Tuesday, May 24, 2022

Ooh, baby, don't we love our guns

 


This country is so broken.


But, hey, don't we love our guns?


Kids are afraid to go to school.


Parents are afraid to send them.


But, hey, don't we love our guns?


Ban books, man, they are dangerous!!


But keep your hands off our guns.


Pro life?  Yeah, sure, until you're born.


Hey, sorry about that baby formula, but you hang on and maybe you'll grow up and some day own a gun.


'Cause hey, this is the USA, the only country in the world where mass shootings are a thing.


But our government wants you to love your guns.


Those babies that died today?  They might have lived if they'd all had guns.


Right?!


Man oh man, don't we love our guns.


This country is broken, but it sure does know how to pray.


But God knows we love our guns, so dead babies is the price we're gonna pay.


Again


And again


And again


Sing it!


Loud and proud now -


We do love our guns.


Keep your fucking hands off the guns.




Friday, May 20, 2022

A Day in Asheville

 

We both love Asheville, and the fact that it's only a couple hours away allows us to visit fairly often.

Or, did - until COVID put us all in a travel standstill.

We went yesterday for the first time in a couple of years, and it was a perfect day.


Starting with some time at the Asheville Art Museum for the Three Generations of Wyeth Exhibit.











And some time at The Biltmore to see the Monet and Friends Exhibit.

































And some time admiring the gardens of Biltmore.



















The next immersive exhibit coming to the Biltmore is the Leonardo daVinci Immersive Exhibit




See ya soon!



Sunday, May 15, 2022

Peonies of Giverny



 I love peonies.


When Donald and I went to Paris in 2019 we chose the month of May so we could celebrate our wedding anniversary.


I also had a secret wish that we would be able to see lots of peonies.


But.


Our timing was a little off.


Mother Nature decided the peonies would arrive a little later that year.


There were a few small bouquets available in the floral shops, but we were told to check back in a week or maybe two.





We saw one small plot of peonies in Monet's gardens in Giverny.





















Maybe one of these days we'll be able to return when the peonies are in riotous full bloom.

Something to dream about and hope for.


Peonies in Paris.














Thursday, May 12, 2022

Bluejeans, baby



I feel as though I have spent my entire long life looking for that perfect pair of jeans. To wear with a kickass pair of boots.








I can remember being 19 years old, living in Atlanta (and LOVING the Atlanta of 1967) and searching for jeans.




Jeans that fit "just right."




Sometimes that meant dragging several pairs of jeans into the dressing room.




Size was a guess and an estimate, at best.




They needed to be tried on because size being "just right" in one style didn't mean diddly when it came to a different style.




Once found, they were treasured and cherished.




They just got better and better.




Softer and softer.




As i got older, it got more difficult to find the jeans i could grow to love as they aged along with me.




I started "borrowing" Donald's jeans and eventually making them my own.




In recent years jeans evolved from delicious 100% cotton denim into a fabric with spandex or some other oddly named made-up fabric that would fit "just right" for while, but then would sag a little with wearing.




Sag in the knees. Sag in the seat. Expand in the waist. These were not my jeans.




But.




I settled.




Shame on me!




I finally learned never to settle when it came to men and girlfriends, WHY settle for less than perfect jeans???




No more.




Never



Never ever ever.




There are some manufacturers making jeans the way jeans should be made.




100% cotton denim.




And after a washing or two (or more) they look and feel like a dear old friend.


 As loved as that favorite old teddy bear.








And I am, POOF, that 19 year old wild child loving life in the Atlanta of 1967 dressed in my favorite bluejeans, and a kickass pair of boots.






Thanks Hudson Jeans. I love you to the moon and back!








Dressing like it's 1967.


(Consider the fact that my personal bluejean style really hasn't changed much, if any, since then). 😁


This is me in either 2016 or '17 in a similar pair of jeans i found at Anthropologie.






I am a happy girl.




Life is good.


With the right pair of jeans and . . .

A pair of kick ass boots.


































Saturday, April 30, 2022

Ode To Common Things - by Pablo Neruda

 



I have a crazy,

crazy love of things.

I like pliers,

and scissors.

I love cups,

rings,

and bowls

-not to speak,

of course,

of hats.

I love all things,

not just the grandest,

also the infinite-ly

small -thimbles,

spurs,

plates,

and flower vases.

Oh yes,

the planet is sublime!

It’s full of pipes

weaving hand-held

through tobacco smoke,

and keys and salt shakers -everything,

I mean,

that is made

by the hand of man,

every little thing:

shapely shoes,

and fabric,

and each new

bloodless birth

of gold,

eye glasses

carpenter’s nails,

brushes,

clocks, compasses,

coins,

and the so-soft

softness of chairs.

Mankind has built

oh so many

perfect

things!

Built them of wool and of wood,

of glass and

of rope:

remarkable tables,

ships,

and stairways.

I love all things,

not because they are

passionate

or sweet-smelling

but because,

I don’t know,

because

this ocean is yours,

and mine;

these buttons

and wheels

and little

forgotten

treasures,

fans upon

whose feathers

love has scattered

its blossoms

glasses, knives and

scissors -all bear

the trace

of someone’s fingers

on their handle or surface,

the trace of a distant hand

lost

in the depths of forgetfulness.

I pause in houses,

streets and

elevators

touching things,

identifying objects

that I secretly covet;

this one because it rings,

that one because

it’s as soft

as the softness of a woman’s hip,

that one there for its deep-sea color,

and that one for its velvet feel.

O irrevocable

river

of things:

no one can say

that I loved

only

fish,

or the plants

of the jungle

and the field,

that I loved

only

those things

that leap

and climb,

desire,

and survive.

It’s not true:

many things conspired

to tell me the whole story.

Not only did they touch me,

or my hand touched them:

they were so close

that they were a part

of my being,

they were so alive with me

that they lived half my life

and will die half my death.


          - - - Pablo Neruda



Thursday, April 28, 2022

Shopping

 

I love to shop.


I refuse to think that's a bad thing.


It's not as though I'm depriving anyone of anything.  There's no baby here in need of new shoes.






I don't do it too often, but when i decide it's time for a spree, i do it right.


I need want a new frock for our upcoming trip to Birmingham to celebrate my in-laws' 70th wedding anniversary.


A pair of cute shoes?  Why not?!  



If you wait long enough, look long enough, dig deep enough, you can find that perfect little frock on sale (and the shoes too).


And this an interesting new phenomenon in shopping you may or may not know about.


  If you go to a retail site and pull up something you like, maybe even put it in your shopping bag, but then leave, well,  you might receive an email offering you a discount.  Yep.  That's a thing.   Big Brother knows what you like, and will offer you 25% off if you'll come back and buy it.


I like shopping at Outlets.  Sundance Catalog is one of my favorite places to shop, but I usually have to wait for their sales and free shipping days.  Sundance also has a fun outlet.  But don't rush - even there the prices will continue to drop.


  Poshmark is a fine fine fine place to dig for that Johnny Was/ Anthropologie/ Farm Rio/ Free People dress you're wishing for.  


I know some of these brands aren't for everyone.  


Don't judge.  


Shop for YOUR look.  


And good luck finding some steals.


Here's my most recent spree treasures - 










The Woman Who Shopped by Carol Ann Duffy

Sunday, April 24, 2022

The Art of Forgetting From Letters from Aldenderry by Philip Nikolayev




Last night I cooked my socks in the microwave
by mistake. What to do when you’re so absent
minded? As well, I have frequently
refrigerated my poems in the freezer
to the point of having to thaw them later,
and poetry’s what emerges in defrosting.
I have also lost to nature generations
of galoshes, coats, scarves, umbrellas,
even once an Egyptian skullcap,
whose individual names I forget.
The name of the czar escapes my mind
on whom was meant to be my dissertation,
or was it thesis. Water,
all kinds of water under the all-purpose bridge.
If I’ve forgotten so much, via absentmindedness mostly,
then how much have we forgotten as a species?
One day we learn, another forget
everything, including this fact.
It’s possible given enough time and effort
to forget anything,
which’s why we like to reminisce sometimes
on those even who’ve decided they don’t like us.
We’ll fight for our memories, the truth as it appeared once.
But to remember something we need to forget
something, a different truth. My grandmother
believed that if you dab any convenient spot on your body
with iodine daily
it will help you keep your memory in old age.
Head of the Marxism-Leninism chair
at the Ivanovo Energy Institute,
where she taught philosophy and scientific atheism,
she was the kindest soul, loved and spoiled me to distraction,
and her blueberry cakes were of course the best
in this world. Baptized as a child,
on her retirement to a small apartment in the Crimea
she read the Bible, perestroika raging all around.
Everyone wrote, thought and talked of
Stalin, Stalin, Stalin, Beria, Stalin.
She read the Bible, both the Testaments.
Thus dialectical materialism was forgotten
and an ancient faith recovered.
I too would like to forget a few things,
keep trying, but tend to forget instead
all the wrong ones, like submitting payments
by the due date, the need to tie my shoestrings.
Mnemosyne, and her daughters the Muses,
and her grandsons the museums…
Literature too is a museum,
as well as Lenin’s mausoleum,
which is essentially a tomb.
As you must of course know I’ve forgotten
the remote control on the bathroom sink
where my reflection in the crooked mirror
distracted me with its scowl.
This is earth life, but like hailing from outer space.
When my daughter was born,
I spent the night with her and my wife at the hospital
and went home the next day to clean the apartment.
I vacuumed the floor very thoroughly,
my thoughts soaring far and wide. Little did I notice
that the vacuum was running in blow out mode
so the condition of the floor changed
hardly at all. This still makes my wife laugh
and may indeed be worth remembering
against all death. While stress, duress and strain,
the painful neck crane
and other stuff rotten
are best forgotten.
     -  -  -  Philip Nikolayev

Saturday, April 23, 2022

Some Days by Philip Terman



Some days you have to turn off the news
and listen to the bird or truck
or the neighbor screaming out her life.
You have to close all the books and open
all the windows so that whatever swirls
inside can leave and whatever flutters
against the glass can enter. Some days
you have to unplug the phone and step
out to the porch and rock all afternoon
and allow the sun to tell you what to do.
The whole day has to lie ahead of you
like railroad tracks that drift off into gravel.
Some days you have to walk down the wooden
staircase through the evening fog to the river,
where the peach roses are closing,
sit on the grassy bank and wait for the two geese.

       - - -  Philip Terman


Friday, April 22, 2022

Strange Opera by George Bilgere



A dark-haired woman on the third floor
of an apartment building I am walking past
in elegiac September
steps onto her balcony to water the hydrangeas.
And this routine of hers
is inflected somewhat today
by the fact that she looks down
and sees me, and I look up and see her,
and we share a faint nod and smile of acknowledgement.
Acknowledgement of what?
Well, possibly we’re acknowledging
the infinite mystery of our separate lives,
so similar here on Earth
but so enormous in their differences,
the separate spheres in which we dwell.
That, and the fact
that our two immense mysteries just happened
to pass very closely on this September day,
they very nearly brushed against each other,
softly and delicately, like amorous galaxies.
And for a moment, as if we were in a strange opera,
I want to sing an aria about this to her
as she stands on her balcony with her hydrangeas.
The beauty and the sadness.
And then I realize that, well,
actually, this is just what life is,
a stupendous ongoing index
of all the things that don’t get to happen
because of all the other things that do get to happen.
Which is terribly sad,
but if you really think about it,
you can’t very well go around singing arias
about the sadness of every unrealized possibility,
every unblossomed hydrangea of existence.
All you’d be doing is singing arias every five minutes.
You’d never get anything done.

by George Bilgere

Thursday, April 21, 2022

Fictional Characters by Danusha Laméris

 



Do they ever want to escape?
Climb out of the white pages
and enter our world?
Holden Caulfield slipping in the movie theater
to catch the two o'clock
Anna Karenina sitting in a diner,
reading the paper as the waitress
serves up a cheeseburger.
Even Hector, on break from the Iliad,
takes a stroll through the park,
admires the tulips.
Maybe they grew tired
of the author's mind,
all its twists and turns.
Or were finally weary
of stumbling around Pamplona,
a bottle in each fist,
eating lotuses on the banks of the Nile.
For others, it was just too hot
in the small California town
where they'd been written into
a lifetime of plowing fields.
Whatever the reason,
here they are, roaming the city streets
rain falling on their phantasmal shoulders.
Wouldn't you, if you could?
Step out of your own story,
to lean against a doorway
of the Five & Dime, sipping your coffee,
your life, somewhere far behind you,
all its heat and toil nothing but a tale
resting in the hands of a stranger,
the sidewalk ahead wet and glistening.

- - - Danusha Laméris