Another tour Around My Neighbor's Garden

Some people are gardeners and other people enjoy gardens. I fit into the later category.

After the Rain

I often find that the rain disrupts plans, but during the warm months rain evokes memories.

Caught in a downpour on a hike to a waterfall in Shenendoah National Park and taking shelter under a rock overhang. Watching the raindrops meld with rushing water.

Walking in puddles when I wore galoshes and a yellow raincoat.

Sitting on a knoll with a school friend,  lost in thought when the rain began and just remaining sitting and talking until we wrung water out of our jackets and moved under a tree-- still talking.

Tasting raindrops on the tip of my tongue.

Thinking of the Olympics

Some happenings have more than one ending.The one in real time, the other upon reflection. They belong to the category of "if I could go back in time."

It isn't worthwhile dwelling in the "what ifs". The past is written in indelible ink--before erasable ink pens were on the market.

I'm not thinking of major endings.

Perhaps if I opted to take my swim lessons beyond my first tadpole badge...

Perhaps if I didn't give up on making a somersault...

My Neighbor's Garden

If I depended upon my own garden my photos would lack color. Green predominates my outdoor space. Several years ago I planted ground cover in a small section in front of my house. How was to know that this bland looking plant would be deemed invasive this year.

I knew something was amiss when the ground cover muscled its way over three hostas, surrounded a boxwood,and choked a low lying stone frog. The ground cover grew from a low mass to a plant on stilts.

It had to go--dug up, thrown out.

Kids

The topic for the month—kids. I strayed away. So here's my "kids" post. After teaching learning disabled youngsters for "lo" those many years I know how magical thinking begins to take hold by the end of July. One youngster told me that he truly believed that when he returned to school all the letters would stay in their rightful places and not change their sounds for no apparent reason.

"By the time I reached middle school I knew that writing a paper still presented more problems than the medal I won in swimming, the tricks I learned on my skateboard, or learning how to take apart a computer."

They'll come with their new notebooks, just sharpened pencils, a new assignment pad, and a hope that they will blend into the class.

So if you teach—give a first assignment where they can fly. Everyone deserves an A occasionally. I remember Brendan who brought in all the materials necessary to give a demo on Fly Tying.

The assignment: a new skill learned during the summer. Choice: Write about attaining the skill or give a handson-on demo with handouts. He received an A for both the handouts and the presentation. Not a gift— an honest A.

Seeing is Believing

I found this small hand-blown glass vial at an antique store— dwarfed by enameled vases, silver silent butlers,and ornate "almost like new" items.

Dimensions: Height— as tall as my middle finger, Width two fingers and thick set. Stubby compared to a delicate wine glass or a tall bud vase. Click a fingernail against one side and no resounding bell like sound.

It holds three pieces of sea glass, edges smoothed by the ocean, rounded by the tumbling of waves.

Dropped to the floor, rolled off a table, turned into something to catch—never broken, never chipped.

I Need a Bigger Plate

You can't do everything. In fact you can't do most of what you think you want to do. It's always about picking and choosing. Create a list of priorities. Fold the paper in half. One side: what you have to do and the other side what you want to do. Move things from one side to the other side. Buy a large red marker and cross out items. Get a scissors and snip away at things until you have a manageable piece of paper. Then fold it carefully into a paper hat or a paper airplane. Wear it to a parade or fly it out the window.

Just get a bigger plate.

A Summer Day

Today's humidity soared past the point of discomfort into that space reserved for boiler type heat. We walked before breakfast, before the heat took itself seriously, before walking up a small hill felt like ascending  a 10,000  foot peak.

A quick thunderstorm broke the back of the humidity. Now a cool breeze reminds me if how a perfect summer day is something to remember during the winter.

And what is perfect? It's a day that takes you back in time to a summer day after school ended for the year.

A time when grass tickled and a blade of grass held tight became a whistle, when a kite flew beyond the clouds, when strips of fly paper hung from the ceiling, when fireflies lit up the night and crickets harmonized.

Why Fix Something?

Glues for every hobby, for fixing pottery, adhering one surface to another—strong, durable, transparent or semi-permanent, meant to hold something in place for a moment, or for as long as it takes to decide on whether to cement one thing to another.

Cement a relationship with shared memories. Cement the handle on a favorite mug. Glue a collage of a trip the family took to the Grand Canyon or white water rafting or the surprise party.

Suppose a relationship stopped before enough memories were gathered, suppose it fractured and years and years pass? One person says too much time has passed—what shall we talk about? The other person dips into memories decades old and says how about starting here?

Why?

A shelf full of glues, mediums, cements,velcro tapes, buttons, zippers, and nothing that adheres to a why.

It Isn't Worth Fixing

When somethings broken, not working right
you fix it if you can, if not
scrap it, call it old, junk it,
move it to the basement
with other relics
stuck in corners
forgotten
passé
now

Fixing Things Can be Messy

When the old middle school—but at the time referred to as a the junior high school—began to fall apart and the cost of repairing a senile boiler, checking for mold, caulking the cracks, scraping decades of wax out of every corner, replacing outdated and unusable chalk boards, fixing leaky pipes and toilets became overwhelming a new school replaced the old school.

The school underwent a metamorphosis. It became a cluster of studios for artists. The boiler, repaired to a point—mold relegated to the basement level—leaks contained, chalkboards removed or painted, wax left as a reminder of the June cleaning when the school janitor spread a thick glossy wax over the floors. Often what was underneath simply became a collage covered by liquid wax—no prior wax was ever stripped.

The entrance, transformed into a gallery space, sparkled. Some of the basement studios still sport a primordial scent.

Windows no longer kept the outside out in the winter time. Wind and occasional snow drifted inside. The cost of replacing windows was prohibitive. Instead of replacement the windows were caulked with an orange putty which probably has a specific name—I'll refer to to it as goop.

I expect that it works well enough. The building seems warm enough and the orange putty only appears on the back of the building and on the lower windows. Solutions sometimes are messy.

I think it's a metaphor for day to day existence—fixing things can be messy, not all tied up with a ribbon, not even the best solution.

Is It Time?

What a horrific event last night. We may never know why the gunman methodically planned and killed so many people at a movie theatre. What we do know is that he purchased four guns and thousands of rounds of ammunition-- all purchased legally.

Why does anyone need assault rifles or guns that are capable of shooting over and over without stopping to reload? This isn't a small gun.This is a weapon that one might see in the hands of a terrorist or an army assault unit.

It seems that every four or five years we hear of yet another case of mayhem resulting in the deaths of innocent individuals.

When will be look in the mirror and recognize our need to get beyond petty differences and ask the serious questions about what we can do about guns.

Fictive History

Am I getting stodgy or mired in preconceived notions of what I like in a photo? I went to an exhibit today that was experimental—I guess. I like abstracts, non-representational art, colors that fight one another—but this exhibit seemed slip shod.

It isn't enough to announce that you're flirting with cutting edge unless your flirtation amounts to something—if you're going to display your work.

Mixed in with these pedestrain photos were some interesting pieces that recomposed images. I liked the way an image could be taken apart and put together again—and again.

Isn't that the way we retell our stories?

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Why?

Why would someone hack into my blog and redirect the blog to a site that no longer exists?

After checking with a number of people I figured out how to correct the issue—but I'm still stuck with why?

I guess the only answer is if you can why not? Fortunately this didn't take me hours to correct.

Maybe I'm old fashioned, but I do believe that you respect someone's privacy—that means you don't rifle through drawers, open up someone's mail, peer over shoulders, or playfully or maliciously hack into someone's blog.

I'll accept the Victorian moniker and continue to see hacking as a disruptive malicious activity.

Symbols

We resonate to symbols. They refresh dormant memories. Our stories—the sinews of the past—become new again.

Patterns

 

 

No one brushed aside the spider webs between the metal poles—perhaps no one noticed the gossamer threads. Poles extended for a length of twenty or thirty feet and the webs formed a connecting link between each pole and its neighbor.

Usually I find webs aesthetically pleasing when they're strung between tree branches, or from flower to flower—but these between rusted and chipped metal poles were different. They reminded me of the webs found in the corner of a basement—the ones I swatted down with an old broom.

So I really looked at them, stared at the myriad patterns highlighted by the afternoon sun and dubbed them urban webs.

 

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When Even the Water Looks Hot

Even though I have an aversion to bitterly cold weather I must admit that days and days of hot and humid weather is taxing. Instead of taking a walk whenever the mood suits me I find myself selecting early morning hours and dusk for long walks. I can't imagine living in a geographic area where people think nothing of temperatures that hover near 100 degrees or above.

This hot weather alters plans, causes water shortages, bursts of electrical overloads, and addled minds. I've noticed that people cross the street without looking, cyclists forget that they have only two wheels and ride as if they had four, the libraries gain patrons, people back up without looking, movie theaters sell out their shows, frozen dinners and take outs gain in popularity, and the local meteorologists vie with AccuWeather for accuracy.

But what about the people living in homes without either fans or air conditioners? What about people in apartments without cross ventilation?

I recall my childhood apartment in the Bronx—three rooms on the first floor. On summer evenings when it was blisteringly oppressive, people sat outside until it cooled off enough to return to the apartment.

I don't recall having a fan, but I do remember my mother telling me that if I ran cold water over my ankles and wrists I'd feel cool.

My mother's friend Bea Miller soaked a cotton scarf in a bowl of ice water, wrung it out, and wrapped it around her head.

My father simply ignored the heat and picked up another book to read. The hotter the week the heavier the book.

 

 

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Some Solutions Are Messy

When the old middle school—but at the time referred to as a the junior high school—began to fall apart and the cost of repairing a senile boiler, checking for mold, caulking the cracks, scraping decades of wax out of every corner, replacing outdated and unusable chalk boards, fixing leaky pipes and toilets became overwhelming, a new school replaced the old school.

The school underwent a metamorphosis. It became a cluster of studios for artists. The boiler, repaired to a point—mold relegated to the basement level—leaks contained, chalkboards removed or painted, wax left as a reminder of the June cleaning when the school janitor spread a thick glossy wax over the floors. Often what was underneath simply became a collage covered by liquid wax—no prior wax was ever stripped.

The entrance, transformed into a gallery space, sparkled.

Some of the basement studios still experience a primordial scent.

This photo was taken outside. Windows no longer kept the outside out in the winter time. Wind and occasional snow drifted inside. The cost of replacing windows was prohibitive. Instead of replacement the windows were caulked with an orange putty which probably has a specific name—I'll refer to to it as goop.

I expect that it works well enough. The building seems warm enough and the orange putty only appears on the back of the building and on the lower windows. Solutions sometimes are messy.

I think it's a metaphor for day to day existence—fixing things can be messy, not all tied up with a ribbon, not even the best solution.

An Early Story

I know this isn't a geranium nor any flower you'd find in a self-respecting garden. It's a flower that exists, but only in my memory.

" The Geranium" by Flannery O'connor was one of her earliest short stories —written and published before she put together her MFA master's thesis. From 1946—1965 "The Geranium" underwent four re-writes or four versions. I expect that meant a fondness for the story.

When I lived in Maryland —in a neighborhood of southerners transplanted from Mississippi and Louisiana— a neighbor suggested I read Flannery and lent me a thick anthology of her stories.

I read the first story and kept going and began again. This early story isn't as powerful or artfully written as later work, but it's the seed.

All her stories tapped into something—grace, redemption, a way of seeing the world.

Tea Party

Remember when you made mud pies and announced that they were for dinner? Possibly no one else has that particular experience.

After reading Alice in Wonderland, I borrowed four of my mother's tea cups and held a tea party in the lobby of our apartment building. Mrs. Schiller, who lived on the ground floor, heard the rattling of cups and opened her door.

" Parties need music, " she said before she ducked back into her house and reappeared dragging a large Grundig radio.

" It even gets short wave."

My friend Annie brought Oreo cookies, Nina brought a jar filled with lemonade."

Mrs.Schiller taught us how to waltz to the short wave static and how to curtsy properly.

"You never know when the King of Diamonds will visit, " she said.

 

 

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Languages

Every two weeks one of the languages spoken by a group of people dies—extinguished. At the present time about 7,000 languages exist. With this rate of loss only half of those languages will remain in 2100.

The "big" languages take over and the languages spoken by fringe communities die out or in some cases are forced out.

Just the way we list endangered flora and fauna we list endangered languages. A language must meet specific criteria—and there are criteria for the different levels of danger. You start with vulnerable—children know how to speak the language, but use it at home and not out in the larger society. At the next level children aren't taught the language at home. This is a quick slide down the ladder to critically endangered where several elderly adults retain a vocabulary.

Google has launched an Endangered Language Project

National Geographic began an Enduring Voices Project

Explore Endangered Languages Online

This project started in 2010.

"Every spoken language in the world may have part of the Bible written in their own heart language within 15 years because of new technological advances as well as translation strategies.

Wycliffe Bible Translators, the world’s largest scripture translation organisation, believes Bible translation into all of the remaining 2,200 languages used by some 350 million people is possible by 2025."

Since learning new languages is not my long suit I settled for adopting an endangered word.

If you're interested check out Save the Words

I'm contemplating adopting pseudisodomous.

Before I sign the adoption paper I must promise to use pseudisodomous in conversation and correspondence as frequently as possible.

The contractor, known for building psedisodomous walls, often ended up in court.

If I just Had...

The assignment was to begin with negative space. In fact the assignment was to remain with negative space. I moved our Lucky Bamboo plant—which is really not a bamboo plant—to the kitchen counter.

Nothing worked according to plan—the negative spaces didn't show a plant. In fact they looked like erratic splotches. Not wanting to call it a dismal failure I added some positive shapes which really didn't fit, but it certainly looked better then the color patches with no connecting links.

At least I knew when to stop.

I've started projects that didn't work, but not wanting to shout disaster I added more and more. One mixed media project gained weight as I pasted found items to an already heavy wood board. That didn't look right so I painted the entire board with a gloss medium—a thick substantial medium.

I added tree bark, mulch and pebbles for texture. As a last salvage effort I cut out words, phrases, sayings from National Geographic magazines—found in the library magazine bin.

"The world's heaviest snakes, green anacondas ..." covered some bark.
Then I stopped—skidded to a halt.

"There's nothing more to do...at this time."

Blind Drawing of Five Chairs

When you take a flower in your hand
and really look at it, it's your world for the moment.
—Georgia O'Keeefe

Don't look at your paper. Keep your eyes riveted to the object. Try to replicate reality without seeing reality. You'll need to gloss over the imperfections, the subtle turns, and the intricate workmanship. Perhaps chair legs will float and a tea spout will be detached.

When I tried to draw a glass vase its shape turned into a replica of an eggplant. I returned to chairs.

My chairs lacked legs or backs or gained arms and shared legs. Later—I gave some of the lines additional depth in an attempt to discover a form.

To really see something requires patience and a hand that moves slowly—seductively over the contours, the spaces, the unseen places.

To really see something you need to wait and see it at all hours, to observe shadows and the way light alters lines.

To really see something means forgetting what you think something should look like.


drawing based on prompt from "The Art of Silliness" by Carla Sonheim

The Leavings

On Saturday my copy of
The American Poetry Review arrived.
Stefi Weisburd's poem "The Griefs" caught my attention.

I like the form. Her poem was an impetus—
but quite different.

The Leavings


The leaving of a friend for another geography
The leaving of strings still attached
To banter over tea
The scones still waiting to cool
The leaving of chairs pulled out and pushed back
The leaving of a parent while waiting to talk
Of what ifs and whose left
To polish silver place settings
To divide the spoons and dessert forks
The leaving of a parent who forgot
Prayers learned when words held fire
And God stayed in the next room
The leaving of a child
A photo on the refrigerator door
A door jam near the front door

Linda ©2012

The Era of Big

According to people who spend lots of time involved in research, the first chairs were probably invented by the Egyptians—and they were reserved for royalty. Plebeians used stools. We still accord the chair some honorary status—the first chair in orchestras, the Chair of the English Department. And we have chairpersons, chairman of the board...

Chairs didn't seem to be designed for comfort in those early years. In fact when I go to the museum and see chairs from the 18th century they seem a bit off-putting. I like a seat with give and a soft back —not spongy, but not like a board.

Of course chairs needed to be cognizant of dress trends so that their occupants could , if not comfortably, at least fit into the chair.

Now we have ergonomic chairs and chairs that suggest you consult your doctor first before purchasing—that is if you've had back surgery. Chairs that fit you if you're under or over a specified height. Recently I went into a store looking for a chair for a short person—me. Every chair the salesperson suggested cut me either where my knee bends or left my legs dangling.

"Don't you have a chair that has a shorter seat depth."

"No."

This is the era of big—big burgers, super sized fries, jumbo drinks, movie popcorn containers two hands high—so why not big chairs.

"I suggest," she said, "that you have a chair made to order."

I wonder if there are any Do It Yourself books on making chairs? In the meantime I'll sit on my old chair and relish the time before things got so big.

Not Just a Catalog

We all collect things—some are in plain view while others languish in boxes or drawers. I could, if I allowed myself the freedom to collect with a wild abandonment, fill up every space in my house. Most of the items would be of little monetary value.

A friend of mine collected unicorns and amassed a quality collection of kitsch—prominently displayed in every available spot. When she tired of unicorns she started collecting three inch ceramic shoes. She normally wore comfortable boots, but her ceramic shoes sported heels.

I find that my treasure trove is tethered to a memory or story. They act like the native American storytellers.

Take the rock , which is really a rich mud color, and hand polished by a friend whose husband said it was a meditative experience. When I pick it up and feel the smooth surface I'm right back in her kitchen listening to the geology behind the rock.

drawing based on prompt from "The Art of Silliness" by Carla Sonheim

Listening

Who can help it if someone's book is visible or their conversation intrudes into your space?

Whenever I'm in a coffee house—and before I settle down to my own work—I'm aware of those other dwellers. I say dwellers because we all have a certain attitude and accouterments—usually books, paper, pens, electronic gear and a way of settling into a chair that indicates prolonged occupancy.

My eyes wander, as do theirs. We pick up snippets of conversation. Sometimes we even engage in book discussions before settling down.

Before too long we recognize each other—nod.

I try not to appear intrusive, but I'm not always successful. Two men were discussing the "God" particle.

"It's the cornerstone of existence."
"Everything fits."

When another man joined them he said, "Do you understand any of this?"

A woman at another table said, " I'm certain my church is not going to replace Jesus with a particle."


photo based on prompt from "The Art of Silliness" by Carla Sonheim

The Challenge of the Zoo

My first zoo was The Bronx Zoo—one of the premier zoos on the East coast. Even as a youngster I wondered about keeping animals in cages for all of us to stand back and stare.

Strange.

Of course it allowed me to see animals that I'd never see unless I went to their natural habitat and that that was out of the question. Obviously you can't go galavanting all around the universe seeking out the animals you find in books.

And being wary of large animals in strange places I expect that even given the opportunity I'd decline. There are lots of places, things I can't see in person—which allows me the wonderful chance to read about them in books.

I've been on the Nile, climbed Everest, sat in a rocket—even walked on the moon. I've visited ancient tombs while never leaving my living room. I remember seeing a television series in the '80s based on the hunting exploits of Frank "BRing them back alive" Buck. I expect that I'd find Frank's exploits rather distasteful now.

Zoos—I'm not sure.


drawing based on prompt from "The Art of Silliness" by Carla Sonheim

Ready to Go Out

Some people are aware of all the new fashions—the colors, the cut of clothes, what's in and what's out. I've never been interested, but I am amazed at how the word spreads. "This is the new color for summer."

"Five inch heels are in."

If I attempted to walk on anything besides a flat comfortable show—preferably sandals save for the winter time—I'd fall over. Is there a correlation between a burning desire to walk a tightrope and wearing stilettos?

I did read that the waist has returned for the fall—and to think I never knew it had disappeared.

Also I noted that the clothes will be "more manly." Does that mean that boots will have five inch heels?



drawing based on prompt from "The Art of Silliness" by Carla Sonheim

Lunch TIme

Without too much fanfare or careful rendition of the precise form and markings of birds, I've created a family of birds. Usually I spend quite a bit of time attempting to get the proportions correct, to have the drawing bear a resemblance to the real. So being encouraged to play, to forget about getting something right feels airy.

I didn't worry about composition or color or value—thats for another day.

I consider these drawing activities similar to pre-writing. It's that place where you're not quite sure about how to start or what it is you really want to say. So you just pick up your pencil, or place your fingers on the keys and begin to write.

As for my birds—it's probably two families.


drawing based on prompt from "The Art of Silliness" by Carla Sonheim

Another Theme

Since the theme for the month is "kids" —starting tomorrow I'm going to post my drawings, sketches and doodles garnered from "The Art of Silliness"—an online drawing course offered by Carla Sonheim.

This seemed a perfect course for the summer—nothing taking too much time, nor requiring too many supplies. And I like the concept of spontaneous fun.