I have been writing, actually. Mainly poetry and that mainly on the weekends. Just last evening a friend explained that he gets up a few hours before work so he can get some writing in, and I'm thinking (seriously) about doing the same thing. So that's how my life is currently. It's interesting that you should mention The Clearing. I found their web page and went though the writing classes. Some of the one-day groups look like just the thing. I'd love to read some of your new poetry.
Bob ;-)
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Oh Wow! Someone found a new craft Ms. Barbara!
I absolutely LOVE the poetry books you created at the retreat...I had no idea what would come out of those $1 books and the result is amazing!
I cannot help but think that those books that had been sitting so lonely on the shelf begging for someone to take pity on them are now boasting and smiling at the beauty they now possess.
Please bring them to Writer's tomorrow so I can take a closer look..maybe we can walk them past the other books so they can say, "Baby, look at me now!"
I cannot help but think that those books that had been sitting so lonely on the shelf begging for someone to take pity on them are now boasting and smiling at the beauty they now possess.
Please bring them to Writer's tomorrow so I can take a closer look..maybe we can walk them past the other books so they can say, "Baby, look at me now!"
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Flowers & Yarn
Durwood decided that the bouquet of lilies of the valley I picked this morning needed to have its portrait taken this evening and he asked me to post them for DD "because she loves them." I think if he could, he'd deliver the bouquet to her. So here you are, honey, Dad's sent you flowers.
I've been knitting on each sock in turn after supper while listening to a book on cd. Have you read/listened to any of James Patterson's Women's Murder Club series? I'm liking them, they're entertaining with interesting characters and situations. I'm also finding that I have to concentrate when working on the Evenstar Gloves. Lots of cabling and counting but, look, pretty. I'm halfway through the heel flap of the purple and pink striped Poetry Camp sock and not quite to the flap on Thuja, but I'm chugging along.
Bob!
Hey, it's great to know you're still lurking around. I'm doing my own version of Weight Watchers and found a recipe for hummus in an old WW cookbook. I added the roasted red pepper and it is the most luxurious lunch on a toasted pita half with sliced cucumbers and tomatoes. Mmm, decadent.
I'm glad you liked my Mont St. Victoire piece. It has possibilities, doesn't it? I just got back from The Clearing so I plan to inflict poetry on the Jennifers this week. Have you been writing?
--Barbara
I'm glad you liked my Mont St. Victoire piece. It has possibilities, doesn't it? I just got back from The Clearing so I plan to inflict poetry on the Jennifers this week. Have you been writing?
--Barbara
Roasted Red Pepper Hummus?
Barbara, have you been making hummus for a while now, or is it something new?
The piece you wrote around St. Victoire really sings. The detail you chose to include speaks volumes. I could have read an entire page of it. I wanted to know more about Marcel and Liesel and how they fit in the larger story - if there is a larger story. Later.
Bob ;-)
The piece you wrote around St. Victoire really sings. The detail you chose to include speaks volumes. I could have read an entire page of it. I wanted to know more about Marcel and Liesel and how they fit in the larger story - if there is a larger story. Later.
Bob ;-)
Mow, Mow, Mow the Lawn...
That's what I'll be doing as soon as I post this or I'll spend all day here putzing around on the internets, downloading sock patterns and generally wasting time. And it's such a gorgeous day. Plus I want to make a batch of roasted red pepper hummus and mail a bunch of things. Oh, and line DIL's birthday gift purse and get it mailed ASAP. I need a list, and a keeper.
June 2--Alexander Tischler, Girl with Still Life. Marsha hated the table that Charles brought home the Saturday before the party. He said it was "avant garde" in a tone of voice that said he was more in tune with style than she was. He said, in that maddeningly superior voice, that the table was modeled after "a Tischler painting hanging in the Pushkin in Moscow" like he expected her to nod familiarly. In the Pushkin what, she wanted to ask, but she was too intimidated to open her mouth. The table was the oddest thing she had ever seen. Painted a pale cream all over, the base was in the shape of a girl's profile, her hair cascading down her back in curlicues. The maker (an artist?) had slashed on red, green, and blue paint and rubbed it into the crevices, like antiquing. The table top was balanced on her head like an African bearer woman. Marsha thought she looked alive--and pissed off. She had no intention of putting it in her living room, much less putting anything on top of it. She was sure that the base girl would dump it right off.
Good lord, I can't believe the time! I'm outta here. Later, dudes.
--Barbara
June 2--Alexander Tischler, Girl with Still Life. Marsha hated the table that Charles brought home the Saturday before the party. He said it was "avant garde" in a tone of voice that said he was more in tune with style than she was. He said, in that maddeningly superior voice, that the table was modeled after "a Tischler painting hanging in the Pushkin in Moscow" like he expected her to nod familiarly. In the Pushkin what, she wanted to ask, but she was too intimidated to open her mouth. The table was the oddest thing she had ever seen. Painted a pale cream all over, the base was in the shape of a girl's profile, her hair cascading down her back in curlicues. The maker (an artist?) had slashed on red, green, and blue paint and rubbed it into the crevices, like antiquing. The table top was balanced on her head like an African bearer woman. Marsha thought she looked alive--and pissed off. She had no intention of putting it in her living room, much less putting anything on top of it. She was sure that the base girl would dump it right off.
Good lord, I can't believe the time! I'm outta here. Later, dudes.
--Barbara
Monday, June 1, 2009
Oh, Man...
It's hard to be going to work today. I've had a week of being on a different schedule, one I chose rather than one that is imposed upon me, and I just don't wanna. I will go, however, since there is a paycheck waiting there for me and only a total fool would abandon a paycheck. I sat on the patio to do my prompt writing this morning and I could easily have stayed right there throughout the day, writing and knitting and reading--with breaks for lunch and a nap, of course.
June 1--Paul Cezanne, Mont Sainte Victoire. Julia couldn't believe her eyes when she got up and went out onto the terrace with her coffee. They had arrived late the night before and only saw what their headlights touched. That was unreal enough but this view was a showstopper. Marcel and Liesl had raved for years about the little village where they met but Julia had always thought that their words were colored by infatuation. But standing there gazing down the valley in the morning light she had to concede that they were right. The purple mountain in the distance wore vineyards up to its shoulders, with a gray-green olive grove on one side like a brooch. The houses, painted in the colors of the sun, were sprinkled across the valley floor amid flower gardens and vegetable patches. Even the air smelled of baking bread, herbs, and lavender. She heard Tom's footfall as he came out of the villa. "I think I might like it here," she said, not turning from the view. He grunted.
Hey, it's June! Holy carp.
--Barbara
June 1--Paul Cezanne, Mont Sainte Victoire. Julia couldn't believe her eyes when she got up and went out onto the terrace with her coffee. They had arrived late the night before and only saw what their headlights touched. That was unreal enough but this view was a showstopper. Marcel and Liesl had raved for years about the little village where they met but Julia had always thought that their words were colored by infatuation. But standing there gazing down the valley in the morning light she had to concede that they were right. The purple mountain in the distance wore vineyards up to its shoulders, with a gray-green olive grove on one side like a brooch. The houses, painted in the colors of the sun, were sprinkled across the valley floor amid flower gardens and vegetable patches. Even the air smelled of baking bread, herbs, and lavender. She heard Tom's footfall as he came out of the villa. "I think I might like it here," she said, not turning from the view. He grunted.
Hey, it's June! Holy carp.
--Barbara
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