tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1761754337295856502024-02-20T21:36:49.755-05:00distilled from starsJeannine Peregrine online journal. Photographs. Art Journals. Old movies. Books. Cats. Writing. Painting.Jeanninehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06644671003520375776noreply@blogger.comBlogger15125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-176175433729585650.post-58339104056698893182015-09-19T00:00:00.000-04:002015-09-19T00:00:06.914-04:00Waterloo Bridge (1931)<div style="text-align: center;">
<img alt="whybegood_banner" class="size-large wp-image-13978 aligncenter" height="335" src="https://nitratediva.files.wordpress.com/2015/09/whybegood_banner.jpg?w=584&h=335" width="450" /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
TCM Discoveries Blogathon hosted by <a href="https://nitratediva.wordpress.com/tcm-discoveries-blogathon/" target="_blank">The Nitrate Diva.</a><br />
<br />
The truth is, except for a handful of classic films - <i>Gone With the Wind, Miracle on 34th Street, Roman Holiday, Casablanca, The Philadelphia Story</i>, and a Shirley Temple movie or two - all of the classic films I've discovered and grown to cherish, have come by way of <a href="http://www.tcm.com/" target="_blank">Turner Classic Movies</a>, and each new-to-me film discovery is an abiding pleasure.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Which brings me to <i>Waterloo Bridge</i>, the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Motion_Picture_Production_Code" target="_blank">pre-code</a> version from 1931, not to be confused with the 1940 version starring Vivien Leigh which, up to this summer, was the only version I knew existed until TCM ran it in August as part of their Summer Under the Stars film festival tribute to Mae Clarke. Frankly, I wasn't inclined to watch. I believed I'd seen everything there was to see in the 1940 "definitive" version.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Phfffbbtt. How wrong I was.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The plot of our film, simplified: Roy Cronin, an American serving in the Canadian Army on leave from the trenches of WWI falls in love with fellow American Myra Deauville, an out-of-work chorus girl turned prostitute. They meet on Waterloo Bridge in London during an air raid as they help an old woman gather her spilled basket of potatoes and guide her underground to safety. The rest of the film is devoted to Myra reconciling her shame about her situation to Roy's feelings for her (and hers for him) and Roy's attempts to marry and save her, all the while fighting against circumstance as his leave whittles down the time they have to create a happily ever after for themselves.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What struck me about this film wasn't the story, necessarily, but the characters and their renderings by two actors I had never heard of.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mae Clarke plays Myra Deauville, and does a brilliant job of conveying the contrasting Myras – playful, sassy, confident chorus girl (and sporting a darling heart-shaped beauty mark on her cheek) and steely eyed, edgy, jaded prostitute (and sporting a once stylish fur around her neck that now just screams cheap). This isn't just a change of clothes, mind you. The transformation is in her eyes and in the few, impeccable mannerisms Clarke employs. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-HsCNW8jwNak/VfzAj4jbw1I/AAAAAAAAB9w/okm6IwbkoPE/s1600/mae%2Bclarke%2Bchorus%2Bgirl.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-HsCNW8jwNak/VfzAj4jbw1I/AAAAAAAAB9w/okm6IwbkoPE/s320/mae%2Bclarke%2Bchorus%2Bgirl.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ppiJCkWgYlI/VfzBQ46ROxI/AAAAAAAAB-U/NDmKU-894sM/s1600/mae%2Bclarke%2Bagain.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ppiJCkWgYlI/VfzBQ46ROxI/AAAAAAAAB-U/NDmKU-894sM/s1600/mae%2Bclarke%2Bagain.png" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
In an early scene, Myra has invited Roy to her flat after the all clear and after wheedling him out of a shilling for the gas meter and sack of fish-and-chips for dinner, they talk, have a few laughs (and one misunderstanding, quickly resolved) and we see Myra softening towards Roy. After escorting Roy out with promises to meet the next day, she shuts the door, walks to her vanity and sits down in front of the mirror. In the reflection we see her now flat eyes as she yanks her cloche over her head, jabs her curls underneath, and applies three slashes of lipstick to her mouth that bears the merest trace of a of a snarl. Any lightheartedness of a few moments before is – poof – gone. She’s determined to get her rent, and resigned to her means of doing so.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Other small moments that Clarke writs large: <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Cronin at one point asks Myra if she has anyone particular overseas, someone she maybe knits socks for and if not, maybe she’d like to be that for him. A day or two later, alone in her flat, she’s wearing a little house dress, sitting in front of her little table, puffing on a cigarette dangling from her mouth, taking frantic sips of tea, all the while squinting at a how-to-knit guide with needles and a half completed something in her hands. <a href="https://twitter.com/nitratediva/status/634530238224015361" target="_blank">It’s a funny moment</a> and charming – the hard-edged Myra testing out something homey and hopeful.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In another scene, she spills the beans about her circumstances to Roy's mother and when his mother asks if she loves Roy, Myra looks at her, widens her eyes, and gives two tiny nods – yes – and walks quickly out the door. Some actresses might have gone all melodramatic here, but those two little nods – perfection.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
For Clarke, the entire film involves the push and pull of Myra moving towards the love Roy is offering and withdrawing out of shame, the tension of telling him she loves him and denying it and repeating this tug-of-war within herself over and over. On multiple viewings of the film, this back and forth explains a few moments that could be considered melodramatic, but no. For Myra, the struggle is real.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-APOo2VkZ3zw/VfzA2vOyCfI/AAAAAAAAB-A/XQm5FGVJcPY/s1600/mae%2Bclarke%2Bair%2Braid.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="238" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-APOo2VkZ3zw/VfzA2vOyCfI/AAAAAAAAB-A/XQm5FGVJcPY/s320/mae%2Bclarke%2Bair%2Braid.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Our soldier, Roy Cronin, is portrayed by Kent Douglass (billed in other films as Douglass Montgomery). In <a href="http://www.abebooks.com/servlet/BookDetailsPL?bi=17087815681&searchurl=sts%3Dt%26tn%3Dfeatured+player%26sortby%3D20" target="_blank">Featured Player: An Oral Biography of Mae Clarke</a>, Clarke relates a story about director James Whale’s attempts to work with Douglass’s clumsiness with props of which there are significant number in this film: his military uniform, satchel, swagger stick and rifle, an enormous and ungainly bouquet of flowers and a box from a dress shop.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Whether a credit to director, Douglass’s quickness on the uptake, or dumb luck (or combination thereof), it’s this awkwardness (hacking the bread he shares with Myra, neglecting to wring a soaking wet compress before applying it to Clarke’s forehead and drenching her in the process) that brings earnest Roy Cronin to life.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It doesn’t hurt at all that Douglass is achingly handsome with an infectious laugh and a bright smile fit for toothpaste adds. Awkward and somewhat naive though he may be, there is a moment when he professes his love to Myra and stutters half a beat, that is quite possibly the most endearing moment in the entire film.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Cronin eventually discovers the truth about Myra’s means of support from the mouth of her shrewish landlady Mrs. Hobley. As he is absorbing the newly revealed truth of Myra’s plight, Mrs. Hobley lectures on about associating with fancy girls with painted faces (like Myra) leading to sin and pain, and he shuts her down, barking “shut your dirty face” and walks out the door. One gets the feeling he could’ve clocked her and one almost wishes he would have.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-956B4y-TwXw/VfzBJpTr1WI/AAAAAAAAB-I/s6Ne0FuuMMU/s1600/mae%2Bclarke%2Blandlady.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="235" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-956B4y-TwXw/VfzBJpTr1WI/AAAAAAAAB-I/s6Ne0FuuMMU/s320/mae%2Bclarke%2Blandlady.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If you haven’t seen the film, the happy ending is achieved only fleetingly. After confirming he knows the truth about her (and to our Roy it matters not at all), Myra finally agrees to marry him. A few hasty kisses in front of a truck full of jeering soldiers and under the beginnings of an air raid, Roy boards the truck to return to the front and drives away, and mere moments later, a few steps away from where they first met on Waterloo Bridge, Myra is obliterated by a German bomb. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A close up of her raggedy fur and the M medallion on her purse, and fini. To add insult to the injury of a decidedly non-happy ending, the outro music is the jaunty and tinny chorus number that opens the film. Talk about discordant. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There is no happy ending, but like me, you can always misremember the real ending, watch and enjoy the film one more time, and try to convince yourself - as I do - it surely will end differently this time.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Other notable players in this film</b>:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Bette Davis plays Roy Cronin’s younger sister. Davis is charming in this small role – light and girlish with a sweet smile. By some accounts, Davis was incredibly upset that she didn’t land the role of Myra and was not friendly with Clarke during filming. Clarke is so good in this part, I really can’t envision Davis in it at all.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Myra’s friend and fellow prostitute, Kitty, played by Doris Lloyd, provides much needed comic relief as she does her best to convince Roy that Myra is helpless and needs marrying, and speaks in a British accent, dropping all h’s so in one line referring to a fictional dead husband she says, “he was young, ‘andsome, and full of ‘ope”. One can almost envision Elsa Lanchester in this role if one were recasting. This one also thinks it might be fun to talk like this for an entire day.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Both Rita Carlisle (the old woman on the bridge) and Ethel Griffies (Mrs. Hobley) reprise similar roles briefly in the 1940 version.</div>
Jeanninehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06644671003520375776noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-176175433729585650.post-36490854785823633842015-02-27T18:31:00.000-05:002015-02-27T18:33:06.637-05:00snow<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-armZZDjMN5I/VPD42IYSvCI/AAAAAAAAB3Q/-eoAGhEy3I0/s1600/snow%2Btree.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-armZZDjMN5I/VPD42IYSvCI/AAAAAAAAB3Q/-eoAGhEy3I0/s1600/snow%2Btree.JPG" height="400" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>sloppy snow, weighing down the shoulders of the trees out back.<br />Thursday morning.</i><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<i>
</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<i>"Is it snowing where you are? All the world that I see from my tower is draped in white and the flakes are coming down as big as pop-corns. It's late afternoon - the sun is just setting (a cold yellow color) behind some colder violet hills, and I am up in my window seat using the last light to write to you." </i><br />
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>(Jean Webster, Daddy-Long-Legs, published 1912 </i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>made into a film starring Mary Pickford in 1919).</i></div>
<i><br /></i>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-R1wHvDaAUek/VPD976P3rQI/AAAAAAAAB3g/kWHxB4Z5GAw/s1600/Daddy_Long_Legs_Poster.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-R1wHvDaAUek/VPD976P3rQI/AAAAAAAAB3g/kWHxB4Z5GAw/s1600/Daddy_Long_Legs_Poster.jpg" height="400" width="270" /></a></div>
</div>
Jeanninehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06644671003520375776noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-176175433729585650.post-1239829879463120922014-06-02T15:34:00.000-04:002014-06-02T15:45:31.133-04:00blog tour mondayThanks to the most wonderful, <a href="http://www.emmatree.com/" target="_blank">Debi</a>, for asking me to play.<br />
<br />
Some thoughts on my creative process as it is right this moment. A snapshot, if you will.<br />
<br />
* * *<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>What am I working on?</b><br />
I'm in the midst of an informal and unplanned hiatus from my usual mediums of painting/paper arts and writing. I'm tending a container herb garden on my back deck. Transcribing an almost-100-year-old diary kept by young Pennsylvania woman. Cutting, pressing, and stitching units together for a quilt. Yapping on Facebook. Settling in to a new job. Daydreaming. Night dreaming. Listening to The Beach Boys on an endless loop.<br />
<br />
<b>How does my work differ from others in its genre?</b><br />
I don’t really think about genres when it comes to what I do.<br />
<br />
<b>Why do I write/create what I do?</b><br />
An answer with two parts:<br />
<br />
<b><i>Part I</i></b><br />
<a href="http://distilledfromstars.blogspot.com/2013/10/walk-boardwalk-circle-turret-pass.html" target="_blank">Notice things closely, and remember.</a><br />
<br />
<b><i>Part II:</i></b><br />
In the documentary Man on a Wire, Philippe Petit - the man who surreptitiously strung a tightrope between the Twin Towers in New York City in 1974 and spent the better part of an hour walking, sitting, squatting, and dancing on it - is asked what compels him to do these sorts of daredevil things and he says people ask him this all the time, and even as he’s answering the question, he’s walking away from the camera, waving his hands dismissively, saying he leaves the whys to the psychiatrists, he’s too busy to <i>doing</i> his thing to analyze <i>why</i> this is his thing.<br />
<br />
I love that.<br />
<br />
Does it really matter why? I can. I want to.<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/OpQCUXNo5GI" width="500"></iframe><br />
<br />
<br />
<b>How does my writing/creative process work?</b><br />
All I know for sure is it ebbs and flows, has its own rhythms, spells, and moods, and because I am not seeking to monetize or market my work, I don’t force anything. If it isn’t fun (and by fun I mean absorbing, not necessarily happy, skipping, la la la “fun”) there isn’t any reason for doing it at all.<br />
<br />
Mostly, it’s a mystery. It brings to mind surfing, what I understand of it, anyway. Paddle out toward the horizon, squint, sit, wait, watch. See a wave that looks right, hop on the board, and ride it for as long as you can – sometimes only a few feet, sometimes all the way home.<br />
<br />
What makes me happiest, the thing that feels rightest to me: going out into the world and looking around, coming home and writing it, painting, it, remembering it all down.<br />
<br />
* * *<br />
<br />
And now, over to next week's participants:<br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17.940000534057617px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><a href="http://holliesessoms.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Hollie Sessoms</a> is a girl from nowhere who routinely neglects family, friends, and health to spend time with her imaginary friends on Microsoft Word. She is passionate about spaces in between, Sunday afternoon, and fall leaves that crunch underfoot. Once, when she was young, she saw an orca breach in the sea off the Alaska coast. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17.940000534057617px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><a href="http://www.sandylupton.com/" target="_blank">Sandy Lupton</a>
is a lifelong learner, graphic designer, painter, mixed media and jewelry
artist from Courtland, Virginia. She loves the beach, John Wayne movies, polka
dotted dogs, beer and her family & friends with all her heart. She may have
warped her brain a little by watching too many 70's sitcoms as a child.</span><o:p></o:p>Jeanninehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06644671003520375776noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-176175433729585650.post-67762987549103469312014-04-30T18:32:00.002-04:002015-11-25T09:07:16.428-05:00I want I want I want<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-KltF0T1Vjus/U18HotCc_RI/AAAAAAAABus/qkVWK7hK3VY/s1600/lake+prince.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-KltF0T1Vjus/U18HotCc_RI/AAAAAAAABus/qkVWK7hK3VY/s1600/lake+prince.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">the tannin in the water like a lake full of root beer<br />
Lake Prince 4/26/14</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I want to learn how to fold a tiny paper crane. And plant a moon garden in containers. Maybe take piano lessons from my neighbor. I want to rip canvas off stretchers and bind them into a book the size of an atlas to house my abstract paintings. I want to write a poem. And publish another zine under my <a href="https://www.etsy.com/shop/extrapicklespress" target="_blank">Extra Pickles Press</a> concern from another lifetime ago. I want to cook a<a href="http://food52.com/recipes/27955-teriyaki-duck-breast" target="_blank"> duck breast</a> for dinner on a soon Sunday. And next Wednesday stop at Doumar's for a limeade on my way back from making the bank deposit at work. I want to mark x's, in big fat marker, to count down the days to Ann Arbor or Bust 2014 in October. I want to listen to <a href="http://thecivilwars.com/" target="_blank">The Civil Wars</a> next album, the new one they haven't made yet, the one I so very much hope they get to eventually. I want to discover that someone, somehow, leaked the TCM 2014 Summer Under the Stars schedule somewhere on the internets so I can see if Jean Arthur gets her day this year.<br />
<br />
And I want to write whatever I want here. Whenever and whyever I want.<br />
<br />
I want I want I want.<br />
<br />
No apologies for this all this wanting, which, for all its quantity, weighs not very much at all. As I knew it would, the new job jostled loose some fossilized and possibly irrational guilt I had around about my working life. My free time is bought and paid for now, truly free and clear, mine to do with whatever I want.<br />
<br />
There's that word again.<br />
<br />
* * *<br />
<br />
Saturday. In his little boat on Lake Prince. We listened to the Beach Boys as he serpentined slowly, methodically, into and out of quiet, sun dappled coves along the shoreline looking for bass, while I sang along and watched turtles gather on fallen trees, and wrote, even though I never once touched the spiral notebook and pen I brought along.Jeanninehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06644671003520375776noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-176175433729585650.post-30804161708199793142014-04-02T11:32:00.000-04:002014-04-07T13:43:24.222-04:00firsts and lasts<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-1RAHdoPp-3M/Uzwpq7Wct0I/AAAAAAAABt0/EwfqQ_8cnNY/s1600/gardner+street+tree+edited.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-1RAHdoPp-3M/Uzwpq7Wct0I/AAAAAAAABt0/EwfqQ_8cnNY/s1600/gardner+street+tree+edited.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">on gardner street</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Although the long winter didn't fuss me much, I'm marking more closely the firsts this Spring. Last week came the first pink cherry blossoms, the first bluebird, the first tinny sound of Turkey in the Straw as the ice cream truck made it's first drowsy serpentine through the neighborhood. This morning it was the first bee. More specifically the first shadow of a bee through the accordion pleats of the blinds. </div>
<div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Saturday it will be <a href="http://www.cinemark.com/movie-detail.aspx?r=NCM&node_id=121498&showtime_date=04/05/2014&search=1052" target="_blank">my first opera</a> and I'm pretty sure it lessens the experience not a whit that I'll be sitting in an air conditioned movie theater at the mall up the road. The Met is the Met, even if it's live streamed. Even if I'm wearing jeans and flip flops.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And not too long after that will be the first day at my new job. The first commute into Norfolk with one of those pre-paid transponder things on my truck to calculate tolls. The first day of the new schedule, still part time but every day and maybe not part time for long (though it is my secret wish I will be so magnificently efficient at my task that it will remain part time). The first interactions with the new boss and new co-workers and setting up a new-to-me desk. And shortly after that, of course, the first new paycheck.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But before the firsts will be the lasts. The last twice weekly conversations - about politics, about gardening, about his family history, and his experiences on a shrimp boat in Alabama - with my 81-year-old friend, Charlie. The last lunch at Don Pancho's with Sharon. The last walk through the lot to take iphone pictures of ladders and random bunches of rusty things and that shiny teal Mustang I never did get to take a spin in. And on the last day, leaving my keys on the desk and closing the door behind me after almost eight years, the longest job I've ever had.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Nailed to the telephone pole across the street from the office is a bluebird box Charlie made. All these years, through the window next to my desk, I've watched these bright little birds flitting about and sometimes Charlie and and I stand at the door and watch them dive to the grass from the telephone wires (and also, Charlie likes to watch the planes dragging their vapor trails through the sky). But this last week the birds have come closer than ever before. <a href="http://distilledfromstars.blogspot.com/2014/03/evelyn.html" target="_blank">Last week the one sitting - so long and still</a> - on the front steps and yesterday, one on the stair railing peering inside, little seed-pearl eyes blinking. </div>
</div>
Jeanninehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06644671003520375776noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-176175433729585650.post-17571855039584122152014-03-21T09:32:00.000-04:002014-04-30T22:24:07.570-04:00EvelynOn Saturday I emailed my mother a question about a sewing needle and found out my Nonnie, my maternal grandmother, was not doing well. She sometimes knew people, but a moment later might not. And I carried this thought - <i>would she know me?</i> - all that day. That night I dreamed I was standing outside the little Catholic church of my childhood, wearing a black dress. I saw my Nonnie and approached with hesitation, "Nonnie?" and she beamed and said "Jeannine!" and we embraced tightly, laughing and sobbing.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
***</div>
<br />
The thing you should know about her was her voice. She sang. With Evelyn, there was always singing. On stages and in choirs, and once or twice - almost - on the radio. Maybe, most probably, if things had been different, she'd have had a professional career. She sang while making cannelloni, while driving in the car, at my mom's second wedding. She sang for her six kids, and she sang for her grandchildren, and most recently for her little blond-headed great granddaughter. Always, the singing. Always, the voice. It was the thing that was solely hers.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
***</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
Nonnie told me once that when her mother, my great grandmother, had Alzheimer's disease and didn't know anyone, she would walk in to her mother's room for a visit, and her mother would immediately hum a melody. So even in a memory woven with cobwebs, her mother recognized her daughter.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
***</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<i>"My little girl, pink and white as peaches and cream is she ..."</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
Until a few years ago, when I saw Carousel for the first time, I had no idea that this song*, <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IVqoc_GOH-0&feature=kp" target="_blank">Soliloquy</a>, was ten minutes long, mostly about a boy, and sung by a man. For me, it was these few words and Nonnie's song; her song for me.<br />
<br />
She was a soprano, a lyric soprano when she was younger, and I don't really know what those designations mean, but her voice was so clear and true, it went in through your ears, wrapped itself around your heart and squeezed. When I watch The Sound of Music or Mary Poppins, I <i>see</i> Julie Andrews, but <i>hear</i> Nonnie. Very similar. And how lucky to be able to listen to Nonnie's pretty voice any old time I wanted.<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
***</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
My first Evelyn, the original, my Nonnie, died on Monday in California. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>May she rest in sweet peace. </i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
***</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
And this morning, the first pink blossoms on the neighbor's tree, and the first bluebird - like a little neon light with wings - greeted me on the brick steps of my office. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<i>*This bit of song starts at 4:08</i></div>
</div>
Jeanninehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06644671003520375776noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-176175433729585650.post-83233573396030598772014-03-14T21:27:00.000-04:002014-03-16T14:32:48.804-04:00mermaid lessons, part ii<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-GyOE0EIMlBw/UyOo_TRvY6I/AAAAAAAABpg/l49MbIFVdJs/s1600/IMG_2334.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-GyOE0EIMlBw/UyOo_TRvY6I/AAAAAAAABpg/l49MbIFVdJs/s1600/IMG_2334.JPG" height="400" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">little works, big happy</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-YINJeAaXcV4/UyOlTt8ptSI/AAAAAAAABpU/vv3mkxypdus/s1600/photo+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-YINJeAaXcV4/UyOlTt8ptSI/AAAAAAAABpU/vv3mkxypdus/s1600/photo+1.JPG" height="400" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">what inspiration looks like these days</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>"Writers think in metaphors.</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Editors work in metaphors.</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>A great reader reads in metaphors.</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>All are continually asking, "What does this represent? What does it stand for?"</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>They are trying to take everything one level deeper.</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>When they get to that level, they will try to go deeper again."</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
(Steven Pressfield, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Authentic-Swing-Steven-Pressfield-ebook/dp/B00FD10Q64/ref=sr_1_8?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1394846779&sr=1-8&keywords=steven+pressfield" target="_blank">The Authentic Swing: Notes From the Writing of a First Novel</a>)</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
***</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Artists ask those same questions.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
As do <a href="http://distilledfromstars.blogspot.com/2014/02/mermaid-lessons.html" target="_blank">mermaids</a>.</div>
Jeanninehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06644671003520375776noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-176175433729585650.post-12161449193988192792014-03-09T22:56:00.001-04:002014-03-09T23:00:57.558-04:00on matters of friendship according to Mr. Lewis<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-beF1zf9spSI/UxdtRFCYyzI/AAAAAAAABoI/2N5lnNb3_zI/s1600/IMG_2284.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-beF1zf9spSI/UxdtRFCYyzI/AAAAAAAABoI/2N5lnNb3_zI/s1600/IMG_2284.JPG" height="400" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Remember last Sunday, a slice of spring, <br />
24 hours before another serving of winter.<br />
Newport News Park<br />
<br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The Four Loves<br />
C.S. Lewis<br />
<br />
<blockquote style="text-align: center;">
<blockquote class="tr_bq" style="text-align: left;">
"In our own time Friendship arises in the same way. For us of course is the shared activity and therefore the companionship on which Friendship supervenes will not often be a bodily one like hunting or fighting. It may be a common religion, common studies, a common profession, even a common recreation. All who share it will be our companions; but one or two or three who share something more will be our Friends. In this kind of love, as Emerson said, <i>Do you love me?</i> means <i>Do you see the same truth?</i> -- Or at least "Do you <i>care about </i>the same truth". The man who agrees with us that some question, little regarded by others, is of great importance can be our Friend. He need not agree with us about the answer.</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq" style="text-align: left;">
Notice that Friendship thus repeats on a more individual and less socially necessary level the character of the Companionship which was its matrix. The Companionship was between people who were doing something together -- hunting, studying, painting or what you will. The Friends will still be doing something together, but something more inward, less widely shared and less easily defined ... still travelling companions, but on a different kind of journey ..."</blockquote>
</blockquote>
<br />
(From the chapter on Friendship. Italicized items are per the original formatting of the text in the book).Jeanninehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06644671003520375776noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-176175433729585650.post-41704553532595917982014-02-11T09:06:00.000-05:002014-02-12T09:31:25.020-05:00february<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-sKEGgIt3hAg/UvoQsC4zl4I/AAAAAAAABm4/zEhvuSWT5Bs/s1600/heart+house+2014+berry+filter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-sKEGgIt3hAg/UvoQsC4zl4I/AAAAAAAABm4/zEhvuSWT5Bs/s1600/heart+house+2014+berry+filter.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">the heart house circa 2010 (now demolished, only an empty grassy lot)<br />
there were angel statues in the windows</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="text-align: left;">February. The pink month. The month hemmed with lace to soften its sharp edges. The month that wears hearts on the sleeves of its winter coat, for the snowflakes - icy valentines - are </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
falling </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
falling </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
falling </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
from the sky.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
* * *</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
And time grinds on.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
A few months ago I decided to make a change and <strike>naively</strike> stupidly believed simply making the decision was the hard part; that the universe would be so delighted with me it would clap its hands together, roll out a red carpet, and fling wide the doors. Perhaps even set a tiara on my head. (A small one, but sparkly). In fact, making the decision was hard but implementing it turns out to be even harder and involves any number of things that are necessary but far outside my comfort zone, any number of things I have mostly no control over. I'm almost completely at the mercy of geography and opportunity.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
This change is one of process, with protocols to follow, although mostly it feels like a bullshitty game and I hate playing it, but it's the way the game is played and so I must. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
It's frustrating to make a decision like this and fall forward into nothing, the kind of nothing you hear after a magician taps his hat with his wand, the rimshot is played, the puff of smokes clears and </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
no rabbit </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
no dove </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
no ladder of silky scarves</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
just the magician standing with an empty hat in hand, wondering what went wrong. And repeating this over and over and over again.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I find myself longing for way more than six impossible things before breakfast, lunch, <i>and</i> dinner, magical things, and I promised myself this year that unless I can wiggle my nose and unspill the milk, or click my shoes and wake up in California, unless I can pull a fat white rabbit out of a hat, there will be no magical thinking.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
The meaning of magic, like so many good words, has been diluted beyond recognition. In my personal vocabulary, I aim to put it back into its rightful usage.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
So no magic here.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Just waiting. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Responding to the process when it calls.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Working on a snippet of writing here, and color mixing experiments there and entirely too much baking. Rereading Little Women and after that will be Francie and A Tree Grows In Brooklyn. I listen for the train in the distance and take odd comfort in the sound of the dishwasher. There is a kitten who leaves crumpled paper balls on the bed, and a big orange cat who sits with me while I watch luge, snowboarding, skiing (sports I only watch every four years). I dream of Michigan in the fall, and wonder if all of this will have worked itself out by then. I make my own comforts.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
And it will be March soon.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
The green month.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
The lucky month. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Magic may be a no go, </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
but I never said anything about luck.</div>
Jeanninehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06644671003520375776noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-176175433729585650.post-65440612212628897882014-02-01T22:32:00.001-05:002014-02-02T08:00:06.266-05:00mermaid lessons<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Tno_hvFoE_Q/Uu25IoOmLFI/AAAAAAAABmY/p3RmWNNGFuc/s1600/IMG_2024.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Tno_hvFoE_Q/Uu25IoOmLFI/AAAAAAAABmY/p3RmWNNGFuc/s1600/IMG_2024.JPG" height="400" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>“I must be a mermaid, Rango. I have no fear of depths</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i> and a great fear of shallow living.” </i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>(The Four-Chambered Heart, Anaïs Nin)</i></div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Last night, I dreamed I was on a ship with one other person -
a ghost or just a hazy figure, I'm not sure which - on a lonely sea. The ghost
person turned to some task at the opposite end of the boat and didn't see me
when I fell overboard into what can only be described as diluted quicksand. I
knew, as I was being swallowed up, I only had a few precious seconds before
it would be too late for rescue. And almost instantly I <i>was</i> too far
gone to save. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I sank deeper and deeper into the muck and for awhile just
surrendered to the inevitable, willed myself to close my eyes and go to sleep.
But then, suddenly, I kicked my feet and thrust upward, could feel my neck
muscles straining as I tilted my face towards the sky. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As I broke the surface, I woke up.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
***<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I miss my creative outlets.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So much of what matters to me creatively has been polluted.
There is so very much to unlearn, and all my usual tricks - the things I've
always counted on - are not working. And
it is a lonely process trying to find my way back. I keep thinking I've turned a corner, and
then - smack - right into a wall. The corner was only a trompe l'oeil painting
of a corner.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I'm working so hard - unlearning the most damaging things.
Unlearning is a hundred - a thousand! - times harder than learning
something. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I'm not afraid of depths. Not afraid of asking hard
questions or getting dirty, or poking at the underbellies of things washed
up on the shore. I'm just not. Like Nin, I too have a great fear of and even
disregard for shallowness, for it's my observation and experience that the
shallow ones aren't happier or lighter than everyone else. Willfully denying
something, refusing to see something, doesn't make those somethings untrue, and
doesn't make those somethings go away. Those somethings will find other ways to
haunt you if you are too afraid to confront them.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
***<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What is the collective noun for mermaids?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Is there one?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the sea I've been swimming in, I haven't seen one other.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
Jeanninehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06644671003520375776noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-176175433729585650.post-58813854579140352682013-12-31T07:48:00.000-05:002013-12-31T08:02:49.160-05:00old year, new year, and every last thing<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iFCyJYyVRpw/UsHH69pXcEI/AAAAAAAABj8/gZv-hrD9QC0/s1600/car+wash.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iFCyJYyVRpw/UsHH69pXcEI/AAAAAAAABj8/gZv-hrD9QC0/s400/car+wash.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
Old year out, new year in.<br />
<br />
And eventually you come to understand that the essential things resolve and realize themselves in their own sweet time. Sometimes lickety-split catching us off guard, sometimes so long we lose hope, yet always right on time. Hardly ever - neatly, conveniently - between the parentheses of January 1st and December 31st.<br />
<br />
No public resoluting this year<br />
<br />
only amorphous ideas, things I see - faintly - but only if I squint<br />
<br />
things written in sepia copperplate<br />
on the soft yellowed paper of my heart<br />
<br />
things illuminated by the light of my own lodestar.<br />
<br />
but mostly this:<br />
staying open, open to it all<br />
<i>every. last. thing.</i><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
*</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
"I keep turning over new leaves, and spoiling them, as I used to spoil my copybooks; </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
and I make so many beginnings there never will be an end".</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
(Laurie in Louisa May Alcott's Little Women)</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Happy New Year!</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">*</i></div>
<br />
Inspiring me:<br />
<br />
<a href="http://writersalmanac.publicradio.org/index.php?date=2013/12/31" target="_blank">The End of This Year (a poem) by Jack Ridl</a><br />
<a href="http://shirtofflame.blogspot.com/2013/12/the-year-in-review-and-year-ahead.html" target="_blank">The Year in Review The Year Ahead (Heather King)</a><br />
<a href="http://pathofpossibility.com/the-gift-you-give-yourself/" target="_blank">The Gift You Give Yourself (Sage Cohen)</a><br />
<a href="http://www.emmatree.com/2013/12/prison-break.html" target="_blank">Prison Break (Emma Tree)</a><br />
<a href="http://www.maryfons.com/blog/2013/12/21/greetings-from-new-york/?utm_source=rss&utm_medium=rss&utm_campaign=greetings-from-new-york&utm_reader=feedly" target="_blank">Greetings from New York (Mary Fons)</a><br />
<a href="http://www.mrsmediocrity.com/2013/12/03/reverb13-day-3stay-open/" target="_blank">Stay Open (Mrs. Mediocrity)</a><br />
<a href="http://annhood.blogspot.com/2013/12/dreaming-of-my-next-novel.html" target="_blank">Dreaming of My Next Novel (Ann Hood)</a><br />
<a href="http://lizzyhouse.com/sustainablyhappyblog/2013/12/9/paul-klee" target="_blank">Paul Klee (Lizzy House)</a>Jeanninehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06644671003520375776noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-176175433729585650.post-79622706538352831372013-11-04T16:54:00.000-05:002014-11-29T11:43:10.114-05:00proceed to the root (part two)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NFqIlXhqhFQ/UngWwFi7ezI/AAAAAAAABe8/RuFjr3NU5Gw/s1600/paint+quartet+2013+a_1000.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NFqIlXhqhFQ/UngWwFi7ezI/AAAAAAAABe8/RuFjr3NU5Gw/s400/paint+quartet+2013+a_1000.jpg" height="400" width="392" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="http://distilledfromstars.blogspot.com/2013/10/proceed-to-root.html" target="_blank">part one</a></div>
Jeanninehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06644671003520375776noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-176175433729585650.post-48021731495021905672013-11-01T09:39:00.002-04:002014-11-29T11:43:40.765-05:00the day afterWalked out to my car this morning<br />
and found a little plastic dagger abandoned on the driveway<br />
no doubt belonging to the one trick-or-treater who came to the door before it was dark<br />
before his parents could discern that no Kit Kats, no teeny Mr. Goodbars,<br />
no Hershey's kisses wrapped in silver foil<br />
would be found at this house,<br />
the one with no pumpkins on the porch.<br />
<br />
I like to think he dropped his little dagger in excitement to get to the next house.<br />
<br />
I like to think we didn't disappoint him.Jeanninehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06644671003520375776noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-176175433729585650.post-35624041924175651932013-10-21T10:47:00.001-04:002013-10-21T10:48:02.714-04:00notice things closely, and remember<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-rVG2_ixCnuI/UmRXUT2LJmI/AAAAAAAABZg/Vvj6RWXzLD8/s1600/mike+and+jeannine.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-rVG2_ixCnuI/UmRXUT2LJmI/AAAAAAAABZg/Vvj6RWXzLD8/s400/mike+and+jeannine.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">Walk the boardwalk, circle the turret, pass the weeping willow<br />
and the ducks and swans to the bench just beyond.<br />
North Bay Park, Ypsilanti, Michigan (2013)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>"And remember in noticing such landmarks that you may want to use your knowledge of them some day for telling some one else how to find his way, so you must notice them pretty closely so as to be able to describe them unmistakably and in their proper order. </i><i>You must notice and remember every by-road and footpath.</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Remembrance of these things will help you find your way by night or in fog </i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>when other people are losing themselves.</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>* </i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>In a word, "keep cool, make yourself comfortable, </i><br />
<i>leave a record of your travels, </i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>and help your friends to find you.""</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>When Lost in the Woods section </i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Scouting for Girls: The Official Handbook of the Girls Scouts (circa 1920)</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-E9LNBIrUsbw/UmRZUSKli-I/AAAAAAAABZo/t7FZCfkrvqs/s1600/ypsi+tree.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-E9LNBIrUsbw/UmRZUSKli-I/AAAAAAAABZo/t7FZCfkrvqs/s400/ypsi+tree.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">Parking lot<br />
North Bay Park, Ypsilanti, Michigan (2013)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; orphans: auto; text-align: center; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;">
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<i><br /></i></div>
</div>
Jeanninehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06644671003520375776noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-176175433729585650.post-80235262877565572082013-10-19T10:50:00.000-04:002013-12-31T13:17:03.166-05:00proceed to the root<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Rn7mG1_Q0yo/UlVWYzsVy5I/AAAAAAAABY8/gVNng6AstQc/s1600/route.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Rn7mG1_Q0yo/UlVWYzsVy5I/AAAAAAAABY8/gVNng6AstQc/s400/route.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Sixteen hundred miles </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
from here to there and back again</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
through six states</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
over a web of interstates and highways</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
two turnpikes, and steel bridges in yellow,</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
and back roads too</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
the ones not in the original plan</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
but the yield there, oh how very precious,</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
the pieces of a mystery clicking in to place</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
and I think "what if we hadn't taken that turn"</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
what a loss that would've been.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
All the way, and particularly the closer we got to home</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
the robotic voice of the GPS admonished us</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
"proceed to the route"</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
each time we took a different way</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
but it echoed in my head as</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
"proceed to the root"</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
proceed to the route:</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
continue forward after an interruption or detour</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
proceed to the root:</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
return back to the essence and source of a thing</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
both ways</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
are truth</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
both ways</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
saw me home</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
and both ways </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
brought me </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
here.</div>
Jeanninehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06644671003520375776noreply@blogger.com