:33:00.008-05:00

George Gross

Illustraeur via Boing Boing

Click image or text to link

Visiting Mr. Neale

2011-04-15T07:06:00.000-05:00

This, by the way, is where Mr. Neale lives. He confessed to me that he has never walked on the little path by the river here. If you see him in person, please smack him on the head.

The Staircase

Women Rowing

A Goose

I love these flowers, what are they called?

Hertford College and Simpkins of Catte

2011-04-15T06:56:00.001-05:00

Being at the university with someone who actually goes there does have a few small perks and one of them was getting this lovely view of Catte Street from the other side of Hertford’s ‘Bridge of Sighs’.

The window

Young women walking beneath the bridge

A sentimental watercolor of the bridge

We actually went into the little music practice room in the basement where I got a chance to play my new song in person, a small collection of folk songs I remember how to sing, and to prove to David that I really *can* play Wuthering Heights.

David in front of Hertford's door

It's really the sweetest of the doors I think, with those little flowers on it.

The highlight though had to be Simpkins. I’ve heard Magdalene College has a deer park. I’m sure that’s very nice. It couldn’t possible compare to this cat though. Look at him. He is fucking awesome.

Simpkins Cat of Catte St.

I agree with him about the Tamron lens.

David and Simpkins

Look! There’s a lobster!

2011-04-13T08:07:00.000-05:00

Not a Lobster.

Micro-sleep: while conversing with someone you shut your eyes for a second and suddenly find yourself standing in London continuing the conversation as you walk along the Thames. You look up and near the wall that rises along the riverside, you see a large rock. On the rock is a lobster. The lobster, black and red with long shining whiskers, happens to be without pincers. It’s remarkable. Your friends are carrying on about something banal and they’re missing the opportunity to see this fabulous and unlikely creature. You raise your finger and like an excited child cry “Look! There’s a lobster!” Your jubilant cry still rings in the corner of the room as you focus your eyes on the lobster, which is now harder to see because the wall of your hotel room is in the way. Finger still pointed firmly at the wall, you turn your head to meet a pair of startled human eyes and ask them “Did I just say ‘Look! There’s a lobster!’ out loud?”

You did.

Of course you did.

The embarrassment is tempered by sadness. Your beautiful lobster is fading even from your own memory, and no one else ever got to see him.

London part two: Chronological Disorder

2011-04-13T08:04:00.002-05:00

The second time we went to London we went in order to meet the dreaded Lemurian, a denizen of the web and the world. As a still-living member of Imperialism’s lost generation, the Lemurian became an unrepentant hippie and traveled the world, a gentler version of his ancestors, opposed to violence and waste.

He suggested a boat ride down the river. We walked across the shore on the way to the boat station. over pretty bits of shell, brick, and glass brought in by the water. If you’re ever there and the sea of tourists is making you ill, so long as the water is low enough to allow it I highly recommend this way of walking. Almost no one seems to want to walk along the river itself. They’re content to stand along a gate and stare at you.

The boat ride.

Afterwards we walked up to the observatory only to decide to get some food from the café. Hungry and thirsty, we sat for a long time talking.

We did make it into a museum though, and saw an exhibit of toy boats and of large ships from times long passed.

I even snapped these pictures of the Lemurian.

And from the exhibits.

Oxford

2011-04-10T03:39:00.001-05:00

Old Parsonage Front Door. My home for the week.

I'm getting a late start here. I'm more than a little sad that I'll start trying to post my pictures from Oxford and London only now that the trip is almost over. Almost every day I have had something or another I wanted to blog about.

Once at the airport I realized I didn't know what terminal I needed to be at, and had to ride the terminal shuttle two separate times because apparently airports are very complicated suddenly. Once at Heathrow I was greeted by the amazingly kind Mr. Neale, who did indeed bring flowers. In fact, my beautiful vacation is nearly over and those flowers are still fresh and colorful.

Dorkiest Self Portrait Ever. Flowers for Algernon.

I'm lucky he was willing to meet me. The English bus system is surprisingly complicated and confusing. I probably would have wasted the day looking for the terminal.

I checked into my hotel, The Old Parsonage, early glad to find that they had my room already so that we could go on for some late lunch. The hotel put me up in what I noticed on the fire escape map was the smallest room there, with a lovely view overlooking their car park. Actually though I have nothing bad to say about it at all. The room was absolutely comfortable and The Old Parsonage has been the most thoroughly accommodating hotel I've ever stayed in. Completely top notch, lots of complimentary treats such as bottles of still water from Blenheim Palace and unasked for touches. While we went to dinner the maids noticed my flowers lying on the table and fixed them up in a vase, for instance.

The 17th century architecture creates an incredibly historic feeling that really can't be replicated. Mind the fourth step on the way up the main staircase though, it wobbles in a sincerely historic way. Across from the hotel is the church of St. Giles, and folklore suggests that the ghost of a nun haunts the cellar. I didn't notice anything though, but if the ghost was the one who kept refilling my pantry with little tea biscuits I won't complain about her.

St. Giles and the moon.

I'll take a moment to say something about the food in Oxford. It's fabulous. I'm not sure why a reputation for terrible food in England is so pervasive. The hotel restaurant is moderately priced and full of nice touches. For instance, thirteen pounds got this spread delivered at my door at 7 am. How can I complain?

Speaking of that, it's time for dinner.

I hope to make a better recording and video of this song soon

2011-03-31T10:29:00.001-05:00

So this is me playing through a new song inspired by a gentlemanly internet troll who went by a myriad of names. He is some times referred to as The Hoax, and isn't always trolling. In my opinion, he's one of the most interesting and entertaining people I've ever disagreed with on the internet (and it's not just the received pronunciation). I'm prone to slip down the rabbit hole on a few issues and from one such conversation on the aptly named Cabbages and Kings I emerged with an obsessive desire to finish this song.

So here it is. Raw, unedited, and needing a little more practice I don't know if the thing I wish to share is sharable but that's no reason to try I suppose.

Through me the way to the suffering city?

Lyrics after the break.

Along the borderline, sure as the water's rise, your breath tastes the sea. Do you not taste your life?

Foolish and civilized, this salient self resolves a solvency in dissolution, and in salvation drowns.

μηδέν άγαν

The circles of your eyes, never constrained your sight. No, you see. Love and Freedom are circumscribed.

γνῶθι σεαυτόν

Ἑγγύα πάρα δ'ἄτη

With liberty your dreams separate you from me. Or do you think I can come in? Where is within?

Pesto Bread

2011-03-27T23:14:00.000-05:00

I got this idea this morning when I was intending to make pancakes.

2 Cups Sourdough Starter

Early in the morning I fed the starter and then took out about two cups after it had gotten quite bubbly. My starter is really active and I think the humid warmth of this climate must encourage growth. I probably should have done this the night before but I wasn't planning on making a loaf of bread this morning until I saw the pesto in the fridge.

1 1/2 - 2 cups water
2 heaping tbsp Pesto Sauce (Basil, oil, garlic, spices)
1 tsp Thyme
6-7 cups Bread Flour
1/2 cup Wheat Germ
3 tbsp Olive Oil
1 tsp sel gris
1 tsp fleur de sel

Threw it all together. It was a bit dry. I used more like 7 cups of flour and so added a bit of water by the handful until it came together neatly.

Kneaded this fairly well, until I could see the herbs had worked through the dough. Springy and soft dough, with a fleshy texture.

Set for 30 or so minutes and then kneaded and slapped for another minute before being left to rise.

It doubled in about 4 hours. Nice soft dough, kind of marshmallow like. I slapped it down hard and rolled it into a loaf.

Covered with a sheet of cellophane it rose to a nice size in another four or five hours.

During this time I became absolutely fascinated with the pattern on the lighted hood of my ancient stovetop.

Just.

Look.

At.

It.

And in the meantime the bread rose decently.

Pre-heated the oven to around 425 and baked the bread for 25 minutes. I was going to give it an extra five but it looked good.

Baby Gaga (something I won't regret missing the chance to eat in London)

2011-03-14T00:00:00.000-05:00

Amazingly enough the buzz surrounding Baby Gaga, the breast milk ice cream being sold in Covent Garden at premium prices, hasn’t died down. I finally found myself thinking about it, despite desperately trying not to. The initiators of the product frame it as a consciousness raising product, something to confront people with the stigma that plagues breast milk. Matt O’Connor, the person behind the Baby Gaga concept was quoted as saying "If it's good enough for our children, it's good enough for the rest of us." But what does “us” mean here? There’s something ugly behind the seemingly positive attempt to remove the stigma of breastfeeding your children.

Breast milk is a body fluid, like saliva or semen. It is not a waste product, but it has a specific use. When a woman feeds a child breast milk it is highly intimate and it is tied to the actual nourishment of that child. The people in that relationship already share intimacy, and there is a direct dependence which includes the risk involved in that transaction. That intimacy seems lost in the breast milk ice cream concept. There are, of course, people who like to suckle nursing women because they find it sexually stimulating. This too is intimate though. Much like fellatio, there is an understanding of the contact between the bodies-- a recognition of the intimacy of sharing body fluids. There is also risk.

Also, since this product is supposed to be pro-woman insofar as the ice cream is supposed to be challenging a stigma that nursing mothers face, it seems perfectly fair to question what this message might mean in to women.

Commercialization of this product, no matter how well compensated the dairy-human is for her work, suggests on some level that all women’s breast milk is “our” milk, that all breast milk is equal and for everyone. Is this so? Is one woman’s breast milk as good as any others for any other woman's child, and by extension are all women’s breasts a source of nourishment for any of us who might be hungry? This is not how breastfeeding works. The closest job to this would be wet-nursing. The wet-nurse though is still tied to the functionality of breast feeding, whereas the women donating breast milk for the Baby Gaga product are completely removed from it. This is, if anything, the negation of the functionality of breast milk. Instead, the product offers a strange curiosity justified with what amounts to little more than a naturalistic fallacy. The use of breast milk as a food product for general consumption enters the arena of the problems encountered in the relationship between reproduction and labor.

The market relationship between women as reproductive labor and their compensation is as symmetrical or asymmetrical as the society that market exists in, and I believe the same holds true for the sale of all or any body fluids. The first question then would be how does this store, Icecreamists, attract labor, regulate it, and ensure the quality of the supply by calculating the balance in that relationship? The cavalier attitude towards the nature of the product despite the fact that it is intimately tied to individual and singular human bodies suggests that there is little introspection being done with regards to this labor. While this may seem beside the point, the connection is in reality completely essential because safety and health will absolutely be compromised if the retailers actually do think that because it is tied to the nourishment of children that all breast milk is protected from the problems encountered in other areas where there is a retail sale of human body products or body space. Furthermore an unrealistic grasp of the complexity of selling human body fluids cannot be defended with ideological or moral arguments for that fluid as a concept in society.

Breast milk is as safe as semen, saliva, mucus, as safe as many body fluids. It is also still tied to labor relationships between mothers and their own children. Some might say that it is degrading to put breast milk into the same category as these other fluids, but that does not seem honest. Breast milk has a different purpose, but it is still a body fluid secreted by glands in specific humans under specific conditions. It isn’t unusual to share these kinds of body fluids to some extent, but it is slightly dangerous and becomes more dangerous with any increase in contact with different individuals. There seems to be a desire to elevate things surrounding pregnancy and motherhood. However, using this aura of naturalistic purity to sell a product that is specifically detached from actual motherhood, detached from infants at all, even detached from the women whose breasts have supplied it seems almost intentionally ironic.

I can't resist!

2011-03-06T00:42:00.016-06:00

I don't read the Huffington Post. However I came across this hilarious drivel through a friend and perhaps for the same reason I some times find myself sliding my tongue across my molars long after it hurts, I just can't resist responding to it as if it were directed at me and not some projected-at straw woman.

You want to get married. It's taken a while to admit it. Saying it out loud -- even in your mind -- feels kind of desperate, kind of unfeminist, kind of definitely not you, or at least not any you that you recognize.

No. I got married and I remember why. I remember how I felt and why it seemed important. I also remember that a lot of it had to do with being in a relationship with some one I loved. I married the second person I ever dated, and I was under twenty when I met them. It didn't take long at all.

Because you're hardly like those girls on TLC saying yes to the dress and you would never compete for a man like those poor actress-wannabes on The Bachelor.
You've never dreamt of an aqua-blue ring box.

Of course not. I was poor. Dirt poor. Picked my dress up from a used clothing store and bought my ring used too. I was a teen who had found some one who loved her. It was, actually, a very pretty dress although I had been looking for one I could wear again. Eh, but I don't mind. I couldn't fit into it right now anyway. I was a size 0 then and these days I'm a 6. I don't regret having bought a romantic wedding dress. I don't regret getting married either. I married some one because I loved them. I'm happy about that.

Then, something happened. Another birthday, maybe. A breakup. Your brother's wedding. His wife-elect asked you to be a bridesmaid, and suddenly there you were, wondering how in hell you came to be 36-years-old, walking down the aisle wearing something halfway decent from J. Crew that you could totally repurpose with a cute pair of boots and a jean jacket. You started to hate the bride -- she was so effing happy -- and for the first time ever you began to have feelings about the fact that you're not married. You never really cared that much before. But suddenly (it was so sudden) you found yourself wondering... Deep, deep breath... Why you're not married.

I'm not 36 yet. I'm not even 30 yet. I was the first of my friends to be married. I don't shop at J. Crew either.

Well, I know why.

How? It basically comes down to this: I've been married three times. Yes, three. To a very nice MBA at 19; a very nice minister's son at 32 (and pregnant); and at 40, to a very nice liar and cheater who was just like my dad, if my dad had gone to Harvard instead of doing multiple stints in federal prison.
I was, for some reason, born knowing how to get married. Growing up in foster care is a big part of it. The need for security made me look for very specific traits in the men I dated -- traits it turns out lead to marriage a surprisingly high percentage of the time. Without really trying to, I've become a sort of jailhouse lawyer of relationships -- someone who's had to do so much work on her own case that I can now help you with yours.

Actually I think you found the answer for yourself. However your issues with projecting your own psychological problems onto other people will probably need to be addressed before you have any hope of having a good relationship. It would suck to be married to some one who thinks they know all about you because of their own problems (which likely have nothing in common with yours). I don't doubt that if this nasty habit isn't addressed, relationships will continue to be a problem. Good luck.

But I won't lie. The problem is not men, it's you. Sure, there are lame men out there, but they're not really standing in your way. Because the fact is -- if whatever you're doing right now was going to get you married, you'd already have a ring on it. So without further ado, let's look at the top six reasons why you're not married.

Uh oh. Something tells me were going into territory that would best be left between you and your therapist.

1. You're a Bitch.Here's what I mean by bitch. I mean you're angry. You probably don't think you're angry. You think you're super smart, or if you've been to a lot of therapy, that you're setting boundaries. But the truth is you're pissed. At your mom. At the military-industrial complex. At Sarah Palin. And it's scaring men off.

You don't know what pissed means. Yeah, I was pissed. I had good reason to be pissed. I was so pissed I had to split off from my own identity because being that pissed will kill you. I'd black out and realize I had done something actually scary, like knock a carport down with my bare hands, or punch a hole in a door. I was so angry it was killing me, and I was way too crazy to care if it was scaring men off. I wanted to die, after all I had only not-died by accident and I'm pretty sure I got stuck in that stage where you make yourself ok with it for a while. It didn't scare men off though. They seem to think it's cute some how. It's almost like a hipster status symbol. The shell-shocked denizen of hell is quite attractive to certain people. Two types actually: other denizens of hell (some of these people may actually be the devil) and other hungry ghosts who hope that by helping you they can help themselves. Sometimes it's true. It was in my case, at least. But I was feral.

The deal is: most men just want to marry someone who is nice to them. I am the mother of a 13-year-old boy, which is like living with the single-cell protozoa version of a husband. Here's what my son wants out of life: macaroni and cheese, a video game, and Kim Kardashian. Have you ever seen Kim Kardashian angry? I didn't think so. You've seen Kim Kardashian smile, wiggle, and make a sex tape. Female anger terrifies men. I know it seems unfair that you have to work around a man's fear and insecurity in order to get married -- but actually, it's perfect, since working around a man's fear and insecurity is big part of what you'll be doing as a wife.

I feel bad for you now. You're trapped in a role you won't be able to sustain, placating some one in order to hold onto your fragile dreams and needs. You're "doing it again" actually. I bet you can't sustain it, sooner or later you'll turn out to be human. You won't be forgiven for your lies, even though you were only trying to placate him. After all, he doesn't love you, he loves the fact that he found some one who is always nice to him. It must be wonderful having a machine like that at your service. Also, the fact that you are attempting to placate your 13 year old son's sexuality in your relationship with adult men is rather scary. Reverse the sexes on that and imagine you are a near-forty year old man talking about fulfilling women by being the kind of man your 13 year old daughter would want. It's creepy.

Besides, who raised that boy? If it was you then you probably have had a hand in shaping him and how he sees women. Do you think you're a good role model for him? What have you taught him about what to expect from women? You're responsible for teaching him these things, not for trying to use him to figure out what makes men tick so you can get something out of them. For all you know he may only be meeting your own expectations of him.

2. You're Shallow.When it comes to choosing a husband, only one thing really, truly matters: character. So it stands to reason that a man's character should be at the top of the list of things you are looking for, right? But if you're not married, I already know it isn't. Because if you were looking for a man of character,you would have found one by now. Men of character are, by definition, willing to commit.

Or you were in abusive relationships with men from birth and you wouldn't know "character" if it punched you in the face because, well, some times it does.

Instead, you are looking for someone tall. Or rich. Or someone who knows what an Eames chair is. Unfortunately, this is not the thinking of a wife. This is the thinking of a teenaged girl. And men of character do not want to marry teenaged girls. Because teenage girls are never happy. And they never feel like cooking, either.

Or some one who doesn't punch you in the face. By the way, as a teen I did most of the cooking for my entire family.

3. You're a Slut.Hooking up with some guy in a hot tub on a rooftop is fine for the ladies of Jersey Shore -- but they're not trying to get married. You are. Which means, unfortunately, that if you're having sex outside committed relationships, you will have to stop. Why? Because past a certain age, casual sex is like recreational heroin -- it doesn't stay recreational for long.

I never had casual sex. It disturbs me. But you'd probably consider me a slut anyway.

That's due in part to this thing called oxytocin -- a bonding hormone that is released when a woman a) nurses her baby and b) has an orgasm -- that will totally mess up your casual-sex game. It's why you can be f**k-buddying with some dude who isn't even all that great and the next thing you know, you're totally strung out on him. And you have no idea how it happened. Oxytocin, that's how it happened. And since nature can't discriminate between marriage material and Charlie Sheen, you're going to have to start being way more selective than you are right now.

That's cute. You don't think men release oxytocin. You're not off the hook. You just described your own clingy and obsessive desire to validate your sexual exploits by making them something they are not.

4. You're a Liar.It usually goes something like this: you meet a guy who is cute and likes you, but he's not really available for a relationship. He has some condition that absolutely precludes his availability, like he's married, or he gets around town on a skateboard. Or maybe he just comes right out and says something cryptic and open to interpretation like, "I'm not really available for a relationship right now."

You know if you tell him the truth -- that you're ready for marriage -- he will stop calling. Usually that day. And you don't want that. So you just tell him how perfect this is because you only want to have sex for fun! You love having fun sex! And you don't want to get in a relationship at all! You swear!

I can't relate to this. It's kind of disgusting to me actually. I would be repulsed by the fact that he wants to have a sexual fling with me. Once repulsed I think that sex with such a person would simply be an act of self harm-- similar to cutting. I have been self-destructive, but I think it's important to recognize that one is actively being self destructive as soon as possible.

About ten minutes later, the oxytocin kicks in. You start wanting more. But you don't tell him that. That's your secret -- just between you and 22,000 of your closest girlfriends. Instead, you hang around, having sex with him, waiting for him to figure out that he can't live without you. I have news: he will never "figure" this out. He already knows he can live without you just fine. And so do you. Or you wouldn't be lying to him in the first place.

This article really shouldn't be written in the second person. I feel like I know the author too well, and she's not some one I'd want to be around.

5. You're Selfish.If you're not married, chances are you think a lot about you. You think about your thighs, your outfits, your naso-labial folds. You think about your career, or if you don't have one, you think about doing yoga teacher training. Sometimes you think about how marrying a wealthy guy -- or at least a guy with a really, really good job -- would solve all your problems.

Oh yeah, actually. I am pretty self-involved in a way. I'm very cerebral. I do think about my body and clothes a lot, as well as my work, my music, things I want to eat, friends of mine, art I enjoy. In fact, I think about these things so much more than I ever think about relationships. I don't want to marry a wealthy guy though, I don't like being a slave. I want my *own* money and I want my *own* power. Always have, always will. I got weak once in my life, but we all make mistakes.

Howevs, a good wife, even a halfway decent one, does not spend most of her day thinking about herself. She has too much s**t to do, especially after having kids. This is why you see a lot of celebrity women getting husbands after they adopt. The kids put the woman on notice: Bitch, hello! It's not all about you anymore! After a year or two of thinking about someone other than herself, suddenly, Brad Pitt or Harrison Ford comes along and decides to significantly other her. Which is also to say -- if what you really want is a baby, go get you one. Your husband will be along shortly. Motherhood has a way of weeding out the lotharios.

The irony of some one who uses "teenage girl" as an insult saying "howevs" is not lost on me. Yes yes, kinder kirche kuche. I know. I wonder if fatherhood means it's not all about him anymore? Oh wait, no. You just said it still is all about him. Probably because you're a shallow, insecure, dishonest person who obsesses over "having" a man to call a husband. This is by your own description. I don't actually share the loathing of you that you've voiced. I don't know you, after all, just like you don't know me. However, you've talked a lot about yourself thus far despite projecting your tortured and contradictory self analysis onto your readers. It's almost like you're just desperate not to be the only one, not to be alone.

6. You're Not Good Enough.Oh, I don't think that. You do. I can tell because you're not looking for a partner who is your equal. No, you want someone better than you are: better looking, better family, better job.
Here is what you need to know: You are enough right this minute. Period. Not understanding this is a major obstacle to getting married, since women who don't know their own worth make terrible wives. Why? You can fake it for a while, but ultimately you won't love your spouse any better than you love yourself. Smart men know this.

I take it you never met a woman who married a jobless shifter who shoots heroin and screws her 10 year old son because that wonderful spouse was the only man who'd ever love her.

I see this at my son's artsy, progressive school. Of 183 kids, maybe six have moms who are as cute as you're trying to be. They're attractive, sure. They're just not objects. Their husbands (wisely) chose them for their character, not their cup size.

Not always. Let's be honest here. The men you were screwing, did they marry their wives because they weren't objects? Were they screwing you because you weren't an object? No, no. You're objects. That is, when you aren't a means to an end.

Alright, so that's the bad news. The good news is that I believe every woman who wants to can find a great partner. You're just going to need to get rid of the idea that marriage will make you happy. It won't. Once the initial high wears off, you'll just be you, except with twice as much laundry.

Well on that we agree. It's pretty much bullshit and it won't make you happy just like having a parent won't make you happy or having a child won't make you happy. It's all just work. That's life. Life is work. Were you expecting something else? Do you think that I am?

Because ultimately, marriage is not about getting something -- it's about giving it. Strangely, men understand this more than we do. Probably because for them marriage involves sacrificing their most treasured possession -- a free-agent penis -- and for us, it's the culmination of a princess fantasy so universal, it built Disneyland.

Oh joy, a sexist dig at men for having sex drives. Who could have imagined? I'd rather my husband sleep around than be tortured by the sort of repressive neurosis that plagues this article. Honestly, who even cares if he sleeps around so long as he's honest about it and uses protection?

and for us, it's the culmination of a princess fantasy so universal, it built Disneyland

I'm hoping this article is actually just very dry satire. Please tell me this is satire.

The bottom line is that marriage is just a long-term opportunity to practice loving someone even when they don't deserve it. Because most of the time, your messy, farting, macaroni-and-cheese eating man will not be doing what you want him to. But as you give him love anyway -- because you have made up your mind to transform yourself into a person who is practicing being kind, deep, virtuous, truthful, giving, and most of all, accepting of your own dear self -- you will find that you will experience the very thing you wanted all along:
Love.

What's wrong with messes, farting, and macaroni-and-cheese? These things are awesome. Don't tell me you don't fart. I know you do, but if you think you don't it means you probably do it while you're sleeping.

This can be very funny for the person who isn't sleeping.

If things like that keep you from loving some one, you must have a lot of problems giving and receiving love. It's pretty unlikely other people appreciate the effort it takes you to forgive them for being human.

I know it's hard for me, a random person to whom you've addressed this because I once separated from my husband for reasons you'll never know or understand, to appreciate the concerted effort it took you to write this smarmy and judgmental doggerel. Good luck finding your buttercup.

Plush Gallery 1-22-11

2011-01-25T19:23:00.001-06:00

I promised I would upload the video from this and here it is. I was really thankful that people made it out to see me and also that people stopped to listen to some of my songs. I had a little extra time so I got to include altruism, which I had felt really bad about knocking out. So for anyone who is interested here's most of the stuff from that night and a little info (which I totally forgot to share while up there). Nerves. But also I don't like to talk too much about what my songs mean to people. It's not that I'm unwilling, it's just that nothing is simple or singular and I'd hate to damage that magical process that happens some times when people look at something and see in it exactly what they needed to see just then. Because really it's not about me anyway.

Sweet Angel:

This is the oldest song I played. Hadn't visited it in a long time and when I did I decided to revise the lyrics some. This one was a request from mom.

Mysteries:

Some one said to me once that more often they don't want to believe what they see on TV.

Cotton Mother:

I was really sad I kind of botched this one. I hadn't played this song in a year or two, but I really wanted to play it again. It's challenging for me.

Patience:

Is it hopeful? I don't know. I hope it's honest though.

Mutiny in Heaven:

I actually like doing covers a lot. It's a hard choice because you don't want to lose respect for your own work, but it's really challenging to figure out arrangements and work in a style you may not think to. Some one said I ought to do a cover of this song and I kind of thought "hmmmm...." Actually I think I really said "hmmmm..." I like the song so much. But I didn't think I was going to be able to do it at all.

Altruism:

A very ironic thing to play at a gallery. This song is one of those that is so full of internal and external references I could use footnotes. But I'm a strong believer in the idea that if the poem/song/novel/film didn't say it then it wasn't said.

Headed Away:

I still had some extra time and used it to totally bomb while trying to play one of my favorite songs of mine to play. So I thought I'd do this one last.

I don't know if I have lyrics for all of these posted anywhere. I guess I could put them after the jump.

Sweet Angel:

The last time I saw you, the only time I got to, from the corner of my eye. You hung in the door frame. Nobody could pass through, the boiling point of time.

They're calling you angel, will you be my savior? Let me be a living reflection of your own peace of mind.

I turn on your record, the only one I turn to when I can't toe the line. I know possession is only an illusion, but it's sweeter than the wine.

Oh sweet angel, stay with me forever, and we'll travel through the hell and the heaven of countless lonely minds.

Mysteries:

Blowing kisses at the man in the moon, sitting by the ocean thinking myself blue. They say if you cry enough the water will rise.

Wait till morning when the warning sun blinks on the horizon and I'm not the only one that hung all of her wishes on a falling star.

I want to believe in mysteries, mythologies, all of the things I see on TV. I want to believe. I want to believe. I want to believe in mysteries. Mysteries!

The biggest pearl is deep in the sky, shallow in the water, endless in my eyes, bartered across time zones -- the end of time.

Blowing kisses to the man in the moon, sitting by the water rubbing salt in my wounds, and if I were braver maybe I would try.

I want to believe. I want to believe in mysteries, mythologies, all of the things I see on TV. I want to believe. I want to believe. I want to believe in mysteries-- in mysteries.

Cotton Mother:

Daddy smokes alone, turns everything to gold--
smoke from the window, smoke from the lungs.
On the overpass his eyes roll back.
Sky through the window, we are gone.
My feet can't reach the brakes.

Cotton Mother, nursing the darkness, pillow wasted in her grip.
The first time she tried the dog whined in the heat outside
but he was not to be let in.

The light in the wood shed needs the smallest hand to hold the steering wheel,
to shut out the light, to lie beside. To lie beside. To lie beside.

Patience:

I wrote you a song. I threw it away though.
Someday soon I'll write a better one.

It's too late to call just to say hello. So I will wait until tomorrow to say
"Now? Will you take it now? Will you take it now? Will you take it now?"

I drew you a picture. I tore it apart though. Put it through the wash, rinse, and spin cycle.

I tried so hard to apologize, but now I'm saving all my best lines.
For now. Will you take it now? Will you take in now?

Some day soon, some day soon.

Now?

Will you take it now?

Will you take it now?

Will you take it now?

Altruism:

When the circuit closes the resistor overheats, the piano sings a phoenix song.
Do your favorite trick again-- your hand engulfed in flame--
proof that it's collapsing as planned to un-plan.

You combustible machine, you live the life you mean longer than you mean to.
Combustible machine, predictably obscene, destroy enjoying you.

An elegant crowd invited to watch, the uninformed consumed.

If the mechanism fails-- left standing disturbed and sound, a record of your intentions
in a museum somewhere, a tribute to failure's failings each time
one would try and save a suicide by suicide.

You combustible machine, you live the life you mean longer than you mean to.
You live the life you mean longer than you mean to.

Headed Away:

Light rings break in the rain, he's watching them run down the wiper's new blades.
In his memory, they slaughtered a goat and it lies on the street still bleeding today.

How long? How did the highway get so long?

Under the sign that's always selling something on the side,
hidden until you're headed away.

Silence, interrupted

2011-01-15T22:16:00.001-06:00

So after fearing all day that I might somehow be unable to keep my promise to finish some work by the deadline I set for myself, I made a small breakthrough towards the end of the day and actually did get things tied up. Not only did I get them tied up, I did so in time to join my co-workers for happy hour. While at the bar I noticed an unusual looking bottle of Makers Mark. This displeased me. Every once in a while Makers Mark releases an unusual bottling. I had given the gold label as a gift one year. I figured this was just another bottling, and thought to myself that I really didn't like it very much. But that great big 46 was perplexing. It was almost as if the Makers Mark company was trying to communicate something. Like maybe this was a different product than Makers Mark.

Since that was unthinkable I ordered a glass of Glenmorangie Lasanta. At least I know what that is. But it haunted me a little. Is Makers Mark gone? I haven't been drinking much actually, and haven't been drinking bourbon for many months for no particular reason. Have I missed the window of time in which one can hope to ever again taste Makers Mark? Apparently not, they're still making the original. But they've added Makers 46. So today I was at the liquor store stocking back up which is what you do after months of not bothering to go to the liquor store, and I saw it on the shelf. Curiosity got the better of me. I bought the No. 46.

Tonight I poured a little in my glass and decided to see what I thought about it. The truth is, I like it. I like Makers Mark original better though. I'm not a total convert. I should have bought a bottle of the original though so I could try them side by side. No. 46 is sweeter, and I consider Makers a sweet bourbon already. However, though it's sweet on the outset it goes down dry. Very strangely balanced. Tastes a bit like pecans and cinnamon, much more woody than the original and without any of the tiny hint of liquorice I'm used to. This basically tastes like it's somehow turning itself into a Perfect Manhattan all by itself. Just needs the cherry in it.

I went a-googling and found out that the 46 apparently refers to the process of oak maturation that makes this bottling so unusual tasting. French oak pieces are charred and added into the barrel while the bourbon is maturing. I'm familiar with wines flavored this way, and have mixed feelings about it. Some times it can be a pleasant effect, some times it's just too much. I think there's room in the world for Makers No. 46, and it's different enough from the original to be likely to please a lot of people who like a harsher flavor more like Bulliet and other rye heavy bourbons. In general though I really love Makers Mark original because of its softness, so I'll probably stick to the original.

Christmas on Main Street

2010-12-25T22:28:00.000-06:00

Snapped these with the last of my batteries tonight as we stopped on a lark to see the Neiman Marcus display.

Lyrics

2010-12-19T16:33:00.001-06:00

New lyrics to Sweet Angel. I'll be playing this one on the 22 of Jan. at Plush.

The last time I saw you, the only time I got to, from the corner of my eye. You hung in the door frame. Nobody could pass through, the boiling point of time.

They're calling you angel, will you be my savior? Let me be a living reflection of your own peace of mind.

I turn on your record, the only one I turn to when I can't toe the line. I know possession is only an illusion, but it's sweeter than the wine.

Oh sweet angel, stay with me forever, and we'll travel through the hell and the heaven of countless lonely minds.

You don't have to worship death, you know. It isn't going anywhere.

2010-12-17T13:54:00.001-06:00

I've been reading about Christopher Bizilj today, an eight year old boy whose parents apparently thought would be capable of firing an Uzi in a gun show. They were wrong, strong recoil caused him to lose control, and he died of gunshot wounds in a video that is now controversially going to be heard but not shown by jurors at the trial of the coordinator of the show.

The details in the court documents show the gun apparently went off when the boy was attempting to keep it from falling after the stock of the weapon slipped down from his shoulder. His father, Dr. Charles D. Bizilj, who brought Christopher and his 11-year-old brother Colin, to the show, had been ordered to remain away from the firing line behind restraining ropes, according to the suit. The 32-page lawsuit alleges wrongful death and multiple layers of negligence against the Westfield Sportsman’s Club, which hosted the event, former Pelham Police Chief Edward Fleury, who organized the annual show, and two Connecticut men who owned or furnished the weapons at the show. Fleury, who resigned after the boy was killed, also faces criminal charges in Hampden Superior Court, along with Domenico J. Spano, of New Milford, Conn., and Carl Guiffre, of Hartford. They have pleaded innocent to charges of involuntary manslaughter in connection with the shooting.

There are children all over the world who handle guns like this. Children of war fight and die all day every day. An Uzi has one purpose, and that purpose is killing people in war.

If you put one in the hands of your child you should be ready for your child to die. Because that is what war means. It isn't romantic. It isn't sport. It's war.

These machines are not ideal, they don't need to be. The people assumed to be using them are also assumed to be aware of the risks they are taking, they are expected to be facing potential death anyway. They are made for adult bodies operated by adult minds. It doesn't make your child a man to shoot one. It just makes you a child abuser.

I'm so sick of Assange

2010-12-17T13:04:00.000-06:00

I'm sick of him as the figurehead for wikileaks, I'm sick of him as a hero, and I'm sick of him as a villain.

Why do people need to have such unrealistic and polarized views of people?

Assange isn't shit. No, really. He's just some guy. If everything you believe in depends on him, then you're bound to lose whatever it is you think you're fighting for. If you need to believe he's entirely a force of moral good in and of himself, you're an idiot. And if you need to believe he's a terrorist and tool of Satan, you need to get out of Texas more.

Google Chrome and Firefox

2010-12-16T11:17:00.000-06:00

I want you to know how much I hate the way the backspace button takes you back to the last page. When I hit backspace I am usually typing something, I do not want to go to the previous page because when I do I lose everything I typed. It happens so quickly, and I can not tell when I will delete the last thing I typed or go back, so it often means I lose everything I was trying to say.

I hate this.

It's not a shortcut. It's something I never use. If you wanted to make assignable shortcut keys for people that's great. But this is just an obnoxious glitch that for the longest time I thought was just happening due to network problems or general flakyness of the browser.

I needed a place to tell you how much I hate your stupid backspace shortcut. It's the worst idea ever. It sucks. You suck for even thinking about it. Your mothers should be ashamed of you.

Have a Merry Christmas!

--erin

Soup

2010-12-12T16:36:00.004-06:00

I made this soup today randomly, and it turned out pretty good. I didn't get pictures though :( It is a green soup like this though:

(note: this picture is of the linked soup. I didn't take it. Typically I try to make most of the pics on my blog my own but... sometimes I fail)

Pumpkin Kale Soup

One Small Pumpkin (mine was maybe 15 inches circumference)

Four or five big Kale leaves

Two pints veggie broth

One small red onion

Pink Fleur de Sel (I just happen to have it so I used it)

Powdered Ginger

Allspice

Cooking Oil

Several Cups of Soymilk (you could use cream or milk I'm sure)

The awesome thing about soups that get blended up is that you don't have to chop the ingredients attractively. Chopping up pumpkin is a mess.

Chop the onion in rough segments. Put a couple tablespoons of cooking oil in a big soup pot and fry the onions in the oil gently while you chop the pumpkin, and pull the kale apart. Once the onions are softened and caramelized somewhat, drop the kale on them and let it wilt a little in the oil and onion, and then pour in the broth.

Let this simmer while you concentrate on "liberating" firm pumpkin flesh from the outer skin and stringy guts. I drop in pieces as I finish cutting them. Once done continue to gently boil the soup with the lid on, taking some time to add a teaspoon or two of salt, a good dash of ginger, and a slight dash of allspice.

Once the pumpkin is totally soft and the kale looks pretty defeated take the pot of the heat and let it cool a little.

Blending in my small blender is tricky so I did it in batches. Add soymilk to each batch to make the blending easier (after all that boiling the veggie broth will have reduced a lot). Add soymilk to taste really, I like mine a similar color to the soup I linked to there.

I poured each blended batch into a bowl after blending. Then once it was all blended and in my bowl I ladled it back into the blender for a second blend, pouring each batch into the soup pan again.

This may not need to be so complicated for people with better ways of blending than a tiny Osterizer.

Then I cooked the soup a little more so it was all hot and frothy.

The kale totally overwhelms the pallor of pumpkinflesh orange. If green soups like watercress or pea aren't inherently gross to you, this is nice and a bit less overwhelmingly pumpkiny than plain pumpkin soup.

Why am I taking more pictures with my iPhone than anything else

2010-12-07T21:35:00.000-06:00

Lunch at Indospice. Best Indian buffet I think, if only because they have this amazing bitter/sour/hot chutney with a strange fibrous pickled vegetable in it that tastes almost like an olive.

They never have a sign over that thing and I'm too shy to ask.

But it's good.

Where have I been?

2010-12-01T22:54:00.003-06:00

Working all night. And day. And night again. And... day... again. Here are some terrible iFail pictures from last weekend:

Woven glass from the Haven gallery in Austin.

A pair of my shoes in a cubicle.

Mint Martini (a real dry gin martini) at Bess Bistro in Austin

Some times I get great ideas

2010-11-18T12:05:00.000-06:00

In the middle of the night. Or while I'm doing something I can't get away from doing such as having a conversation with some one on a totally unrelated topic. I make a mental note to do the awesome thing. For instance, I often think of little comic images. I figure out what to use as a source and what I want it to look like. Then I write automation for a few hours, or answer emails, or go to the grocery store to pick up cat food, or my inhaler, call my doctor, return those shoes I ordered that were too big, clean the cat box, and then... sit down and play bejeweled blitz for two hours and pass out on my sofa shortly after that sleeping blissfully through the evening.

In the morning I wake up and remember I was supposed to take a test. There is still time. I always schedule my panic over finishing things for at least 24 hours prior to when panic is warranted. So I wake up at 4 in the morning nearly screaming.

TEST TESTESTEST!

And I go grab the book I was supposed to read and read the things in it. By five I take the test. There was bread, bake the bread no or it will fall. The catbox stinks again. I'm running late for work now, or I will be unless I don't take a shower.

More time is wasted while I ponder. I don't know why I do this. The shower always wins.

"Of course you need a shower." If I got a tattoo it would be those words. Just to simplify my life. And then to work, where I feel guilty because I took too long figuring out which shoes match the pants I'm wearing to blowdry my hair. A bunch of things that will need dropping off (maybe I can do that for lunch?) go into my car with me. The car. Sometimes it needs gas.

I hate gasoline.

There is something wrong with my car but I'm dealing with it by pretending that there is not something wrong with my car.

I hate cars.

At work I have a list of things that have not been done. I'm afraid some one will see this list and think that I am a bad employee. I live in fear of this list. Maybe I need more things to do, I think. Because if I'm not doing something then I find something else to do and what if everybody thinks that's all I'm doing!

Then I think of something. Practice piano. Record that song. Make a video. Draw that image you wanted to that you thought of. Write that poem you were kind of starting to but it was in traffic and you realized it was probably better not to get into an accident by jotting it down on your iPhone while driving.

Why won't some one pay me to do those things!?

This drives me into a deep depression about my mortality and my meaningless life. By the time I arrive home I am saddened by the futility of it all. I make a note to write a song about that just before I pass out on the sofa.

Chocovine

2010-11-13T21:02:00.000-06:00

It was cheap. It was chocolate. I thought it would probably be nasty. But instead it's a chocolate liquor you can buy at a supermarket for less than the price of Godiva. It makes this fabulous drink with two full ounces of Chocovine and one ounce of Chambord shaken in ice.

Not something you'd want two of, more like a liquid desert. But damn.

Juliet of The Spirits

2010-11-13T08:35:00.002-06:00

Every once in a while you see a movie that leaves you thinking "how can it be that I've never seen this movie." Last night I watched Juliet of the Spirits for the first time. I'm somewhat familiar with Fellini so I was not totally taken aback, but I had no idea that this would be one of the most strange and hallucinogenic films I'd ever see that wasn't directed by Jodorowsky. While I was watching it I started to get bored. After it was over I thought it was weird. When I woke up in the morning still thinking about it I realized it was genius.

In a lot of ways I'm glad I'd never heard of the film because reviews of it are lackluster. I think it's undeserved. This film is never going to meet with a lot of approval though as it is almost entirely centered in the consciousness of a woman, and not a woman who is what a woman is supposed to be (although she tries to be).

The film also does not follow a psychological collapse. Quite the opposite. Juliet's madness is both freeing and isolating, as she struggles for identity in a world where really she has no place. It follows the psychological transformation of a lonely wealthy housewife who has nothing to do all day but dabble in spiritualism while her looks slowly fade and her husband runs around with a young model.

All around her people offer their advice, mostly in the form of trying harder to please her husband, but Juliet's issues, hopes, fantasies, and fears manifest in a wild tableaux of characters that overlay reality. The film is unbelievably good at capturing the illogical spatial reasoning of dreams, and the colors are so bright they sizzle. I suppose this is the kind of movie that isn't going to be for everyone, but I certainly am glad that it's around. If for no other reason than for its ability to capture both the fear and the freedom, the loneliness and the comfort, of being alone.

Some one described it as 81/2 for women, but I think it is more than that insofar that movies that are truly filmed from the perspective of a woman are so rare. Juliet may not be like every woman, but she's one I can relate to as ultimately her psychological problems provide the key for her to take control of her own life.

Well in other news

2010-11-12T17:22:00.000-06:00

Although I pretty much bit the hand that... ever visits this blog, I'm going to try to make a concerted effort to post here more and post things that are original in content. That's a big problem for me and why I haven't been able to put much up. I'd like to make a new video, maybe if I can record something this weekend. I don't know.

I got some good news in that I may be able to play a set at Plush some time in January. I do really hope it works out. Maybe some day I'll find my niche.

Updates

2010-11-12T06:21:00.000-06:00

I've had a lot of trouble posting on my blog. I suppose I just don't realize how much time is going by. I've been in one of those phases where by the time I get home from work I'm ready to sleep and then go to work again. I need to practice piano though, especially since I may have a show to play after December. I'm completely excited about this and want to do a good job. Hoping people will show.

In the meantime I have lots of ideas but find myself shelving them. So I'll probably get in trouble for posting these, but mom went as a momento mori portrait for Hallowe'en.

River Legacy Park Arlington Texas

2010-11-01T08:11:00.001-05:00

I've heard that I don't tend to photograph nature much. To be honest "nature" in the sense that most people mean the word isn't a part of my daily experience. But that doesn't mean nothing green exists here. River Legacy Park is located in Arlington, a city that probably typifies DFW urban sprawl.

Pumpkin Noodle Soup

2010-10-30T18:02:00.001-05:00

So it actually feels like fall. After carving a pumpkin for Halloween it's always nice to use the guts for something. In my family that always meant pumpkin soup with Zaceirki. This is pure comfort food, and what follows is the no frills version my dad learned from his mom and so on.

The first step is to carve a pumpkin and get the meat from the walls. Cover the pumpkin meat with water in a pan, add a tablespoon or so of butter, and blanch until the pumpkin gets soft. Then strain the meat out, but save the water and put it back in the pan.

Pumpkin meat.

Next we'll make the throwdown noodles that give the soup its character. You'll need a good clean work surface, and egg and a mound of flour.

Crack the egg in the flour and mush it until it makes a soft dough which you can push and flatten on the bed of flour. Then take a sharp knife and slice up the flattened dough into thin strips.

They don't have to be perfect. In fact you can just mush it through the tines of the fork if you prefer, and roll anything left up and include it.

I used two eggs this way, but use your judgement depending on how much pumpkin mush and water you have.

Here are some boiled noodles. They're done when they rise to the top. Put all your noodles into the water you boiled the pumpkin meat in and cook them until they rise to the top and the water has thickened and reduced.

Then put the pumpkin meat back into the pan and cook it all until it looks thick.

To serve, dole out a big scoop of the noodles and pumpkin. Salt and pepper to taste, and pour fresh milk over the whole thing.

Well I use soymilk, but that's another story.

Mmmm... comfort food in the extreme.

75 to 30

2010-10-25T01:03:00.002-05:00

Water: Mountain Creek Lake

2010-10-25T00:26:00.001-05:00

Empty and Vapid

2010-10-10T23:50:00.000-05:00

Texas Freethought Convention

2010-10-09T20:49:00.000-05:00

I don't usually write about these things, but this weekend I decided to do something a little out of the ordinary and attend a conference. This was hugely inspired by a massive discussion on the worst blog on scienceblogs, regarding a lack of female attendance at various skeptic conventions. I realized that I don't go to conventions unless I have to in general. Abby from ERV popped into the argument to mention she'd be at a small one near my home just as I was talking (or at least thinking) about the fact that a lot of us can't afford in terms of time or money the luxury of national and international conventions in exciting locales. So I registered that day and decided I was going (support local culture!), which of course didn't take into account how much might be going on that particular weekend.

And that particular weekend happened to be this weekend. I popped in this morning and after registering missed the first lecture due to the fact that I somehow managed to pour half a cappuccino onto my white shirt five minutes into it. I cursed. I left. I pulled my shirt off in the bathroom and washed it in the sink, figuring maybe my first act as a skeptical feminist would be to instigate a wet t-shirt contest.

But ultimately I managed to get myself together enough to see Abby's lecture on retroviruses which was informative and interesting, very much like the content of her blog. Actually I was impressed with both of the speeches I saw in the next few hours. The second one reminded me a great deal of some of the thinkers in history that influenced me most. Believe it or not James Madison would be one of those.

But mostly I wanted to mention how nice I found people there. I met some people who work in related fields in Houston, and generally had a nice time.

Here is the point where I consider briefly writing something intellectual but instead decide to post a picture of a bunny that I saw outside the hotel.

Look. A bunny.

Good morning

2010-10-08T03:58:00.000-05:00

It's been a long time since I tried posting something. I haven't had a lot of energy to complete even tasks I truly care about. My sort of life line on my recording project has just ended, and along with it a long relationship that I suppose should have been on its way out (ever feel like you've been cheated).

This has really been crushing for me though.

That is understatement.

Evening Project

2010-10-02T19:10:00.000-05:00

I've looked at life from both sides now....

Polyester Fiberfill.

Recently I've been trying to make my home a little more livable. One of my little projects was to make my loveseat a little nicer to sit in. I have a formal dining room, which is often unused, and recently I've been making an effort to use it. Some time ago I bought a sofa from a thrift store (because I was poor). It has been a good sofa but it doesn't exactly smell springtime fresh, so I decided it was time to freshen it.

So this is my old sofa stripped of it's stinky pillows. I used a seam ripper to pull apart the edge and extract the stuffing.

That is some nasty packed up stuffing.

This is the foam pad from the seat. I lucked out at Jo-Ann's fabrics when a nice lady standing behind me in line offered me the use of her extra 40% coupons. Guess what? There were four of them for the fabric and foam department, enough to reduce the cost of my fresh puffy stuffing to $15.00.

I did not replace this pad though, but rather elected to try just cleaning it.

After throwing the pillow casings into the washing machine and line drying them, I filled them with puffy new stuffing and sewed them shut along the seams with upholstery thread (I think regular thread would be too fragile here).

Ok, so it's still an old sofa but it smells better now.

White Lies

2010-09-21T22:08:00.002-05:00

lyrics after the break

Stories we tell each other well
stories we tell to everyone else
we say we're just protecting our trust
well what else was between the lines we should have read

white lines white lies will keep us wondering now

who's on first who's on second hearing all
all the stories we can't even tell
you're holding her hand
I'm making long distance phone calls looking for another place to hide in

white lines white lies will keep us wondering now

Some songs I've driven home crying to

2010-09-19T20:01:00.000-05:00

George Bush Turnpike Dallas Tx:

I-35 W to Bonnie Brae Denton Tx:

University Dr. Denton Tx:

Mopac Nbound Austin Tx:

183 Westbound Dallas Tx:

I-35 Nbound Austin Tx:

There are more of course, but these are the ones that stand out in my mind as inextricably tied to place and time in my memory.

Nice to have

2010-09-08T17:23:00.000-05:00

I wrote this song two nights ago or so. And now I made a little video for it. Unfortunately I'm still just not a great singer. I probably should have added some reverb and sung it maybe slower, but whatever.

Mmmm... muffins

2010-09-04T15:02:00.001-05:00

Fast, easy, good. I was wanting a muffin that was more like a bread roll (less sugar and fat), had lots of fiber, and would stand up to butter or jam. This has been a pretty good success then, and the flavor of these is great. I think you could throw a wide variety of grains into this recipe which I adapted from Silverton's English Muffin recipe. Obviously these aren't English Muffins anymore, but I'm happy with the result.

Feeding:

2 cups white starter

1 1/2 cups fat free half and half

1/2 cup water.

3 cups white unbleached flour

Mix, cover, and let stand for about two hours.

Once that has integrated add the rest of the ingredients:

1 1/4 cup water

4 teaspoons dry yeast

1/4 cup wheat bran

1/4 cup flax seed meal

1/4 cup TVP (Textured Veg. Protein. This is like grapenut crunchies.)

1/4 cup Ezekial 4:9 Almond (I wanted more grains but didn't have any more stuff on hand so I threw in some cereal. Surprisingly it was good!)

2 Tbsp honey

3 Tbsp molasses

1/2 tsp Marmite

4 Tbsp vegetable oil

1 Tbsp sea salt

1 cup unbleached white flour

1 cup whole wheat flour

Rice flour for dusting (rice flour, it turns out, is really nice for this)

Mix this all together and let it rise in the covered bowl again for a few hours, until it is doubled in size and has some integrity when pulled.

Make a bed of a handful of rice flour on a clean surface to pour the bread onto. Scrape it out, as it will probably be fairly wet. Sprinkle the dough with rice flour, coating it evenly.

Let this sit for a half hour or so uncovered.

Spray muffin tins with oil, or rub them with butter. Cut off chunks of the dough with a spatula and drop them into the muffin tin. Use about enough dough to reach the top of the muffin pan, or slightly mound higher in the center.

Once the dough is in the pans (This recipe prepared 20 muffins), let them sit uncovered for an hour while the oven preheats to 400 F.

Bake for 20 minutes in the dry oven, then rotate the pans and bake for 15 minutes more.

Cool and enjoy. These are very hearty and filling.

Chianti Classico 2005 Il Tesoro

2010-09-02T22:43:00.000-05:00

I've really been loving this all summer. I think maybe this is the third or fourth bottle I've purchased. Chianti is a great wine to have on hand since it pairs well with almost anything, and around here it's comfortable to drink in the hot weather. This particular wine is extremely dry with no sweetness or oaky aftertaste. It's clean, astringent, and light.

Jalapeno Cheese Rolls

2010-08-29T09:44:00.000-05:00

Saturday morning bread experiment. I'm really happy with how these turned out too.

I fed the starter a cup of white flour and a cup of soymilk on Friday morning, and let it sit on the counter warming up and eating until Saturday morning.

I was trying to think of something that could serve as a snack on its own. These are more like a jalapeno biscuit and I realized that they would be a great accompaniment to eggs in the morning, or maybe with a modified chili based sauce they'd make a good biscuits and gravy type dish. Maybe a habanero cream gravy, with some chorizo on the side.

Anyway, they're good with butter too.

2 cups starter

2 cups flour

1 tsp salt

2 tbls sugar

3 tsp baking powder

2 tbls Jalapeno powder

1/4 cup shredded mixed Italian cheeses (parmesan, asagio, mozarella)

1 tbls oil

Secret Weapon

Knead the dough. It should gather slowly and be a bit dry. Knead this dough quickly and leave it an hour at least for the first rise.

In order to shape the rolls I used a muffin tin. Break a piece of dough off of the lump and flatten it. Then fold it over so that the ends meet. Sort of like a quilt yo-yo.

A Quilt Yo-Yo

Place each lump in one of the compartments and cover with a cloth. Let them rise until they balloon at the top, a minimum of three hours.

Bake at 500 for 10 minutes, adding an extra minute or two if they don't look done.

Book Review: Tokyo Vice

2010-08-27T23:53:00.001-05:00

I never expected this book to be relevant to me on the level it was. I expected it to focus on the glamorous aspects of crime, maybe toss out a few sympathetic victims, and maybe have a few details about types of organized crime.

Instead it's truly about humans, culture, a society, and how the aspect of that society that can be so neatly contained in a word like "vice" really affects people in a world where it can not be likewise confined.

It is a poignant and highly personal book. It starts with such optimism, as if Adelstein is speaking in his former voice as an excited journalist. He almost lost me in the beginning because I wasn't sure if this was going to be a book about nothing but male bravado. I had seen in the blurbs that he had published some of this story in Maxim, and that made me wary. Towards the end I'm inclined to believe him when he begins to talk about the other side of things. There's a noticeable shift in the persona of the author that suggests to me he's truly talking about things that make him uncomfortable.

Adelstein's writing style is almost stream of conscious, and yet very guarded. He talks about himself a lot, so much so that he actually talks about people criticizing him for talking about himself too much. He also talks about his own sexual encounters a lot. I actually don't mind the insights into his sex life, as I think in a way they work to explain how an individuals own sexuality is influenced by what sex means in different contexts. In fact I appreciate that they were there. Throughout the book I get the feeling he's compulsively confessing.

I wish I'd known a little more about where this book was headed though. It becomes very painful. In the beginning the author seems to be giving us the exciting story of a young man with an incredibly unlikely career, but in the end we get a glimpse into the other side of things and the consequences the author and others face.

It illustrates the true cruelty that goes on, and the emotional manipulation. Leaving some one to live their whole life with the blame of their friend's torture and death?

This is true evil. Not surprisingly when he writes about the things that are most personal and painful, he loses the composure shown in other places. I've heard it suggested that this is because he's making the stories up, but I'm inclined to extend some trust here. If he were making it up why would it cause him to suddenly lose the panache and stylistic control shown in other parts of the book? The first ten pages read like Maxim, the last ten like an entry in his diary.

As the book begins to discuss the investigations into human trafficking that finally wore the author down, he begins to describe one of the most upsetting encounters of the entire book. Why is it upsetting? Because after bonding with the author we're given a way in which he was irrevocably damaged by the consequences of his investigations. The author becomes transparent. We see the frail mechanism of denial in action.

Lastly the book describes something ineffable about Japanese culture. I think it is more accessible in some ways because it's written by a Westerner with a uniquely non-didactic writing style. At no point does he seem to lecture us about what we should think about the Japanese. Rather, he attempts to illustrate and explain what he has shown us, never letting us forget that he's not an authority so much as a point of contact.
I'm still consolidating my thoughts on this book, but it's one I'll be thinking about for a while. Which is ultimately the most you can ever ask of a book, right?

More Violence

2010-08-25T16:17:00.001-05:00

I'd been waxing gloomy in light of the rage on both sides surrounding the mosques, and as I'm the sort of person that is painfully slow to arrive at any opinion I'm still find myself unable to write anything remotely lucid on the subject. Then today I ran across this story.

Allegedly the man above rather inexplicably asked his cab driver if he was Muslim before becoming hysterical, saying "This is the checkpoint motherfucker. I have to fuck you up this time" and slashing him with a knife.

Apparently, according to the New York Times the suspect is a volunteer with a non-profit that works to build understanding and tolerance in Afghanistan.

The man, Michael Enright, 21, volunteers for Intersections International, a group “dedicated to justice, reconciliation and peace across lines of faith, culture, ideology, race, class, national borders and other boundaries that divide humanity.” Mr. Enright works with the group’s “veteran-civilian dialogue program.”

Interesting he was a student at SVA, who was working on a film to highlight the experience of Marines deployed in Afghanistan. This story was inspired by the life of a close friend who joined the Marines.

"During his (Eckner's) last deployment, I realized there's never been an introspective look into what it's like being an 18-, 19-, 20-year-old soldier," Enright said. "They grow up really fast, and also they're still young and youthful. I thought that could be a really interesting story. Plus, he's my buddy. I wanted to do him justice."

Enright had said of his project:

"It's completely nonpolitical. It's just showing the young people who are spearheading our foreign policy, they're doing what I don't have to do."

I see a lot of people talking about this as if there are two options. In one scenario we have a good person, one who is not by any means full of hate towards any group but is afflicted with some latent mental illness that prompted a psychotic breakdown. In the other we have a calculated act of violence by an off the chain anti-Muslim radical.

Whether Enright is a well intentioned individual who simply stared into the abyss too long or not, the capacity was in him to slash a random stranger in a fit of rage. I think it's worth asking in cases like this, even if this is simply a person's psychosis, why psychosis expresses itself in the way it does.

Even crazy people are a part of our society. They're shaped by the values and cultural means for expression that are available to them. Hence you see localization of different types of mental illness that may actually correspond to the same underlying pathology.

For this reason in my mind no matter what the intentions of Enright might have been, or whatever his mental state, we still have a manifestation of the type of hatred that has become so poisonous in our country.

Links

2010-08-25T07:37:00.000-05:00

Stumbled these beautiful photographs this morning and had to share a few of them. These are a part of the Earth From Above series by Yann Arthus-Bertrand which has been ongoing since 1994:

Favelas in Rio De Janero

These amazing structures, so common to shanty towns, have always amazed me for their organic architectural quality. Like Kowloon Walled City, shown below (not from the series) they have the ashen quality that cities built with what materials are available tend to.

Kowloon

Visual clutter, but it could hardly be called ugly. Yet it couldn't be more different than this Copenhagen suburb.

Or a more typical city in the US. I suppose the diversity of living strategies across the world has always fascinated me. People find solutions to some of the most stupefying barriers. Not only solutions but ways to thrive.

Google Earth has been fascinating for this, and I'll admit I look through the pictures some times, particularly of areas I'd wished I'd visited such as Picher OK.

You can see some of the images on Google Earth as a layer. You can look through most of the images on the photographer's site here. Or go here and download the gadget too.

2007 Domaine de Nizas Rose "Coteaux du Languedoc"

2010-08-22T19:46:00.001-05:00

I keep telling myself I'm going to jot down wines I like somewhere and now it's occurred to me that here is as good as anywhere. So here I go.

The other day I was craving rosé wine. Probably because it's summer. I'm completely repulsed by sweet wines though, so buying rosé, like most white wines, is almost always slightly tense for me. I hate to waste money on wine that I might not like.

I'm really happy with this wine though. It's crisp and rather textured, it has a full taste, very silky and a little sour at the end. Made with Syrah, Mourvedre, and Grenache, the wine is surprisingly complex and robust. Reminds me of Pinot Grigio but with more bulk. Lots of mineral taste, it's almost herbal. I can imagine this being amazing with lamb. It certainly is surprisingly good with homemade chocolate chip cookies.

Important things

2010-08-17T22:58:00.002-05:00

Earlier this morning I found out that Justin Bieber can be slowed down to produce a lovely ambient epic.

Apparently it's true. The hoax hoax is a hoax. Or something like that. Anyway I was bored and played with some footage of a fountain in Paris to go with a portion of it.

I exported the video with better settings. I'm happier with this. So something good came of it too as now I have a set of parameters for future uploads from the handycam.

The Other Side

2010-08-17T15:43:00.000-05:00

The amazing thing about submerging is coming up again to see the same old things again in new things and new things in the same old things. What's down there? Well I couldn't tell you, as it wouldn't be the same anyway. My dreams and other people's dreams would never be the same, likewise the nightmares are disparate. You dog paddle, you get exhausted. It's better to float. I broke my arm once. I can't remember it hurting although I know it did. It's hard to remember feelings, but if one can keep that in mind when they seem overwhelming it helps a great deal.

To the next bridge for crossing I guess.

And in other news it seems we'll be recording the vocal track for the first song of the album finally.

New leaf

2010-08-15T17:51:00.003-05:00

Goodbye old things, old places, the illusion is over. Hello new illusions and temporary places. Every hotel I've slept in has been a home, and every morning we wake up and leave the bed and we never return to that bed again. I suppose I've had a motto for some time although I've never been sure how to phrase it. Something like death ends vanity. I was always drawn to those old images of the folly of vanity, usually depicted as a beautiful female gazing in a mirror held or framed by a symbolic death figure.

Hans Baldung, Ages of Woman and Death

It's often regarded as an admonition against the sin of vanity, but like all images I think it is subject to revision. But really it stands for all our addictions and illusions. I don't believe one must "rise up" from the folly and illusion of this world, but I do believe that one must never get too attached to it.

When I think of it this way, then my sadness becomes my freedom. Because each time I am disappointed I can remember that it was only my vain attachments, my longing for the impossible, that was to blame. And I can move on. For the most part, it is only one's pride, vanity, attachment, or addiction that is harmed by loss.

Which brings me to a companion image. That of the wayfarer.

Heironymus Bosch, Haywain Tryptich Exterior

The wayfarer passes alone. All around him the pleasures and pains of life go on. A man is being robbed. People dance and play music. Both the joys and the pains of life surround him, but he isn't deluded by them. They simply are. And when they are done he moves on. In front of him, a wooden bridge covers a stream. He moves from one place in his life to another, without pretending permanence. And at his other side dried bones serve to remind that ultimately all things go that way as well. The mind, the body, in reality we do not keep anything, not even our selves.

The iconography of both of these images, when considered with the dominant philosophies expressed by the artists and their communities at the time, point to the concept of salvation which transcends this world.

But the images are powerful to me, as some one who lives outside of the culture that created them. It's good to remind oneself of the transience of those things loved, valued, and addicted to. We don't keep them. They keep us for a short time, but they're always let go of eventually.

I prefer to see myself as a wanderer, and to let things pass although I love my vain illusions too. I used to feel a great hunger, a loneliness, a homesickness and nostalgia for things I could never name. But over the years I've learned that this hunger and what it pretends to crave, simply has to be acknowledged and treated with kindness. It's always fooled by passing things when in reality that sadness itself is simply the hum of singular existence. Like the sound of blood pulsing in the ears, it seems loud in isolation, but in reality it is only proof that one is still alive. Thus it should be a comfort. Even that must pass.

Even Stranger...

2010-08-13T10:48:00.000-05:00

This case just gets weirder. It now seems that the suspect in the stabbings I posted about is an Israeli citizen, Elias Abuelazam.

This image, by the way, is why I find police sketches so unhelpful.