My daughter spent five weeks allowance on two hats like this, one for her big sister, one for her. I know you are *supposed* to be a Yankee hater if you live in Boston, but really now...FIVE weeks worth??? 

The Adventures of Twid 

The Adventures of Twid continued... 

Balance in all things...now for the left... 

Hand of a friend...we sat at the library and talked of our lives, our joys, our sadnesses.He is an older man. One with many regrets. And a heart and mind made of sterling silver. 

The Adventures of Twid 

Argoflex-Seventy-Five 

Morning coffee... 

Dodge the Can Tuesday.

My street becomes a huge pinball game on Tuesdays. Trash day. And the Waste Management Staff is rather cavalier about tossing the referenda when they are done. A slight hill taunts the now less encumbered receptacles to roll. And God help us if there is a wind, stiff or no. I always thought it would be a Good Thing to have Little People, minions (well-paid, of course) follow behind the truck at a good fifty paces. You know. To pick up the Misses. The strewn juice box, the Too Small To Bend Over And Pick Up's.

I don't generally mind playing Dodge the Can. Except when I do. And then, well, it is a pain in the ass the size of which is directly related to whether or not it is MY can rolling down the street or not.

I am not a schooled artist, but I play one on TV...

Someone asked me this weekend if I went to art school. I answered no. Onaccounta I din’t. I guess my talent comes naturally, and has been born of practice and vision and intent. Much less expensive than art school. I wish, sometimes, that I had gone to school for the sole purpose of honing my skill. Some inner censor tells me (in my mothers voice, of course) that I could and would *never* make a living as an artist. Despite the fact that my father attended both Harvard AND Columbia, studying art and business , in that order, he never made money painting.

But, as I sit here, I have a painting he did in Mexico in 1944, a rather nice one, and I think to myself that perhaps one day my own child will want to put some of my art on her wall somewhere.

When I really think about it, my art is more about living than getting. I prefer to be understood and known than rich and famous. I would rather be seen in a gallery than begged to drag my muse out of her sleep to perform for money. Sure, sometimes I have fantasies about being Good Enough to be wanted by some collector, or someone who seeks to surround themselves with beauty and grace and humor and color...Who knows, maybe one day my words will be published somewhere other than here, and my art may adorn the white walls of some studio space or gallery. I will sip some wine, eat some grapes and speak of my motivations with people who ask.

But, for now, I just draw and paint, print and shoot, write and ponder and spew here. Where no one asks me if I went to art school. I do wish more people would stop by here, though. Sometimes I see and hear only my own echo. At least I like the sight and sound of it. And, I pay myself well.

On writing Life, Waking dreams, melting popsicles...

Often I find myself thinking that I will remember "this" so when it is time to sit down to write "this" will all come back to me. But, more often than not, "this" is evasive at the time of writing. Like a dream upon waking. One that was so vivid in color, feel, incident, that memory surely *must* have inscribed it into the curvy grey matter for all time. Alas, when it comes time to relay the dream so surely captured, it is gone, fluttered away, spent, dissipated on a vaporous miasma of consciousness stretched only wide enough to know it is, indeed, morning, and not much else that came before.

I think to myself, quietly, (so as not to disturb those around me, or to waken them to the notion that I am, in fact, addicted to my muse, my art, my writing, at such depth that I can barely live a moment or three without wanting to jot it down, sketch it out) that I *should* write things down in a teeny notebook. And wear a sign that says: "I am blogging this". Even as I write that, my software has not a clue as to what that word "blog" means, and I know that, as surely as a waking baby during lovemaking, that I ...Will. Have. To. Explain. That. Term. To. Almost. Everyone. And then, of course, assuage their fears that I am not planning on attracting psychopath (though I suspect some may eventually read these words....Um) and that I am not (ahem) being specific about "sensitive" matters involving first names, yadda, yadda, yadda..

I like to believe that I will remember that which was so funny when I was doubled over in the parking lot beseeching my Companion to NOT invoke the Goddess of Tinkle. I am sorely mistaken. What to do? Gingko? Mindfulness meditation? Recording device?

Sometimes, Other Life intervenes. As the popsicle of That Which Is Bloggable is being held by me, dripping, something Else happens. A spill. A phone call. A doorbell. A chore. A stoplight. And, by the time I get back to "it" I have sticky hands and a mess to clean and the sharp details are all derailed and a-muck. I enjoy picking up the pieces and putting them together sometimes. Things can morph, with time, into more interesting fractals of what actually transpired. Creative License and all that.

I suppose I should just make it a practice of writing things down, little phrases to tease my memory back to erection when it is flaccid. But, the devil is in the details. And I like to chase that devil around the block a few times, making him pant for breath as I rip apart the seams of conversations, witty timing, clever metaphors and gooey insinuations. I want them at my fingertips. I want to feel the twill of an instant beneath my fingers. I want to be able to hold onto that moment and be able to recreate a quilt of furiously typed words here as soon as I am able.

My name is Julia. And I am a blogoholic.

Bruce then moved to the light globe and burnt her little toesies.... 

On Babies and Families that are not mine...

I held a baby this weekend. The familiar baby-sway came back to me readily, as did the football hold which kept me from throwing my child out the window eleven years ago (it was one of the few things that shut her screaming, frothing, qivering cake- hole down for a few Gawdgiven minutes). This baby belongs to my Companions brother and wife. The tiny fingers with pearly nails, the carmel smell of his newly breastfed face, the warmth and weight of his body in my arms did not issue forth the siren song of motherhood. I was ever so grateful to be an aunty, to have and hold for time that is measured in moments or hours. I felt no *ping* in my loins begging me to "try again" That would be futile. I am barren now, snipped years ago.

I looked at the long and emotionally dusty faces of the parents, tired, drained, and totally in love with this new life, and I remembered the vast ocean of time that was the minutes before daddy came home, or the ever-slight hour that was not filled with screaming. It was a mixed blessing, giving life, bringing it forth, nurturing it, feeding it, making it safe. At the cost of doing the same for myself, or my doomed to failure marriage, I am glad I sqandered what I did have to give to my children. They have grown to amazingly viable people.

I feel gratitude that I can be a part of this infants life, watch him grow into being a Big Boy Charlie, make him giggle, soothe him as he needs it when I am there. And I am grateful in equal measure that I can hand him back to the mommy and daddy and wave goodbye and smile saying "See you next time Charlieroo!"

To Infinity, And Beyond!...

I got paid from a graphic arts client and now am in possession of a brand-spankin' new Cannon LiDE 80 Scanner! W00t!  Life will never be the same again. Oh..frabjous joy, Callou, Callay!

Funny Linkage...

I went to the movies with my Companion last weekend. We were feeling munchinessly needy and lined up with the masses for snackies. I wanted ice cream. A frappe. Sumpin slurpy and sweet. My companion chose a strawberry shortcake shake...with cookies all a whizzed inside. It was an arduous task to make, apparently. We waited a lonnng time.
 
At the point where the , um, blending came to the scene:
 
"Wheeeeeeeeeeeebzzzzzzzzzzzzzwhirrrrrrrrrrrgrinnnnnnnnnnnnd"
"Grinnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnndgriiiiiiiiiiiiinnnnnnnnnnnnnnnd"
"Zzzzzzzzeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeegrrrrrrrrrrrriiiiiiinnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnd!"
 
My companion turned to me and said:
 
"Um, yeah, I need to floss more"

So Does Rain on Grass... 

Shells Amaze Me 

Krinkle-less Kotex and Cool Capsules?

What is this puny little world coming to? I ask you, please. It was enough to see a Mary Kay VW Bug being towed behind a Winnebago the other day (tho' at first glance, before the horror hit me, the thought actually passed my cranium guard bees that, ya know...maybe I could do that. Maybe I *could* handle driving an absurd monument to American Conspicuous Consumption such as Mary Kay Mobiles of Luxury...pink 'n all, if....if...IF it were a new VW Bug, but I digress).

But, to actually market a QUIETER feminine product? Sheesh. Just point me to the nearest menstrual hut and I will wait out the whole messy thing if it is really *that* upsetting to listen to *that* sort of noise...in...in...in a WOMENS ROOM!

Or maybe it is for all the husbands who shrink under the covers at night listening to their Lovies brush their little toofies and then go potty....and then, ew...that noise. Oh, I know that *that* means. It is "Krinkly Wrapper Noise in the Bathroom" time.

Really now. Let's just grow up a bit here. Yes, your teachers, those nuns (remember them???). They went poopie, too. Big Suprise!

And why, oh why, do we need Cooling Sensation Capsules for our NSAID's? Would it be onaccounta you are too stupid to actually DRINK the full glass of water it takes to buffer those babies down the gullet? Or is it that the beer you chased it with is causing a Mylanta Moment you would rather forget?

God forbid you should Get Your Visitor and Need Tylenol for Cramps at the same time without either of those products. If you suspect that happening to you, stop your flow immediately. You must not go any further without a trip to the pharmacy. Oh, and bring your Extra Care Card so you can get the double coupons if you only buy six of each.

Blue Girl: Todays Foam Tray Print 

Thursdays Foam Tray Print 

Yesterdays Foam Tray Print 

And, Lo! It reached for the sky. 

The John/John Game...

This morning while snarfing down my espresso I decided to flick on the TV. Eeeegads! A full frontal assault of the John/John Game. Both candidates walking Kennedy-style with family surrounding, swinging the little one (woulda been a bit of a media mess had the tot's arm dislocated, eh?). I thought:

"Man, are we being PLAYED..."

I realize that *something* has to be done. I realize that *someone* else has to take the lead here. I also realize that change is slow and unlikely to be garnered within the framework of any one president's efforts of a term or two, at least at this point. The crap pile is too deep for any administration to clean out the basement and attic of these things.

But, really now.

It was as orchestrated at Cirque de Soleil...Cirque de Poulet is more like it. And for so long the TV went on and on about ages and names and ooh-la-la and all that.

It is going to be a lonnnnnnnnng year.

I think the highlight will be the Olympics...for me, anyway. Though you will see me kiss the ground if Kerry makes it. Really. At least, I *think* he will tread water instead of make this mess even bloodier. I am sad and angry, and, okay, yeah, a little hopeful that this new brood will shore up the timbers of this crumbling entity called "America".

Peeking Poppy 

Something about Proing: My LJ entry worthy of muse...

There is a certain feeling I get. For me, I call it The Proing. It happened today at Buck-A-Book (go ahead, kick me, I am poor) as I was shopping for a birthday gift for a kid I love. It is a hot day. Really. The first really hot one in a while. And, well, then there is that **hormonal** thing to add into the mix. Wet shirt. Mostly looking like a humongous cartoon kiss under my boobs. Such crap. I thought. What yucky little toys. Then it happened:

"PROING!!"

It is the feeling when the front opening bra, (the lavander one that is kinda sheer and sexy, yeah, that one, so...) it decides to be Free! Free the bonds that keep us together, Brother. Proing and be free. So now I am standing there with sweaty shirt and bra that has proing-ed and I wonder. How do I get this back together without appearing a shoplifter?

I gave up.

It was too hot.