When you are done with your cigarette, don't just drop it on the ground, drop it on the ground AND THEN don't make sure to stamp it out. Because while I am fully aware that Smokey the Bear is not overly worried about your cig catching the sleet-drenched February-pathetic lawn on fire, I REALLY WANT TO DIE OF SECOND-HAND SMOKE FROM THE SIDEWALK.
Second-hand smoke from some hip thing in just-right jeans, well, that's another story altogether.
Friday, February 27, 2009
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Wintry Mix
Today I sat in the recliner and fell asleep over a Jane Austen novel while sleet and freezing rain fell outside. Coffee is supposed to prevent unplanned naps, but it was slacking off on me today. I woke up cranky and groggy, and promptly forgot to put the flour in the scalloped potatoes, which then of course did not thicken, so the hour I spent preparing dinner resulted in a gross, watery mess. To console myself, I made a clafouti, but that's still in the oven, so I've got my fingers crossed that it turns out ok, but I have my doubts. I'm going to drink some more coffee and grade some papers and wish that the weekend was here already.
Trees are not just for toilet paper.
When I was very small, I loved picking flowers. I lived in desert environments until I was in the first grade, and when my family had a garden, it was usually vegetables or berries. I was drawn to the colors and soft shapes of flowers, so every time we even went to a park, I was the kid who was picking the dandelions and clover, and then presenting the weeds like some precious bouquet to someone that I loved. My grandparents lived in a very lush and verdant area, and their yard had even more flower-picking opportunities. One time, my grandfather postponed mowing the lawn so that my brother and I could fill our the little red wagon with dandelions while the stems were still long. We brought them back to my grandmother, who cheerfully let us fill drinking glass after drinking glass with the soft yellow blobs.
It took me a little longer to appreciate trees. Trees are, after all, more boring than flowers, and a little less approachable when you are under 4 feet tall. The first time that I really noticed trees was the year that I lived in Munich. I lived close to a park, but in an otherwise urban setting - a big first for me. One weekend, a friend and I traveled together to a small town in the Bavarian forest and went hiking. I was so overjoyed and uplifted to be amidst giant stands of evergreens that I hugged one and kissed it.
Even now, when I return to the Northwest, there is a sort of soaring feeling around my sternum when I see the patterns made on the foothills by the upwards-reaching fir trees. The prospect is at its most breathtaking in autumn, of course, when the interspersed alders shake their round golden leaves, creating lacy, aquinious patterns all along the mountain passes. But even in the winter I think it's beautiful.
I'm slowly falling in love with the naked oak tree outside my office window; it's the kind of majestic thing that makes me think of Hesse's statements in Goldmund and Narcissus about the repetition and echoing of forms in works of art. This oak tree is a splendid tree, but in its skeletal state, it could also be a tumbleweed or sagebush painted larger than life across my horizon.
It took me a little longer to appreciate trees. Trees are, after all, more boring than flowers, and a little less approachable when you are under 4 feet tall. The first time that I really noticed trees was the year that I lived in Munich. I lived close to a park, but in an otherwise urban setting - a big first for me. One weekend, a friend and I traveled together to a small town in the Bavarian forest and went hiking. I was so overjoyed and uplifted to be amidst giant stands of evergreens that I hugged one and kissed it.
Even now, when I return to the Northwest, there is a sort of soaring feeling around my sternum when I see the patterns made on the foothills by the upwards-reaching fir trees. The prospect is at its most breathtaking in autumn, of course, when the interspersed alders shake their round golden leaves, creating lacy, aquinious patterns all along the mountain passes. But even in the winter I think it's beautiful.
I'm slowly falling in love with the naked oak tree outside my office window; it's the kind of majestic thing that makes me think of Hesse's statements in Goldmund and Narcissus about the repetition and echoing of forms in works of art. This oak tree is a splendid tree, but in its skeletal state, it could also be a tumbleweed or sagebush painted larger than life across my horizon.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Post the first
Friends have long suggested that I "get myself a blog." I am a noted navel-gazer and meanderer, but will strive here for economy and wit. Haha. Frankly, I've been itching to join the ranks of the blog-havers for a while now, but have refrained. Partly because I'm not sure if I have much of a story to tell that others would want to read, and I already have several other options for writing into the void. The other part of why I have refrained is because certain family members of mine are pro-privacy and anti-blog - to the point in fact, that when the first Blogs were spawned on the Internets back in the day when it was powered by hamsters running on wheels, these certain family members of mine (who I love dearly) said some very negative things about the practice of blogging that sort of stuck in my head to the point that I'm still not sure how comfortable I am being entirely open in this very public forum. However, as certain other Wise People In My Life have known to say: nothing ventured, nothing gained. And I need practice writing for an audience, a creative outlet, and a way to stay in touch with friends that allows me to communicate more than two sentences at a time. Hence this venture.
Oh, and speaking of sentences, the title of this blog is derived from a Maximo Park song "The Coast is Always Changing," which was the third song to pop up on my iPod when I shuffled it in search of some good lyrics to turn into a title. It resonated with my goal of using this space for good (economical, eloquent) writing as opposed to scribbling, but it has other, weightier connotations for me as well.
Oh, and speaking of sentences, the title of this blog is derived from a Maximo Park song "The Coast is Always Changing," which was the third song to pop up on my iPod when I shuffled it in search of some good lyrics to turn into a title. It resonated with my goal of using this space for good (economical, eloquent) writing as opposed to scribbling, but it has other, weightier connotations for me as well.
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