I'm bringing over some posts from an older blog of mine at LiteralMinded. They aren't new, so I'll probably date them as they were, but they'll all be under the Wren's Nest tag.
Here's hoping any nonsense in them can be overlooked or forgiven; they were written when I was among friends, and intended for our writing site, so there are bits of silliness everywhere. :)
Showing posts with label Wren's Nest. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Wren's Nest. Show all posts
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Monday, May 26, 2008
Conspiracy Theories
Posted ? July 26th, 2008 by JennyWren
Okay, so I was all set to write a series of blog entries on the "conspiracy theories" I’d been researching, which mostly turned out not to be conspiracies or theories, but fairly blatant plans made by various groups. But in the process of trying to objectively follow one rumor or another to its "official" source, I started realizing that all of this stuff played right into my natural tendency to view things in a sort of survivalist way. By that I mean: expect the best, but plan for the worst.
I’m a bit of a hoarder, in a heard-stories-of-the-Great-Depression way. I’m convinced our nation’s food industry is killing us through what is lacking, as much as by what is added. I’ve collected books for years on do-it-yourself everything. I don’t need anyone to convince me that general preparedness for whatever may come is smart (although convincing me to get up and do more about it…that might help). The parts I skipped were politics and money. The two things that can actually decide whether or not you end up needing the skills I’ve been obsessing over. I’ve finally taken a peek at both, and wish I’d worked harder at so many things.
This is all one huge mess, it’s impossible to know where to start when describing it. Rather than dwelling on the negative and scaring myself out of my wits, though, I’m going to work on what was always my goal, whether we’re headed for chaos or not: raising a family in a way that makes sense, with what we have.
Okay, so I was all set to write a series of blog entries on the "conspiracy theories" I’d been researching, which mostly turned out not to be conspiracies or theories, but fairly blatant plans made by various groups. But in the process of trying to objectively follow one rumor or another to its "official" source, I started realizing that all of this stuff played right into my natural tendency to view things in a sort of survivalist way. By that I mean: expect the best, but plan for the worst.
I’m a bit of a hoarder, in a heard-stories-of-the-Great-Depression way. I’m convinced our nation’s food industry is killing us through what is lacking, as much as by what is added. I’ve collected books for years on do-it-yourself everything. I don’t need anyone to convince me that general preparedness for whatever may come is smart (although convincing me to get up and do more about it…that might help). The parts I skipped were politics and money. The two things that can actually decide whether or not you end up needing the skills I’ve been obsessing over. I’ve finally taken a peek at both, and wish I’d worked harder at so many things.
This is all one huge mess, it’s impossible to know where to start when describing it. Rather than dwelling on the negative and scaring myself out of my wits, though, I’m going to work on what was always my goal, whether we’re headed for chaos or not: raising a family in a way that makes sense, with what we have.
Friday, February 23, 2007
Things that Go Pacing in the Night
Posted September 7th, 2008 by JennyWren
February 23, 2007
I did my (hopefully) last rounds for the night, and took a peek out the door before turning off the porch light. Habit, I guess, checking to see if there were any strangers skulking around in the radius of that weak little bulb’s range, or forgotten pets waiting to be let in. There was nothing Unusual, but as I dropped the curtain and turned away, a thought hit me. A feeling, actually, a fleeting impulse to go outside, that immediately dismissed itself; I almost didn’t notice it.
Why shouldn’t I step out - onto my very own porch, with my very own space and night around it? When had I stopped going outside for “no reason?” Had I resigned myself to always being needed in the house, on call? Allowed that feeling to spread and swallow up all the free parts of me? Maybe I’d gotten old, jaded. No - and I’d been inspired that week by people who would take the experience; who wouldn’t stand here wondering.
On that whim, I quietly slipped out into a night that engulfed me. A momentary rush of fear I didn’t expect (am I afraid of the dark?), at the vastness of it, held me with my back against the door for a moment, my hand on the knob. But then I regained some sense of self, and stepped out onto the porch that was my island. Actually, it suddenly felt more like a rocking ship, and me on deck with nothing to hold on to. I stubbornly braced my feet and found my balance, then looked out into black, unfamiliar waters.
It was cold - I hadn’t expected that, either. There was a thin layer of frost on the van in the driveway. I was surprised to see my breath in the air in front of me; I held it for a moment, to listen.
The night is deafening in its silence, sometimes. You brain scrambles frantically to find some familiar noise, one sound for an anchor. The dark’s heaviness pulses with the distant lights of town. For a fearful moment, you think you’ve lost your hearing. Then the sounds finally come. Barking; a dog down the road; was it there all along?
I heard a hoof scrape the ground nearby; one of the horses shifting its weight, a sigh. It was too cold, yet, for the insects, the spring peepers, the bullfrogs that we’d start hearing within the month.
I’m trailing, because it’s after the fact; I’m back inside and can ramble.
But in the moment…
The moment was exhilarating! Why do we spend the majority of our time indoors? We are supposed to have a natural connection, be on comfortable terms with that air, that space. With stars there every night, reminding us to be humble.
But I’m back inside this turtle shell of a house, where the fresh air can’t cure my cough, and the hills can’t give me strength. I’ve pulled myself away from the real things in my life, dwelling in the virtual, indulging in a spending spree of Time.
——————————-
And now, for something not so different:
Tonight I see the hours going by like those sinister monkeys in The Wizard of Oz. I know if I stay up much later, I’ll see worse.
My own personal demons come to me late at night, in the forms of Clarity and Perception of Time. I wouldn’t introduce them to my worst enemy. If I fail to escape them through sleep, or if they catch me waking at 3 am, they dance around me and play pictures on the walls: All the Things I Haven’t Done, All the Things I Should Have Done. The State of Things as They Really Are. But that’s only the beginning.
They then show me images of my children growing and changing, loved ones aging; show me moments I can’t get back or take back. The films speed up: pain of others, sorrow. Then on to hidden horrors and fears - if I can outlast the acceleration, lie there holding still as possible, it all pulls toward the black hole of sleep. But more often than not, after tossing and turning a bit, I jump up to pace, needing to shake it off. I roam the house, and end up here at the kitchen table, wishing I drank or smoked, had any little habit to take my mind away.
Aha! A visit to literalminded might be the cure tonight!
February 23, 2007
I did my (hopefully) last rounds for the night, and took a peek out the door before turning off the porch light. Habit, I guess, checking to see if there were any strangers skulking around in the radius of that weak little bulb’s range, or forgotten pets waiting to be let in. There was nothing Unusual, but as I dropped the curtain and turned away, a thought hit me. A feeling, actually, a fleeting impulse to go outside, that immediately dismissed itself; I almost didn’t notice it.
Why shouldn’t I step out - onto my very own porch, with my very own space and night around it? When had I stopped going outside for “no reason?” Had I resigned myself to always being needed in the house, on call? Allowed that feeling to spread and swallow up all the free parts of me? Maybe I’d gotten old, jaded. No - and I’d been inspired that week by people who would take the experience; who wouldn’t stand here wondering.
On that whim, I quietly slipped out into a night that engulfed me. A momentary rush of fear I didn’t expect (am I afraid of the dark?), at the vastness of it, held me with my back against the door for a moment, my hand on the knob. But then I regained some sense of self, and stepped out onto the porch that was my island. Actually, it suddenly felt more like a rocking ship, and me on deck with nothing to hold on to. I stubbornly braced my feet and found my balance, then looked out into black, unfamiliar waters.
It was cold - I hadn’t expected that, either. There was a thin layer of frost on the van in the driveway. I was surprised to see my breath in the air in front of me; I held it for a moment, to listen.
The night is deafening in its silence, sometimes. You brain scrambles frantically to find some familiar noise, one sound for an anchor. The dark’s heaviness pulses with the distant lights of town. For a fearful moment, you think you’ve lost your hearing. Then the sounds finally come. Barking; a dog down the road; was it there all along?
I heard a hoof scrape the ground nearby; one of the horses shifting its weight, a sigh. It was too cold, yet, for the insects, the spring peepers, the bullfrogs that we’d start hearing within the month.
I’m trailing, because it’s after the fact; I’m back inside and can ramble.
But in the moment…
The moment was exhilarating! Why do we spend the majority of our time indoors? We are supposed to have a natural connection, be on comfortable terms with that air, that space. With stars there every night, reminding us to be humble.
But I’m back inside this turtle shell of a house, where the fresh air can’t cure my cough, and the hills can’t give me strength. I’ve pulled myself away from the real things in my life, dwelling in the virtual, indulging in a spending spree of Time.
——————————-
And now, for something not so different:
Tonight I see the hours going by like those sinister monkeys in The Wizard of Oz. I know if I stay up much later, I’ll see worse.
My own personal demons come to me late at night, in the forms of Clarity and Perception of Time. I wouldn’t introduce them to my worst enemy. If I fail to escape them through sleep, or if they catch me waking at 3 am, they dance around me and play pictures on the walls: All the Things I Haven’t Done, All the Things I Should Have Done. The State of Things as They Really Are. But that’s only the beginning.
They then show me images of my children growing and changing, loved ones aging; show me moments I can’t get back or take back. The films speed up: pain of others, sorrow. Then on to hidden horrors and fears - if I can outlast the acceleration, lie there holding still as possible, it all pulls toward the black hole of sleep. But more often than not, after tossing and turning a bit, I jump up to pace, needing to shake it off. I roam the house, and end up here at the kitchen table, wishing I drank or smoked, had any little habit to take my mind away.
Aha! A visit to literalminded might be the cure tonight!
Saturday, February 17, 2007
Worrying a Bone
Posted February 17th, 2007 by JennyWren
This is me, jabbing here, prodding there, circling the idea until there's a worn path around it. Testing for my own reactions when the idea responds. Who knows if I'll go through with it; I've been here before.
Often when I have something I want to try, I'll let it sit and simmer like this…the sewing machine in the corner of the kitchen, the violin in its case in the livingroom. Occasionally, I'll practice threading the machine, browse through some patterns I've picked up. Once in a while, I'll put rosin on the bow and play around for an hour or so. But mostly, they're there, in view, until my comfort with the tools' presence outweighs my perfectionism and fear of failure. I have tons of hobbies lying around, in various stages of development. I cycle through them; when the mood hits, I pick one up again, and learn a little more. Things may get dusty, but I never completely abandon them.
Writing's not like that. It's not a hobby. It doesn't have a lot of paraphernalia I can leave lying around, giving me a sense of control. I can't pick it up and drop it on a whim. It either is, and I am it, or it isn't. Very overwhelming. :( Where did I get these grandiose ideas???
This is me, jabbing here, prodding there, circling the idea until there's a worn path around it. Testing for my own reactions when the idea responds. Who knows if I'll go through with it; I've been here before.
Often when I have something I want to try, I'll let it sit and simmer like this…the sewing machine in the corner of the kitchen, the violin in its case in the livingroom. Occasionally, I'll practice threading the machine, browse through some patterns I've picked up. Once in a while, I'll put rosin on the bow and play around for an hour or so. But mostly, they're there, in view, until my comfort with the tools' presence outweighs my perfectionism and fear of failure. I have tons of hobbies lying around, in various stages of development. I cycle through them; when the mood hits, I pick one up again, and learn a little more. Things may get dusty, but I never completely abandon them.
Writing's not like that. It's not a hobby. It doesn't have a lot of paraphernalia I can leave lying around, giving me a sense of control. I can't pick it up and drop it on a whim. It either is, and I am it, or it isn't. Very overwhelming. :( Where did I get these grandiose ideas???
Thursday, February 15, 2007
Basketball Practice Tonight
Posted February 16th, 2007 by JennyWren
Today, I might have done it; might have let the words fall out of me as they wanted, written that little rat-a-tat-tat thing that's been waiting. But then the Frenchness of a little -ette word perched there at the end of a line raised its eyebrows at me expectantly, startling me, and I looked around and realized that it just wouldn't do; there was dinner to be cooked, there were errands to be run. So not today, little -ette, in answer to your questioning tone. Shouldn't think it would have been sensible, anyway.
Today, I might have done it; might have let the words fall out of me as they wanted, written that little rat-a-tat-tat thing that's been waiting. But then the Frenchness of a little -ette word perched there at the end of a line raised its eyebrows at me expectantly, startling me, and I looked around and realized that it just wouldn't do; there was dinner to be cooked, there were errands to be run. So not today, little -ette, in answer to your questioning tone. Shouldn't think it would have been sensible, anyway.
Something Else
Posted February 15th, 2007 by JennyWren
I feel I'm sinking in a mire,
But I'm not really sinking. I float
At the top, arms outstretched,
Slowly turning.
I must be waiting,
Bobbing in the brownness they called a new dress.
I feel I'm sinking in a mire,
But I'm not really sinking. I float
At the top, arms outstretched,
Slowly turning.
I must be waiting,
Bobbing in the brownness they called a new dress.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Don't Analyze This
Posted January 31st, 2007 by JennyWren
Ode to Procrastination
(or: How the Author Avoids Housework)
An ant, intent upon his work,
went marching past my hand.
I wondered at these folk, who have
done so much more than man.
They've seen it all, they've passed it down
The generations through.
Their lives must have some meaning,
Could their patterns be a clue?
Tap, tap - no, left!
Tap, tap - it's here
And so the work goes by;
No wonder at what went before,
No pause to question, "Why?"
It seems they know a simpler truth
That is not mine to grasp,
And oft I've wondered whether I
Would know it, in the last.
How about we start a Really Bad Poetry night? *grin*
Ode to Procrastination
(or: How the Author Avoids Housework)
An ant, intent upon his work,
went marching past my hand.
I wondered at these folk, who have
done so much more than man.
They've seen it all, they've passed it down
The generations through.
Their lives must have some meaning,
Could their patterns be a clue?
Tap, tap - no, left!
Tap, tap - it's here
And so the work goes by;
No wonder at what went before,
No pause to question, "Why?"
It seems they know a simpler truth
That is not mine to grasp,
And oft I've wondered whether I
Would know it, in the last.
How about we start a Really Bad Poetry night? *grin*
Monday, January 29, 2007
Dentists
Posted January 29th, 2007 by JennyWren
I have a toothache. I guess. Is that the technical term for it nowadays? Seems I'm missing an entire vocabulary, every time I deal with anyone in a medical profession. Words that should be simple are replaced with something that takes three times as long to say. Like telling a woman in labor that her pain is "discomfort." I love words, but I'm sorry, when I'm in pain, I don't have time for extra syllables.
So here I sit, holding the side of my head and rocking back and forth. I've taken ibuprofen, and I've used something meant for canker sores, that has numbed the entire left side of my face, but my jaw still hurts. There's not much left to do, but call…the DENTIST. (*sudden, discordant organ music plays*)
That is, if there is such a thing left. I've been to a dentist twice in the last twenty years (I figured it up, while I was pacing). The first time, I was given "laughing gas", but a bit more than they intended. While the dentist and his assistant were talking about a baseball game, I was going two-dimensional. They apologized profusely, filled the tooth, and sent me home shaking.
More recently, I went in for the same kind of pain I'm having now, only after several days. Boy, have things changed. Technology-wise, it's great. They take x-rays, and can show them to you immediately on a laptop computer. But what has happened to the good, old-fashioned office visit? A cleaning, maybe a tooth filled or pulled, that nagging reminder to floss?
This dentist came in and sat down behind me, where I couldn't see her. She proceeded to tell me about the "Plan" we were going to set up. Ladies and gentlemen, when you hear the word "Plan" in a dentist's office, you know nothing good is going to come of it. It usually means something like: We will make you an appointment with an "oral surgeon" to have the first tooth "extracted", then you will come back and we will go from there, with a series of visits.
Am I the only one who sees a sale going on here? Yes, I know you are supposed to go to the dentist regularly. But a "plan"? It sounds more like a subscription.
My husband has had the same experience, repeatedly (he keeps forgetting who his dentist is, and calling a new one, LOL) The newer dentists apparently are more like "project managers". They assign other professionals (oral surgeons, orthodontists, cosmetic dentists) to various parts of your mouth, and make the referrals for you. They apparently don't even pull teeth anymore (Oh, sorry, I meant "extract")! You could walk into the office with an emergency appointment, because your cousin Bubba accidentally knocked three of your teeth out while you were playing pool, and the dentist would calmly set up a plan for biweekly visits over the next 18 months.
On the other hand, he has found a few who still "do their own work". My husband can walk in, get a tooth pulled (not have them "start" a root canal that will take three visits to finish), and come home to do the gauze/no straws thing for a day.
I think I'm hoping for that kind of luck. I've been sitting here with the phone book, waiting for human hours (thank you for helping me pass the time!), because I'm going to call a dentist in town, and ask for *shudder* an appointment.
Here's the interesting thing: the dentist I'm going to call first was an obvious choice for me, because, well, his name is William Faulkner! Go figure. :) I sure hope he has an opening. Somehow I don't think I'll mind if he says "extract" when he means "pull", or "abcess" when he means "infection". Hey, it's Faulkner!
I have a toothache. I guess. Is that the technical term for it nowadays? Seems I'm missing an entire vocabulary, every time I deal with anyone in a medical profession. Words that should be simple are replaced with something that takes three times as long to say. Like telling a woman in labor that her pain is "discomfort." I love words, but I'm sorry, when I'm in pain, I don't have time for extra syllables.
So here I sit, holding the side of my head and rocking back and forth. I've taken ibuprofen, and I've used something meant for canker sores, that has numbed the entire left side of my face, but my jaw still hurts. There's not much left to do, but call…the DENTIST. (*sudden, discordant organ music plays*)
That is, if there is such a thing left. I've been to a dentist twice in the last twenty years (I figured it up, while I was pacing). The first time, I was given "laughing gas", but a bit more than they intended. While the dentist and his assistant were talking about a baseball game, I was going two-dimensional. They apologized profusely, filled the tooth, and sent me home shaking.
More recently, I went in for the same kind of pain I'm having now, only after several days. Boy, have things changed. Technology-wise, it's great. They take x-rays, and can show them to you immediately on a laptop computer. But what has happened to the good, old-fashioned office visit? A cleaning, maybe a tooth filled or pulled, that nagging reminder to floss?
This dentist came in and sat down behind me, where I couldn't see her. She proceeded to tell me about the "Plan" we were going to set up. Ladies and gentlemen, when you hear the word "Plan" in a dentist's office, you know nothing good is going to come of it. It usually means something like: We will make you an appointment with an "oral surgeon" to have the first tooth "extracted", then you will come back and we will go from there, with a series of visits.
Am I the only one who sees a sale going on here? Yes, I know you are supposed to go to the dentist regularly. But a "plan"? It sounds more like a subscription.
My husband has had the same experience, repeatedly (he keeps forgetting who his dentist is, and calling a new one, LOL) The newer dentists apparently are more like "project managers". They assign other professionals (oral surgeons, orthodontists, cosmetic dentists) to various parts of your mouth, and make the referrals for you. They apparently don't even pull teeth anymore (Oh, sorry, I meant "extract")! You could walk into the office with an emergency appointment, because your cousin Bubba accidentally knocked three of your teeth out while you were playing pool, and the dentist would calmly set up a plan for biweekly visits over the next 18 months.
On the other hand, he has found a few who still "do their own work". My husband can walk in, get a tooth pulled (not have them "start" a root canal that will take three visits to finish), and come home to do the gauze/no straws thing for a day.
I think I'm hoping for that kind of luck. I've been sitting here with the phone book, waiting for human hours (thank you for helping me pass the time!), because I'm going to call a dentist in town, and ask for *shudder* an appointment.
Here's the interesting thing: the dentist I'm going to call first was an obvious choice for me, because, well, his name is William Faulkner! Go figure. :) I sure hope he has an opening. Somehow I don't think I'll mind if he says "extract" when he means "pull", or "abcess" when he means "infection". Hey, it's Faulkner!
Saturday, January 27, 2007
My Library
Posted January 27th, 2007 by JennyWren
Inspired by Petroglyph's adding a (web link) to LibraryThing, but much less organized than that program, I thought I'd have a little more listing fun by sharing some of the titles on my shelves.
Now, don't worry, Icon, I'm not about to catalog every book in my house! ;) I don't think it would be possible. Does anyone else have the "book problem"? Even after selling or giving away truckloads of them, I still don't have room to unpack all of the boxes upstairs.
Aside from thousands of kids' books, cookbooks, homeschooling books, classics, fiction, and that set of Great Books of the Western World that I finally mooched off of my mother, I do have one shelf full of "my books", in the livingroom. This holds the books that I want within reach at all times, that I refer to or pull off when I need something to read. Sometimes it also includes current fiction or a new book that I'm in the middle of, but mostly it's turned into a reference shelf, of sorts. I've noticed the same tendency in my husband; he's a fiction fan, but the books that he keeps near his desk are always related to his current interests and work: programming, writing, anime drawing.
Anyway, I apparently have more "current interests" than him, because my books take up quite a bit more room! ;)
So while you're visiting, here's a glimpse at what's there now (they used to be organized, but shelf height, random reading, and general household chaos fixed that pretty quickly):
First shelf:
* The Complete Tightwad Gazette, by Amy Dacyczyn
* Profits from Your Backyard Herb Garden, by Lee Sturdivant
* Herbally Yours, by Penny C. Royal
* Encyclopedia for the Home, by Maud C. Cooke, the Educational Company (1902)
* ABC and XYZ of Bee Culture, by A. I. Root (1975 edition)
* Tom Brown's Field Guide to Wilderness Survival, by Tom Brown
* Backyard Composting, by HarmoniousPress
* A Light in the Attic, by Shel Silverstein
* Bible
* Handbook of the Trees of the Northern States and Canada, East of the Rocky Mountains, by Romeyn Beck Hough, B.A.
* Helping Orphaned or Injured Wild Birds, by Diane Scarazzini
* Care of the Wild Feathered & Furred: a Guide to Wildlife Handling and Care, by Mae Hickman and Maxine Guy
* McMahon's American Gardener, by Bernard McMahon (reprint)
* Midwifery and Herbs, by Willa Shaffer
* The Glory of the Garden, edited by Bronzert and Sherwin
* The Writer's Market Companion - Hey, that's not mine!
* Herbs for Sale, by Lee Sturdivant
* Chickens in Your Backyard: A Beginner's Guide, by Rick and Gail Luttmann
* Time and Again, by Jack Finney
* The Backyard Orchardist, by Stella Otto
* The Backyard Berry Book, by Stella Otto
* Natural First Aid, by Brigitte Mars
* Peterson First Guides: Wildflowers
* Beekeeping: The Gentle Craft, by John F. Adams
* Trees of North America, a Golden Guide to Field Identification
* Robert Frost: The Road Not Taken and other Poems, Dover reprint of Mountain Interval
* Sink Reflections, by "Flylady", Marla Cilley
* Back to Basics: How to Learn and Enjoy Traditional American Skills, Reader's Digest
Second shelf:
* Basket full of catalogs: gardening, beekeeping, chickens, homeschooling, junk
* The Indoor How-to Book of Oats, Peas, Beans, and other Pretty Plants, Hazel Perper
* Christy, Catherine Marshall
* Park's Success with Seeds, Ann Reilly
* Edible Wild Plants, Oliver Perry Medsger
* The Complete Herbal Handbook for Farm and Stable, Juliette de Baraclai Levy
* The Complete Book of Annuals, Rockwell & Grayson
* Hmm, there are a couple of poetry books missing here…101 Famous Poems, for one.
Shelf three:
* Ooh, some pictures of my kids were tucked in here!
* The "Have-More" Plan, Ed and Carolyn Robinson
* The Encyclopedia of Country Living, Carla Emery - a wonderful book
* An issue of Hobby Farms magazine, on dairy goats
* Square Foot Gardening, Mel Bartholomew
* Catfish Ponds and Lily Pads: Creating and Enjoying a Family Pond, Louise Riotte
* Fences, Gates, and Bridges and How to Build Them, George A. Martin
* How to Grow More Vegetables,etc., John Jeavons - newest addition to the shelf!
* Four-Season Harvest, Eliot Coleman (also new)
* Encyclopedia of Organic Gardening, Rodale Press
* Nourishing Traditions: The Cookbook that Challenges Politically Correct Nutrition…, Sally Fallon
* Insert more gardening books here, this is getting old…
* Natural Horse*Man*Ship, Pat Parelli
* Gnomes, Poortvliet and Huggen
* Seed to Bloom, Susan Powell
* Seed to Seed, Suzanne Ashworth
* Life Skills for Kids, Christine Field
* Not for Packrats Only, Don Aslett
* Some more gardening and herb books
* Clutter's Last Stand, Don Aslett
Last shelf (whew, not much here):
* A bunch of home improvement, weatherizing, construction, do-it-yourself, etc. books.
* the next few are Reader's Digest Books:
* Strange Stories, Amazing Facts
* Mysteries of the Unexplained
* The World's Last Mysteries
* Mysteries of the Ancient Americas
* American Folklore and Legend
* America's Fascinating Indian Heritage
* The Step-by-Step Needlecraft Encyclopedia, Judy Brittain
And there you have it! The other books I refer to regularly are related to homeschooling, painting or crochet, I keep them in different spots. And the nature guides have ended up in the kids' rooms.
What's on your shelf?
Inspired by Petroglyph's adding a (web link) to LibraryThing, but much less organized than that program, I thought I'd have a little more listing fun by sharing some of the titles on my shelves.
Now, don't worry, Icon, I'm not about to catalog every book in my house! ;) I don't think it would be possible. Does anyone else have the "book problem"? Even after selling or giving away truckloads of them, I still don't have room to unpack all of the boxes upstairs.
Aside from thousands of kids' books, cookbooks, homeschooling books, classics, fiction, and that set of Great Books of the Western World that I finally mooched off of my mother, I do have one shelf full of "my books", in the livingroom. This holds the books that I want within reach at all times, that I refer to or pull off when I need something to read. Sometimes it also includes current fiction or a new book that I'm in the middle of, but mostly it's turned into a reference shelf, of sorts. I've noticed the same tendency in my husband; he's a fiction fan, but the books that he keeps near his desk are always related to his current interests and work: programming, writing, anime drawing.
Anyway, I apparently have more "current interests" than him, because my books take up quite a bit more room! ;)
So while you're visiting, here's a glimpse at what's there now (they used to be organized, but shelf height, random reading, and general household chaos fixed that pretty quickly):
First shelf:
* The Complete Tightwad Gazette, by Amy Dacyczyn
* Profits from Your Backyard Herb Garden, by Lee Sturdivant
* Herbally Yours, by Penny C. Royal
* Encyclopedia for the Home, by Maud C. Cooke, the Educational Company (1902)
* ABC and XYZ of Bee Culture, by A. I. Root (1975 edition)
* Tom Brown's Field Guide to Wilderness Survival, by Tom Brown
* Backyard Composting, by HarmoniousPress
* A Light in the Attic, by Shel Silverstein
* Bible
* Handbook of the Trees of the Northern States and Canada, East of the Rocky Mountains, by Romeyn Beck Hough, B.A.
* Helping Orphaned or Injured Wild Birds, by Diane Scarazzini
* Care of the Wild Feathered & Furred: a Guide to Wildlife Handling and Care, by Mae Hickman and Maxine Guy
* McMahon's American Gardener, by Bernard McMahon (reprint)
* Midwifery and Herbs, by Willa Shaffer
* The Glory of the Garden, edited by Bronzert and Sherwin
* The Writer's Market Companion - Hey, that's not mine!
* Herbs for Sale, by Lee Sturdivant
* Chickens in Your Backyard: A Beginner's Guide, by Rick and Gail Luttmann
* Time and Again, by Jack Finney
* The Backyard Orchardist, by Stella Otto
* The Backyard Berry Book, by Stella Otto
* Natural First Aid, by Brigitte Mars
* Peterson First Guides: Wildflowers
* Beekeeping: The Gentle Craft, by John F. Adams
* Trees of North America, a Golden Guide to Field Identification
* Robert Frost: The Road Not Taken and other Poems, Dover reprint of Mountain Interval
* Sink Reflections, by "Flylady", Marla Cilley
* Back to Basics: How to Learn and Enjoy Traditional American Skills, Reader's Digest
Second shelf:
* Basket full of catalogs: gardening, beekeeping, chickens, homeschooling, junk
* The Indoor How-to Book of Oats, Peas, Beans, and other Pretty Plants, Hazel Perper
* Christy, Catherine Marshall
* Park's Success with Seeds, Ann Reilly
* Edible Wild Plants, Oliver Perry Medsger
* The Complete Herbal Handbook for Farm and Stable, Juliette de Baraclai Levy
* The Complete Book of Annuals, Rockwell & Grayson
* Hmm, there are a couple of poetry books missing here…101 Famous Poems, for one.
Shelf three:
* Ooh, some pictures of my kids were tucked in here!
* The "Have-More" Plan, Ed and Carolyn Robinson
* The Encyclopedia of Country Living, Carla Emery - a wonderful book
* An issue of Hobby Farms magazine, on dairy goats
* Square Foot Gardening, Mel Bartholomew
* Catfish Ponds and Lily Pads: Creating and Enjoying a Family Pond, Louise Riotte
* Fences, Gates, and Bridges and How to Build Them, George A. Martin
* How to Grow More Vegetables,etc., John Jeavons - newest addition to the shelf!
* Four-Season Harvest, Eliot Coleman (also new)
* Encyclopedia of Organic Gardening, Rodale Press
* Nourishing Traditions: The Cookbook that Challenges Politically Correct Nutrition…, Sally Fallon
* Insert more gardening books here, this is getting old…
* Natural Horse*Man*Ship, Pat Parelli
* Gnomes, Poortvliet and Huggen
* Seed to Bloom, Susan Powell
* Seed to Seed, Suzanne Ashworth
* Life Skills for Kids, Christine Field
* Not for Packrats Only, Don Aslett
* Some more gardening and herb books
* Clutter's Last Stand, Don Aslett
Last shelf (whew, not much here):
* A bunch of home improvement, weatherizing, construction, do-it-yourself, etc. books.
* the next few are Reader's Digest Books:
* Strange Stories, Amazing Facts
* Mysteries of the Unexplained
* The World's Last Mysteries
* Mysteries of the Ancient Americas
* American Folklore and Legend
* America's Fascinating Indian Heritage
* The Step-by-Step Needlecraft Encyclopedia, Judy Brittain
And there you have it! The other books I refer to regularly are related to homeschooling, painting or crochet, I keep them in different spots. And the nature guides have ended up in the kids' rooms.
What's on your shelf?
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
Snow and Hot Chocolate
Posted January 24th, 2007 by JennyWren
The kids have been in and out all day, giggling and shivering, their cheeks red and their eyes bright. We finally had enough snow for a snowball fight! So there is a trail of wet gloves, scarves and coats leading from the door to the kitchen, where the hot chocolate is. ;)
The horses seem to enjoy the kids being outside, I guess they agree that it's perfect playing weather. Of course, right now, they're more interested in the hay we finally put out for them.
Why is it that in the middle of the night, ideas seem so clear, stories make sense, scenes are vivid…and yet when you wake up and try to capture them on paper, they all fall apart? It's like trying to write down your dreams - while it seemed logical at the time, a newsstation reporter painting a serial killer brown to stop the murders doesn't translate so well in a story.
Anyway, I don't usually come up with "complete" story ideas, but last night I thought I'd hit upon one (no, not the serial killer, lol). Now I realize it would probably do better as a country song. :) Maybe I'll try that route, instead.
——————————————————
"Blogging" is a new thing for me. I've read a few, and even have a couple that I check regularly, but I've never attempted keeping one before. I'm wondering how boring I'll be allowed to get… LOL
I found an interesting article from 2000(in a blog, of course!) about the origins of blogging:
Weblogs: A History and Perspective
I don't think I'll be keeping the informational type of blog, I'm not up on the latest anything. But I'd like to keep a meandering thoughts kind of blog, if it doesn't drive everyone too batty. ;)
I'm thinking that regular writing of any sort is good exercise, so look at it that way. A bit like a journal, and therefore rambling and random, since it's mine!
The kids have been in and out all day, giggling and shivering, their cheeks red and their eyes bright. We finally had enough snow for a snowball fight! So there is a trail of wet gloves, scarves and coats leading from the door to the kitchen, where the hot chocolate is. ;)
The horses seem to enjoy the kids being outside, I guess they agree that it's perfect playing weather. Of course, right now, they're more interested in the hay we finally put out for them.
Why is it that in the middle of the night, ideas seem so clear, stories make sense, scenes are vivid…and yet when you wake up and try to capture them on paper, they all fall apart? It's like trying to write down your dreams - while it seemed logical at the time, a newsstation reporter painting a serial killer brown to stop the murders doesn't translate so well in a story.
Anyway, I don't usually come up with "complete" story ideas, but last night I thought I'd hit upon one (no, not the serial killer, lol). Now I realize it would probably do better as a country song. :) Maybe I'll try that route, instead.
——————————————————
"Blogging" is a new thing for me. I've read a few, and even have a couple that I check regularly, but I've never attempted keeping one before. I'm wondering how boring I'll be allowed to get… LOL
I found an interesting article from 2000(in a blog, of course!) about the origins of blogging:
Weblogs: A History and Perspective
I don't think I'll be keeping the informational type of blog, I'm not up on the latest anything. But I'd like to keep a meandering thoughts kind of blog, if it doesn't drive everyone too batty. ;)
I'm thinking that regular writing of any sort is good exercise, so look at it that way. A bit like a journal, and therefore rambling and random, since it's mine!
Friday, January 12, 2007
A New Year, A New List
Posted January 12th, 2007 by JennyWren
Today is when my New Year really begins. Every year, on January 12, I'm a little bit older, although I doubt I'm any wiser.
Usually I spend the day getting lots done around the house, determined to make this day "the first day of the rest of my life," etc. This year, it's a little different; I'm feeling run down from a week of sitting up with a sick kid. But my brain still wants to accomplish something. And what better to satisfy that need, than a good old-fashioned list?
While I'm at it, I think I'll make a few, just to give myself a bit of a marker, something to gauge "progress" by. If I don't like how that makes me feel, there's always the delete button! ;) And today I can make my lists with ease, thanks to our new text editor!
Here goes nothin'…
Big things I need to/would like to accomplish this year
1.
Um…okay, that's a little too much pressure. LOL
How about this, then:
Projects
1. Winter sowing
2. House cleaning
3. Homemaking - really need to focus on this
4. Homeschooling - I'm having the usual middle-of-the-year curriculum doubts; must decide.
5. Working (and writing) on this site
6. Cooking and eating better, more natural food
7. Growing more of our own food
8. Actually getting things planted out this year
9. Starting new flowerbeds
10. Starting seriously composting
11. Painting
12. Organizing all of these hobbies
13. SEE HOW THIS IS TURNING INTO A TO-DO LIST?
14. Help hubby finish horse shed
15. Work out a way to set up hoophouses, coldframes, or a high tunnel
Crafts I'm in the middle of:
1. Huge tiger latch hook rug for 10yo
2. Two different cross stitch tigers for 10yo
3. Cross stitch of a piece of cake
4. Cross stitch of golden retriever for sis? May be too hard.
5. Crochet - rose, green and white afghan
6. Crochet - Black, grey and white cat afghan for 10yo
7. Baskets full of yarn need to be decided on
8. Paint fox by door in livingroom.
9. Repaint kids' room walls
10. Paint Bambi or some such with projector, in kids' room
11. Make some aprons with sewing machine - I have the materials, just need to do it
12. Make curtains
Wow, this is cool.
How about seeds I've wintersown so far this year:
1. American Bittersweet (Celastrus scandens)
2. Ivy from Mom's house
3. Poppy - Lauren's Grape
4. Hazelnut
5. Hazelnut
6. Almond
7. Lavender (Lavendula stoechas)
There, I feel better already. :)
Okay, rolling up sleeves for some real listing…watch out: ;)
In a lovely world with limitless time, I would:
1. Choose the perfect curriculum and teaching style for each of our kids, and follow through with the daily schedule, or say forget "standards", let's just live; you'll learn!
2. Grow or raise all or most of our own food.
3. Get more bees
4. Train the horses, using natural horsemanship methods
5. Paint
6. Write
7. Dance
8. Sit out in the woods for an entire day, just breathing, and watching.
9. Banish telephones
10. Make lots of garden beds
11. Go fishing!
12. Invite friends to come and sit a spell (and keep my house clean enough to do that spontaneously)
13. Spend most of my time outside (the opposite is true now), I have a theory about what's natural and healthy
14. Never sleep, unless it's for the relaxation or cuddle time
15. Love on my kids more, and read them more books
Now, see, that's not an impossible list (except for the sleep part, but I'm betting it would be more relaxing). I just have to forget about all of the other lists, the "to do" lists, and the wants, needs, shoulds, etc. Hmm. Worth pondering!
Today is when my New Year really begins. Every year, on January 12, I'm a little bit older, although I doubt I'm any wiser.
Usually I spend the day getting lots done around the house, determined to make this day "the first day of the rest of my life," etc. This year, it's a little different; I'm feeling run down from a week of sitting up with a sick kid. But my brain still wants to accomplish something. And what better to satisfy that need, than a good old-fashioned list?
While I'm at it, I think I'll make a few, just to give myself a bit of a marker, something to gauge "progress" by. If I don't like how that makes me feel, there's always the delete button! ;) And today I can make my lists with ease, thanks to our new text editor!
Here goes nothin'…
Big things I need to/would like to accomplish this year
1.
Um…okay, that's a little too much pressure. LOL
How about this, then:
Projects
1. Winter sowing
2. House cleaning
3. Homemaking - really need to focus on this
4. Homeschooling - I'm having the usual middle-of-the-year curriculum doubts; must decide.
5. Working (and writing) on this site
6. Cooking and eating better, more natural food
7. Growing more of our own food
8. Actually getting things planted out this year
9. Starting new flowerbeds
10. Starting seriously composting
11. Painting
12. Organizing all of these hobbies
13. SEE HOW THIS IS TURNING INTO A TO-DO LIST?
14. Help hubby finish horse shed
15. Work out a way to set up hoophouses, coldframes, or a high tunnel
Crafts I'm in the middle of:
1. Huge tiger latch hook rug for 10yo
2. Two different cross stitch tigers for 10yo
3. Cross stitch of a piece of cake
4. Cross stitch of golden retriever for sis? May be too hard.
5. Crochet - rose, green and white afghan
6. Crochet - Black, grey and white cat afghan for 10yo
7. Baskets full of yarn need to be decided on
8. Paint fox by door in livingroom.
9. Repaint kids' room walls
10. Paint Bambi or some such with projector, in kids' room
11. Make some aprons with sewing machine - I have the materials, just need to do it
12. Make curtains
Wow, this is cool.
How about seeds I've wintersown so far this year:
1. American Bittersweet (Celastrus scandens)
2. Ivy from Mom's house
3. Poppy - Lauren's Grape
4. Hazelnut
5. Hazelnut
6. Almond
7. Lavender (Lavendula stoechas)
There, I feel better already. :)
Okay, rolling up sleeves for some real listing…watch out: ;)
In a lovely world with limitless time, I would:
1. Choose the perfect curriculum and teaching style for each of our kids, and follow through with the daily schedule, or say forget "standards", let's just live; you'll learn!
2. Grow or raise all or most of our own food.
3. Get more bees
4. Train the horses, using natural horsemanship methods
5. Paint
6. Write
7. Dance
8. Sit out in the woods for an entire day, just breathing, and watching.
9. Banish telephones
10. Make lots of garden beds
11. Go fishing!
12. Invite friends to come and sit a spell (and keep my house clean enough to do that spontaneously)
13. Spend most of my time outside (the opposite is true now), I have a theory about what's natural and healthy
14. Never sleep, unless it's for the relaxation or cuddle time
15. Love on my kids more, and read them more books
Now, see, that's not an impossible list (except for the sleep part, but I'm betting it would be more relaxing). I just have to forget about all of the other lists, the "to do" lists, and the wants, needs, shoulds, etc. Hmm. Worth pondering!
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
A Thoreau Look at Things
Posted December 20, 2006 by JennyWren
I’ve been reading Walden, by Thoreau, which the library wants back (*sob*), and which is so good it’s almost painful to read. Every word that man wrote seems to “reverberate within my soul”. I find myself reading a page or two, and then putting the book down, not because of any lack of interest, but because his writing amazes me. Very few authors affect me that strongly. I have an inkling that Wendell Berry is about to be added to that list; I’m just waiting to get my hands on some of his work in actual book form.
I’ve had that nagging feeling that I should be blogging or posting something about the book; maybe it would help me better keep track of my thoughts on it, or just bring up interesting discussion on authors. I was going back to look up this sentence, which I ran across this evening: “How many a man has dated a new era in his life from the reading of a book!” but instead ran across another passage that struck me, with a coincidence attached (which is in the quote at the end of this post).
Thoreau was writing on his once having almost “owned” a farm; in fact, he did, until the farmer’s wife changed her mind about the sale. His description of why he originally fell in love with the place is a perfect example of why I feel such connection with his words…he described precisely the notions I had about the place where we live now: “The real attractions of the Hollowell farm, to me, were: its complete retirement, being about two miles from the village, half a mile from the nearest neighbor, and separated from the highway by a broad field; its bounding on the river, which the owner said protected it by its fogs from frosts in the spring, though that was nothing to me; the gray color and ruinous state of the house and barn, and the dilapidated fences, which put such an interval between me and the last occupant; the hollow and lichen-covered apple trees, gnawed by rabbits, showing what kind of neighbors I should have; but above all, the recollection I had of it from my earliest voyages up the river, when the house was concealed behind a dense grove of red maples, through which I heard the house-dog bark. I was in haste to buy it, before the proprietor finished getting out some rocks, cutting down the hollow apple trees, and grubbing up some young birches which had sprung up in the pasture, or in short, had made any more of his improvements.”
We have no river bounding our place, but if you’ve seen it, you’ll know that I have a certain fondness for dilapidated buildings; they have character. I also remember a day last year, when the persistent rumble of bulldozers had me worried. I went out in the yard at different points during the day, the noise kept getting closer to our house. Early the next morning, trees on the neighboring lot (still for sale) were swaying, then cracking with that horrible dying sound that trees have. I was on the phone with the realtor, who kept assuring me that they were just “defining some of the property lines”, while trees continued to fall. A neighbor stopped by, and confirmed my fears that something more was going on than a little “defining”.
Beyond our house, and the next in line for improvement, was a completely wooded lot, with no “suitable” spot for a house or driveway. What would they do to the woods I already loved, the oaks and hickories and a secret little grove of pawpaws, where the trees were so thick there was not sun enough for brambles, and your steps were so quiet you could surprise a deer? What about the “waterfall oak”, where the leaves clung on determinedly through the winter, the sound of the wind blowing through them once causing my son to think we must be somewhere near flowing water?
I took one more walk, trying to make up my mind. I couldn’t leave the children for long, so I brought a two-way radio with me, and ran down through the ravine, hurriedly searching for the property lines, trying to get a more definite feel for the place, arguing with myself the validity of spending the money to “save” a piece of land. I looked at trees, I cut across trails; I was out of breath by the time I hit the top of the next ridge. I considered lumber values…could I justify years of extra payments with those, knowing that we would probably never cut a single tree? I ran through a clearing, pausing long enough to see that it was still the perfect spot for a hidden house…then down the hill…all the while, I could still hear those bulldozers. My shoes were soaked; the dew was still on the grass and weeds. Then I came to the old fence line. There are old oaks here that belong in some fairyland, the line runs across the remnants of what was once a farm. Below this line, there is a ravine that is dark, cool, and silent. The ground is covered in moss, and the tree roots provide homes for little folk, my daughter and I are sure.
All the way back up the hill, and toward home, I debated with myself, told myself how crazy it is to fall in love with trees. I came up with all of the practical arguments I knew my husband would have when - if - I called him at work. But then I took one last side trail, back into the trees that would certainly be the first to go…and saw the light there, the stuff they call “dappled” in the summer, and that as you go deeper into the woods takes on a mystical feel…am I a romantic? I had to make the call.
We now “own” that other piece, but we haven’t touched it, other than to gather hickory nuts and explore the trails. There may be a day when we build a house back in that clearing. Or maybe not. But at least it’s there. What is a clearing without the woods around it?
“To enjoy these advantages, I was ready to carry it on; like Atlas, to take the world on my shoulders, - I never heard what compensation he received for that, - and do all those things which had no other motive or excuse but that I might pay for it and be unmolested in my possession of it; for I knew all the while that it would yield the most abundant crop of the kind I wanted, if I could only afford to let it alone.”
I’ve been reading Walden, by Thoreau, which the library wants back (*sob*), and which is so good it’s almost painful to read. Every word that man wrote seems to “reverberate within my soul”. I find myself reading a page or two, and then putting the book down, not because of any lack of interest, but because his writing amazes me. Very few authors affect me that strongly. I have an inkling that Wendell Berry is about to be added to that list; I’m just waiting to get my hands on some of his work in actual book form.
I’ve had that nagging feeling that I should be blogging or posting something about the book; maybe it would help me better keep track of my thoughts on it, or just bring up interesting discussion on authors. I was going back to look up this sentence, which I ran across this evening: “How many a man has dated a new era in his life from the reading of a book!” but instead ran across another passage that struck me, with a coincidence attached (which is in the quote at the end of this post).
Thoreau was writing on his once having almost “owned” a farm; in fact, he did, until the farmer’s wife changed her mind about the sale. His description of why he originally fell in love with the place is a perfect example of why I feel such connection with his words…he described precisely the notions I had about the place where we live now: “The real attractions of the Hollowell farm, to me, were: its complete retirement, being about two miles from the village, half a mile from the nearest neighbor, and separated from the highway by a broad field; its bounding on the river, which the owner said protected it by its fogs from frosts in the spring, though that was nothing to me; the gray color and ruinous state of the house and barn, and the dilapidated fences, which put such an interval between me and the last occupant; the hollow and lichen-covered apple trees, gnawed by rabbits, showing what kind of neighbors I should have; but above all, the recollection I had of it from my earliest voyages up the river, when the house was concealed behind a dense grove of red maples, through which I heard the house-dog bark. I was in haste to buy it, before the proprietor finished getting out some rocks, cutting down the hollow apple trees, and grubbing up some young birches which had sprung up in the pasture, or in short, had made any more of his improvements.”
We have no river bounding our place, but if you’ve seen it, you’ll know that I have a certain fondness for dilapidated buildings; they have character. I also remember a day last year, when the persistent rumble of bulldozers had me worried. I went out in the yard at different points during the day, the noise kept getting closer to our house. Early the next morning, trees on the neighboring lot (still for sale) were swaying, then cracking with that horrible dying sound that trees have. I was on the phone with the realtor, who kept assuring me that they were just “defining some of the property lines”, while trees continued to fall. A neighbor stopped by, and confirmed my fears that something more was going on than a little “defining”.
Beyond our house, and the next in line for improvement, was a completely wooded lot, with no “suitable” spot for a house or driveway. What would they do to the woods I already loved, the oaks and hickories and a secret little grove of pawpaws, where the trees were so thick there was not sun enough for brambles, and your steps were so quiet you could surprise a deer? What about the “waterfall oak”, where the leaves clung on determinedly through the winter, the sound of the wind blowing through them once causing my son to think we must be somewhere near flowing water?
I took one more walk, trying to make up my mind. I couldn’t leave the children for long, so I brought a two-way radio with me, and ran down through the ravine, hurriedly searching for the property lines, trying to get a more definite feel for the place, arguing with myself the validity of spending the money to “save” a piece of land. I looked at trees, I cut across trails; I was out of breath by the time I hit the top of the next ridge. I considered lumber values…could I justify years of extra payments with those, knowing that we would probably never cut a single tree? I ran through a clearing, pausing long enough to see that it was still the perfect spot for a hidden house…then down the hill…all the while, I could still hear those bulldozers. My shoes were soaked; the dew was still on the grass and weeds. Then I came to the old fence line. There are old oaks here that belong in some fairyland, the line runs across the remnants of what was once a farm. Below this line, there is a ravine that is dark, cool, and silent. The ground is covered in moss, and the tree roots provide homes for little folk, my daughter and I are sure.
All the way back up the hill, and toward home, I debated with myself, told myself how crazy it is to fall in love with trees. I came up with all of the practical arguments I knew my husband would have when - if - I called him at work. But then I took one last side trail, back into the trees that would certainly be the first to go…and saw the light there, the stuff they call “dappled” in the summer, and that as you go deeper into the woods takes on a mystical feel…am I a romantic? I had to make the call.
We now “own” that other piece, but we haven’t touched it, other than to gather hickory nuts and explore the trails. There may be a day when we build a house back in that clearing. Or maybe not. But at least it’s there. What is a clearing without the woods around it?
“To enjoy these advantages, I was ready to carry it on; like Atlas, to take the world on my shoulders, - I never heard what compensation he received for that, - and do all those things which had no other motive or excuse but that I might pay for it and be unmolested in my possession of it; for I knew all the while that it would yield the most abundant crop of the kind I wanted, if I could only afford to let it alone.”
Monday, December 4, 2006
Impressions
Posted December 4th, 2006 by JennyWren
I seem to have given the wrong impression in my last post. No, I promise you, I am not about to go to the nearest bridge and throw myself and everything I’ve ever written over the edge. It was just a disclaimer; I set it up in advance, so that I wouldn’t need to clutter up every post with an apology. It’s also there for critics, shoulder-riding demons, and close relatives. :) Besides, I don’t fancy the idea of chasing soggy pages down an eighteen-inch-deep river.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I sometimes worry about giving people the wrong impression. For example, those close to me would obviously perceive me as a bit of a stoic. Now, while it’s true that I daily bear all sorts of insults on my person, barely mentioning the discomfort caused by such inconveniences as the soup’s being cold or the mail’s running late, still I would hate to leave someone feeling inferior, next to my admittedly intimidating ability to endure, and so I’ll often make a fuss over some minor thing that would normally not draw a peep from me, in order to keep up an approachable appearance. This is why one may occasionally hear me yelling in an exaggerated manner over a typically (for most people) serious injury like falling out of bed, or taking a gulp of coffee before it has had time to cool. It is a rare occurrence, you’d be lucky to catch it; normally you couldn’t be sure that I was home, the house is so quiet. The neighbours may claim otherwise, but there, you see, is proof that my theory is highly accurate and and most certainly necessary; the neighbours are a particularly disadvantaged and inferior lot; in truth, most of these displays are put on specifically for their benefit. Including, and especially, the incident involving the rake, the cat, and myself.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Moving on…
It was interesting to be out shopping yesterday, something I normally wouldn’t dare during December. I survived it by observing other harried shoppers; Spastica’s dialogue exercise had me listening to their words:
"Didn’t he break the last one we bought him?"
"I don’t know why I’m here; I’m getting really frustrated."
A couple considering a toy:
"I don’t know. He’s ten…"
"Well, does he act ten?"
On the way home, a friend talking to her son on her cell phone gave me a classic line to remember:
"Yes, we’ll be there soon. We’re just now passing the underground house. You know, the one where Uncle Tooter had a wreck."
She had to clarify which wreck, to assure him that we were close to home, but once she hung up, I asked her about it, and got the story. It involved a tractor-trailer (I’m still not sure who was driving it), a pond, and so much damage the cops couldn’t tell what had really happened. Anyway, I’m sure I will forever remember the landmark.
Then we were slowed down, apparently behind her aunt’s pick-up truck, and chatting about her friends and relatives who lived in houses we were passing. I still find it amazing, that anyone born and raised around a small town seems to know or is related to everyone. And has a relative who at some point lived in your house.
The contrast between this small-town, rural area, and the large store we had just been to, in a city 45 minutes away, was hitting me in an interesting way. While shopping, I saw people who looked like they had stepped out of a magazine or television screen. They were wearing clothes and hairstyles that I’ve never really seen outside of a movie. They looked like celebrities or dolls, I’m not sure which, with new outfits and hair colors. I felt like Dorothy, straight out of Kansas. Either I don’t get out enough, or maybe life in the country is slower than I thought. That’s okay, it helps me with my time-avoidance strategy.
Anyway, it’s Monday now. Back to the grind, as they say. That means coffee, right?
I’ll take tea.
I seem to have given the wrong impression in my last post. No, I promise you, I am not about to go to the nearest bridge and throw myself and everything I’ve ever written over the edge. It was just a disclaimer; I set it up in advance, so that I wouldn’t need to clutter up every post with an apology. It’s also there for critics, shoulder-riding demons, and close relatives. :) Besides, I don’t fancy the idea of chasing soggy pages down an eighteen-inch-deep river.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I sometimes worry about giving people the wrong impression. For example, those close to me would obviously perceive me as a bit of a stoic. Now, while it’s true that I daily bear all sorts of insults on my person, barely mentioning the discomfort caused by such inconveniences as the soup’s being cold or the mail’s running late, still I would hate to leave someone feeling inferior, next to my admittedly intimidating ability to endure, and so I’ll often make a fuss over some minor thing that would normally not draw a peep from me, in order to keep up an approachable appearance. This is why one may occasionally hear me yelling in an exaggerated manner over a typically (for most people) serious injury like falling out of bed, or taking a gulp of coffee before it has had time to cool. It is a rare occurrence, you’d be lucky to catch it; normally you couldn’t be sure that I was home, the house is so quiet. The neighbours may claim otherwise, but there, you see, is proof that my theory is highly accurate and and most certainly necessary; the neighbours are a particularly disadvantaged and inferior lot; in truth, most of these displays are put on specifically for their benefit. Including, and especially, the incident involving the rake, the cat, and myself.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Moving on…
It was interesting to be out shopping yesterday, something I normally wouldn’t dare during December. I survived it by observing other harried shoppers; Spastica’s dialogue exercise had me listening to their words:
"Didn’t he break the last one we bought him?"
"I don’t know why I’m here; I’m getting really frustrated."
A couple considering a toy:
"I don’t know. He’s ten…"
"Well, does he act ten?"
On the way home, a friend talking to her son on her cell phone gave me a classic line to remember:
"Yes, we’ll be there soon. We’re just now passing the underground house. You know, the one where Uncle Tooter had a wreck."
She had to clarify which wreck, to assure him that we were close to home, but once she hung up, I asked her about it, and got the story. It involved a tractor-trailer (I’m still not sure who was driving it), a pond, and so much damage the cops couldn’t tell what had really happened. Anyway, I’m sure I will forever remember the landmark.
Then we were slowed down, apparently behind her aunt’s pick-up truck, and chatting about her friends and relatives who lived in houses we were passing. I still find it amazing, that anyone born and raised around a small town seems to know or is related to everyone. And has a relative who at some point lived in your house.
The contrast between this small-town, rural area, and the large store we had just been to, in a city 45 minutes away, was hitting me in an interesting way. While shopping, I saw people who looked like they had stepped out of a magazine or television screen. They were wearing clothes and hairstyles that I’ve never really seen outside of a movie. They looked like celebrities or dolls, I’m not sure which, with new outfits and hair colors. I felt like Dorothy, straight out of Kansas. Either I don’t get out enough, or maybe life in the country is slower than I thought. That’s okay, it helps me with my time-avoidance strategy.
Anyway, it’s Monday now. Back to the grind, as they say. That means coffee, right?
I’ll take tea.
Saturday, December 2, 2006
Chapter V: Where the Writer has a Sobering Thought...
Posted December 2nd, 2006 by JennyWren
Yesterday, life was like the weather, practically balmy, albeit dull. But sometime during the night, the winds came, bringing cold. At first it was exhilarating; even the horses felt that last rush of warmth in the air; they kicked up their heels and tossed their heads, actually playing with the wind. We watched them for a while from the window, and knew we had to get out and enjoy it, too.
Then later, ice, and a phone call.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Well, I apologize for my last post. I was a bit delirious. I was fighting a fever, and was up too late, a combination that should not be allowed near a keyboard.
The fever had me convinced that I was at the peak of heightened awareness, full of grand plans and brilliant thoughts, my senses keen. But I sounded like a drunken idiot; it doesn’t take much more than a lack of sleep to make me slap-happy.
Hmm…maybe I’ll become the Drunken Blogger. *hic*
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I’ve been thinking about it, and I suppose that if I want to make a go of this, I’ll have to set up a regular habit of "blogging." This will probably need to coincide with me keeping a "journal" of sorts on my computer. I find it amusing that I worry about computer files being wiped out, when I won’t even write with an ink pen because it’s too permanent. The general idea is that I want to be able to refer to my own thoughts (narcissist that I am), but I don’t want them to stick around much longer than I do.
I should probably pause here, to insert a universal disclaimer:
Anything I write/post in this blog will be garbage…or worse.
There, that was surprisingly easy! I avoided all the trouble of explaining my weaknesses, assuring the world that I am aware of the awfulness of it all. :) So, if, Dear Reader, you come across something that is eye-scaldingly bad, you musn’t say that you haven’t been warned. Because, of course, everyone will naturally want to begin at the beginning, and will see this before anything else. Oh, that previous post? That was to scare off those with a weaker stomach. ;)
Well, there it is. And so our adventures begin…
Yesterday, life was like the weather, practically balmy, albeit dull. But sometime during the night, the winds came, bringing cold. At first it was exhilarating; even the horses felt that last rush of warmth in the air; they kicked up their heels and tossed their heads, actually playing with the wind. We watched them for a while from the window, and knew we had to get out and enjoy it, too.
Then later, ice, and a phone call.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Well, I apologize for my last post. I was a bit delirious. I was fighting a fever, and was up too late, a combination that should not be allowed near a keyboard.
The fever had me convinced that I was at the peak of heightened awareness, full of grand plans and brilliant thoughts, my senses keen. But I sounded like a drunken idiot; it doesn’t take much more than a lack of sleep to make me slap-happy.
Hmm…maybe I’ll become the Drunken Blogger. *hic*
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I’ve been thinking about it, and I suppose that if I want to make a go of this, I’ll have to set up a regular habit of "blogging." This will probably need to coincide with me keeping a "journal" of sorts on my computer. I find it amusing that I worry about computer files being wiped out, when I won’t even write with an ink pen because it’s too permanent. The general idea is that I want to be able to refer to my own thoughts (narcissist that I am), but I don’t want them to stick around much longer than I do.
I should probably pause here, to insert a universal disclaimer:
Anything I write/post in this blog will be garbage…or worse.
There, that was surprisingly easy! I avoided all the trouble of explaining my weaknesses, assuring the world that I am aware of the awfulness of it all. :) So, if, Dear Reader, you come across something that is eye-scaldingly bad, you musn’t say that you haven’t been warned. Because, of course, everyone will naturally want to begin at the beginning, and will see this before anything else. Oh, that previous post? That was to scare off those with a weaker stomach. ;)
Well, there it is. And so our adventures begin…
Thursday, November 30, 2006
Midnight Confessions
Posted November 30th, 2006 by JennyWren
Well, since my husband has taken my spot on the couch, and I’m up anyway, I might as well see what comes out of my fingers tonight.
Midnight confession[als]. We’ve all got colds here, and I think a slight fever is leaving me susceptible to doom and gloom. Playing beautiful music isn’t helping. It seems to be a catalyst for emotional "outbursts" (overflows).
Everywhere I look, in everyone around me, there is corruption. Bitter or jaded hideousness, even in myself. How can it coexist with beauty? Not as contrast…they seem almost like alternate realities, ghosts in each other’s world.
When I’m feeling all "morose" like this, I am overcome with the need to spill out what is really there; it looks like emotion, but feels like meaning. I don’t think there really is anything there anymore. When I was younger, I thought there was more to me, I had so much…so much I wanted to do something with, to share. Now I am only a shell; anything that was inside is paralysed or stunted, or has atrophied by now.
My inability to face or accept reality has left me with the grief of time lost, things I haven’t done, and by virtue of that, things that have been done, and that I can’t take back.
A different record drops on the turntable, and the mood changes. A sweet tune about nothing in particular, but the notes bring on an overwhelming amount of emotion. Music can carry us or drown us. Why do we let it?
I am saddened by words spoken tonight. But how can you blame someone for speaking their truth? It may even be your truth, as well, only unrecognizable because of the lack of mask.
Well, since my husband has taken my spot on the couch, and I’m up anyway, I might as well see what comes out of my fingers tonight.
Midnight confession[als]. We’ve all got colds here, and I think a slight fever is leaving me susceptible to doom and gloom. Playing beautiful music isn’t helping. It seems to be a catalyst for emotional "outbursts" (overflows).
Everywhere I look, in everyone around me, there is corruption. Bitter or jaded hideousness, even in myself. How can it coexist with beauty? Not as contrast…they seem almost like alternate realities, ghosts in each other’s world.
When I’m feeling all "morose" like this, I am overcome with the need to spill out what is really there; it looks like emotion, but feels like meaning. I don’t think there really is anything there anymore. When I was younger, I thought there was more to me, I had so much…so much I wanted to do something with, to share. Now I am only a shell; anything that was inside is paralysed or stunted, or has atrophied by now.
My inability to face or accept reality has left me with the grief of time lost, things I haven’t done, and by virtue of that, things that have been done, and that I can’t take back.
A different record drops on the turntable, and the mood changes. A sweet tune about nothing in particular, but the notes bring on an overwhelming amount of emotion. Music can carry us or drown us. Why do we let it?
I am saddened by words spoken tonight. But how can you blame someone for speaking their truth? It may even be your truth, as well, only unrecognizable because of the lack of mask.
Saturday, November 25, 2006
Thanksgiving Leftovers...
From A Wren's Nest
Posted November 25th, 2006 by JennyWren
Thanksgiving is already a snapshot in the family photo album, even though we’re still sitting at the table, gorging ourselves on the third or fourth piece of pie.
For some reason, at family gatherings like this, I can see my children as what they truly are: a moment that’s here and gone. I watch them, take in their shining faces, their exuberance, their natural ease with joy. (When’s the last time you felt at ease with joy, really at ease? Able to let it wash over you and through you until you gave a yell and a jump, and took off running, laughing, just “because”.)
I can see how they’re growing, what we haven’t done that I thought we would. I can love them without anxiety here; we’re separated from real time now, suspended in that glow of a holiday at Grandma’s. None of the day-to-day guilt, pressure, worries or disappointments can penetrate that temporary armor to touch any of us.
Sitting at the grown-up’s table, I hear the usual chatting about nothing, everything’s nothing. And yet time is flying past us so quickly, and we through it, that I wonder we don’t wear seat belts, and clutch onto things, for fear of being blown away or thrown from the vehicle. This may be the last time we see each other. But we talk about after-Thanksgiving sales and football games, and play a game of Uno.
Sharing the here-and-now is sharing connection, I know. It just seems so unreal. I check occasionally, but the plaid tablecloth and the fork in my hand seem solid. The iced tea in my glass still reflects light in the same way, as the ice cubes swirl lazily around. We’re here. It’s real. I look up again, and watch my cousins’ faces moving, talking. I can hear my children shouting, outside on the swingset; it’s a gorgeous, sunny day, and the windows are open. People’s voices are humming around me…in fact, everything becomes a hum as I start to contemplate Iconoclast’s clock.
It’s ticking. What am I doing? What am I being? Okay, fair enough, I’m “doing” a family gathering, I’m being human. But beyond that…
should I be thinking beyond that? Is the big picture more important than any given moment? The actions of a moment determining the bigger outcome, while our perception of the big picture drives our actions of the moment… blah, blah, blah. My stomach’s too full for the inevitable spiral of thoughts like this, which normally require lots of chewing. Darn you, Icon.
Posted November 25th, 2006 by JennyWren
Thanksgiving is already a snapshot in the family photo album, even though we’re still sitting at the table, gorging ourselves on the third or fourth piece of pie.
For some reason, at family gatherings like this, I can see my children as what they truly are: a moment that’s here and gone. I watch them, take in their shining faces, their exuberance, their natural ease with joy. (When’s the last time you felt at ease with joy, really at ease? Able to let it wash over you and through you until you gave a yell and a jump, and took off running, laughing, just “because”.)
I can see how they’re growing, what we haven’t done that I thought we would. I can love them without anxiety here; we’re separated from real time now, suspended in that glow of a holiday at Grandma’s. None of the day-to-day guilt, pressure, worries or disappointments can penetrate that temporary armor to touch any of us.
Sitting at the grown-up’s table, I hear the usual chatting about nothing, everything’s nothing. And yet time is flying past us so quickly, and we through it, that I wonder we don’t wear seat belts, and clutch onto things, for fear of being blown away or thrown from the vehicle. This may be the last time we see each other. But we talk about after-Thanksgiving sales and football games, and play a game of Uno.
Sharing the here-and-now is sharing connection, I know. It just seems so unreal. I check occasionally, but the plaid tablecloth and the fork in my hand seem solid. The iced tea in my glass still reflects light in the same way, as the ice cubes swirl lazily around. We’re here. It’s real. I look up again, and watch my cousins’ faces moving, talking. I can hear my children shouting, outside on the swingset; it’s a gorgeous, sunny day, and the windows are open. People’s voices are humming around me…in fact, everything becomes a hum as I start to contemplate Iconoclast’s clock.
It’s ticking. What am I doing? What am I being? Okay, fair enough, I’m “doing” a family gathering, I’m being human. But beyond that…
should I be thinking beyond that? Is the big picture more important than any given moment? The actions of a moment determining the bigger outcome, while our perception of the big picture drives our actions of the moment… blah, blah, blah. My stomach’s too full for the inevitable spiral of thoughts like this, which normally require lots of chewing. Darn you, Icon.
Thursday, November 9, 2006
A New Day
Posted November 9th, 2006 by JennyWren
Well, that didn’t work. So much for stream of consciousness. I guess my laziness outweighs my fear of sounding like an idiot.
Instead of working on the piece about the chair, I found myself writing about a beat-up, uneven dance floor in a seedy part of Buenos Aires, tango music cutting through the haze of cigarette smoke, that kind of thing. The trouble is, I know nothing about any of these things…can’t dance, have never been to Buenos Aires; it was almost completely inspired by someone else's travel adventures. Doesn’t that constitute plagiarism? Ack!
I will try something again later, during human hours. So glad this blog is here to document my insanity. LOL
*Time passes…*
Okay, here’s something that popped up. Since the number one “rules” for starting out seem to be 1) don’t write in first person, and 2) Don’t write in present tense, I thought I’d go ahead and show what a rebel I am. Not. Anyway, here it is, with standard disclaimers about insanity, sleep deprivation, etc.:
My daughter is here, asleep under her fleece blanket. Three years old and still able to sleep anywhere, she’s perfectly comfortable with taking up most of my spot on the couch. She came in here while I was writing, and curled up against my back.
She has her arm around a Curious George book; at one point she woke up and demanded that I read it to her. Her eyes were still drooping, and I promised to read it when it was “wake-up time”, stroking her hair until she fell back asleep.
She looks so delicate, so perfect. People say she reminds them of a porcelain doll, rosebud mouth and all. Her face is calm and smooth, too young for worries. One hand is curled, but relaxed, near her cheek. Occasionally her fingers twitch or her eyes seem to dart under their lids; is she dreaming?
I’m done working, but I decide not to move her, pulling the blanket up to her shoulder, and sneaking in a quick kiss of her hair before going back to bed.
———————————————————————-
Yes, I know those aren’t real paragraphs! :)
Well, that didn’t work. So much for stream of consciousness. I guess my laziness outweighs my fear of sounding like an idiot.
Instead of working on the piece about the chair, I found myself writing about a beat-up, uneven dance floor in a seedy part of Buenos Aires, tango music cutting through the haze of cigarette smoke, that kind of thing. The trouble is, I know nothing about any of these things…can’t dance, have never been to Buenos Aires; it was almost completely inspired by someone else's travel adventures. Doesn’t that constitute plagiarism? Ack!
I will try something again later, during human hours. So glad this blog is here to document my insanity. LOL
*Time passes…*
Okay, here’s something that popped up. Since the number one “rules” for starting out seem to be 1) don’t write in first person, and 2) Don’t write in present tense, I thought I’d go ahead and show what a rebel I am. Not. Anyway, here it is, with standard disclaimers about insanity, sleep deprivation, etc.:
My daughter is here, asleep under her fleece blanket. Three years old and still able to sleep anywhere, she’s perfectly comfortable with taking up most of my spot on the couch. She came in here while I was writing, and curled up against my back.
She has her arm around a Curious George book; at one point she woke up and demanded that I read it to her. Her eyes were still drooping, and I promised to read it when it was “wake-up time”, stroking her hair until she fell back asleep.
She looks so delicate, so perfect. People say she reminds them of a porcelain doll, rosebud mouth and all. Her face is calm and smooth, too young for worries. One hand is curled, but relaxed, near her cheek. Occasionally her fingers twitch or her eyes seem to dart under their lids; is she dreaming?
I’m done working, but I decide not to move her, pulling the blanket up to her shoulder, and sneaking in a quick kiss of her hair before going back to bed.
———————————————————————-
Yes, I know those aren’t real paragraphs! :)
Tuesday, November 7, 2006
Scribblings
Posted November 7th, 2006 by JennyWren
Okay, this is a test. This is only a test. This is a test to see if writing for writing’s sake will produce anything. I will not be saving this, I can tell myself, so we will see if it makes it any easier. I do not need to worry about grammar ( can’t help it with the spelling, though!), so I should be free to just type whatever comes. It’s just words. Kind of like self-hypnosis, this, only I can’t type as fast as I am thinking the words, and so quite a bit is “lost in the translation”. Again, this is only a test. Just an exercise, getting the mind turning in those old, dust-filled ruts that used to lead to a story. Wow. See? Things are looking better already. Nope. Don’t look back! I only have a few minutes until lunch is ready, use any chance I have to practice putting the words down. maybe I will use something like the line about the ruts in an intro to my blog on the new site.
Okay, enough prattle, we need some fiction, here. Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe it’s too soon, I’m not distracted enough, still too aware. But I can feel it loosening, so that’s good…breaking free from its moorings, yeah, that’s it, let the cliches pour out. Reminds me of the moor, and the heather, ah, will I ever write anything with those words in it? Doubt it. But maybe.
Right now, I think I am working on a piece about a rocking chair. Well, okay, it’s not really about a rocking chair. It’s more about a woman, her life, her loves. Probably on a farm. Probably older and alone now. Probably depressing? Or maybe not.
The three year old leaned up against the couch, carefully pressing the crayon’s waxy tip onto the paper, drawing, she said, a smiley face. She added a few dots and loops for emphasis. Okay, time for lunch!
Okay, this is a test. This is only a test. This is a test to see if writing for writing’s sake will produce anything. I will not be saving this, I can tell myself, so we will see if it makes it any easier. I do not need to worry about grammar ( can’t help it with the spelling, though!), so I should be free to just type whatever comes. It’s just words. Kind of like self-hypnosis, this, only I can’t type as fast as I am thinking the words, and so quite a bit is “lost in the translation”. Again, this is only a test. Just an exercise, getting the mind turning in those old, dust-filled ruts that used to lead to a story. Wow. See? Things are looking better already. Nope. Don’t look back! I only have a few minutes until lunch is ready, use any chance I have to practice putting the words down. maybe I will use something like the line about the ruts in an intro to my blog on the new site.
Okay, enough prattle, we need some fiction, here. Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe it’s too soon, I’m not distracted enough, still too aware. But I can feel it loosening, so that’s good…breaking free from its moorings, yeah, that’s it, let the cliches pour out. Reminds me of the moor, and the heather, ah, will I ever write anything with those words in it? Doubt it. But maybe.
Right now, I think I am working on a piece about a rocking chair. Well, okay, it’s not really about a rocking chair. It’s more about a woman, her life, her loves. Probably on a farm. Probably older and alone now. Probably depressing? Or maybe not.
The three year old leaned up against the couch, carefully pressing the crayon’s waxy tip onto the paper, drawing, she said, a smiley face. She added a few dots and loops for emphasis. Okay, time for lunch!
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