tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-61151273030103130942024-03-20T04:35:31.923-07:00Badger's Megalithic MelangeMusings on life, nature, the nature of life, spirituality, rock collecting and other aspects of my wild & crazy lifeAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10936182856032020479noreply@blogger.comBlogger23125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115127303010313094.post-82284191553605253182018-03-27T04:17:00.001-07:002018-03-27T04:35:52.961-07:00Phoenixcon, 1984<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I'm trying something new...<br />
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I've been constructing scrapbooks for two years now. I only work on them in the cold months (because I'm away during the warm months!) These pages are the result of my efforts. The distortion you'll see has to do with the fact that when I shot them my intention was to preserve the content so that I could send it to friends, not to make exact reproductions.<br />
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You should know, I kept EVERYTHING, especially from the "early days". I have added a ridiculous number of photos to Fanlore--"Oh here, I kept this plastic bag which is printed with artwork and the name of the con--from 1975". Really, it's good that I'm doing this because my daughter would curse my name when I am no more and she has to clean out my studio...<br />
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This year I concentrated on the early conventions I attended, both before and when I had first started my business. So let's see if these pages upload okay...<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJKSwXBiCOwtZ5ui3RkdBSHEIBdUmHDVLxaeKkJivEP7IhEI190dH7799Z-ywS82IQ8-ILd3gv584vyKmJm9VPXFU7sTyfP_JVGtzGmy9FeJnnLv_mFcWSb00KAHw3o03ATqd46bMiJuv0/s1600/PhoenixCon-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1565" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJKSwXBiCOwtZ5ui3RkdBSHEIBdUmHDVLxaeKkJivEP7IhEI190dH7799Z-ywS82IQ8-ILd3gv584vyKmJm9VPXFU7sTyfP_JVGtzGmy9FeJnnLv_mFcWSb00KAHw3o03ATqd46bMiJuv0/s400/PhoenixCon-1.jpg" width="390" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">When I wrote "extremely short-lived" I meant "five episodes"...I had never seen those five episodes, and once the show had been axed, it was axed...no DVDs or Netflix!</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtiu6fznw3I4FyJv468-LOANKMBY1gvRZaaRbs24Zd24HpnSKIThFrQQLkz35tIix_WI8aDpKHQH87UX6x0Me20lcPsoIDU4N-g6E6lSeCJnAeeo8z9CAN6DTtAJLPMszSZ4W8OLpP-xZP/s1600/PhoenixCon-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1537" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtiu6fznw3I4FyJv468-LOANKMBY1gvRZaaRbs24Zd24HpnSKIThFrQQLkz35tIix_WI8aDpKHQH87UX6x0Me20lcPsoIDU4N-g6E6lSeCJnAeeo8z9CAN6DTtAJLPMszSZ4W8OLpP-xZP/s400/PhoenixCon-2.jpg" width="382" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sorry the lettering isn't clearer. Please squint.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-584wmLhvd-ZQp6cL6xkxb3FcmDnTcnG6SUhHxA9P5qr7IEzmhcM-nHyokeqf0yuEuph3pilot6AyGyJVu5tB_3Ncv95b76V4jmYuFmhSMc2yFcLsdQwGIEKw5VxZPQAYIoxaWoqBoktL/s1600/PhoenixCon-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1543" data-original-width="1600" height="385" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-584wmLhvd-ZQp6cL6xkxb3FcmDnTcnG6SUhHxA9P5qr7IEzmhcM-nHyokeqf0yuEuph3pilot6AyGyJVu5tB_3Ncv95b76V4jmYuFmhSMc2yFcLsdQwGIEKw5VxZPQAYIoxaWoqBoktL/s400/PhoenixCon-3.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">So the star was Judson Scott, who is better known from "Star Trek: the Wrath of Khan". He played this guy named Bennu (an ancient Egyptian name for "phoenix"--I'm sure the writers thought they were really clever) who had been found in a Mayan crypt. </td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6ZTXX53h63h5fzCR0F6cIEQjh7JNKY1NHuWDIym_OO6EUE3JUtKfXdyTn7A1zH3Ch5hI9NadRhciNkiOW5JOqbR6i5DdTc1TCXcfkas4hLc9vr65aUSAnDeg9VOiTNnejO1yA650Yj4-V/s1600/PhoenixCon-4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6ZTXX53h63h5fzCR0F6cIEQjh7JNKY1NHuWDIym_OO6EUE3JUtKfXdyTn7A1zH3Ch5hI9NadRhciNkiOW5JOqbR6i5DdTc1TCXcfkas4hLc9vr65aUSAnDeg9VOiTNnejO1yA650Yj4-V/s400/PhoenixCon-4.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I had been asked to do artwork, specifically portraits, to be presented to the guests. Judson Scott, as you can see, was thrilled. And that whole "His Suit is the Sun" effect is in spite of hours spent on Photoshop Elements doing everything I could to tone his 1980s white linen suit down. </td></tr>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheXvpGZIxZEYR7K-ikWwPm9SnW4nna8csS8i6O8Dv8GNFtXR2DnNOz5Dyv6Q-XZlHTpsg23tHzsb6W7IsgM_f50lXuTd6pFq7HwPfWz6kfV6D9TM4TWKxV07ohyIEE4SC_Bqoowh4T8GNm/s1600/PhoenixCon-5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1415" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheXvpGZIxZEYR7K-ikWwPm9SnW4nna8csS8i6O8Dv8GNFtXR2DnNOz5Dyv6Q-XZlHTpsg23tHzsb6W7IsgM_f50lXuTd6pFq7HwPfWz6kfV6D9TM4TWKxV07ohyIEE4SC_Bqoowh4T8GNm/s400/PhoenixCon-5.jpg" width="351" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">So...Richard Lynch...the word "follies" is entirely applicable...<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw0K9OuIWLM8K86r5zHu5xz965AdLJRHNwckvx_v0NbFUyePxtC7fDIzu1BlsocritiLlP9Tro6AMzJyLfn356fN1Ud1gBJTo05BZ5zqbmaYrk4QaJ-SLEfnJoBkcLPtgjHdjc9_kjEXgA/s1600/PhoenixCon-6.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1566" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw0K9OuIWLM8K86r5zHu5xz965AdLJRHNwckvx_v0NbFUyePxtC7fDIzu1BlsocritiLlP9Tro6AMzJyLfn356fN1Ud1gBJTo05BZ5zqbmaYrk4QaJ-SLEfnJoBkcLPtgjHdjc9_kjEXgA/s400/PhoenixCon-6.jpg" width="390" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I did not try to make him look like Donald Trump...I was working from the least blurry of two EXTREMELY blurry pictures.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVcIzvq_lZqhvj_QyQKNUXlWUT_fAc-Yz4xqO6RWicZ5T9H3TcFs2JyKpMJ4BVAUya0CnBYUgTklHdyiSvAlwzB-b-a-hN8SV4l8cDTi7OeUPj0aVhCXDV3fppbS97_f_mncjbXRY61Yt3/s1600/PhoenixCon-7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1599" data-original-width="1600" height="398" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVcIzvq_lZqhvj_QyQKNUXlWUT_fAc-Yz4xqO6RWicZ5T9H3TcFs2JyKpMJ4BVAUya0CnBYUgTklHdyiSvAlwzB-b-a-hN8SV4l8cDTi7OeUPj0aVhCXDV3fppbS97_f_mncjbXRY61Yt3/s400/PhoenixCon-7.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Most of the story is on the page...</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCFOkj7SIFMAIMfBi6eiWwGfB00TwLjs1xCr9lJvOPMSym71pukSJy-HYOOnVA3ykljIHfKsIknBYXNbLwhXOJOrLZ9bnQufmV9bhvtcoJXgJmkPPhotiO7PZVlbIhReryFi8pwSrFQYEn/s1600/PhoenixCon-8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1563" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCFOkj7SIFMAIMfBi6eiWwGfB00TwLjs1xCr9lJvOPMSym71pukSJy-HYOOnVA3ykljIHfKsIknBYXNbLwhXOJOrLZ9bnQufmV9bhvtcoJXgJmkPPhotiO7PZVlbIhReryFi8pwSrFQYEn/s400/PhoenixCon-8.jpg" width="390" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">She hugged--no SQUISHED me!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJklZjr19VKl0W_GC0tpa5TXX3zU4M7iVYYDRZSNon9cUDScJ8uIEVCfMzy9tNk0lLnh_zJKngqlf7jAwDm2GjJHxDdC9NEkQzfLE54oE2jiwu7UdbAgE9hZ-jGH4n5SLdGhY5I6VF7Ikt/s1600/PhoenixCon-9.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJklZjr19VKl0W_GC0tpa5TXX3zU4M7iVYYDRZSNon9cUDScJ8uIEVCfMzy9tNk0lLnh_zJKngqlf7jAwDm2GjJHxDdC9NEkQzfLE54oE2jiwu7UdbAgE9hZ-jGH4n5SLdGhY5I6VF7Ikt/s400/PhoenixCon-9.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our emcee was the late Marty Gear, who was a treasured guest at many conventions.</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3tly_THUW_UEQeHvtyVGWvZEk7vldiMNIA8CQf7HG3akyJ1CQlohiFPDffWmeBiDuxziD7I8OZn9fgNY4GDAEaeCib2ExvH8MKaOpowI4lp1iOT8HunTr_yz9mfqo-W3PZhR0-0XeuuDp/s1600/PhoenixCon-10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1596" data-original-width="1600" height="398" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3tly_THUW_UEQeHvtyVGWvZEk7vldiMNIA8CQf7HG3akyJ1CQlohiFPDffWmeBiDuxziD7I8OZn9fgNY4GDAEaeCib2ExvH8MKaOpowI4lp1iOT8HunTr_yz9mfqo-W3PZhR0-0XeuuDp/s400/PhoenixCon-10.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
And here is the first time anyone spoke of the "Female Assassins Guild"...it will not be the last time...<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRzFrrQeIWBJY6CC1gXOwL90HG4-eJQ-4ASmmKIGjp28__Lgjr-VdZMYKgV_ct9yxNaXKpKIu2ZLFoh_wRacKa3_omnfKSftFP8kw3zDflCDQ0YptHCojgQWv2g8rPrfhLxVFrGP_TW2Vu/s1600/PhoenixCon-11.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1594" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRzFrrQeIWBJY6CC1gXOwL90HG4-eJQ-4ASmmKIGjp28__Lgjr-VdZMYKgV_ct9yxNaXKpKIu2ZLFoh_wRacKa3_omnfKSftFP8kw3zDflCDQ0YptHCojgQWv2g8rPrfhLxVFrGP_TW2Vu/s400/PhoenixCon-11.jpg" width="397" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Add caption</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjWNZ_16GTK6TUIWv7eViseN9IGbvSGVGfm_RyxPY1RVWqpKsawZj6SYCdP1wSSV0Jn-mmCPVZQoYN8Q2dPJRbDt1WnauISe0R9YMtCyiVrJo9XsXQJh9FPxlAacoUSPM5nEpNDBO2rSp_/s1600/PhoenixCon-12.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1560" data-original-width="1600" height="388" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjWNZ_16GTK6TUIWv7eViseN9IGbvSGVGfm_RyxPY1RVWqpKsawZj6SYCdP1wSSV0Jn-mmCPVZQoYN8Q2dPJRbDt1WnauISe0R9YMtCyiVrJo9XsXQJh9FPxlAacoUSPM5nEpNDBO2rSp_/s400/PhoenixCon-12.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">So that's what I have for you, I hope you've enjoyed it!!</span><br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10936182856032020479noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115127303010313094.post-74628680894521090652018-03-21T05:34:00.001-07:002018-03-21T05:34:14.970-07:0021 March 2018<br />
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Mood: Optimism with a feeling of Doom<br />
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Listening to: my dogs snoring<br />
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Better get to the Doom first...<br />
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Well, it's snowing...again. And sleeting. They're calling for 5-8". Joy.<br />
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Now on with the Optimism:<br />
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I heard from my editor a scant 24 hours after sending the proposal. She was *really* excited!! She gave me a word count (50,000 or thereabouts) and asked for some sample art, so I am working on that now! <br />
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Art in the To Be Framed category has been piling up. Yesterday I matted and framed three things--here are two of them:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4hviiDdZksC7dtu0qOi84tOodhtsmsjLPbnSieZ7ds8t6wRgKykjF5UidNTR2OyBQz56sEKDffvUxf9jZ_03KT3T2XglIjVVoJn5SDttGeEB8-9HLXBFCOObtpsYoymM9rhQRZxC0xSqr/s1600/Joyce%2527s+bunny.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4hviiDdZksC7dtu0qOi84tOodhtsmsjLPbnSieZ7ds8t6wRgKykjF5UidNTR2OyBQz56sEKDffvUxf9jZ_03KT3T2XglIjVVoJn5SDttGeEB8-9HLXBFCOObtpsYoymM9rhQRZxC0xSqr/s320/Joyce%2527s+bunny.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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This is a watercolor my Aunt Joyce did, probably in the 70s. She went through a whole rabbit phase--truly she had Rabbit for a totem--she was soft spoken most of the time, but heaven help you if you threatened her or her family! (Hint: don't ever corner a bunny--they will come out fighting!<br />
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In any case, my Dad had framed the bunny in the frame below, which now holds my husband's chart of Masonic divisions. It looked for crap on the bunny. I went fishing in my frame collection--mostly frames procured at the Salvation Army--and found this one with the $2.99 price tag still on it. I am thrilled with the result!<br />
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David's Masonic chart posed some special problems: the gold border you see is printed on the paper--there really is no way to mat something with a margin that small. I ended up mounting the whole paper on a piece of really nice mat board--you tell me, but that's a heck of an optical illusion that gold border gives!!<br />
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So I've started black and white illustrations for the book proposal: I'm also working on commissioned sewing and paintings...Spring must be close! <br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10936182856032020479noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115127303010313094.post-36264936347842604012018-03-19T02:56:00.000-07:002018-03-19T02:56:59.896-07:00<b>19 March 2018 5:14 AM</b><br />
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<b>Mood:</b> Meh. Headache looming on the horizon. Tired from a busy weekend. Went to bed too early last night and didn't go to bed happy. Had to write a Letter of Concern to a loved one.<br />
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<b>Listening to:</b> the furnace trying to make the 64 degree living room into a 68 degree living room. Clunk clunk clunk as the water moves through the old iron radiators. I am thankful we have a house and oil to heat it.<br />
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One of the things I busted my ass on this weekend was a proposal for a new book. I'm excited about this, but I really pushed to get it done (because it was pushing me). Here's an excerpt from the Introduction:<br />
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<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>Tata
Rodriguez </b>was a tall, heavy set Cuban, and his desk—a gigantic and
ornate mahogany dinner table, cluttered with papers and books and
sprinkled with ash (cigarette combined with cigar, if my nose was to
be believed)--was perfectly proportionate to him—and his enormous
spiritual presence. The hot westering sun streamed through the
window behind him, an impromptu halo for a man I would learn was
well-versed in the habits of his saints. In the corner, a window air
conditioner labored to keep his halo from giving us all heat
exhaustion.</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Eileen
introduced us. Tata's sonorous voice accented his Cuban
Spanish-accented softened English. Sometimes he positively rumbled.
And his laugh— the round, hearty “Heh heh heh heh heh” I would
come to associate with him—came so easily to him: there was no
sign of pretense in his mannerisms. No, he could not be anything but
the Real Thing.</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Tata
(even though that title implies that one is a godchild in a
spiritual “house”, I found myself using it almost immediately)
gratefully accepted my gift. While we seated ourselves in the two
chairs across from him, he examined it closely. “Wow,” he said;
his voice was reverent. He looked up at Eileen. “You said she was
an earth spirit?” He pointed at the images on the portrait. “Look
at these spirals and horses: she's air!”</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I
was dumbfounded. This was not really the direction I had expected
we'd be taking on first meeting. Why? Because the people out at the
camp talked about elements. This was a totally different spiritual
mindset. Shouldn't we be talking about the spell Louise had cast?
And since when was I an air spirit? Me? The girl who'd collected
rocks and minerals since she was four years old, who loves mud and
hikes in the woods and digging in the dirt? Air? Me? How could he
know that? He hardly knew me! And what did it have to do with
anything anyway?</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Tata
set my portrait aside and pulled out a long thin paperback volume
about the size of a legal pad. It had a black cover and its pages
were filled with some sort of sigils—lines and curves, arrows and
spirals, plus and minus signs. As he flipped through the book, he
told me they were called <i>firmas</i> and that they were associated
with the different spirits, or Nkisi. Finally stopped and set the
open book in front of me. “What do you think?”</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I
liked the feel of this book. A lot. The drawings guided my fingers
around their lines, spirals and arrows. I turned the page, tried out
the symbols there, and didn't like them nearly as much. Finally I
pointed to one on the page he had first shown me and said, “I like
this one.”</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
He
chuckled and nodded. “I thought you would.” A moment passed as
he searched under his papers until he extracted a handful of large
cowrie shells. These he threw several times. I wondered if he was
getting the answers he needed, and had just come to the conclusion
that they had told him to kick me out of the house when he concluded
with a decisive nod and set the shells aside. He got up and walked
over to a sideboard as impressive as his desk, and started rooting in
one of the drawers. “That's Centella,” he said as he extracted a
necklace of brownish beads with white and black stripes. “Put this
on. Centella is the Nkisi of the marketplace and the whirlwind and
she guards the gates of the cemetery. She is a powerful protector.
“Now,” he continued, pulling out a pad of legal sized yellow
paper, “If you make this--” he sketched a skirt with panels, and
labeled each one a different color, “You will be very happy to
dance in it.”</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I
took the paper from him, folded it neatly, and stuck it in my purse.
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Okay,”
he continued. “Go on over there and clean yourself off by the
water altar.”</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Um,”
I said.</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Now
he laughed, not mockingly, and pointed. “Pour some of that Agua
Florida on your hands, then pretend like you're washing all over.
It's just to clear your head, that's all. Eileen, you show her.”</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The
water altar was set up on another monumental piece of furniture—this
time a bureau with a mirror. The altar itself was comprised of seven
glasses of water set in two lines of three, with the seventh located
in the middle. A nice looking quartz crystal lay at the bottom of
each glass. Across the central glass was a large crucifix.
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“What's
it like over there?” he asked as I followed Eileen's directions for
“cleaning off”.
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The
Agua Florida powerful scent had sent my head spinning, but I nodded.
“Peaceful.”
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Good,”
he remarked. “That's how it's supposed to be. Did cleaning off
help?”</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I
think so,” I said. My whole being was humming. Was that what it
meant, to be “cleaned off”?</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Good,”
he said. I'll be right back.”</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Eileen
looked like she was about to burst. “Isn't this <i>amazing</i>?”
she enthused.</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I
looked around the room, at the shelves of papers and books, the
statues—particularly the huge statue of the Virgin Mary presiding
over three men in a boat that occupied a side table near the desk—and
the odd assortment of materials that filled the shelves and the
mantle of the old Victorian fireplace. It wasn't what I had
expected—but what <i>had</i> I expected? An Important Man dressed
in a leopard skin wearing a necklace of human teeth and holding a
spear? A darkened room hung with herbs and rooster feet?
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Then
I remembered: in Jorge Amado's books, the priests are <i>regular
people</i>.</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Tata reappeared in the doorway. Let's go downstairs.”</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
As
I followed him towards the basement, I glanced out a window and saw
street lights. When had night fallen? We'd just arrived!</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>If</b> it's accepted, this will be a non-fiction book about Palo, an Afro-Caribbean religion that is a cousin to Santeria.</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>Meanwhile</b>, <i>The Promethean Oracle </i>was not chosen as Oracle Deck of the Year 2017, but it was still really cool to be nominated!!</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>Projects: </b>Finishing up a costume for a friend of mine, a Sith. I love making Sith costumes! Jedi are so...brown. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>Up and Coming: </b> </div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>The festival season</b> begins in earnest really soon! I have a new credit card processing company: https://www.nationalmerchants.com/ They are <b>FANTASTIC.</b> </div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>I have been contributing to Fanlore, </b>a website devoted, you might have already deduced, to All Things Fannish. Scrapbooking has many advantages, as long as you don't let it run your life--if spending money at Michael's becomes a daily thing, seek psychiatric help. For one thing, in my search for the stuff I wanted to go into the book, I recycled <b>SEVEN </b>document boxes stacked high with paper. Many things were thrown out or went to recycling or the Salvation Army. But I digress: here are some of the Fanlore links:</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
<b></b></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
https://fanlore.org/wiki/Colonial_Con (I wrote this one)</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
https://fanlore.org/wiki/Schuster_Star_Trek_Conventions/1975_Philadelphia_Schuster_Star_Trek_Convention</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
https://fanlore.org/wiki/PhoenixCon<br />
<b></b></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
<b></b></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
<b></b></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
To the others I contributed commentary and images. </div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>Scrapbooking </b>also has me working in Photoshop Elements. </div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWBpmm6yk5Bj9LDnpuY5bedYZzjr_ogK64Uxrci5y3Ho0Bc1JvD2PRkpN-abqe4ZhLVbLCM94tTePr0oUU7NhM8oSRWvdid8NQkNFZV5891ELiDCCopQ9P7h1PqR6ERDX1KWNCfXPc9lKy/s1600/Nan+Re-edited_edited-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1036" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWBpmm6yk5Bj9LDnpuY5bedYZzjr_ogK64Uxrci5y3Ho0Bc1JvD2PRkpN-abqe4ZhLVbLCM94tTePr0oUU7NhM8oSRWvdid8NQkNFZV5891ELiDCCopQ9P7h1PqR6ERDX1KWNCfXPc9lKy/s400/Nan+Re-edited_edited-1.jpg" width="258" /></a> </div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
<b></b></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The photo is from 1987 and yes believe it or not that's me. In the background used to be my best friend's apartment door, but with much patience and learning-on-the-fly, I even got the letters at the top to look like they were carved in the background!</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
<b></b></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
<b></b></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I like that the bottom looks like a painting!</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
<b></b></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
<b></b></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Speaking of paintings I have a few of those on the horizon too. More on that later!<br />
<b></b></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
<b></b></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
<b></b></div>
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<br />
<b></b></div>
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<br />
<b></b></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
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<br /></div>
<style type="text/css">p { margin-bottom: 0.1in; line-height: 120%; }a:link { }</style><br />
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<br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10936182856032020479noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115127303010313094.post-36323021826077592072015-12-05T03:54:00.001-08:002015-12-05T03:55:46.850-08:00I'm BACK and a favor to ask!Here I am, after a year. And what a year it's been.<br />
<br />
Just
before my last entry, I had injured my left knee while trying to keep
up with two lines of very enthusiastic people pulling a soon to me
megalith at Stones Rising 2014. I didn't know it, but I was about to
embark on a year of learning exactly why the stereotypical old person is
grumpy.<br />
<br />
The knee hurt--quite a lot--so I thought I'd
twisted or sprained it, and off to the chiropractor I went. When she
and I agreed it wasn't helping, I went to my general practitioner.
When, several visits later, we determined that what we'd been trying
wasn't helping, I went to an orthopedist. The orthopedist gave me a
cortisone shot and prescribed round 1 of PT. The cortisone shot gave me
hot flashes for three days and then wore off; the PT was great. The
doctor gave me lubricant shots. They didn't work. Finally the doc said
we should do arthroscopic surgery. He didn't have a great rep as a
surgeon, so I found another one and we did the surgery...where it turned
out that yes, I had a torn meniscus, but--far worse-- I had galloping
arthritis in that knee. The doctor was irritated that it had not imaged
in the MRI or X-ray. Round 2 of PT. I join a gym and ride the bike on
non-PT days. PT doesn't work--it helps a little, but not enough to
declare me healed. By this point we are towards the end of what has
been a miserable camping and festival season. Sometimes I couldn't even
stand. I called my doc and we determined that I should get the damned
knee replaced. <br />
<br />
I can unequivocally say that that was one of the best decisions I have ever made. <br />
<br />
I can also say that I now understand the meaning of "out of spoons" (if you
don't know Spoon Theory, look it up. It will explain a lot about how
people with chronic pain deal with the assumptions of people who don't
have chronic pain.)<br />
<br />
I now know why it's hard for people with chronic pain to be creative. Dealing with pain is exhausting.<br />
<br />
I
now know who my friends are, and I have a lot of them, with loving
hands who picked me up when I couldn't walk, fetched things, and helped
me to my campsite when I needed it. They were there for me when I cried
out of frustration, and they understood because they knew that I'm not
the kind of person who cries in public, that I'm the kind of person who
values her independence. I have friends even at Four Quarters outside
events: neighbors at a rave which draws 4,000 kids who made me a
breakfast sandwich when the EMTs had put me on the disabled list and
sent me (in misery) back to bed; friends of long standing from another,
much smaller, event, who gave me use of their golf cart and brought me
my dinner when I couldn't stand. <br />
<br />
I now know that my husband of 27 years is an even more wonderful man than I knew.<br />
<br />
Happily, I am back to work on writing and illustrating my next book, <i>The Promethean Oracle</i>. Here are some examples of the latest:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2JD0zngq53EfJgNOgvZZqchiC2vlHGDnCuN_X-eqBqPAjxofg_sGCDai8u4IMbFIuL_EaZAXv5OrkHXW4YZFj0H764P_Gse9B0kGSYD-UzXz-RtRgNlCD5-8SdHocJzQa6_7Bit7bZvjA/s1600/Ashurbanipal.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2JD0zngq53EfJgNOgvZZqchiC2vlHGDnCuN_X-eqBqPAjxofg_sGCDai8u4IMbFIuL_EaZAXv5OrkHXW4YZFj0H764P_Gse9B0kGSYD-UzXz-RtRgNlCD5-8SdHocJzQa6_7Bit7bZvjA/s320/Ashurbanipal.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
This is Ashurbanial, who was not just the ruthless last king of the Neo-Assyrian period, he was the founder of the first library, which had 30,000 volumes, many of which he hand-picked or wrote himself. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS6V3zPdl6cS8kcBfofz5lukktNDalmR0otuvd27aDJVfc_9Ke2fqGoMdQE2skVzczxZ5cHx2efTvXEO6pAjxCxcHoB4_ND41iBMlWrKxo3Johoh7kB1fMNi3fxwE6jymmHltYRxQT_iHj/s1600/Ezekiel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS6V3zPdl6cS8kcBfofz5lukktNDalmR0otuvd27aDJVfc_9Ke2fqGoMdQE2skVzczxZ5cHx2efTvXEO6pAjxCxcHoB4_ND41iBMlWrKxo3Johoh7kB1fMNi3fxwE6jymmHltYRxQT_iHj/s320/Ezekiel.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Eziekiel had many powerful visions, but the most famous is the "wheel within the wheel." Well, that's "done", so I focused on the cherubims' wings.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZmITHbDaRXAaTNOWJT1D09Xl2RgV6m21yuZ2W9rxnI_eWtHfn2h9ps9sWyTCkOFXVyGZc3ITGmI1M_jgGLOl4-_JfNlYf6Y3Hudo9qYwmTuxci-ohYEvKiZLDB_RXqHGoXdkHUnOYAdT5/s1600/Khaemwaset.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZmITHbDaRXAaTNOWJT1D09Xl2RgV6m21yuZ2W9rxnI_eWtHfn2h9ps9sWyTCkOFXVyGZc3ITGmI1M_jgGLOl4-_JfNlYf6Y3Hudo9qYwmTuxci-ohYEvKiZLDB_RXqHGoXdkHUnOYAdT5/s320/Khaemwaset.jpg" width="229" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Here is Khaemwaset, the second son of Ramses II and a scholar rather than a warrior. His fascination with the already ancient monuments of his ancestors led to their study and preservation: Khaemwaset was the world's first Egyptologist.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLA-Bq9sZj6EBUyxTWB7T5vbP5NO_gbUb_YsRkAeRNClSDAW3uS2wBDaJyIsttb-83bPnfb4PYkeXBuJB0XrNK2yDcmAtsS77jPDltPUmjuDu1XYImB7Tr4NRrGNDIzIGGX5K1wDp_A7lW/s1600/Minotaur.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLA-Bq9sZj6EBUyxTWB7T5vbP5NO_gbUb_YsRkAeRNClSDAW3uS2wBDaJyIsttb-83bPnfb4PYkeXBuJB0XrNK2yDcmAtsS77jPDltPUmjuDu1XYImB7Tr4NRrGNDIzIGGX5K1wDp_A7lW/s320/Minotaur.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The Minotaur, looking at you.</div>
<br />
Unfortunately,
the buildup to the surgery, and the surgery aftermath, made it
impossible for me to, even with help, sell artwork at Stones Rising or
any of the other major events I usually attend. This means I'm going
into 2016 without the funds to pay for vending space at my spring
events.<br />
<br />
To this end I've set up a GoFundMe account: <a href="https://www.gofundme.com/8hct5dbd">https://www.gofundme.com/8hct5dbd</a>
I've included gifts for those who donate special amounts too: $50 gets
you a pack of greeting cards, and $100 a 5 X 7" print, your choice. You don't have to donate anything, I'm not going to hold it against anyone. But every little bit helps!<br />
<br />
Thanks for listening, and enjoy the new art! You can see more at http://badgersoph.deviantart.com .Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10936182856032020479noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115127303010313094.post-46791845618257689822014-09-06T12:39:00.001-07:002014-09-06T12:41:21.011-07:00Yes, it’s been awhile, and I should be writing something else, but I
thought it was about time that I updated everything. I don’t know how
people who blog regularly get anything else done.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQKhJsWtj8aaFGDiC4CKubkMkFtY2zGMODGfE6d_p-P6S9RU9FZGcpNK3RfYR5Qi3m2jtmyeI5CoEVG3G-zi_N9ZoeNj4JEqdhJl39024wzKXev6ZfaUQPSH_ZK-5giO5NnMlfeMSPcKft/s1600/horus003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQKhJsWtj8aaFGDiC4CKubkMkFtY2zGMODGfE6d_p-P6S9RU9FZGcpNK3RfYR5Qi3m2jtmyeI5CoEVG3G-zi_N9ZoeNj4JEqdhJl39024wzKXev6ZfaUQPSH_ZK-5giO5NnMlfeMSPcKft/s1600/horus003.jpg" height="640" width="464" /></a></div>
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So here’s Horus, and Horus is part of a new project, <i>The Promethean Oracle. </i>This is yet again an oracle deck, but this time its focus is <i>male </i>energies (this does not mean women can’t use it). <br />
I’m drawing (literally) from a range of characters: historical,
mythical, and Biblical (yes, Biblical), and limiting the origin of the
subject matter to Ancient Egypt, Greece, Mesopotamia, and the Bible.<br />
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<img alt="image" class="toggle_inline_image inline_image constrained_image" height="640" src="https://31.media.tumblr.com/3ff9491a267346f15ae7c40b28be77bf/tumblr_inline_nbh2qp6ebA1rs2gc5.jpg" width="579" /><br />
Agamemnon. A rat bastard if ever there was one.<br />
Instead of watercolors on huge pieces of paper, these images are a
more manageable size (8.5 X 11”) and are rendered in colored pencil.<br />
I’m having a lot of fun with the imagery. I’ve always wanted to do
something with historical masks like this one (wait till you’ve seen
Sargon!) and never really had the excuse. <br />
I’ll have to publish the proposal, now that it’s been ACCEPTED!!!<br />
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Good old Set, you know he's up to something.<br />
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This project came about as the result of me noticing that while there are oodles of Goddess based tarot and oracle decks, there is precious little depicting male archetypes or energies. In fact, the only deck I could find was an oracle called Gods and Heroes, and that featured idealized bodybuilders. <br />
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Uh huh. <br />
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Because I don't have enough to do in my life, I prepared a pitch and sent it in to my publisher, Schiffer Publishing ( www.schifferbooks.com ) . I was invited to bring the original art down, so I did, and that very day Mr. Schiffer told me I had a contract. <br />
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So off I go, diving into another project! Stay tuned for news and special items! <br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10936182856032020479noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115127303010313094.post-15053121829279628862012-05-22T07:21:00.000-07:002012-05-22T07:21:09.150-07:00Yes, Virginia, My First Fanfiction was a Mary SueYou may or may not be familiar with the word “fanfiction”. The clever reader (which I have on good authority all of you are) might discern the roots “fan” and “fiction” and correctly infer that this is fiction based upon something of which the writer is a fan. <br />
<br />
Fanfiction has been wildly popular for more than three decades. It has become so ubiquitous that college professors now give lectures and write research papers on the topic. Some of the best pen and ink art I have ever seen graces the covers of fanzines--publications comprised of fanfiction. <br />
<br />
Fanfiction was in its infancy when I walked into my first<i> Star Trek </i>convention in 1975, and I still didn’t know what fanfiction was when I walked into my first <i>Star Trek</i> convention as a vendor in 1983. <br />
<br />
I got the crash course that first day.<br />
<br />
The vendor coordinator hadn’t known where to put a business called “Fantasy Portraits”, so he had put me in the room with the fanzine dealers. There I was, with my humble setup: the aluminum easel I had borrowed from my Dad; my set of Prismacolor Pencils; and a pad of charcoal paper, surrounded by dealers sitting behind tables stacked high with thick, often ring-bound publications. I didn’t know what to make of them, and they didn’t know what to make of me. It was an awkward start.<br />
<br />
Friday afternoon, the hoards came shopping: women armed with huge canvas bags swarmed the tables, spending vast amounts of money on these publications--and completely ignoring me. The frenzy was nearly overwhelming, and I thought I was sunk. Fantasy Portraits would die in its infancy, all at the hands of these crazy ladies and their bulging tote bags. <br />
<br />
Though it’s not relevant to this story, you ought to know that the rest of the weekend was much better. <br />
<br />
These books were called “zines”, and that their content came in several flavors. I learned that just because my initials were “KS”--for “Sophia Kelly”--that did not mean that I drew “K/S” (that’s zinespeak for relationships between Kirk and Spock; the “/” (you may see references to “slash” zines) is the shorthand for the relationship part. I learned that if you could draw, you could illustrate for a zine, but there is no money in it. <br />
<br />
While fanfiction got its start with Star Trek, by the time I went to that convention, it had branched out to include many other TV shows and movies (referred to as “fandoms”). There was already a considerable body of work involving characters from shows like <i>Star Wars</i> and <i>Battlestar Galactica</i>. Throughout the course of the 1980s, more and more zines representing more and more shows were published, some with increasingly elaborate and colorful bindings. <br />
Today, fanfiction flourishes, and the fandoms it represents number as the stars, some new, like the BBC series <i>Sherlock</i> and some very, very old, like <i>The Man from U.N.C.L.E.</i> and <i>Starsky and Hutch</i>. (No, really, I am not kidding.)<br />
<br />
Yes, I have written fanfiction. Much to my editor’s distress, I am not terribly prolific, but my stories are relatively popular and I have on occasion even received fan mail. <br />
<br />
Yet there is one ghost that haunts me, that sends me running to friends about 3/4 of the way through every story.<br />
<br />
Her name is Mary Sue.<br />
<br />
Wikipedia defines a Mary Sue thusly: <i>A Mary Sue (sometimes just Sue), in literary criticism and particularly in fanfiction, is a fictional character with overly idealized and hackneyed mannerisms, lacking noteworthy flaws, and primarily functioning as a wish-fulfilment fantasy for the author or reader. It is generally accepted as a character whose positive aspects overwhelm their other traits until they become one-dimensional. While the label "Mary Sue" itself originates from a parody of this type of character, most characters labelled "Mary Sues" by readers are not intended by authors as such. Male Mary Sues are often dubbed "Gary Stu", "Larry Stu", "Marty Stu", or similar names.<br />
<br />
While the term is generally limited to fan-created characters, and its most common usage today occurs within the fan fiction community or in reference to fan fiction, original characters in role-playing games or literary canon are also sometimes criticized as being "Mary Sues" or "canon Sues" if they dominate the spotlight or are too unrealistic or unlikely in other ways. One example of this criticism is Wesley Crusher from Star Trek: The Next Generation.<br />
The term "Mary Sue" is from the name of a character created by Paula Smith in 1973 for her parody story "A Trekkie's Tale"[1]:15 published in her fanzine Menagerie #2.[2] The story starred Lieutenant Mary Sue ("the youngest Lieutenant in the fleet — only fifteen and a half years old"), and satirized unrealistic and adolescent wish-fantasy characters in Star Trek fan fiction. Such characters were generally original (non-canon) and female adolescents who had romantic liaisons with established canon adult characters, or in some cases were the younger relatives or protégés of those characters. By 1976 Menagerie's editors stated that they disliked such characters, saying:<br />
Mary Sue stories—the adventures of the youngest and smartest ever person to graduate from the academy and ever get a commission at such a tender age. Usually characterized by unprecedented skill in everything from art to zoology, including karate and arm-wrestling. This character can also be found burrowing her way into the good graces/heart/mind of one of the Big Three [Kirk, Spock, and McCoy], if not all three at once. She saves the day by her wit and ability, and, if we are lucky, has the good grace to die at the end, being grieved by the entire ship.[3]<br />
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Today "Mary Sue" carries a connotation of wish-fulfilment and is commonly associated with self-insertion (the writing of oneself into a fictional story). True self-insertion is a literal and generally undisguised representation of the author; most characters described as "Mary Sues" are not, though they are often called "proxies"[4] for the author. The negative connotation comes from this "wish-fulfilment" implication: the "Mary Sue" is judged a poorly developed character, too perfect and lacking in realism to be interesting. Such proxy characters, critics claim, exist only because authors wish to see themselves as the "special" character in question.<br />
The term is also associated with cliché such as exotic hair and eye colors, mystical or superhuman powers, exotic pets, possessions, or origins, or an unusually tragic past, especially when these things are glaringly out of step with the consistency of the canon. These features are commonplace in "Mary Sues", though even a character who lacks them may be labelled a "Sue" by some critics. The term is more broadly associated with characters who are exceptionally and improbably lucky. The good luck may involve romance ("Mary Sue" always gets her man); adventure ("Mary Sue" always wins a fight or knows how to solve the puzzle) and popularity (the "right people" seem to gravitate towards the character). These characters have few problems while attempting to achieve their goals. "Everything goes her way" is a common criticism regarding "Mary Sues", the implication being that the character's inability to fail makes her insufficiently humanized or challenged to be interesting or sympathetic.</i><br />
<br />
So there you have it: Mary Sue. The article goes on to state that some critics have labeled Stephanie Meyer’s <i>Twilight</i> series as Mary Sue’s. I tend to agree.<br />
<br />
Yes, my friends get at least one email per story, plaintively asking, “Is my zine a Mary Sue?”.<br />
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Invariably, to my relief, they say “No, of course not.” <br />
<br />
But they have never read my first fanfic.<br />
<br />
Written in 1985, my first attempt at fan fiction was to the tune of <i>Miami Vice</i>. I freely admit that I had a crush on Lieutenant Castillo, played by Edward James Olmos (who makes any role cool). My best friend and I cooked up what we thought were some pretty awesome characters (and they are, to a certain extent), and I started writing. At the time, I thought it was pretty good.<br />
This morning, I opened up the file for the first time in decades, and started reading. I was prepared: no doubt the grammar would be painful, there might well be too much exposition. I gripped my coffee cup and plunged in.<br />
<br />
The first scene was surprisingly good, and with the exception of an apparently chronic inability to anchor point of view, the grammar and structure of the developing tale were pretty solid. The underlying plot (the case the detectives are investigating) had merit. The dialogue was about 80% character appropriate, which isn’t bad, considering that this was a first attempt. At least I’d been paying attention. <br />
<br />
The pacing was definitely too fast. It was so fast it made driving on I-95 around Miami at any given time of the day look like a snail’s pace (my husband once said that he’d rather change a tire on the Schuylkill Expressway at rush hour--that is beyond hazardous--than ever drive around Miami again. I’m pretty sure I thought this story was done, but in reality it read like a first draft. You should see what’s happening on page FIVE.<br />
<br />
And then the Universe delivered the coup de grace to my artistic pride: I realized, Oh. My. God, the main original character was ME, right down to the insecurities about weight and being dressed appropriately. I mean, it is one thing to envision oneself as a statuesque blonde (which I did not do) and another thing entirely to drop in a character who is obviously me, who waltzes into the squad room and seduces Martin Castillo (in his first appearance one of the other characters describes him as “Dirty Harry by way of Little Havana”--read “not easily seduced”). That’s some special talent there!<br />
I usually have a sense of humor about the vagaries of my youth, but this one made me literally nauseous. I console myself with the knowledge that only about five people had ever read it--and they did so such a long time ago that it’s likely not even a memory anymore.<br />
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I will probably take a dramamine and read through the whole thing to see if there’s anything I can salvage (thanks to Netflix I am on a <i>Miami Vice </i>kick right now, and am thusly inspired). But I am humbler now, as I embark upon my first REAL book (the one that comes with a REAL publisher and a REAL contract). <br />
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Hey, Universe: thanks for the reality check, but next time you decide to take me down a notch, make sure I’ve had a couple of drinks first.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10936182856032020479noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115127303010313094.post-30623737328646197922011-06-12T08:28:00.000-07:002011-06-13T01:12:53.726-07:00The Cider-Roasted Chicken That Almost Wasn't Ever been going through recipes and ended up taking a walk down memory lane?<br />
<br />
I used to be a <i>Cooking Light</i> junkie. When I still worked at Waldenbooks (when there still <i>was</i> Waldenbooks) I looked forward to the box of magazines that would yield the new issue, through which I would eagerly page looking for new ideas. At that time, my husband David was still away doing Army stuff (we joked that even though he was Army Reserve, whose motto was "one weekend a month and two weeks in the summer", we only got to <i>see</i> him one weekend a month and two weeks in the summer) so I was in charge of getting real food into myself and Emily.<br />
<br />
The cover of the October 2004 issue featured an extremely attractive recipe for Cider-Roasted Chicken, which I immediately decided I had to try. Soon after purchasing the magazine I went out to the market and purchased all of the ingredients, including a small roasting chicken. When I got home, I began my preparations: following the directions, I carefully removed the packaging on the chicken and fished out the bag of giblets. I then thoroughly washed the chicken and set it on a measuring cup <i>at the very back of the kitchen sink</i> to drain. <br />
<br />
At the time, we had an aging English Springer Spaniel named Teegan. Springers are quirky by nature (one source states that if you have a ghost in your house you should obtain a spaniel because they will chase the ghost away with their goofy nature) and Teegan was no exception. She helped raise Emily (she is in virtually every photo of Emily from babyhood on); she ate watermelon with me when I was pregnant; she loved green beans. In the span of her lifetime she never, ever curled a lip at a child--even when they pulled her ears, lips, fur and stubby tail.<br />
<br />
Teegan was named for a character on Doctor Who--a bossy, outspoken Australian airline hostess who questioned everything the 800-odd-year-old Doctor did and who had a habit of barking responses when she didn't like what he said. I just liked the name: I didn't realize that the puppy who climbed over all the other puppies to get to us was an alpha dog--which meant she <i>was</i> bossy--would also always be after my job, literally nipping at me, challenging me (and not in a playful way), and talking back to me if I scolded her. When David was away, she would try to promote me to Alpha Male by taking over my side of the bed and pushing me over to his. She was also the Wolf in Our Living Room, the Mighty Hunter, a Dog's Dog. You could play tug of war with her for hours and her teeth would never come near you, but if she got hold of something she knew she wasn't supposed to have, she became a different dog--demonically possessive. Before you ask, yes we worked with her--with limited success. She was determined to be the Boss.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Teegan, sitting at David's computer--you guessed it--at the dining room table</td></tr>
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When this all occurred, Teegan had reached the venerable age of ten years: the only evidence of her status as a senior citizen was that she had gone utterly and completely deaf (and was really enjoying it--there were times when you could just see her looking at us waving our arms and thinking "this is GREAT!").<br />
<br />
Imagine for a moment your kitchen sink and how high it is off the ground. Now imagine an English Springer Spaniel--a dog whose shoulder comes roughly to your knee--next to the sink. Tack on 10 years--that's 70 in dog years--to the dog and what you've got is the equivalent of my mother attempting the high jump.<br />
<br />
Except my mother is not Teegan. My mother knits; Teegan is the Mighty Hunter. My mother wants Archway Cookies; Teegan wanted that chicken.<br />
<br />
I still don't know how she did it. After setting the chicken to drain, I turned away for two seconds, and when I turned back there was Teegan standing on the floor holding the chicken--the <i>raw chicken, MY raw chicken--</i> by the wing. <br />
<br />
The following thoughts flashed through my head in the microsecond of realization that occurred before I reacted to this sight: <i>if Teegan gets away with the chicken she will take it under the table--from whence I won't be able to get it back without getting bitten -- and eat it. Which will make a huge, disgusting mess. If Teegan eats the chicken she will then likely get really sick, making an even bigger, more disgusting mess. I must get the chicken back!</i><br />
<br />
<i> </i>I knew I had to keep my hands clear of her teeth: this was a prey object, which she had hunted and caught fair and square and she was prepared to defend it<i>. </i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
Lightning-fast, I reached down and grabbed the chicken by the leg, instigating what remains to this day the strangest tug-of-war in which I have ever engaged. Predictably, Teegan did not let go of the chicken. She dug in as best she could on the kitchen floor: this was a battle to the death!<br />
<br />
...ever played tug-of-war with a raw chicken?<br />
<br />
Teegan had the advantage: her teeth had a firm grip on the chicken and all she had to do was pull. Meanwhile, I was forced to use my hands--including my supposedly evolutionarily advanced opposable thumbs--to try to maintain a grip on my slippery chicken leg. <i>And</i> I was laughing--how could I <i>not</i> as I tried to hang onto a raw chicken that my dog had decided was <i>hers</i>? <br />
<br />
Finally I realized that this had to end before I slipped and Teegan got away with her prize. In a last, desperate measure, I stuck my whole arm <i>into</i> the chicken's empty body cavity and pulled <i>up</i> with all my might.<br />
<br />
And my 40-pound Springer Spaniel came right with it, gripping that wing with barracuda-like determination. After a moment suspended by the chicken, she realized that I wasn't giving in: grudgingly, she let go and dropped to the floor.<br />
<br />
Calmly, I washed the chicken very thoroughly again, patted it dry, and set it to marinade in the cider-brine described in the recipe. It was very tender when cooked: whether it was the marinade, or the extra tugging, we will never know. But here's the recipe:<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.myrecipes.com/recipe/cider-roasted-chicken-10000000701063/">http://www.myrecipes.com/recipe/cider-roasted-chicken-10000000701063/</a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10936182856032020479noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115127303010313094.post-64359583602431976762011-03-23T09:18:00.000-07:002011-03-23T09:24:15.561-07:00I Have Seen the Enemy, and It is Green and Shiny--SometimesI love camping. I spend nearly the entire summer outdoors in a beautiful, rustic setting with my tent, my fire ring, and Mother Nature for company. This makes me happy.<br />
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Sadly, into each life some rain must fall. I don't mind rain of the watery kind (that would be silly). I'm talking about my metaphorical rain, my nemesis...<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Evil Weed<br />
from Wikipedia</td></tr>
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Poison ivy.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Poison ivy is my enemy. It is the Soviet Union to my United States, the rain on my parade, the PC to my Mac. It is the only adversary in my life with which there is no negotiation, no compromise, for which the "last resort" is the ONLY resort. There is no detente, no shelter, no agreement to disagree. Poison ivy laughs in the face of diplomacy; it creeps over the boundaries I try to establish with it. I tell it that I only want a little free space and it laughs and sends out insidious little hairy tendrils to torment me. </div><br />
<br />
My husband says that I can get poison ivy just by walking past someone who is thinking about the horrible case of poison ivy they had two years ago last July. He is not exaggerating: if anything he is sometimes guilty of understatement. When I get poison ivy, I don't just get it on my hands: I get it on my feet, even though I am wearing jeans, hiking boots and thick socks; I get it on my stomach (my STOMACH!) even though I am wearing two layers of clothing; I get it all the way up my arms even though I am wearing a long-sleeved shirt and gloves; I get it on my thighs...on my THIGHS??? <br />
<br />
My medicine cabinet has a whole department of poison ivy remedies. Most of them were a waste of money. The homeopathics are largely a better bet than the pharmaceuticals, but at least once a year I find myself giving in and calling the doctor to howl for steroids. It's usually this time of year, and usually I get the incredulous nurse asking: "Are you <i>sure</i> it's poison ivy??" <br />
<br />
Yes, dammit. I was in a ditch in an area where poison ivy grows in the summer. The roots are there. Dead leaves are there. They wait for me. <br />
<br />
I really think that all I need do is glance at those ominously shiny leaves and the itching starts. When I've mentioned this to someone, I've had responses like, "Oh, I don't get poison ivy!" <br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">I hate them. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Each year, as I set up my campsite, I entertain the irrational hope that maybe this year I will finally have gotten enough poison ivy that I have become immune to it. Every year, I am sadly disappointed: even though I armor myself against the Evil Weed, I end up like I am now--red and itchy. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Inevitably there is a certain amount of astonishment on the part of my friends when, in mid-March, I contract my first case of the year. I can't tell you how many times I have explained that poison ivy doesn't just go away in the winter time, and that the leaves aren't the only part of the plant exuding urushiol, the liquid which causes the rash. In fact, the leaves are only the tip of the itchy iceberg.</div><br />
<br />
KNOW THY ENEMY<br />
<i>I would like to have included more photographs but I didn't want to post things without permission. Next time I go out to the campsite maybe I can get some identifying shots to add to this blog.</i><br />
<br />
For me, camping is like the movie "Zombieland": like the main character, I have developed a few simple rules that help keep me from getting walloped with more than one really catastrophic case of poison ivy a year. <br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">RULE 1: AVOID THE THREE SHINY GREEN LEAVES UNLESS YOU ARE SPRAYING THEM WITH POISON IVY KILLER. This most obvious rule is best remembered with the adages, "Leaves of three, let it be", and </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"One, two, three? Don't touch me." </span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">COROLLARY TO RULE 1: THE LEAVES AREN'T ALWAYS SHINY, AND THEY AREN'T ALWAYS GREEN. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Leaves in the spring can be red: </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"Red leaflets in the spring, it's a dangerous thing" (I had never heard this one, but I'm posting it in the hope that someone can benefit). Once fully leafed the leaves are shiny green. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 19px;">Then summer comes, with drought and dust, and the pretty shiny green leaves become dull, blending into the rest of the forest foliage. This is just one of the ways that my leafy nemesis lies in wait for me. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 19px;">RULE 2: TREAT EVERY PART--AND I MEAN <b>EVERY </b>PART--OF THE PLANT LIKE IT'S RADIOACTIVE. You're pulling up shoots? Great. Just don't let those roots touch your skin or you will end up with the screaming itchies. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 19px;">COROLLARY TO RULE 2: KNOW WHAT EVERY PART OF THE PLANT LOOKS LIKE</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 19px;">--AT</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 19px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 19px;"><b>ANY</b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 19px;"> TIME OF YEAR</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 19px;">. Poison ivy is universally evil. You cannot stand before the plant and sigh, "I know there's good in there somewhere". There isn't. Since we have already discussed leaves, let's talk about the other parts of the Evil Weed:</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">from Wikipedia</td></tr>
</tbody></table><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;">1. VINES. Ever seen hairy vines growing up the side of a tree? Yep, that's poison ivy, and if you think that the leaves will give you the Hideous Rash, they've got nothing on the vines. So if your mind is racing ahead to "ACK! I've got to hack it off that tree in my campsite!" be aware that this is not just a stick, it's a living thing, a conduit, transporting poison ivy juice to leaves so high in the tree that you can't see them. If you don't have a machete or long handled axe and a Tyvek suit, chopping it would be the dermatological kiss of death. </span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;">The vines don't change appearance appreciably during the season. They may have a few shoots at their bases, but generally they sit in place, passive/aggressively reminding you that they are RIGHT THERE.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;">2. SHOOTS. One year I set up my campsite in a new location. A month later, I returned to find a zillion little grey shoots coming up around my camp kitchen. In March the shoots are about 6" tall and have small red buds; if you pull them up, you will see that the roots run underground from shoot to shoot. They're connected in a well-established network that is designed to thwart your efforts to eradicate the plant from your campsite. It's March, and already you're fighting an uphill battle.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;">3. BERRIES. Recently my husband asked me if there was anything good about poison ivy, and the truth is that birds do in fact eat the berries. WE, on the other hand, should NOT eat the berries. </span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;">4. THE "AT ANY TIME OF YEAR" PART: here's where it gets dicey. By now, I hope you're educated enough to realize that this stuff won't just go away after the first frost. So if you think you are safe leaning on those roots in January you are wrong. And soon you will be itchy.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;">Likewise, the leaves don't lose their efficacy with the change of seasons. Use extra caution when clearing your campsite of deadfall in the spring. Oh, and watch out for your firewood: if it had evil leaves resting on it, and you burn it, you will (as we found out last spring) experience the joy of what happens when you burn poison ivy (in my case, a trip to the emergency room because my left eye was swollen shut). </span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;">That's all I have to say on the subject. I hope that you take what I have said to heart, that you will take it with you when next you venture into the woods; that you pay better attention to the vegetation around you...</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;">And then, after all that, laugh at yourself when you get poison ivy anyway.</span></span><br />
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</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10936182856032020479noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115127303010313094.post-77309720106723048792011-02-05T17:20:00.000-08:002011-02-05T17:20:19.800-08:00Masks: The Adventure Continues<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ2KkSRfeoG2c1SwMp1pNT0vJe9RsSllkqttBgdckzfsrRtwhwUawI5F-5xSlZX34u_JO_EDR1Iv9TtfgHb6YtXTT7j0yJFOaeiNmAJUnZYiOPbTlSODWhY_08q8LwdMNmZXKaWfbMMEPh/s1600/100_3372.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="113" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ2KkSRfeoG2c1SwMp1pNT0vJe9RsSllkqttBgdckzfsrRtwhwUawI5F-5xSlZX34u_JO_EDR1Iv9TtfgHb6YtXTT7j0yJFOaeiNmAJUnZYiOPbTlSODWhY_08q8LwdMNmZXKaWfbMMEPh/s200/100_3372.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>Because I have ADHD and a zillion ideas at once, I not only have Set in progress, but the Anubis and Thoth masks as well. <br />
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The Anubis mask is very similar to Set. There was less of a gallon-jug armature and more foam board and screen. I used the plaster-treated gauze to build up the primary shape. Notice that the Anubis snout is more canid in shape and slant.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikJugfX2FCKbpr9-kOjW0msAcvsAmmeY0w6Edv9MUQDkQ438IHUIzz4UGPxDpdINFPcUWntBoCZCQRbTw0lM67fxTKQW_YemBuIs_J3f6gIXBFl9JfDPZoFcwm_1t1Jkh-re7cYEs77H9P/s1600/100_3374.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikJugfX2FCKbpr9-kOjW0msAcvsAmmeY0w6Edv9MUQDkQ438IHUIzz4UGPxDpdINFPcUWntBoCZCQRbTw0lM67fxTKQW_YemBuIs_J3f6gIXBFl9JfDPZoFcwm_1t1Jkh-re7cYEs77H9P/s200/100_3374.JPG" width="113" /></a>Meanwhile, Set has had his second coat of Celluclay, and I have trimmed the edges of the mask. The edges of the mask have been finished with the plaster coated gauze.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj78jS0Wsuhqgzcf2fr-SmuEoXVv3GlBMS3Njurk_f6pJ26u9KpxzIzPbKr99Gf-28tjriJh05-yjC4STtQU27GIfcvCyohFfhDYrNREjlkOlLwf8HkOtEYs9_nnk_JjZ0F_uvnCEU_E-_G/s1600/100_3375.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="113" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj78jS0Wsuhqgzcf2fr-SmuEoXVv3GlBMS3Njurk_f6pJ26u9KpxzIzPbKr99Gf-28tjriJh05-yjC4STtQU27GIfcvCyohFfhDYrNREjlkOlLwf8HkOtEYs9_nnk_JjZ0F_uvnCEU_E-_G/s200/100_3375.JPG" width="200" /></a><a href="http://www.blogger.com/goog_1605229110" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJrjV9m71glikpOu8UgKuqSpz3Cifj0TTf3XhPfz4h1lYcxaAmnriP9Tf-6-56jYwhro97VNkVDPT9m6Th8cq1uBTMxN-QU3LZlLnYJP5nLk7Gd04LtfQjm1D744aIOf3PgkDdajnG3bW_/s1600/100_3383.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="113" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJrjV9m71glikpOu8UgKuqSpz3Cifj0TTf3XhPfz4h1lYcxaAmnriP9Tf-6-56jYwhro97VNkVDPT9m6Th8cq1uBTMxN-QU3LZlLnYJP5nLk7Gd04LtfQjm1D744aIOf3PgkDdajnG3bW_/s200/100_3383.JPG" width="200" /></a><br />
Thoth has the head of an ibis, which has posed a very interesting conundrum in puppet/mask making. Modeling articulation from a toy dragon my daughter got at the Renaissance Faire, I procured 1/4"heavy gauge wire and 3/8" clear plastic tubing. The wire moves freely through the tubing and can be twisted to make the head turn. I<br />
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stuck one end of the wire into a styrofoam ball to help stabilize it once it's in the "head". <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdDC_HMXp8QMrOx4cWsNUcVYhONDF-diR6q5FJJW53laFqibhOwrRkqkFw7JLj2Qn_5wwXijkCnUxaUI9J0lDHT8xKCb-PEBa7OzuD2OWhcCpBWMF8QJ-QvPY-D_ATFjpr_j75lVWRFunH/s1600/100_3384.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="113" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdDC_HMXp8QMrOx4cWsNUcVYhONDF-diR6q5FJJW53laFqibhOwrRkqkFw7JLj2Qn_5wwXijkCnUxaUI9J0lDHT8xKCb-PEBa7OzuD2OWhcCpBWMF8QJ-QvPY-D_ATFjpr_j75lVWRFunH/s200/100_3384.JPG" width="200" /></a>Using a quart plastic container, I fashioned a head. The beak is made from jointed foam board, which has been stuck into the spout. The styrofoam ball assemblage has been affixed inside. While the first coat of papier mache was drying, I packed on the modeling for Anubis, building up the nose and cheeks. At the very bottom of the nose is a piece of screen, intended to help with breathing. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu1T9x95QX3mqkUeWz0qZE9LXKahc-DuN7pon4wpIu-hfPUHrgejG1GFDPTcPBoi8hvuOD2CJBMz_nShjM4oV08uegIK5Y9aEfnMKlVczuRpCIPX1Z45R8QIbhQ0-ziTTdy7YtPISnoNJ1/s1600/100_3390.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu1T9x95QX3mqkUeWz0qZE9LXKahc-DuN7pon4wpIu-hfPUHrgejG1GFDPTcPBoi8hvuOD2CJBMz_nShjM4oV08uegIK5Y9aEfnMKlVczuRpCIPX1Z45R8QIbhQ0-ziTTdy7YtPISnoNJ1/s200/100_3390.JPG" width="113" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisGuFKGamo_kmN4y6YpK3tk8FvzaSnUtBaO5fVDumaI7EQ3UimvLuitOn_SsRpdwuTzlXchHv0MtPe9rfZkpl9BvO5Vj114Kx19STUGS_J9zcP5S1gQ7azMMIxEK5_mdhb1dN5QwpFyppc/s1600/100_3388.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="113" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisGuFKGamo_kmN4y6YpK3tk8FvzaSnUtBaO5fVDumaI7EQ3UimvLuitOn_SsRpdwuTzlXchHv0MtPe9rfZkpl9BvO5Vj114Kx19STUGS_J9zcP5S1gQ7azMMIxEK5_mdhb1dN5QwpFyppc/s200/100_3388.JPG" width="200" /></a>I began coating Set with reddish brown ultra suede, which looked great except for the inevitable seams between pieces of fabric. Because I have ADHD I could not stand to cover the whole thing and then figure out what to do about the seams: I had to work that out first. I ended up using acrylic gel medium to affix pieces of paper towel over the seams (like decoupage). I Then started painting over them. The result of this was most satisfactory. <br />
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The next projects will be making more modeling on Thoth's head and finishing Set's covering. I expect it will talke Anubis at least two days to dry!Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10936182856032020479noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115127303010313094.post-82124380621495232902011-02-01T18:55:00.000-08:002011-02-01T18:55:31.599-08:00Set Mask Update: The Plaster is AppliedForging ahead:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5KYb7rZFAlYUNAxGTN7tGBBk-b4JYeZtEdLZmVy5tw4aeuy3v4zppxf5vpAFno89DW3SWyiYE75Xzwc0dYgnYoRnIJQcmi4UCGqH5H25TxePVBLviGN9qDJfhaSdojGfoNRq3hc_4XdEj/s1600/100_3301.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5KYb7rZFAlYUNAxGTN7tGBBk-b4JYeZtEdLZmVy5tw4aeuy3v4zppxf5vpAFno89DW3SWyiYE75Xzwc0dYgnYoRnIJQcmi4UCGqH5H25TxePVBLviGN9qDJfhaSdojGfoNRq3hc_4XdEj/s320/100_3301.JPG" width="181" /></a></div>Having had dinner and taken my life into my hands while walking the dogs ('icy" does NOT begin to describe walking conditions out there!) I repaired to the basement with a bowl of water and some prepared papier mache gauze. <br />
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First I had to trim up the screen. One of the real advantages of using this plastic screen is that you are not risking life and limb when you work with it: the last time I made a mask I used metal screen and bled profusely over the mask--which is, according to my costuming friends, necessary in order to ensure costume success. <br />
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I also ran an extra piece of foam board across the top of the mask to keep the ears from doing anything stupid like tilting inwards, and cut out part of the handle that had remained up to this point. <br />
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Cutting the gauze into strips, I started covering the mask. At some point I noticed that the ears were too short, so I added length to the ears and covered over them. I've left openings for the eyes that are large: these will not only allow wide vision but also ventilation.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiQPMe1OWgdJEw_J0QsA_9n3y95fY5-fYv-HyyGKdgv-dQoo_EvRgjTg47q_UbAvLPk-2NaquI0RJz02Act4cny5wmu_Jp5ZgOiGismzEB2t2Fle51JP80Zs75jSyTg6BoozWFVayYxNkI/s1600/100_3302.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiQPMe1OWgdJEw_J0QsA_9n3y95fY5-fYv-HyyGKdgv-dQoo_EvRgjTg47q_UbAvLPk-2NaquI0RJz02Act4cny5wmu_Jp5ZgOiGismzEB2t2Fle51JP80Zs75jSyTg6BoozWFVayYxNkI/s320/100_3302.JPG" width="181" /></a></div>If there is an issue with vision after the plaster has dried, I will be able to cut through the plaster and screen to make the mask work. But that will have to wait till tomorrow, when the plaster has completely dried. <br />
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You might wonder about the flat top of the mask: no worries! All Egyptian gods wore headdresses, and Set here will be no exception. I might glue half a styrofoam ball to the front to help shape the "forehead" but otherwise this should be fine. I gave some thought to opening up the top but I'm not sure how that would work. <br />
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Tomorrow: check fit and eyes, and then another coat of plaster. <br />
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Onward!Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10936182856032020479noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115127303010313094.post-14429830914900889802011-02-01T15:05:00.000-08:002011-02-01T16:05:22.638-08:00Shaping Set: A Mask Project Part 1<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii-b7ZLjrnN1YEamBqOOeGasvPW84jhK6hhtIrBn2WvH2Ud0didgItCHdgNpdGcUOhpiykI5mAr9qpn6rFgANs0Qpb2drmRNOe3GrhrwxwkIbHfTU_YiS2lqmb-RA-rZEY7Zj32yww4V6r/s1600/sutekh.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii-b7ZLjrnN1YEamBqOOeGasvPW84jhK6hhtIrBn2WvH2Ud0didgItCHdgNpdGcUOhpiykI5mAr9qpn6rFgANs0Qpb2drmRNOe3GrhrwxwkIbHfTU_YiS2lqmb-RA-rZEY7Zj32yww4V6r/s320/sutekh.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gods for Modern Times: Sutekh<br />
by Sophia Kelly Shultz</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Popular literature--and some modern cults--portray the ancient Egyptian god Set (also known as Set, Sutekh or Typhon) as "evil." After all, he murdered and dismembered his brother Osiris: how much more dastardly can you get? Why, he probably has tea with Osama bin Laden on a regular basis!<br />
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A little research reveals this to be a very simplistic description of an enormously complex deity who represented not evil, but something that the ancient Egyptians found to be far more terrifying: chaos. Set represented the chaos of storms, of the untamed desert, and of change. Chaos was BAD. It was one step away from the thing that they found most terrifying: oblivion. <br />
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The ancient Egyptians did not, for the most part, love Set, but they accepted him as part of their cosmology because he provided the thing which the Egyptians valued above everything--balance. The Egyptians were a very practical people: you can't have good without evil; you can't have order without chaos. <br />
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I am in charge of Body Tribal, which will be held the second weekend of August at Four Quarters Farm www.4qf.org , and the theme this year is the Egyptian netherworld. I'm sure there is a way to stage the dramas I have in mind without masks, but I can't envision acting out a judgement scene or the Osirian drama without animal-headed gods. <br />
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This is the first part of a blog about making a mask of the god Set.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigpHHyImGZpU5uLvXpXBfiXbLRChBXSkBKOFjkQMK3vd1mVGMel3muq12Mdv5_sOx41dBBKXZ2etMAKmxmW3fJIpMrpUfViGiucVSMkJ9rgiMy5S79t395z0saII_VUfB_XKfY3xdYKvVJ/s1600/100_3288.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigpHHyImGZpU5uLvXpXBfiXbLRChBXSkBKOFjkQMK3vd1mVGMel3muq12Mdv5_sOx41dBBKXZ2etMAKmxmW3fJIpMrpUfViGiucVSMkJ9rgiMy5S79t395z0saII_VUfB_XKfY3xdYKvVJ/s200/100_3288.JPG" width="113" /></a><br />
It was supposed to be a blog about making a mask of the god Anubis, but that plan went south when I realized that with the exception of the ears the mask looked more like Set than Anubis. Finally, I caved in and changed the ears. So, this is in fact the first part of a blog about making a mask of the god Set.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhtGeeoDtfjFZSuNjp2aba2gJbN67ECpCtNW2_XnOj7zB3ALxWzjbpf2JxzKdp7b9e2Wey5g4yzkmjUyVF7O6UtdCSTsR3fdRRfcIdkWLu2FiWDFGecgNDrMc2uofQivDYC5Ji6aEloiia/s1600/100_3287.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="113" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhtGeeoDtfjFZSuNjp2aba2gJbN67ECpCtNW2_XnOj7zB3ALxWzjbpf2JxzKdp7b9e2Wey5g4yzkmjUyVF7O6UtdCSTsR3fdRRfcIdkWLu2FiWDFGecgNDrMc2uofQivDYC5Ji6aEloiia/s200/100_3287.JPG" width="200" /></a>I had found a website that suggested using a gallon jug as an armature for a mask. I liked this idea, so I started with this shape. I cut away much of the bottle, leaving the top and handle intact. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAv2mCBKuDUA-dezjgO9QeG9rimmbhFmcAhgrjJnRy2Vx3d-HRGvDx_q4oy2kAZ1QAQ-vBrh9Frnjh7OjxRHjTo7rSd8oD7YIxzb1B7BVn6lL_Ojky0I6GPKYG36HJLHlDIai4G_qxYrHi/s1600/100_3290.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="113" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAv2mCBKuDUA-dezjgO9QeG9rimmbhFmcAhgrjJnRy2Vx3d-HRGvDx_q4oy2kAZ1QAQ-vBrh9Frnjh7OjxRHjTo7rSd8oD7YIxzb1B7BVn6lL_Ojky0I6GPKYG36HJLHlDIai4G_qxYrHi/s200/100_3290.JPG" width="200" /></a><br />
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I tried gluing the foam board ears to this shape but was unsuccessful, so instead I punched holes into the center of the handle and around the perimeter of the remaining jug shape, then cut sections of nylon screen and laced wire through them and into the holes in the jug handle. <br />
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I then punched holes matching those in the jug into the ears and threaded wire through them and into the jug. It was at this point that I realized that the ears were too high, so I had to unthread the wire, move the holes, and re-thread the wire. Very exciting.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmbjweFCGNJBcj1MoHEFxlLiTgcsmQMFC18NVJd151GvxfkW8GxUr3MtXe88DQZzD1utCJBd7zHtFKnT0ZPAtFYh4PPo1Ng2QxtLeXWiYzG1GFO89LEbkTtDg7xghYMBw5tIL_9eC-Ds-G/s1600/100_3292.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmbjweFCGNJBcj1MoHEFxlLiTgcsmQMFC18NVJd151GvxfkW8GxUr3MtXe88DQZzD1utCJBd7zHtFKnT0ZPAtFYh4PPo1Ng2QxtLeXWiYzG1GFO89LEbkTtDg7xghYMBw5tIL_9eC-Ds-G/s200/100_3292.JPG" width="113" /></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4JxIMziynY7yEblxhQ8LuFY9aYEyCRdp5nbXFTiNINJmo0SXoE_SCgstIHl7i3lzSMQzOhaWQJ7Dnmu1fekO7__eniV5tgZndfDRcz4_xvoNvrm5pbzS56e14e1WRy13Pby3-06L3hO0e/s1600/100_3293.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4JxIMziynY7yEblxhQ8LuFY9aYEyCRdp5nbXFTiNINJmo0SXoE_SCgstIHl7i3lzSMQzOhaWQJ7Dnmu1fekO7__eniV5tgZndfDRcz4_xvoNvrm5pbzS56e14e1WRy13Pby3-06L3hO0e/s200/100_3293.JPG" width="113" /></a>Archaeologists have no clue what sort of animal Set was. He had square-tipped ears and a tail that forked at the end: suggestions have included everything from aardvarks to giraffes. It is simpler to refer to him as "the Set animal" or "Typhonian beast". On the left you can see one square-tipped ear mounted on the jug-armature. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBUQQc9oxA4e1z9EYuEgdug1wADM1w3coQB3g1vsfuHA8TnJLedKjv3i25zi7NMhpu73BLx-jbKJCWlJrvV42IIpxVmYVKvVG3OV7NNtqS2zeRXwmQIGj8QAoeiMSUJxLfTFtM6573URMl/s1600/100_3294.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="113" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBUQQc9oxA4e1z9EYuEgdug1wADM1w3coQB3g1vsfuHA8TnJLedKjv3i25zi7NMhpu73BLx-jbKJCWlJrvV42IIpxVmYVKvVG3OV7NNtqS2zeRXwmQIGj8QAoeiMSUJxLfTFtM6573URMl/s200/100_3294.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>Of course, the jug handle is not nearly long enough for a mask that covers an adult human's face. I cast about the basement for something tubular, and when nothing was readily apparent, I took a scrap of foam board (I'm an artist; I have lots) and scored it on one side (right). Now the normally rigid foam board will curl around nicely to form a snout. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMfRTBcv7JfD3TXBfV2jC6AqUco1xRQCDyDZ-DbxX59LjIx7HJ8Ix-8jpcB0X6jpp9WsPcSDAv03or2r0g_498rXSxiwrMWAYisiAZiNs23Wn-EpNB5hzf2YcoaDRdXxMVDV-fwA36-2TT/s1600/100_3299.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="113" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMfRTBcv7JfD3TXBfV2jC6AqUco1xRQCDyDZ-DbxX59LjIx7HJ8Ix-8jpcB0X6jpp9WsPcSDAv03or2r0g_498rXSxiwrMWAYisiAZiNs23Wn-EpNB5hzf2YcoaDRdXxMVDV-fwA36-2TT/s200/100_3299.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Looks like a gas mask!</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
I next sliced the screen right at the handle level and lifted it up so that I could wire the snout to it. I glued the snout together and am now waiting for the glue to set (nice pun, huh?) so that I can continue on. I may have to shorten the snout, but that will be easy enough once the glue has set. <br />
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As you see, this is not your "Halloween mask for beginners" mask. Tomorrow it may even begin to look like something!<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10936182856032020479noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115127303010313094.post-38433807418883657132010-11-02T17:50:00.000-07:002010-11-02T17:50:58.523-07:00Tutorial: Fluffing Vintage Silk FlowersWhen I got hold of the box of Mary Beth's flattened vintage flowers, I went online looking for information on how to un-flatten them. The bulk of what I found involved using iron steam: there was a problem with this because of the sheer volume of flowers with which I was faced. If you are restoring more than a few flowers you will need more and hotter steam to unfold them without scalding your fingers. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs3nG9b4F4aMYpMOvQIT7s-ID3qQAXvUJ4Ms0YTjlFc9dvMcNaEWplh3wk14weUXa8Q18nvAOmb3PtZbjUnyeydWZFS9wWzFRNjtHbjz3UwRpuRhESB7W04B1xaNeoiRJ_KQONtnYlj9zR/s1600/flat+flower1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="113" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs3nG9b4F4aMYpMOvQIT7s-ID3qQAXvUJ4Ms0YTjlFc9dvMcNaEWplh3wk14weUXa8Q18nvAOmb3PtZbjUnyeydWZFS9wWzFRNjtHbjz3UwRpuRhESB7W04B1xaNeoiRJ_KQONtnYlj9zR/s200/flat+flower1.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Flat Anemone</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzp7jULa9N-sblMhYMdeNywaq1S3Lv2lIW-nwhwM3Z8hMtzoNjx8qqrfQ0s4V2LNFweaLsHq1NE5VI4sC7XDA_cYV0CFwF5lCtM5lqkCiL_fa_c_oBeDOENwk0kQYs2hynnZjRWrb1gSw8/s1600/flatflower2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="113" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzp7jULa9N-sblMhYMdeNywaq1S3Lv2lIW-nwhwM3Z8hMtzoNjx8qqrfQ0s4V2LNFweaLsHq1NE5VI4sC7XDA_cYV0CFwF5lCtM5lqkCiL_fa_c_oBeDOENwk0kQYs2hynnZjRWrb1gSw8/s200/flatflower2.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Flat Pansies</td></tr>
</tbody></table>The materials from which vintage flowers are made vary: there are ones that are crisp; ones that appear to be made of organza; and ones of silky velvet. Naturally, each material behaves differently as it is exposed to steam: it is important to treat each flower individually.<br />
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Aside from reshaping the flowers, areas of concern are leaves and stems. Florists' tape and glue seem particularly susceptible to the effects of steam. If it sits all right with you that you might have to re-glue some leaves to their wire armatures and that your stems will for a time become sticky, then by all means proceed. Otherwise, I would say go for the steam from your iron.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGEMbH_ZF-LqrMwiVm90NqsEzuG5GyuuuX6Hn6BxlVyC9ZeeN-2HTm-3NvqwR4EFhE9C-7FYx-VTYqk73_3sYx-Wil_fevFXLA-wZ-UAWVpJKsFicziDutNA9xufv316gUulfsM4kuhAmg/s1600/setup1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGEMbH_ZF-LqrMwiVm90NqsEzuG5GyuuuX6Hn6BxlVyC9ZeeN-2HTm-3NvqwR4EFhE9C-7FYx-VTYqk73_3sYx-Wil_fevFXLA-wZ-UAWVpJKsFicziDutNA9xufv316gUulfsM4kuhAmg/s200/setup1.jpg" width="113" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Pot</td></tr>
</tbody></table>You will need a soup pot, a colander that will fit over the mouth of the stew pot, a heat-resistant measuring cup, and a lid. For shaping larger, round flowers, a custard cup works nicely. <br />
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Fill your soup pot a third of the way and set it to boil. Set your colander over the water, and be sure that it sits well above the water (you don't want slosh over from a rolling boil). <br />
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Before you set your flowers into the colander, you will want to try to unfold and shape them a bit. Be ginger with them, but these flowers are tougher than you might think. Again, the leaves and stems may be more delicate than the flowers themselves.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSuAxyYiA75I13OigRxafyWo8CfVoXt7f4QF8rpVd0OyBEt4cXcXrVB3t84tinhzkVXb4zLc5rLNVTZ-7l-DpxHdtNbwC9ArCOkvx6Ukn8GIYow0RqlEcCgKwGlKaIIuSVehUQScsxN1jZ/s1600/setup2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="113" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSuAxyYiA75I13OigRxafyWo8CfVoXt7f4QF8rpVd0OyBEt4cXcXrVB3t84tinhzkVXb4zLc5rLNVTZ-7l-DpxHdtNbwC9ArCOkvx6Ukn8GIYow0RqlEcCgKwGlKaIIuSVehUQScsxN1jZ/s200/setup2.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Measuring Cup in the Colander</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYJJTdgyujQIOJOjysdE37Msoyus5xWADdOYsCk5PE51h1kvvGAOWAG9n7ZVtQ8coJVfe1Lwq5REldDFGbZLsxZ4zZ_xNVgF9T7u0FeYqDXRe8XBG3AVOorlx52uduqiV-bgBzT8CM-p2I/s1600/steaming1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="113" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYJJTdgyujQIOJOjysdE37Msoyus5xWADdOYsCk5PE51h1kvvGAOWAG9n7ZVtQ8coJVfe1Lwq5REldDFGbZLsxZ4zZ_xNVgF9T7u0FeYqDXRe8XBG3AVOorlx52uduqiV-bgBzT8CM-p2I/s200/steaming1.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Arranged in the Colander</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;">At first, you will set the flowers around the measuring cup. Cover the colander with a lid and do a couple of dishes or unload the dishwasher--I get a lot of chores done while I am steaming flowers! The point is that small tasks provide good intervals between adjusting the flowers' positions.</div><br />
Note: this whole process requires PATIENCE. No matter how focused you think you are, you cannot try to push through an entire box of flowers in one afternoon. Each flower requires individual attention and rushing just doesn't work. You'll find yourself getting frustrated and tossing your failures back into the box for another day.<br />
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As time passes and the flowers' fabric relaxes, you'll want to take the flowers out and adjust them, folding petals back and unfurling leaves. This may require turning the flowers, laying them face-down over the measuring cup, or gently tucking them into the cup one at a time.<br />
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DO check the flowers OFTEN. When I say that you can get chores done, I do NOT mean that you can clean the whole bathroom in between checking the flowers. If you compartmentalize your hypothetical bathroom cleaning to clean toilet+check flowers, clean bathtub+check flowers, etc., your results will be much more satisfactory. If you steam too long or hard, you will for example find that you have inadvertently eliminated the texturing on the leaves.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2Eaz5a54MZe2in_7KI3hnmEYvKqtRQ2_6mbjzmcN7ranOWb1RPR_147EaS1dqF6TIWhZcmsintOMU9wVqbFXqYuAi2ZbDAOdKyQ8VhnmvGPCJWCsIS7vA6FeJdP11uwvvNmJnOhF6rolT/s1600/custardcup.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2Eaz5a54MZe2in_7KI3hnmEYvKqtRQ2_6mbjzmcN7ranOWb1RPR_147EaS1dqF6TIWhZcmsintOMU9wVqbFXqYuAi2ZbDAOdKyQ8VhnmvGPCJWCsIS7vA6FeJdP11uwvvNmJnOhF6rolT/s200/custardcup.jpg" width="113" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Custard Cup</td></tr>
</tbody></table>With roses, anemones and other large symmetrical flowers, the next step after the steamy measuring cup is a cool down in a custard cup. This will help the flower to retain a shape: otherwise it will be a lovely, steamed, FLAT flower. Once the flower has cooled and dried, it will take on a three dimensional appearance. <br />
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Note: I am still working out the issue of reforming flowers that have been wired together. I'll post more when I find some solution.<br />
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Further Note: You will also find that there is a certain percentage of your flowers that will not immediately respond to your best efforts. For example, the batch I photographed had daisies that would not unfold themselves to my satisfaction. I just put them aside until something else occurs to me. <br />
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This batch also contained velvet pansies which had been pretty well smushed. These responded well, with considerable manipulation. To my surprise, I discovered that they are more resilient than I had expected: one accidentally got wet and dried well without losing most of its softness. (You don't want to do that too much, though: it wreaks merry havoc with the glue holding it together.)<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJoDA9uWDUOEMphGPt3r0MZBTlfB-OgG-gdftQCBfKP5TgQdjxuX2s_qQWLpPMtUjBgV0YnbnsU63YUzGKt4cV_EZe6Ccp0jLH4gdE8TeKu1DZAiFbFh5JMYytsF2zvxyTGB90jGTPhRn2/s1600/unflatpansies.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="181" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJoDA9uWDUOEMphGPt3r0MZBTlfB-OgG-gdftQCBfKP5TgQdjxuX2s_qQWLpPMtUjBgV0YnbnsU63YUzGKt4cV_EZe6Ccp0jLH4gdE8TeKu1DZAiFbFh5JMYytsF2zvxyTGB90jGTPhRn2/s320/unflatpansies.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Unflat Pansies</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZv5WPWrzyeg35kujsKi9tWE52KBjpbdEvewsXDsiHd7Lxzearvan8uv6D9qgqH5z3YHFUtcA6jctwZylzWpOIAAfvT2JH9xr8TI6RNGKjVZwazgW7n_dw5dxRb7FibGEMWJvGTwN6w233/s1600/unflattenedanemone.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="181" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZv5WPWrzyeg35kujsKi9tWE52KBjpbdEvewsXDsiHd7Lxzearvan8uv6D9qgqH5z3YHFUtcA6jctwZylzWpOIAAfvT2JH9xr8TI6RNGKjVZwazgW7n_dw5dxRb7FibGEMWJvGTwN6w233/s320/unflattenedanemone.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Unflat Anemone</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
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As you can see, the pansies are now open and more lifelike, and the anemone has gone from flat to three-dimensional with the soft lines it should have. <br />
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To avoid crushing the flowers , I suggest poking holes in the top of a shoe box lid: some flowers can be stored inside the box, and more delicate ones can be stuck upright through the lid. <br />
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Good luck!Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10936182856032020479noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115127303010313094.post-36015784956516555872010-10-28T17:33:00.000-07:002010-10-28T17:33:15.615-07:00Relaxing the FlowersHelen Gombar, my friend Mary Beth's mother, started her career as a milliner. She made beautiful hats; I have seen some of them. <br />
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To make beautiful hats, one needs the right materials, including hat blocks for shaping, display stands, and decorative elements such as feathers and flowers. <br />
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Helen had LOTS of each. Display stands occur in profusion in the basement: together they comprise a virtual forest of hat display ware.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI8qgzgogIq9ysyAYjyrcwIMJ5rMOgC3vefg9bxsf6L7zAB2TWoLlfRxbnCq6E5aUFFLyAHCtQQQDp73bC3XGNUJLPSNvWcMmsJU4SHpfUWEYr0KOuSlMcDxuDu8UOsoLYRcdsLTLm0IYx/s1600/100_1615.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI8qgzgogIq9ysyAYjyrcwIMJ5rMOgC3vefg9bxsf6L7zAB2TWoLlfRxbnCq6E5aUFFLyAHCtQQQDp73bC3XGNUJLPSNvWcMmsJU4SHpfUWEYr0KOuSlMcDxuDu8UOsoLYRcdsLTLm0IYx/s200/100_1615.JPG" width="113" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Marlene Dietrich?</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibFucKDjq5sDdACnI_wxJB840-EuE24SdXF4XTLTnM_yNJR7ie3rgXFXhY8TdOxDmc1QMkmyiwPjJz4Wq0lPMNSiQZ4NVxyUQ0fQKJSkBmg9GNKIQxkGtCSQu5IW4wDffhHS-1gFK2UBmm/s1600/100_1582.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="113" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibFucKDjq5sDdACnI_wxJB840-EuE24SdXF4XTLTnM_yNJR7ie3rgXFXhY8TdOxDmc1QMkmyiwPjJz4Wq0lPMNSiQZ4NVxyUQ0fQKJSkBmg9GNKIQxkGtCSQu5IW4wDffhHS-1gFK2UBmm/s200/100_1582.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hat Blocks (and Canned Goods)</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaSqhtPEX0GdrSRiTWpqzki0yoWIsxEAZNSDm5PwJYrDlwyP1d3gWyR0D3ywvnqOjeknKOdxSTh0eiV-VAQEe2MxKmVE5-id_JyKi7d_9mg617KjzTQ8wk6lSQt3tCh-s8WNGi255kW24J/s1600/100_1578.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaSqhtPEX0GdrSRiTWpqzki0yoWIsxEAZNSDm5PwJYrDlwyP1d3gWyR0D3ywvnqOjeknKOdxSTh0eiV-VAQEe2MxKmVE5-id_JyKi7d_9mg617KjzTQ8wk6lSQt3tCh-s8WNGi255kW24J/s200/100_1578.JPG" width="113" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Deco Hat Stand</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Likewise, the hat blocks occur in large numbers. When I gathered them up in one place earlier this year I lost count at 40. Some are one solid piece of wood; others are sectioned so that they can be removed without disturbing the shape of the newly formed hat. There are brims and crowns of every conceivable size and shape. It is really something to see.<br />
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<div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div>Today I came upon a box of silk flowers that had clearly been intended for hat decoration. I had known of the box's existence, but haven't had much of a chance to do more than glance inside. Because I have nothing better to do (HA!) I decided to bring them home and see about steaming them. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigGy4woHGr9ojDVVKp9A0IbewWCXBeaDQTIPkvoTb87agdG3GYFiaFq7gDlo2YzbPFoxH1utK5GE22YyuFG2zFYEU6WSEQAI60OsHCbWSqMvxhQpG_pAf5vYpiT73NuS5LZiNvO4xUNh_P/s1600/100_2374.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="113" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigGy4woHGr9ojDVVKp9A0IbewWCXBeaDQTIPkvoTb87agdG3GYFiaFq7gDlo2YzbPFoxH1utK5GE22YyuFG2zFYEU6WSEQAI60OsHCbWSqMvxhQpG_pAf5vYpiT73NuS5LZiNvO4xUNh_P/s200/100_2374.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What a Mess!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>The contents of the box were a mess. If my calculations are correct they have been in the basement for twenty years, and some of the flowers probably date back much further. The flowers, which are silk or velvet are crushed and bent. <br />
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I looked online. Advice online includes using a hair dryer or steam from an iron. I opted for the iron: my iron throws LOTS of steam.<br />
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Only my iron seemed woefully inadequate when pitted against the huge pile of flowers, and there seemed to be an increasing chance that I would burn my fingers.<br />
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I got out the big soup pot, the colander, and a lid, set a bunch of water to boil, and then steamed the flowers. Well, some of them, at least. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOTtgGCXrSzqjrgZtA5tfBcUF_Nrl2EFUTqBZkl5epwQySefOZJ7Oh48y-UFZFJQTifuaDp_JWLB15BQRc1bZjbZRj0c0QrxFjdyzNiKEIg9D6h_4HyzhkJGIuTJcll5KmmBPlXLr9ocQB/s1600/100_2387.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOTtgGCXrSzqjrgZtA5tfBcUF_Nrl2EFUTqBZkl5epwQySefOZJ7Oh48y-UFZFJQTifuaDp_JWLB15BQRc1bZjbZRj0c0QrxFjdyzNiKEIg9D6h_4HyzhkJGIuTJcll5KmmBPlXLr9ocQB/s200/100_2387.JPG" width="150" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwc7KNr3iEPRtRYsHAuoNZe1CpkDHHEcikBX-W1lzazo_9-xbNI28mFL0ldyGp0XALwt9p8C5ZtiDwHKr1sQpQ6ZfSwSWZK9si-aigrrvciS_3pcFYqGXTPINhQZkkN_3ZelT-0ElehT5G/s1600/100_2399.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwc7KNr3iEPRtRYsHAuoNZe1CpkDHHEcikBX-W1lzazo_9-xbNI28mFL0ldyGp0XALwt9p8C5ZtiDwHKr1sQpQ6ZfSwSWZK9si-aigrrvciS_3pcFYqGXTPINhQZkkN_3ZelT-0ElehT5G/s200/100_2399.JPG" width="150" /></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLD44-RsErggOVJXM6SQaqkSJaEuANRR_tWNIxam8_5XDludSM0eX1-Af-IM2rIC8PCYrXmuTb_7GLaNZ-JXSP0SPc_aZ0dLsyrtwGqddXxHJ0eVvcJ57Es63wbaQyyo_r0yWRqnga1UtO/s1600/100_2379.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLD44-RsErggOVJXM6SQaqkSJaEuANRR_tWNIxam8_5XDludSM0eX1-Af-IM2rIC8PCYrXmuTb_7GLaNZ-JXSP0SPc_aZ0dLsyrtwGqddXxHJ0eVvcJ57Es63wbaQyyo_r0yWRqnga1UtO/s200/100_2379.JPG" width="113" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5txSvtm-jF3kHE_Bt2Pig7HtvM40s4Wz__IqMmDjmRaqD-ehZ8mVzGfd5hXKl1X1cFQNnkN7goUl0qb3OZtUF0IRmTXEM7bUtJ1HUr5wXphvchOpAfj2djjvtyQ9OUt3LMDMa6PfFas79/s1600/100_2386.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5txSvtm-jF3kHE_Bt2Pig7HtvM40s4Wz__IqMmDjmRaqD-ehZ8mVzGfd5hXKl1X1cFQNnkN7goUl0qb3OZtUF0IRmTXEM7bUtJ1HUr5wXphvchOpAfj2djjvtyQ9OUt3LMDMa6PfFas79/s200/100_2386.JPG" width="113" /></a>Those of you who are into Cyberpunk will perk up at these beautiful black flowers that unfolded in my steamer. They are not perfect, many of them being more than fifty years old, but they are in better condition than you might expect. The large black roses are a combination of velvet and organza, and have soft stems rather than the heavy gauge wire stems we see these days. <br />
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Perhaps not surprisingly, the biggest issue with these flowers is with the leaves, which have often come unglued after years of sitting in a box in a mostly but not always dry basement. Steaming the flowers did not make this worse, as far as I can tell. <br />
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Some of the flowers, like the ones at the right, literally popped open with exposure to the steam. There is some slight discoloration in the white flowers, but often it is so uniform that it's difficult to tell whether or not they were originally off white. I have some ideas for whitening the flowers (NOT involving bleach, thank you very much!) and will experiment on those flowers I deem irredeemable. <br />
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The variety of flowers is staggering: not only do are there roses, there are daisies, gladiolas, sweet peas, wisteria, peonies, and orange blossoms. There are strings of tiny roses and bunches of asters and little velvet grapes.<br />
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I hope that I can recover some of these treasures. So far I think it's gone pretty well, but I also think I did the "easy" ones first. <br />
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Next up...FEATHERS!Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10936182856032020479noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115127303010313094.post-91684446703446824712010-10-20T05:10:00.000-07:002010-10-20T05:10:41.818-07:00Small Victories<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px;"><br />
</span></span><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHZxYp9WgC0mC8DFB7m5XPB5yNT4fHFpA13SPNtp3WpQ2Nw1t05Js-iIWimtCF9joGa4Y7QmjE6X_yslcn-hJxWLjzwk8iuhqdGyQbgxYjQKRsYLyhYrrCtfYlSPHfNF_JecMjr6svCUn0/s1600/100_2020.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHZxYp9WgC0mC8DFB7m5XPB5yNT4fHFpA13SPNtp3WpQ2Nw1t05Js-iIWimtCF9joGa4Y7QmjE6X_yslcn-hJxWLjzwk8iuhqdGyQbgxYjQKRsYLyhYrrCtfYlSPHfNF_JecMjr6svCUn0/s640/100_2020.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Panoramic View of the Front of the Store</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
About a month ago, I posted part of a story about Organization Project at my friend's fabric store. When I started helping out there, over a year ago, I couldn't walk far in any direction, but the back of the store was a frightening mess. First of all there was the wildly out of control fake furs (nicknamed "Jim Henson's Creature Workshop"): these come on huge bolts and had taken on a life of their own to the point that the area behind the front counter was knee-deep in acrylic fur. Attempts to organize these on the cutting table in that region of the store were stopgap at best: if my friend needed a specific color it was inevitably on the bottom and getting it out would result in another furry avalanche. I can't tell you how dirty I got, how much I sneezed, or many times I lost my Bluetooth, water bottles and other things (last night I found a roll of tape that HAD to have been there over a year) in my quest to bring order to this chaos. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1L4ItcWbawi61s-WgctEG3zYtNjDkq0HqeM0U8LSmS2-RocgtsEgK5zv6Xzlk0y3kCVyvGPOU7638Ed1XdP4l9iPbny6LDYR96y8fTvgj9FOl2eW9582SqUuAJL8-ZJSbwxq7s34Mf-mv/s1600/100_0386.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="113" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1L4ItcWbawi61s-WgctEG3zYtNjDkq0HqeM0U8LSmS2-RocgtsEgK5zv6Xzlk0y3kCVyvGPOU7638Ed1XdP4l9iPbny6LDYR96y8fTvgj9FOl2eW9582SqUuAJL8-ZJSbwxq7s34Mf-mv/s200/100_0386.JPG" width="200" /></a>It was behind and below the furs, in the sweltering near-darkness, underneath a display table in the back, that I discovered the Lurex brocades. If you picture Indiana Jones pulling glittering treasure out of a dark tomb, then you get the idea. (BTW, I have the hat: it was a gift from someone who said I was the only person they knew who was qualified to wear it). <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJwt8aNWspe3o-xtufWUXN2qQ2iePRt3ykfZzmaZzivKQznyG0eMINQqmEc_veLdW3Mdql-3KY8HEDS-JKatx4mI38uxZSuqvQvjFRICh4vbKdu0Si4A4w__oDksKGyQMGMUxKoITzxtqI/s1600/100_0384.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="113" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJwt8aNWspe3o-xtufWUXN2qQ2iePRt3ykfZzmaZzivKQznyG0eMINQqmEc_veLdW3Mdql-3KY8HEDS-JKatx4mI38uxZSuqvQvjFRICh4vbKdu0Si4A4w__oDksKGyQMGMUxKoITzxtqI/s200/100_0384.JPG" width="200" /></a></div><br />
It was a remarkable time for me. Fabrics I had only seen in finished garments emerged by the bolt, in perfect condition. I was galvanized and spent a great deal of time making sure I had extracted all of these potentially collectible textiles. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHUOGDQLqD_MOq7gIL6eapoA8SLGhgRViokANGtjGJAOZwrsRssctDxqLpVqsxRmnGYA2KwiVZgK_XTJJUJaZFhCr_dxeDwnnnicEuiV8pAKjfY1-L6CHpvqwDU2Z-mo5o4HJVeM59szj4/s1600/100_0372.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="113" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHUOGDQLqD_MOq7gIL6eapoA8SLGhgRViokANGtjGJAOZwrsRssctDxqLpVqsxRmnGYA2KwiVZgK_XTJJUJaZFhCr_dxeDwnnnicEuiV8pAKjfY1-L6CHpvqwDU2Z-mo5o4HJVeM59szj4/s200/100_0372.JPG" width="200" /></a><br />
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Of course, all good things come to an end. Once I had extracted all of the treasure, I had to have a place to put it. This required more fabric tossing, usually of bolts of polyester doubleknit, straight to the back of the store. And thus, once again, the very back of the store became impassible. <br />
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Out of necessity, our priorities shifted. There were many cottons, and as our region has many quilters, we spent time organizing these. We pulled out and shelved bridal fabrics and trims that hadn't seen the light of day in years.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdIV6Xkrth1Y8xuVme4yCEha7qXhTqu03AyJVnD5Nx_K2k8vfAGVq6bdDF0OZaZKsMZrDccPcgtrdMMb7j1jNNr5NjptWMzl4JoFVeCLOBAaO3bTFdZoANIm-TWpBhyHsKEWsklYOajtA4/s1600/100_2021.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdIV6Xkrth1Y8xuVme4yCEha7qXhTqu03AyJVnD5Nx_K2k8vfAGVq6bdDF0OZaZKsMZrDccPcgtrdMMb7j1jNNr5NjptWMzl4JoFVeCLOBAaO3bTFdZoANIm-TWpBhyHsKEWsklYOajtA4/s640/100_2021.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And This is AFTER We Did Some Organizing!<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">We also needed to keep the sales floor clear because there was the concern that a customer would trip over something (this remains a consideration, though perhaps less so than previously). </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">So the back of the store sat. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">And sat.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">And sat.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Until August, when we started looking at the costumes at the back of the store with an eye towards selling them. Digging commenced: fur cascaded; remnants of polyester came down in doubleknit avalanches; three-tier slips tried to take over.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">...I hadn't mentioned the slips, had I?</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Bridal slips have become the bane of my existence. They are poufy, slippery, take up a LOT of room, and they were EVERYWHERE. So along with the bolts of polyester, the slips became missiles, filling up space at the back of the store like packing peanuts. In sections the pile was six or seven feet high.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Finally I had to do something. The front of the store had once again cycled around to critical mass and I needed room to put more fabric away--and there was only one place left to put it. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">A chief deterrent had been the polyester fabric. There were bolts and bolts and bolts of it, and the owner and I finally came to the agreement that I would leave the gabardines out but put the qianas away. (For those of you who don't know, qiana is the silky fabric that disco dresses, those funky print shirts of the 70s, and the </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">dresses in the original <i>Battlestar Galactica </i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">were made of. The name "qiana"was randomly generated by a computers at DuPont Corproation in 1968. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">The second difficulty arose from the fact that the huge display table that occupies the back wall of the store had been so overloaded with fabric that it had broken, necessitating a Day of Carpentry. I had to move fabric for that as well, and the resulting mess was spectacular. But the table got fixed. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Now I delved into the closet under the steps, yet another fearsome mess which to date I had actively avoided. And got lost. At one point my friend couldn't find me, and had to call me on my cell phone. I am pleased to report that I have signal in Uncle Joe's closet. Then I called my good friend Beth and said, "Gosh, I could really use some help in the store again." </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Beth is a fantastic organizer. She came up and gamely stacked bolts of qiana in the closet until it was stuffed (I should point out that qiana is slippery as heck and thus really a paint to stack), going so far as to clear out the closet in the front of the store so that we could store useful fabric there. Meanwhile, I attempted to organize the remaining doubleknits and move the furs over to the newly repaired display table.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Yet at the end of that evening, even knowing that we had done a tremendous amount of work, neither Beth no I could SEE any progress. The aisle I'd hoped to clear wasn't even visible, and there still seemed to be too many polyesters. Even though I had relegated most of the slips to a huge barrel, the barrel was stacked on top of another and leaning at an alarming angle. We left the store downtrodden, and were only cheered by some of David's amazing cooking. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">The next day I went in, planning to deal with the issue. HA. It's October. My friend rents and sells costumes. It was NUTS. All I succeeded in doing was making a bigger mess.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Now I was REALLY frustrated. I told my friend I would come Tuesday evening and just do it. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">And I did. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Four hours, twenty sneezes, three broken fingernails, and a fair amount of dirt later I managed to not only carve a path through the back, but also organize everything, including the fur. If I go in this morning it may actually be possible to make a circuit (however circuitous) around the store for the first time in years. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Whee!</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br />
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</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br />
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</tbody></table>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10936182856032020479noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115127303010313094.post-68603102145583899062010-10-11T15:53:00.000-07:002010-10-11T15:53:44.072-07:00On the Just Shaping of MuralsThis past weekend, I challenged myself to do a door-sized mural in a day. I had been commissioned to do work for a store called Portals in Berkeley Springs, WV; the owner was thrilled when I suggested that we use "doors" and "windows" as the theme.<br />
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In August, I went into the store, which is in a beautiful building where homeopathic medicines used to be made, and took pictures of the beautiful oak cabinets:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmm7ZSxzPFaeOdIEm5tpBpO1g_Vk7JK1Y9jbY_95JbDpNY0vbi8m8nwdKT8KGNctqsqTgXcrs5owmhQF4Cpuuek0GN_WCcREPNHxn_18NGiXojd_tRvMZ0U5uxhbdSfFLfSHmoYgIcbwlr/s1600/100_2345.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmm7ZSxzPFaeOdIEm5tpBpO1g_Vk7JK1Y9jbY_95JbDpNY0vbi8m8nwdKT8KGNctqsqTgXcrs5owmhQF4Cpuuek0GN_WCcREPNHxn_18NGiXojd_tRvMZ0U5uxhbdSfFLfSHmoYgIcbwlr/s400/100_2345.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNTl0nukyI6g3MSl3KqzGYqRc0iv8Y9KhddBYGbuSyt8xOdJS5DgE2oS9rEtnerqthsCbUmfr5UiDhSUnAPHD_j-wCTC_2-hN1rlHuXKvOk244g1_pH86ubdoxIl3b8iPh7Yhp8EFHOhtv/s1600/100_2051.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="181" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNTl0nukyI6g3MSl3KqzGYqRc0iv8Y9KhddBYGbuSyt8xOdJS5DgE2oS9rEtnerqthsCbUmfr5UiDhSUnAPHD_j-wCTC_2-hN1rlHuXKvOk244g1_pH86ubdoxIl3b8iPh7Yhp8EFHOhtv/s320/100_2051.JPG" width="320" /></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNTl0nukyI6g3MSl3KqzGYqRc0iv8Y9KhddBYGbuSyt8xOdJS5DgE2oS9rEtnerqthsCbUmfr5UiDhSUnAPHD_j-wCTC_2-hN1rlHuXKvOk244g1_pH86ubdoxIl3b8iPh7Yhp8EFHOhtv/s1600/100_2051.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><br />
David and I got moulding that was similar to this. He assembled it and and I painted it to look like this. The color in the photo is a little off because of the fluorescent lighting.<br />
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Last Friday, David affixed the plywood panel on which I would be painting onto a solid frame, which we mounted directly onto the wall in the store. <br />
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Once that had been done, we attached the moulding to the plywood, to complete the "door" effect. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgffuz3yh-n-Pr4WFn8pNnC1l064tGTW5lxPH47Pp3LBxDMc5RDtg6flkuoofAvPDw-BDEW8BTlmIXDYVj5xz4VgTDRTTPF1MBuC-2cL1KRrKj5oZUPtGeXVG3hQCl9IWE9qeW6CkMNQnut/s1600/100_2348.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgffuz3yh-n-Pr4WFn8pNnC1l064tGTW5lxPH47Pp3LBxDMc5RDtg6flkuoofAvPDw-BDEW8BTlmIXDYVj5xz4VgTDRTTPF1MBuC-2cL1KRrKj5oZUPtGeXVG3hQCl9IWE9qeW6CkMNQnut/s320/100_2348.JPG" width="240" /></a></div> This past weekend was the Apple Butter Festival in Berkeley Springs, so in order to get a parking space we arrived early. I set up and started working at about 11 AM.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAMna9HeTQK-FGa0ititCNA0LKyDgiotf4ZgkMi2q183C0zgeuN8c5l3xFuNq3eO8-v0UiHKBT1ioJlDIlRsutE7_SGbJc_gTS6y-dElw4ieiXKYWeJBir9RSAgnQBhUOLQkhQ9_sZY3Vp/s1600/Bubble_NBFC.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="128" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAMna9HeTQK-FGa0ititCNA0LKyDgiotf4ZgkMi2q183C0zgeuN8c5l3xFuNq3eO8-v0UiHKBT1ioJlDIlRsutE7_SGbJc_gTS6y-dElw4ieiXKYWeJBir9RSAgnQBhUOLQkhQ9_sZY3Vp/s200/Bubble_NBFC.jpg" width="200" /></a>Tom, the owner of Portals, had chosen the Bubble Nebula to go into this first portal. We found a photograph similar to this one in an issue of <i>Beautiful Universe.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
So here goes...I set this goal for myself without telling Tom what I had in mind. I'll be honest with you: I asked myself more than once what the heck I had been thinking.<br />
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I had to keep reminding myself that I had customers who called me the "Queen of Starfields". Of course I could do this!!!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVWsf78xVInoK00_R3EOAg7OHaNf7WHlEwmheS-23BMPXoSi4qU7HcZzsYB71EXTKeDLRE0IlILm7fN_TIoa4OiK1epnLps_I5g97dz4yyQZTFVgP1xDcigy2aGe5W4t-QfFNCmh0uXvQS/s1600/100_2349.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVWsf78xVInoK00_R3EOAg7OHaNf7WHlEwmheS-23BMPXoSi4qU7HcZzsYB71EXTKeDLRE0IlILm7fN_TIoa4OiK1epnLps_I5g97dz4yyQZTFVgP1xDcigy2aGe5W4t-QfFNCmh0uXvQS/s320/100_2349.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">12:15 PM<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbkoGHmhHrN_u6DFQXs8hN3Ful9CULQU4l5GkUf0dcqXQFnlK0saonEoFyao8GA0zvas6umu9lrNEfaPjvNob4P_i5LQLYoDEuXCIIEco0We3vjU44N34ldlyEGbLaDPuSSC8y1BThtp3J/s1600/100_2350.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbkoGHmhHrN_u6DFQXs8hN3Ful9CULQU4l5GkUf0dcqXQFnlK0saonEoFyao8GA0zvas6umu9lrNEfaPjvNob4P_i5LQLYoDEuXCIIEco0We3vjU44N34ldlyEGbLaDPuSSC8y1BThtp3J/s320/100_2350.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">3PM <br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">There was a point at which I really thought I had lost my touch. It's a lot to ask of oneself to paint, not only in public, but also under the clock. I love painting in public: I like talking to people and explaining how I do what I do. But there is always a fear that I will blow the process completely, forget how to paint or how to render clouds and stars...you know.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Finally I hit my stride!</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivzDBjWCvRFKvyKoutN4kHdzH_vbBRnzKUDluAl98sqLzpGD4smqr2LwgVdzZ3nJhI95FswP__S3ra5q9sMrYhhyphenhyphen6WdGEXesKBoWU6np0viUEwWZw0sEIbx-uRbSm7gdmLYODAHQ-Bp2VZ/s1600/100_2352.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivzDBjWCvRFKvyKoutN4kHdzH_vbBRnzKUDluAl98sqLzpGD4smqr2LwgVdzZ3nJhI95FswP__S3ra5q9sMrYhhyphenhyphen6WdGEXesKBoWU6np0viUEwWZw0sEIbx-uRbSm7gdmLYODAHQ-Bp2VZ/s320/100_2352.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">4:15 PM</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCJ8lCAlKG6hqMADz-eJARpt5fHsgIONCDSMMvT9D3XUwaVIOVlLlrbtGJEJbB4PX-rHJrzFZXq6SAbwakAjPQlsaSargstEh211cAjWPvgNdC8ipH31c7GHYGslb5ml-iZgoY2wOzs3X0/s1600/100_2354.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCJ8lCAlKG6hqMADz-eJARpt5fHsgIONCDSMMvT9D3XUwaVIOVlLlrbtGJEJbB4PX-rHJrzFZXq6SAbwakAjPQlsaSargstEh211cAjWPvgNdC8ipH31c7GHYGslb5ml-iZgoY2wOzs3X0/s320/100_2354.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpr9dmulBZCdiTvN0eNZ5A1yriezrunK6ouTNDcUVkJaPD5mHQzDhR3SCc0GqN7tO77cONCV1giJ0E9dNF6kt40S15sEPRI_4Agv0lyy-eZe4oSkDDuysccz52ppiA0pnTh2_ahE_XWlvp/s1600/100_2355.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpr9dmulBZCdiTvN0eNZ5A1yriezrunK6ouTNDcUVkJaPD5mHQzDhR3SCc0GqN7tO77cONCV1giJ0E9dNF6kt40S15sEPRI_4Agv0lyy-eZe4oSkDDuysccz52ppiA0pnTh2_ahE_XWlvp/s400/100_2355.JPG" style="cursor: move;" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The finished product! 6:30 PM<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I'm sorry that the photo of the finished piece isn't better but I hope to get a photographer in to try to do a better job with the lighting. So there I was, at 6:30 PM, with a finished mural and no brain cells left! <br />
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Oh, and a stiff neck...</span></span></span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10936182856032020479noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115127303010313094.post-86155184180551571672010-10-06T06:44:00.000-07:002010-10-06T06:44:10.804-07:00Blessed Rain<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrp-qDA3fC200QBvCUIm3m4aNEXfzsLYA27kUACJTdq_DeJ2uiKOuGa4fd8zGqrxixzA1EN8c5UUm-qrhcXznnHVrkypd4DCzpHTIaFOX7DrPy142rDhsl4bwUT1m-hZEoe3rR5gY-Ocsw/s1600/100_1627.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="113" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrp-qDA3fC200QBvCUIm3m4aNEXfzsLYA27kUACJTdq_DeJ2uiKOuGa4fd8zGqrxixzA1EN8c5UUm-qrhcXznnHVrkypd4DCzpHTIaFOX7DrPy142rDhsl4bwUT1m-hZEoe3rR5gY-Ocsw/s200/100_1627.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hemlock Hole, April 2010</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div><br />
</div>All summer, the water level in Sideling Hill Creek has been creeping down. This is in accordance with the creek's annual cycle, which starts with the spring floods and ends with the winter freeze. This year started out like the others I have seen at Four Quarters Farm: in April, frigid water rushed past us as we rebuilt the steps to Hemlock Hole, deep enough that canoeists could navigate the rapids.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div>By July, the water level had dropped significantly: you have seen my photographs of the dry creek bed as I took advantage of the lack of water to explore the geology of the Land. The flow of the creek was reduced to a trickle, rendering Hemlock Hole a foul, stagnant pool; by the middle of September even a swim in Stoneledge Hole left me smelling like a pond. </div><div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTckb_Cc-iiCmXBHsTAFFRghbMWTyOnARvFQxPA7VYVowEWJO8YbCr3ZkYereLHhiYDQII6kQC6iEAX10q2X0aLbEJiQn8VJka7JXm2z3mlXTMDWdKfZMUPGW5Bf63rIHppmYL50dDr-cU/s1600/100_2249.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTckb_Cc-iiCmXBHsTAFFRghbMWTyOnARvFQxPA7VYVowEWJO8YbCr3ZkYereLHhiYDQII6kQC6iEAX10q2X0aLbEJiQn8VJka7JXm2z3mlXTMDWdKfZMUPGW5Bf63rIHppmYL50dDr-cU/s200/100_2249.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Emily's Photo of the Dry Creek Bed<br />
24 September 2010</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div>You know you're really connected to a place when you welcome the news of a huge rain storm by rushing out to your campsite a day early so that you can be there to witness it. I had enjoyed exploring the areas of the creek that had previously been unaccessible, but the Land ached for the renewal that could only be brought by rain. </div><div><br />
</div><div>The rain started a little later than predicted, which provided me with the time I needed to install the wood stove into our new tent, bring in wood, batten down the hatches, and enjoy dinner at the Farmhouse. While the first droplets struck the tent, I fired up the wood stove, lit my lanterns, and settled in for the duration. </div><div><br />
</div><div>I spent Thursday in my tent, dry, warm and happily painting. Periodically my curiosity would get the better of me and I would venture out to see how the creek was faring--and get really, really wet.</div><div><br />
</div><div>The transformation was gradual. At first the creek looked mostly unchanged; then a trickle of water began to flow in the area we had tried to clear back in July. But Friday morning I walked out to Hemlock Hole and heard a sound I had not heard since the Spring: running water.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Running water! I sat on the bench above the water and closed my eyes. I had not realized how I had missed that sound, how its absence had left a void in my summertime experience. </div><div><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7pSqR76DnCBfpqrBpN_UfrYiO_6V5gjf4ccI3rI7uY-XN8_nOvWjSEJbIaNV00Ca8zP27DjRE9CWX_xKd6LBW-3vYvkZqfKA87TJ96MQX5HWKwqFsTDLt7GJqWoiQsS7MWJ4zWvBk5ZCC/s1600/100_2307.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7pSqR76DnCBfpqrBpN_UfrYiO_6V5gjf4ccI3rI7uY-XN8_nOvWjSEJbIaNV00Ca8zP27DjRE9CWX_xKd6LBW-3vYvkZqfKA87TJ96MQX5HWKwqFsTDLt7GJqWoiQsS7MWJ4zWvBk5ZCC/s200/100_2307.JPG" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Same Portion of the Creek<br />
as Above, 1 October 2010</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div>It gave me hope.</div><div><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg28KCsCoOKQomJZu1FLmqJx2xBO_05g84bTakQejhhr4ev_xlsPCVeoLHm6lU7bamzdQ2PqlZErENAA40ZsfED9POxVsSMAO9-AGez6DP1XYhoNaXQRNjOLDQi4vlJT4e9x8Afd97KBv8F/s1600/100_2289.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="113" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg28KCsCoOKQomJZu1FLmqJx2xBO_05g84bTakQejhhr4ev_xlsPCVeoLHm6lU7bamzdQ2PqlZErENAA40ZsfED9POxVsSMAO9-AGez6DP1XYhoNaXQRNjOLDQi4vlJT4e9x8Afd97KBv8F/s200/100_2289.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Same Portion of Hemlock Hole <br />
from the April Photo<br />
30 September 2010<br />
No Canoes Here</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div>Hope is important to me in the autumn, a time of year that I anticipate with both dread and eagerness. While I love its clear, crisp days and cooler nights, the beautiful leaves, the smell of apples and the sight of fields dotted with pumpkins, I have not looked forward to winter since I was in grade school. Snow is pretty, but I do not like shoveling or driving in it. I'm not a fan of walking the dogs in 90 degree heat, but I'll take that over walking them in 34 degree slush. (Incidentally, the dogs don't care!) Long about February, my husband starts desperately looking for someplace warm and sunny to take me before I implode. By late March I am watching the long range forecasts, and the moment I see a promising stretch of weather, I am on the road to Four Quarters to set up my campsite, and when I arrive out there I will hear the rushing water of the creek speaking to me of the spring floods.</div><div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG1ld3KbCveZ7RT9VMF39sBJ_qV1blHYio4QZNUG-ya-hIqxleBVYQ1NJpbYiJkK87_j_CiKHKKUFVxyrekDwvzafHiFJst3U2Y1Ncatix3OyHUjJgM8FRxSA0dmxO3UfWB85utBQbCP9L/s1600/100_2306.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG1ld3KbCveZ7RT9VMF39sBJ_qV1blHYio4QZNUG-ya-hIqxleBVYQ1NJpbYiJkK87_j_CiKHKKUFVxyrekDwvzafHiFJst3U2Y1Ncatix3OyHUjJgM8FRxSA0dmxO3UfWB85utBQbCP9L/s200/100_2306.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Same View as Above<br />
1 October 2010</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div>And here I was, in early October, hearing those waters speaking to me of renewal from the drought and reminding me that the cycle is endless. The creek will be there waiting for me when I return in the spring. </div><div><br />
</div><div>Though the steps you saw us building at the top of the page probably won't be...as Orren gruffly says, "The creek is the creek."</div><div><br />
</div><div>I wouldn't have it any other way.</div><div><br />
</div><div><br />
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</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10936182856032020479noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115127303010313094.post-3303573152646229562010-09-29T04:30:00.000-07:002010-09-29T04:30:46.837-07:00The Age of the PigeonholeI am a Trekkie.<br />
<br />
I do not need to be psychic to see the images and concepts flashing through your minds: an overweight, possibly unwashed, geek with pointed ears or Klingon ridges and a zillion t-shirts, out of touch with reality, watching reruns in Mom's basement, buried in 20-year-old fanzines that feature bizarre and unlikely relationship pairings. <br />
<br />
Anyone who actually knows me will tell you that nothing could be further from the truth. Just go look at the picture of me on my first post. For starters, I am out of doors, and everyone <i>knows</i> that Trekkies never, ever go outside unless it's to attend a convention, right?<br />
<br />
Behold the power of the label.<br />
<br />
Humans love to classify things; classification begs labels; and labels are dicey business. On the one hand they help us to describe with great specificity what we want; on the other hand they encourage the very human tendency to try and "pigeonhole" everything--and everyone. These days the"pigeonholes" have become more like those really cool plastic tackle boxes with bunches of dividers you insert into slots to create sections of whatever size we want. Each box has its main classification, say, "Apples", and then upon opening the box you can view all the different sorts of apples, from Macintosh to Red Delicious, each in its own section. This system is great, because then I can tell my husband to pick up not only Golden Delicious apples for a pie but also several Fujis and Braeburns, because using a variety of apples makes for a better tasting pie; it enables me to say exactly what kind of fabric I need or whether I want oil paints or watercolors or gouache. <br />
<br />
Unfortunately, humans don't just classify <i>things</i>: pretty much since the beginning of civilization we have been classifying <i>ourselves and each other</i>, often with disastrous results. Man, woman, hunter, farmer, warrior, husband, wife, priest, foreigner, have, have-not, friend, enemy: these labels--and their subsets--have served as the basis for every conflict in history, and the more specific our classifications have become, the worse the ensuing conflicts.<br />
<br />
But after all that, these days the trend seems to be that people have begun to return to the "pigeonhole" mentality. The people in my circles often bandy about terms like "Republican", "Democrat", "conservative", "liberal", "Christian", and "Pagan", without even qualifiers like "some Republicans" or "some Christians". <br />
<br />
Let me present you with the "Christian" tackle box. It's one of those HUGE ones, with multiple levels and drawers you can pull out. The two main drawers would be (despite the Great Schism) Roman Catholic and Eastern Orthodox Catholic, and Protestant. From these simple divisions would rise the myriad sections (though the Roman Catholics remain largely undivided): Baptists, Anabaptists, Calvinists, Lutherans, Presbyterians, Greek Orthodox, Russian Orthodox, etc.--each with their own set of beliefs and practices. I am also fairly certain that a number of these groups would object strenuously to being in the same tackle box as some of the others--and I won't get into groups like the Mormons, Scientologists, or Jehovah's Witnesses. <br />
<br />
In my community, whose varied groups and people embrace Earth Spirituality, I have friends who toss the entire "Christian" tackle box onto the table, point at it and declare, "They hate us and they want to kill us!"<br />
<br />
Uh, no.<br />
<br />
I agree there are whacked-out Christians, like the Westboro Baptist Church group, who picket the funerals of soldiers killed in combat not because the soldiers themselves were gay, but because the military allows (in a twisted and ass-backwards fashion) gays into their ranks. There are whacked-out Earth Spirituality people too: no group, and no one, is perfect. <br />
<br />
By definition, real Christians follow the word of Jesus: Jesus was a wise and kind individual whose ideas were far ahead of his time (and, it appears, far ahead of ours). From time to time he had a heck of a temper, but by all accounts it only surfaced when it was needed. Real Christians walk the walk, following Jesus' example of tolerance and kindness towards those less fortunate. Real Christians don't want to kill anyone. <br />
<br />
The Real World doesn't always allow for strict adherence to these tenets, especially the latter one. I am not talking about the killings that would have Jesus deploying his temper in spades like the Crusades or witch burnings or the Spanish Inquisition: I am talking about wars like WWII, where evil threatened the core of civilization. And each of the events mentioned was brought about by labels: Christians killing Moslems; Christians torturing and killing people they perceived to be witches; Christians torturing and killing Jews and Moslems and others because they wanted to be "sure" that they had given up their old religions; Nazis killing people who didn't meet their idea of ethnic perfection . (Looking back at my examples it appears to me that the Christians have an awful track record...that's because my education was largely focused on Western Civilization: one only has to look to Russian history to read about Uncle Joe Stalin's non-Christian pogroms. No worries: Christians haven't cornered the market by a long shot.)<br />
<br />
I don't want to digress into the reasons that people find it important to self-identify as a member of any religion. In my previous blog I discussed the escalating numbers of "Jesus fish" I see on vehicles and business cards. and pentacles the size of dinner plates hanging from the necks of Pagans. Back in the day, before crosses and crucifixes became fashion accessories, these were almost always blessed by a Catholic priest and worn by the faithful. In fact, even today, most crosses and crucifixes (and Stars of David) are small and tasteful, because most members of traditional religions--like Presbyterians, Jews, Catholics and Greek Orthodox Catholics--don't feel a need to throw their spirituality in anyone's face. The "Jesus fish" however, is symbolic of evangelical Christians, and I believe that it is in response to this burgeoning presence and their sometimes extreme views (i.e., "YOU ARE A PAGAN--THAT MEANS YOU ARE A SATAN WORSHIPPER!" ) that Pagans find it necessary to wear jewelry that screams "I AM A PAGAN, AND I DON'T CARE WHAT YOU THINK!" <br />
<br />
Gah.<br />
<br />
If we don't want to be labeled by others, why do we label ourselves?<br />
<br />
Here's my label:<br />
<br />
I am a person.<br />
<br />
Find a tackle box big enough for <i>that.</i><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10936182856032020479noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115127303010313094.post-69686176589595605512010-09-24T04:23:00.000-07:002010-09-24T04:23:28.332-07:00Religious Freedom, RedefinedHere's a bill I'd vote for: ban all political ads. GAH!<br />
<br />
I'll admit it: I am a conservative. I am not a Republican: I believe Republicans in Washington have tainted the party's ideals, and do not deserve re-election. I wish to see our Constitution returned to its original purpose; I wish to see powers returned to the states; I want less government and less governmental control in my life, and I crave fiscal responsibility.<br />
<br />
This is not something my friends always understand. Most of them are of much more liberal leanings, and that's okay, it doesn't make them evil or any less my friends, and NO, I don't think they are deluded. Given that the Democratic party has in the past gone to some lengths to be the "party of inclusion", there are many people who feel more comfortable identifying with this political group. <br />
<br />
Who can blame them? After all, the Republican party and its spinoff, the Tea Party, often seem to be very much the party of "religious freedom means 30 different kinds of Christians." If you're anything other than a Christian or maybe a Jew, you are nothing and no one--or worse, you are seen as downright evil.<br />
<br />
Republicans' horrified reactions to this week's "revelation" that Delaware Tea Party candidate Christine O'Donnell "dabbled in witchcraft" as a teenager have just been one facepalm after another for me (the real horror in that 1990s interview was not what she said, but her HAIR, OMG that was, like, Mall Chick Hair...) <br />
<br />
Let's get some things straight: O'Donnell is correct in saying that teenagers do rebellious, stupid things like "dabbling in witchcraft". I disagree with her that it was a less destructive rebellion than, say, alcohol or drug abuse, but the effects of alcohol or drug abuse are often more obvious than those of "dabbling in witchcraft". The Merriam-Webster Online Dictionary defines "dabbling" thusly<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px;"><strong>:</strong></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px;">t<i>o work or involve oneself superficially or intermittently especially in a secondary activity or interest </i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px;"><span class="vi"><i><</i><em>dabble</em><em>s</em><i> in art> </i></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 20px;">I think that in this circumstance "dabbling" might be further defined as "messing around without intent". </span><br />
<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 20px;">The popular imagination, fueled by Harry Potter and other similar publications (did you know there were others?) envisions witches casting spells, riding brooms, and making potions. The books one finds in the Occult/New Age section of your local bookstore (many of which are bogus) focus on spell-casting --which I feel is NOT something that should be tried by amateurs, rather like driving on the Schuylkill Expressway when you only have your learner's permit. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;"><div style="font-family: Times; line-height: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;">The part about the satanic altar (this was a triple facepalm moment)...well, that was just plain stupid and the whole community practicing Earth-Based Religion could have done without that association. I have already had to call the middle school principal and "explain" to him that witchcraft does not equal satanic worship. Geez, even the Harry Potter books define the battle between good and evil pretty plainly!</span></span></div><div style="font-family: Times; line-height: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font-family: Times; line-height: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;">Some facts:</span></span></div><div style="font-family: Times; line-height: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font-family: Times; line-height: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;">1. Most people who are "witches" (i.e., self-identify as Pagan, Wiccan, Shamanic, or as a practitioner of Earth-Based religion) do not practice spellcraft. They are cautious about such work: like many things it should be left to the Professionals.</span></span></div><div style="font-family: Times; line-height: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font-family: Times; line-height: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;">2. Witchcraft is NOT Satanism. Satanic worshippers occupy a very specific group. </span></span></div><div style="font-family: Times; line-height: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font-family: Times; line-height: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;">3. Witches do NOT sacrifice animals or babies or anything living. In fact, some of them are pretty wildly against such practices. </span></span></div><div style="font-family: Times; line-height: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font-family: Times; line-height: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;">I know in my heart (and from what I've read on Facebook) that my friends are already up in arms at the Republican party's reaction to O'Donnell's admission. It looks like it's going to be "damage control" for her instead of the golden opportunity for a statement about religious freedom. </span></span></div><div style="font-family: Times; line-height: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font-family: Times; line-height: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;">Unfortunately, I don't see the Democrats stepping up in defense of witchcraft. </span></span></div><div style="font-family: Times; line-height: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font-family: Times; line-height: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;">Since this is an Equal Opportunity Blog (EOB) I will now turn to the rumor that the President's mother-in-law practices Santeria, and that the President is beside himself with fury. </span></span></div><div style="font-family: Times; line-height: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font-family: Times; line-height: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;">Some facts:</span></span></div><div style="font-family: Times; line-height: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font-family: Times; line-height: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;">1. Santeria is the Real Deal. Even the Supreme Court said so. Santeria makes everything you see in those books in the Occult/New Age section of your local bookstore look like Dick and Jane. This is Serious Shit and people often turn to it when there is dire illness in their families. </span></span></div><div style="font-family: Times; line-height: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font-family: Times; line-height: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;">2. Santeria is an Afro-Caribbean religion: it is based on traditions brought over from East Africa by slaves and then blended with the Christianity that was imposed on these slaves by their masters. This means that as an African-American </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 20px;">it's part of President Obama's heritage. </span></div><div style="font-family: Times; line-height: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;">. </span></span></div><div style="font-family: Times; line-height: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 20px;">3. Just as is the case in most religions (I would say "all" but I'm not a fan of absolutes) most practitioners of Santeria are Really Good People who provide sound advice to those seeking it, and who use their connections to the spirit world to do good. </span></div><div style="font-family: Times; line-height: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font-family: Times; line-height: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;">4. Santeria IS a blood religion. This means that goats, roosters and other small animals get sacrificed. Before you object, they are probably killed more humanely than that chicken you had for dinner last night. Yes, I have seen it, though I am not a practitioner. </span></span></div><div style="font-family: Times; line-height: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font-family: Times; line-height: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;">According to the news media, we should be horrified by both of these stories--and I am, except not the way that that writers and spin doctors (gods, I love that title) want me to be. I am horrified that this has become NEWS. After all, when was the last time that you saw a headline like "OMG, NEWT GINGRICH DABBLED IN BEING A CATHOLIC!" Those of you who are Protestants will chuckle. </span></span></div><div style="font-family: Times; line-height: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font-family: Times; line-height: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;">A person's religion should be a VERY private matter--and it should not affect one's opinion of another. These days we see more and more escalation of in-your-face religious expression: business cards with the "Jesus fish" on them; people wearing pentacles the size of dinner plates. Actually, of all of them, the practitioners of Afro-Caribbean religions are the least conspicuous: lacking fish, pentacles, burkas, yarmulkes, or other traditional dress, they blend into society, often so smoothly that their neighbors have no idea what they believe or don't believe. </span></span></div><div style="font-family: Times; line-height: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font-family: Times; line-height: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;">The bottom line is that religion needs to be removed from politics in every way, shape and form. If people have to have a reason to vote for candidates, it should not be because of their religious preference (because we all know how THAT has worked out in the past because religion does not equal morality): it should be because of issues like governmental reform and taxes. I want to be free to practice the religion of my choice, without suffering the judgment of my peers. And it would be really nice if the candidates didn't have to worry about their past "dabblings" to the point where they have to apologize or explain how "misguided" they were, because in doing so they are offending far more people than they realize. When was the last time someone apologized for being a Baptist?</span></span></div><div style="font-family: Times; line-height: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;"><br />
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</span></span></div><div class="example-sentences" style="color: #a1a3a6; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: -5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10936182856032020479noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115127303010313094.post-5628492353538284132010-09-20T04:05:00.000-07:002010-09-20T04:05:08.162-07:00Waking Up LaughingWatching the news I sometimes wonder if many members of our society suffer from the dysfunctional misapprehension that if they appear happy the whole weight of the world will come crashing down on them. If there are not enough murders, assaults, traffic deaths, natural disasters, and terrorist attacks, newscasters focus their attention on the weather: too hot, too cold, not enough rain, OH MY GOD IT'S GOING TO SNOW A FOOT!<br />
<br />
Similarly, music, poetry, and other arts often seem dominated by references to love lost, love scorned, drugs, and death (thank heaven we no longer have to endure the lugubrious "my sweetie died" songs of the 1960s). If you peruse the Young Adult section of your local chain bookstore (I used to work in one) you will find entire series of books whose theme is "too young to die". I am still weighing whether or not the Twilight series is preferable to these maudlin paperbacks. Song lyrics are chock-full of references to dreams: sweet dreams, broken dreams, "dream a little dream of me". Singers even wake up screaming.<br />
<br />
But do they ever wake up laughing?<br />
<br />
Yesterday I did. <br />
<br />
In the dream I realized that I hadn't seen my dog Leeza in like a week. Perplexed, I sought out my husband, David:<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-oDCJI4d59-UEwgXgUPYEfBhmT50PcyN7slsTjNjxrnIqr6IyPnRpWitbjCHcsAsT_L2HAvU-a0f6dCjPL8HMWVapflWoFQUDBPu7mkcB2cpXJ_yLEgz0gcqQKXjFAL7YoPIXcbiFAp3F/s1600/100_0158.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-oDCJI4d59-UEwgXgUPYEfBhmT50PcyN7slsTjNjxrnIqr6IyPnRpWitbjCHcsAsT_L2HAvU-a0f6dCjPL8HMWVapflWoFQUDBPu7mkcB2cpXJ_yLEgz0gcqQKXjFAL7YoPIXcbiFAp3F/s320/100_0158.JPG" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nyssa (left) and Leeza (right)</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
"Where's the dog?" I asked.<br />
<br />
David's expression was that of a man who had been dreading this moment. "Borneo," he replied.<br />
<br />
"BORNEO???" I shouted. "They EAT dogs in Borneo!"<br />
<br />
"It's okay!" he assured me. "She's on her way home!"<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4LDk4dfI55OcmOIBCJTogA0ZQml8v3B3EP-9FUHI9MjOyFL2RLJB1AV3vgaFlBtAdneiAsFcrerH00MPASZxQWtv4ZufdMVmPLHqBbR9w9D1lbpeH5mQNJPhlIqVTZEo_st23Zge5jVT9/s1600/100_0836.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4LDk4dfI55OcmOIBCJTogA0ZQml8v3B3EP-9FUHI9MjOyFL2RLJB1AV3vgaFlBtAdneiAsFcrerH00MPASZxQWtv4ZufdMVmPLHqBbR9w9D1lbpeH5mQNJPhlIqVTZEo_st23Zge5jVT9/s200/100_0836.JPG" width="113" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">David</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKT5KYrZemYPbAqNXAw2YR-AFomyDf-uhEs5n2aSmWzKx2R_nbhzYVo1GapPEdvE-i00vnfTwZ22ZwX9uL5-70JKZ5YtzIULCFpVxP31dxtCwqzOdnAsDtjupCyIImHVys5BtEtKE-NRvA/s1600/100_1223.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKT5KYrZemYPbAqNXAw2YR-AFomyDf-uhEs5n2aSmWzKx2R_nbhzYVo1GapPEdvE-i00vnfTwZ22ZwX9uL5-70JKZ5YtzIULCFpVxP31dxtCwqzOdnAsDtjupCyIImHVys5BtEtKE-NRvA/s200/100_1223.JPG" width="113" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Emily</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
It turned out (in the dream) that one day Emily (our daughter) was home by herself when someone accidentally came to the wrong house with a UPS-like call tag, and she didn't check with us before sending the dog off. David had been hoping that I wouldn't notice the dog was missing until she got back!<br />
<br />
Borneo. I awoke, rolled over and looked up at the hotel room ceiling. Borneo? I chuckled. I got out of bed. "Borneo," I said out loud. "Borneo!" I began laughing in earnest, until I couldn't see, could hardly breathe, and certainly speak even to say "Borneo" again.<br />
<br />
<br />
Over the course of the day, fragments of the dream surfaced. This dream had been about miscommunication and innocent mistakes turned serious: earlier in it someone had posted something totally inappropriate on a website because they had accidentally copied and pasted the wrong pictures. <br />
<br />
And when I got home, I forgave Emily for accidentally sending he dog to Borneo...<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10936182856032020479noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115127303010313094.post-33483835747695682282010-09-17T08:53:00.000-07:002010-09-17T08:53:18.920-07:00Paradise Lost, Paradise Regained<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiElTJRbra6CtMpy06YkIaXTg1jldRoRC4JtwuGm4WVzCnRE1yLeYH7_sDKaj006Wkz2x2ivSLylA9cCN8OtY8faBHed7edHjLVLwLfQmWf5lJihbITmjjO1aOdNRhTVT0I35244zaiOcH3/s1600/100_0369.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="113" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiElTJRbra6CtMpy06YkIaXTg1jldRoRC4JtwuGm4WVzCnRE1yLeYH7_sDKaj006Wkz2x2ivSLylA9cCN8OtY8faBHed7edHjLVLwLfQmWf5lJihbITmjjO1aOdNRhTVT0I35244zaiOcH3/s200/100_0369.JPG" width="200" /></a></div><br />
I met my friend Mary Beth a little over a year ago. I had gone to her fabric store--a hole-in-the-wall mom&pop place--on the day after I found out that my sister Tina had stage 4 lung cancer, when I needed to be somewhere else than my house. <div><br />
</div><div>I had been to her store at some point in the past: I remember getting lost finding it; I remember digging through fabric to see what I could find; and I remember being utterly overwhelmed. There were piles and piles and piles of fabric in remnants and bolts, zippers everywhere, thread, masks and costumes. Everywhere. I remember not being able to walk in sections of the store for the mountains of stuff. </div><div><br />
</div><div>Fast forward to May of 2009: having learned about my sister, and knowing in my heart that not only did she have cancer but that there was little hope for her recovery, I went over to the store to bury myself (literally) in the comfort of our mutual obsession, fabric. </div><div><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxZLy6JowhIgrDwQ4otHYbRqGwVMQAO8eLil5-NVVkUulU3sj73OcDWUFTm7N8BW6q16vkQRfl1_Q9n-0BwCqG0vbog1u4t7yXarhL5aCefzW8oOJHqKsBOgf3sduxSpImhLI7KivbH3yA/s1600/100_0212.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxZLy6JowhIgrDwQ4otHYbRqGwVMQAO8eLil5-NVVkUulU3sj73OcDWUFTm7N8BW6q16vkQRfl1_Q9n-0BwCqG0vbog1u4t7yXarhL5aCefzW8oOJHqKsBOgf3sduxSpImhLI7KivbH3yA/s320/100_0212.JPG" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Trims (and Not All of Them)</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div>I burrowed into the fabric, but, having been in retail most of my adult life, I started tidying up as I went. It was, I suppose, my way of taking control in an overwhelming situation (not only was Tina mortally ill but she lived in Colorado Springs and did not want me to come out). </div><div><br />
</div><div>Each day, I was galvanized by new discoveries. I organized the trims and laces--all of which pre-dated 1980--and became aware that there was a vast treasure trove of vintage fabric on the disorderly shelves around me. </div><div><br />
</div><div>I am pretty sure that Mary Beth didn't know what to make of me. It became apparent that, even though it was clear that she was overwhelmed by her surroundings, no one had ever thought to try and help her. The advent of the local Wal-Mart several years before had gone a long way towards putting her out of business--to this day many people don't know the store is still open. (When it opened the Wal-Mart sold fabric and patterns: after they drove out Jo-Ann Fabrics and nearly killed Mary Beth's store they stopped carrying both. Go figure.) They had also suffered a flood and the movers who had packed everything so that the store could be cleaned up had packed and unpacked them carelessly, making what had by all accounts already been a cluttered mess much, much worse.</div><div><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div>As spring moved into summer, new sports developed: Fabric Diving, the Fabric Bolt Toss, and Costume Wrangling. When I was not camping, I was crawling over, through, and around fabric and racks in the darkened and HOT (no A/C) back section of the store. </div><div><br />
</div><div>THAT is where the treasure was. At least, the fabric treasure.</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWsAz5vjy1qMlnmaRik2zNwdcsQCUqkaDt_XFbOPwU9_c4Cb2pmcyT4-j1vfXO7nxAx_8sOjc7F68U-QHZVWChLhAPxlto1veDVa5Wp3-b8FKtmAYosnX77il3pqBY42VQibU72kLhfk__/s1600/100_0376.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="113" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWsAz5vjy1qMlnmaRik2zNwdcsQCUqkaDt_XFbOPwU9_c4Cb2pmcyT4-j1vfXO7nxAx_8sOjc7F68U-QHZVWChLhAPxlto1veDVa5Wp3-b8FKtmAYosnX77il3pqBY42VQibU72kLhfk__/s200/100_0376.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This one is in the <i>Better Homes and<br />
Gardens Sewing Book</i>!</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div><br />
</div><div>In the deepest, darkest part of the store, underneath tables that had been stacked high with bolts of (ew) polyester double knit, on shelves that I had not realized existed because they were buried beneath three feet of piled bolts of fake fur, were the brocades, the boucles, the Lurex brocades...</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5XNoqoRpQzkJNIXAEq0LFI0jBx0daz6-7TYb1rFoQTZfqd9N4kFSLbfOVi_DwrSKNWOU4P8wHWS6OxMhSOCd00npX_OTbK3PGdLamZjVpWRP9stR_f_x0bp_btDYFGjwfHz-OsOZs6qqb/s1600/100_0383.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="113" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5XNoqoRpQzkJNIXAEq0LFI0jBx0daz6-7TYb1rFoQTZfqd9N4kFSLbfOVi_DwrSKNWOU4P8wHWS6OxMhSOCd00npX_OTbK3PGdLamZjVpWRP9stR_f_x0bp_btDYFGjwfHz-OsOZs6qqb/s200/100_0383.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lurex Brocades</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div>This is stuff you will see as clothing in vintage clothing stores. Mary Beth had it by the <i>bolt.</i> The caves at the back of the store yielded one stunning fabric after the next: often as I pulled them out all I could see was a glint of color or metallic thread and it was only after I got them to the front of the store that I realized what I had found. </div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh99bJ7YRBeUV8qI8AHMZpeNgiED4K_w77XaBYDbwhqXaq20mHScOvrBdYjYX6zvocI451tkRMPPwvgXv3dLBELI4i12BJI8HxmaFcoGqE4ZApW0sPLRDxse74nnmkxja9KS4QI0zQOV6D_/s1600/100_0412.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="113" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh99bJ7YRBeUV8qI8AHMZpeNgiED4K_w77XaBYDbwhqXaq20mHScOvrBdYjYX6zvocI451tkRMPPwvgXv3dLBELI4i12BJI8HxmaFcoGqE4ZApW0sPLRDxse74nnmkxja9KS4QI0zQOV6D_/s200/100_0412.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">IT'S PINK!!!</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div><br />
</div><div>I can't tell you how much I sweated, how much water I drank, how much dust I inhaled, how dirty I got, how many bags of trash I put out, or how many times I lost my Bluetooth. Eventually Mary Beth stopped fretting that I was going to end up in the emergency room because I had been buried by an fabric avalanche (believe me, it happened; I survived). What drove me to do this was not the promise of more incredible fabric (although that was a factor) but her gratitude for what I was doing.</div><div><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGWX1zwLHSMAEx4Ytp4t-i8tru7QUaq-6lhPjRAGmmRZ7bf26apnvT6y5HRodG5SKXUs-m9YeBMsj0C803MkTDUwAfwkCmXQzCQCsBr1hxaAj-jzDjjhG_Z2AO-DK2zGXnpoc_I2_QEy0D/s1600/100_0160.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="113" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGWX1zwLHSMAEx4Ytp4t-i8tru7QUaq-6lhPjRAGmmRZ7bf26apnvT6y5HRodG5SKXUs-m9YeBMsj0C803MkTDUwAfwkCmXQzCQCsBr1hxaAj-jzDjjhG_Z2AO-DK2zGXnpoc_I2_QEy0D/s200/100_0160.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Flashback!</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMyAkIIMpN6Pu9ZAAsDl8iXsvP2-aMZ38AeAQJTyM5gPQljUZfpE43cgsGzvwyY_aojLj-NzQ9L7T7s9Na9gx1QGeldoLFJTbZ55F3u_EvLYSOwk0j61IxSXSeiTm2jPOU9FodVRtZ0k-U/s1600/100_0161.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="113" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMyAkIIMpN6Pu9ZAAsDl8iXsvP2-aMZ38AeAQJTyM5gPQljUZfpE43cgsGzvwyY_aojLj-NzQ9L7T7s9Na9gx1QGeldoLFJTbZ55F3u_EvLYSOwk0j61IxSXSeiTm2jPOU9FodVRtZ0k-U/s200/100_0161.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Double Flashback!</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div>As time went by, Mary Beth started pitching in (I am convinced she didn't know what to do in the beginning; the mess was so overwhelming that she didn't know where to start). </div><div><br />
</div><div><br />
</div><div><br />
</div><div>One day, I brought my little black light into the store and made Mary Beth turn off the lights so we could watch the screaming psychedelic fabrics fluoresce. (Note: apparently these fabrics are so screaming that Blogspot can't upload them.)</div><div><br />
</div><div>To be continued...</div><div><br />
</div><div><br />
</div><div><br />
</div><div><br />
</div><div><br />
</div><div> </div><div><br />
</div><div><br />
<div><br />
</div><div><br />
</div></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10936182856032020479noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115127303010313094.post-21596973446404581822010-09-14T05:58:00.000-07:002010-09-14T05:58:59.026-07:00They Call it "Crazy" Quilting for a ReasonLast year I painted "I Rise Up, Not Without Help", which was intended to be submitted for the 2011 We'Moon Women's Calendar <a href="http://www.wemoon.ws/">www.wemoon.ws</a>. The theme was "Up Rising": the editors asked what trials we faced, how we overcame them, and what we brought with us into an uncertain future. I chose to portray myself moving over and past the stressful or tragic events I have experienced. After much mental wrestling and many sketches, I settled on a crazy quilt robe to acknowledge the people who have supported and taught me over the years.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRVGeaqqBvumI65ipLZaCZ9vKd51gh-DKyh5K1VRNFYmagT63LHZ_hZsV03awb-tCh6WFNP_Dtv5wQvuZ4MD9uUvNifHaI6o4LKL2xlko9CNKdd7JSnJKFtbmSw07DezfteqyOUQqkpT8r/s1600/I+Rise+Up+8X10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRVGeaqqBvumI65ipLZaCZ9vKd51gh-DKyh5K1VRNFYmagT63LHZ_hZsV03awb-tCh6WFNP_Dtv5wQvuZ4MD9uUvNifHaI6o4LKL2xlko9CNKdd7JSnJKFtbmSw07DezfteqyOUQqkpT8r/s320/I+Rise+Up+8X10.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"I Rise Up, Not Without Help" (2009)<br />
Watercolor and Gouache</td></tr>
</tbody></table>I do sew, and have won awards for my beading and embroidery, but I have never, ever quilted anything. I had been exposed to crazy quilting by a fellow vendor at Free Spirit Gathering: she showed me how she did ribbon embroidery on velvet: her work was dazzling and I enjoyed watching her, but I wasn't burning to do a crazy quilt. However, the idea stuck with me and was a huge inspiration for the painting. <br />
<br />
The final painting--which was accepted not only for the 2011 desk calendar but ALSO for the wall calendar (I kept walking around, dazedly mumbling "One of twelve...one of twelve...") --features myself walking up a slope, upon which are inscribed the most recent obstacles in my life: my husband's year-long deployment in Afghanistan and deaths of my father and sister. I am wearing a cloak which is casting off black feathers in favor of white ones and which features--as the peace I bring with me into the future--a view from the labyrinth at Four Quarters Farm (you will see the photo in a previous post) and a crazy quilt robe, each of whose patches represents someone who has helped or influenced me throughout my life.<br />
<br />
I showed the painting to my friends, and the first question out of their mouths was, "You're going to make the robe, right?"<br />
<br />
"No," I said.<br />
<br />
"I dare you!" <br />
<br />
"Nope. It would be a huge project, and I don't have time."<br />
<br />
"I double dare you!"<br />
<br />
Fine. Double dare the Badger. Well, heck, I reasoned, I had more than enough fabric and ribbon, yarn and embroidery floss to give it a shot without spending thousands on materials. Because I have a well-documented habit of diving into new medium head first, I found a book of stitches and a robe pattern, and started planning. We were going to Tucson for the Gem Show, so I made a bunch of patches with the basic form appliqued on them and then took the appropriate threads and yarns for embellishment.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihs5H4hZCNbarGBAMlvRH-mODlbY6dHq4zYhT1GxGPpgQKHEWZ0e3E6L_Q6pkC5xqJgMLVkivct9UAMG3F-cGIJbq15dtIns-dUNfVtgyBwtiJeqPZj2WZpq52lx2aDL7UDuh_wd1ZFGqY/s1600/dadpanel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihs5H4hZCNbarGBAMlvRH-mODlbY6dHq4zYhT1GxGPpgQKHEWZ0e3E6L_Q6pkC5xqJgMLVkivct9UAMG3F-cGIJbq15dtIns-dUNfVtgyBwtiJeqPZj2WZpq52lx2aDL7UDuh_wd1ZFGqY/s200/dadpanel.jpg" width="113" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Dad Panel<br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYJK7c4-qxhQn9_Ifia_f0LX9HRyL62DrmNbcJhq92ng8dIeU2HHJ1_O13tMB-yZPLOFtdRjN10hGPGI1l_zsJnoQev41by5sxZGWUd9v_B8L81yEshbOuUpqeZBXGynq0xMLgwIHgmtJ_/s1600/Pelepanel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="112" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYJK7c4-qxhQn9_Ifia_f0LX9HRyL62DrmNbcJhq92ng8dIeU2HHJ1_O13tMB-yZPLOFtdRjN10hGPGI1l_zsJnoQev41by5sxZGWUd9v_B8L81yEshbOuUpqeZBXGynq0xMLgwIHgmtJ_/s200/Pelepanel.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Pele Panel<br />
Embellished Printed Fabric</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
I love trying new media. I determined that I should teach myself a new stitch with each patch: not only would I be learning something but it would give the quilt more variety. It also, incidentally, fascinates fellow airline passengers, though you have to be careful not to accidentally stab your neighbor (who, thanks to airline designers, is probably uncomfortably close) with your needle. <br />
<br />
<br />
The Dad Panel features three things Dad, who was an artist, taught me: "You don't have to draw every damned leaf on the tree; you don't have to draw every damned brick on the house; and STOP RIGHT THERE".<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPFdxXA9YFDwOjtSjE7Ojd57fDpFNgBaq8GCBBZVjRDC3cDIec6WotLbKYrnwFKvEzbEBCRC7tMtGUfmEqq7r5Nvb4AVB2PEw7_o7g2mfzn_ongBdij3k9UpJEBK2CUZRNlMQpd21OPFL2/s1600/digger+panel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPFdxXA9YFDwOjtSjE7Ojd57fDpFNgBaq8GCBBZVjRDC3cDIec6WotLbKYrnwFKvEzbEBCRC7tMtGUfmEqq7r5Nvb4AVB2PEw7_o7g2mfzn_ongBdij3k9UpJEBK2CUZRNlMQpd21OPFL2/s200/digger+panel.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="113" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Digger Panel</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
Some of the panels are recognizable in the robe; others are slightly different; others are completely different. Given that I now have an entire robe to cover instead of just one side, I have a lot of leverage with design. Also, if I had left the panels the size they were in the painting, they would have been miniscule. <br />
<br />
Digger was a good friend. He was a cantankerous old miner, discoverer of amazing linarite and wulfenite deposits. He was responsible for getting my art into the Tucson Gem Show and he gave me my very first nickname, "Tiger". We lost him this past January, but he did get to see the patch in the painting.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTmXQhmMiZd7IoaS5XDyXgHxel568mJ152E0NW4DUJs4rw-ETjrMdAv0Wbojk-MZgQRn2O0bh6C0YmurUHtiw6cMIxRyUUiPb5yEEZDAfMZHOmMuAdHS4XIdyOyIdOzB7Gye0jgrLv1EOW/s1600/dragon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTmXQhmMiZd7IoaS5XDyXgHxel568mJ152E0NW4DUJs4rw-ETjrMdAv0Wbojk-MZgQRn2O0bh6C0YmurUHtiw6cMIxRyUUiPb5yEEZDAfMZHOmMuAdHS4XIdyOyIdOzB7Gye0jgrLv1EOW/s200/dragon.jpg" width="112" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mark's Dragon</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Back in May or June, I suggested to Orren Whiddon of Four Quarters Farm that I do a workshop on crazy quilting at an upcoming festival. He looked over at me in only the way that he can, and said, "Describe to me in one sentence what crazy quilting is."<br />
<br />
I should have known this was coming. Orren likes brevity and specificity. I took a deep breath.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjjrW6j1KLMehwjG5JSfXDwQ71ivywhM3dclUawhWer7wrVfss7lUL0hE_0vu66FcY17UdkX6ntwRf8gVuA8lX4nIjGVk5T8dt4LrhDUmH6tYbOEQcujM1vfbx0xeVLKaNfAzErAexHxYa/s1600/tinarob.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="148" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjjrW6j1KLMehwjG5JSfXDwQ71ivywhM3dclUawhWer7wrVfss7lUL0hE_0vu66FcY17UdkX6ntwRf8gVuA8lX4nIjGVk5T8dt4LrhDUmH6tYbOEQcujM1vfbx0xeVLKaNfAzErAexHxYa/s200/tinarob.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tina and Rob Panel</td></tr>
</tbody></table>"Crazy quilting is a less structured, more organic form of quilting."<br />
<br />
He was satisfied.<br />
<br />
<br />
I became bolder. I pulled out metallic threads, and started embroidering in earnest. <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii1gHa9Y0r1sPgGJ7oI0XMshgqilBWX6kQOHiiwRnnlTl1u1zc2ymvPXbJa36DQXj_BKSu2v6Zvl7poXn4ZfyjMbKKxKxDHsRrUg6pKb_CZVgw0s9bT83SJZw4Y-2UmiSp5ksYMExXLzYA/s1600/100_2208.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii1gHa9Y0r1sPgGJ7oI0XMshgqilBWX6kQOHiiwRnnlTl1u1zc2ymvPXbJa36DQXj_BKSu2v6Zvl7poXn4ZfyjMbKKxKxDHsRrUg6pKb_CZVgw0s9bT83SJZw4Y-2UmiSp5ksYMExXLzYA/s200/100_2208.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Badger Panel</td></tr>
</tbody></table>I also went to town with the fancy stitches, combining stitches to attain more interesting effects. I got out my beads.<br />
I found that it while it is possible to create a patch with which I am dissatisfied, it is impossible to overdo a patch. With the Badger and Tina panels I simply ran out of room to do more. Note: the associated Rob panel is actually my design, following the lines of the fabric from which I made the Tina panel.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEila_N_uLcdXPlMq02rs7RwJzUy3_FQGMoDRHoCqDybNLa1EEuVSeLhdtLKfmHq2fRETd6cAkqni3iIwbV-mhogn6jBS91ulBJLbhyGf36ymQONHMzu4xNHTlAsfGQ_NSr8KBWfyhmivcNh/s1600/UpRisingdetail1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEila_N_uLcdXPlMq02rs7RwJzUy3_FQGMoDRHoCqDybNLa1EEuVSeLhdtLKfmHq2fRETd6cAkqni3iIwbV-mhogn6jBS91ulBJLbhyGf36ymQONHMzu4xNHTlAsfGQ_NSr8KBWfyhmivcNh/s400/UpRisingdetail1.jpg" width="226" /></a> Eventually I realized that in order to know what size of patches I needed to design I would have to start actually assembling the ones I already had. I cut out the pattern pieces for the robe and stitched down the extant patches. I would also be able to add the interstitial patches (you can see some to the right of the Digger panel) needed to complete the design. <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4Kwzn0OAxcVTURmfyi5ShdC5Ya40ooQCG7mmhUrMVt88gUlEBNKfM_hja3VEF6_4xPgQGWFcMYtFva89X5LEWXT3I3MGPbcch8L40fpotvlc6GtsWuATpWKT1_adBZanu95Hs6Cl4sxrZ/s1600/100_2097.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4Kwzn0OAxcVTURmfyi5ShdC5Ya40ooQCG7mmhUrMVt88gUlEBNKfM_hja3VEF6_4xPgQGWFcMYtFva89X5LEWXT3I3MGPbcch8L40fpotvlc6GtsWuATpWKT1_adBZanu95Hs6Cl4sxrZ/s320/100_2097.JPG" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Right Side Robe Front</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibm4a07ZffSaNu2_At_-7E9fKk9zMw7v890_2DYvTrmCMxw0ORpBhewOcFMukmefqfS89iovyTezE5f-DpvhzWwhxj-a3ARyTFqrcA0bKXH1zb-aWNBWdivWggfCGoDyy9QG7slOe1ySYn/s1600/100_2098.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibm4a07ZffSaNu2_At_-7E9fKk9zMw7v890_2DYvTrmCMxw0ORpBhewOcFMukmefqfS89iovyTezE5f-DpvhzWwhxj-a3ARyTFqrcA0bKXH1zb-aWNBWdivWggfCGoDyy9QG7slOe1ySYn/s320/100_2098.JPG" style="cursor: move;" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Left Side Robe Front</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWUrYKOGvngKAkVzwlNaEQC8THPATltE1LLYfjujO85RCTj3HLuiD5qpG6H7__LzYZe0zXU8HtuQbTQiqf8K0IAbXYp6imEmrcq-ess5qyBu57keyzh09DrAtxYwizH0w-CObAf060mgnK/s1600/100_2210.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWUrYKOGvngKAkVzwlNaEQC8THPATltE1LLYfjujO85RCTj3HLuiD5qpG6H7__LzYZe0zXU8HtuQbTQiqf8K0IAbXYp6imEmrcq-ess5qyBu57keyzh09DrAtxYwizH0w-CObAf060mgnK/s200/100_2210.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fancy Stitches</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Since I took these photos I have added the panel next to the Badger, which will eventually have a platypus (I figure that since I am not traveling, I don't need to use the more compact method I described above). Here is a close up of the fancy stitches I used to integrate the blue with the red of the Pele panel.<br />
<br />
If Orren asked me to define crazy quilting again, I would change my response. Crazy quilting isn't quilting, really: it's painting with fabric; it is less about sewing and more about fiber art. It's "anything goes" using thread and yarn and fabric, beads and buttons. <br />
<br />
It's CRAZY!<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10936182856032020479noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115127303010313094.post-27444555907381413832010-09-11T04:17:00.000-07:002010-09-11T04:17:00.790-07:00Imagining Being in the Woods while Sitting in a Hotel<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7IzsH4ZhLQ_96jCE1mIsXRIyIscfe9HlBpF1s2OGbrU2VpqmonLH1-yoo9RIP9JkjFHWGEJ9hy0ywSH3KPCM7VeBvajg47fuT1oUr_fRmlwTsG4YTOaclCBqgq4p6Ap66Kz4Q9dwXDCI7/s1600/badger2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="113" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7IzsH4ZhLQ_96jCE1mIsXRIyIscfe9HlBpF1s2OGbrU2VpqmonLH1-yoo9RIP9JkjFHWGEJ9hy0ywSH3KPCM7VeBvajg47fuT1oUr_fRmlwTsG4YTOaclCBqgq4p6Ap66Kz4Q9dwXDCI7/s200/badger2.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>Before launching into this first blog, I shall set the stage for you:<br />
<br />
It is just after 8AM on the Wednesday after Labor Day. I am sitting with my English Springer Spaniels on the carpeted floor of my living room in the coal region of Pennsylvania with ABC news playing. My sixteen year old daughter is at the dining room table experiencing the miracles of modern schooling in her virtual algebra class with the PA Cyber Charter School. The windows are open, admitting a fine breeze whose coolness belies the 90 and 100 degree weather we endured last week out at Four Quarters Farm. I just got home yesterday: I am thinking about the daunting task of unloading my van and cleaning out my storage shed so that there is room for my vending equipment; I feel fit; I look tanned; I have a broken toe and a spectacular case of poison ivy.<br />
<br />
Thus endeth my working vacation. <br />
<br />
I was raised loving the outdoors. I am convinced that my late father was an incarnation of the Green Man: through him I overcame my childish squeamishness about dirt, worms, stinging caterpillars, swamps, mud, bugs and snakes. Seeing Saturn or Jupiter and its Galilean moons became much more important than being eaten alive by mosquitos or coming inside half-frozen because the universe was huge and endlessly fascinating, and my little problems could be solved with Bactine or Mom's hot chocolate. I learned that tramping through the dirt was a much more desirable activity than tramping through the malls that were becoming so popular during my youth, and that there was more value in finding interesting rocks than in finding a great sale at the department store. Dad was a birder: he was always looking up. Having been collecting rocks and minerals since I was 4, I was always looking down, and in areas where there were no rocks there were always other treasures like wildflowers and fungi. I just had to keep my eyes open.<br />
<br />
Most people dread thinking about their teenage years: I think of mine as idyllic. I was outside much of the time, reading, drawing, writing, dreaming. I read Tolkien and imagined that the nearby woods were occupied by Elves and Hobbits and wizards. <br />
<br />
After high school I moved to Philadelphia so that I could attend the University of Pennsylvania. I loved the city, but was always glad to go home to what at the time were the far western Philly suburbs and sit on the porch at night and see the stars. But over time I became disillusioned with my old haunts as new people moved in and the woods where we found the Pink Lady's Slipper orchids and stinging Saddleback Slug succumbed to the unfortunate tide of McMansions that swept over the landscape beginning in the mid-1980s. Woodland Dad and I had explored became PRIVATE PROPERTY with manicured lawns and driveways. I was no longer home.<br />
<br />
I figured it was time to "grow up".<br />
<br />
I spent the following years in places that were, at least in terms of development--if not population-- entirely too civilized. I became cosmopolitan: my burgeoning art business took me to science fiction conventions in hotels in various cities, and there I drew portraits of people as Klingons gazing out at the stars, and wizards in magical woodlands. In my Fantasy Portraits I drew people and their visions of nebulas or galaxies or mountains or trees or sweeping plains, but we sat in hotel air, getting hotel cough, eating hotel food and sleeping in hotel beds. <br />
<br />
In late 2005 my sister Hollie finally succeeded in getting me to accompany her to Four Quarters Farm <a href="http://www.4qf.org/">www.4qf.org</a> ostensibly to help her close out her campsite. I had, I felt, endured at least a year of her tales of the wonders of this place (ordinarily if someone says I "have" to see or do or try something I do exactly the opposite--must be that Badger thing) so I agreed to go out with her. <br />
<br />
The day dawned cool and crystal clear as we drove south on I-81. I love traveling early in the day, and we listened to our favorite music and sang along as the miles rolled by. By the time we reached Hagerstown, Maryland, the day had become warm: we had to shed several of our carefully-planned layers of clothing.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx90VEYdB_z1LO3ZYDQJjowPQlhp3eWb7cMuruwAlC7rUtpC2ZtNPubUc8rUiKWKsz-2013fj20lVBpA6mGy9NpNV_GN9kbNYpnT45KXN9CzcWWMo7jqKAzXYoLp7EWS_dg4BdiHPrzLNY/s1600/100_0267.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx90VEYdB_z1LO3ZYDQJjowPQlhp3eWb7cMuruwAlC7rUtpC2ZtNPubUc8rUiKWKsz-2013fj20lVBpA6mGy9NpNV_GN9kbNYpnT45KXN9CzcWWMo7jqKAzXYoLp7EWS_dg4BdiHPrzLNY/s200/100_0267.JPG" width="113" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View From the Labyrinth</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Four Quarters lies off of I-68 (conveniently, it happens, at exit 68). To reach the farm, we traversed a number of country roads over hill and dale, and by the time we reached the dirt and gravel driveway I was absolutely certain that I would never--even with GPS-- find the place again (I later learned that GPS in fact does NOT get you all the way there). As we drove up to the farmhouse, I began to understand Hollie's attraction to the place: I experienced that overwhelming feeling that I had finally arrived home, which only increased as we passed the labyrinth, stone circle, vendors' meadow, kitchen and picnic tables, and entered the campground proper. By the time we reached Hollie's campsite, I was hooked.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_GpKxAqIW3fBrmZJS4NzPiu4CLeGdo3CF3SWjIyzgwQwNPHusBcAlzjIl6T2o8WLFjc4hTI8BqWcMNxSJoIoBbS58BmupFxUnjOdWxB5UiDb4fqKiVNwZNOQ6WJQz0Vtz-QltF9UrChoJ/s1600/100_2062.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_GpKxAqIW3fBrmZJS4NzPiu4CLeGdo3CF3SWjIyzgwQwNPHusBcAlzjIl6T2o8WLFjc4hTI8BqWcMNxSJoIoBbS58BmupFxUnjOdWxB5UiDb4fqKiVNwZNOQ6WJQz0Vtz-QltF9UrChoJ/s200/100_2062.JPG" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Mother Stone</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Perhaps in a future blog I will discuss the happenings of that weekend, the people I met and the things we did, but that's not really the thrust of this story. Suddenly I was Outside again, in the deep woods, in a place that was decidedly wild, where the stars were not dimmed by street lights and members lived in tents rather than McMansions--although some of the campsite setups were decidedly palatial!<br />
<br />
I became a promoting member of Four Quarters; I got myself an EZ Up; I became an Outdoor Vendor. In the intervening years my business has undergone a remarkable transformation: instead of being mostly done in hotels it is now mostly conducted outdoors. The number of portraits I have done has dwindled and I often call them Spiritual Path Portraits now. I have instead a series of paintings that cover many spiritual subjects <a href="http://badgersoph.deviantart.com/">http://badgersoph.deviantart.com</a>. I have been rained on, subjected to wild wind, and been sent diving for cover in thunderstorms. I have had relationships come and go. I have camped in brutal heat and teeth-chattering cold. I have walked the creek bed and seen the Great Blue Heron; I have paddled around in the swimming hole and done battle with the Nibbly Fish and yellow jackets; I have picked out the songs of the owls late at night and loved every moment of it. <br />
<br />
I have put down roots in this place. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcaMF2UNL30GNcLBhYqRa0-Xbe3yKcJP809LRqJpprzoVmK0LNL4lS1aL6bP7jRppTTPSe_K8KFcr-GDMQjPEWPlnm17xa-oC8gzxlc1-jewqWM4cGOGOJBCHfT6B71oVX6suefcyOc9tg/s1600/100_2202.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcaMF2UNL30GNcLBhYqRa0-Xbe3yKcJP809LRqJpprzoVmK0LNL4lS1aL6bP7jRppTTPSe_K8KFcr-GDMQjPEWPlnm17xa-oC8gzxlc1-jewqWM4cGOGOJBCHfT6B71oVX6suefcyOc9tg/s640/100_2202.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Panoramic view of the Stone Circle at Four Quarters Farm</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHFv1-a_grxhdH4OX4XVTp_zsisTWmxLzglCpPZI___4YpWgl5ZknrVKVa0pTJEy4XnK4CVTpQoPdGX4CMUh3e951-s_XW311Ghr7cISre1qcYqDl5BfAaZTDM8eqAdzC0SK1TSeZE_5zD/s1600/soph2010.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHFv1-a_grxhdH4OX4XVTp_zsisTWmxLzglCpPZI___4YpWgl5ZknrVKVa0pTJEy4XnK4CVTpQoPdGX4CMUh3e951-s_XW311Ghr7cISre1qcYqDl5BfAaZTDM8eqAdzC0SK1TSeZE_5zD/s320/soph2010.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Author<br />
Photo by Pete Muench</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Labor Day weekend is reserved for Stones Rising, a festival in which the community (i.e., those who show up; you don't have to be a member to participate) gathers to pull and raise megaliths in a tradition that will eventually produce a circle of standing stones. My visceral description of this activity goes something like this: "It is the coolest damned thing you will ever do! Even when you don't like working in groups you will find yourself working in one way or another! I would rather cut off a limb than miss this event!" More specifically, people at Four Quarters have, over the years, succeeded in pulling and erecting over 40 stones, some tilting the scale at over 14,000 pounds. The entire event is centered on community, but before you balk at attending the definition of "community" here is fluid, and includes all who show up. Newcomers are treated as much like family as five-year members like myself or those who have been there since the beginning. And there you are, pulling or drumming or cooking or bringing water to the workers or witnessing or (like me) directing traffic--you find your focus shift from the noisy outside world to the core of who you are. This is, as the cliche goes, "what it's all about."<br />
<br />
On my way home from Four Quarters yesterday, I talked to my very good friend Beth, who with my other very good friend Beth had gone to Dragon Con in Atlanta. She described to me the guest panels, the autographs, the photo ops with guests, the myriad people and activities, the shopping, the food, the fun...and I was really happy that she had had such a good time. I don't look down on the convention scene, but I also realized that I was grateful to have spent the same time period in the woods helping to pull and raise two megaliths, taking part in ceremony, swimming in the swimming hole, socializing at the Coffee Dragon's, or just sitting out in front of my booth at night listening to the drum circle, looking up at the stars and talking with anyone who happened by over a bottle of mead.<br />
<br />
Last weekend, a friend remarked to me that she knew people who tried to attune their spirituality while sitting in hotel rooms imagining being in the woods. As I wrote this blog I realized that, for a long time, I too--along with many of my customers--had been doing the same thing. I sat in hotels drawing the woods and mountains and starfields of which my customers dreamed. I sat in my studio, drawing the forest.<br />
<br />
Now things are different: I walk the woods, and when I am not there, I carry them in my heart.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10936182856032020479noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115127303010313094.post-41189152070279902832010-09-10T15:47:00.000-07:002010-09-11T04:15:27.312-07:00There is Treasure Everywhere<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjydw7nm8dL-PhlfUW1Z_PL2AQFKst85UhXda5qW-yt2b10wBdpLCG5qT3x18rNYw8Kgy8zSnm98_-Hp2961hu-voelEVOc1rNsqI9Dt8W2oZ9ODJQfaR8CSt6bZvCvO4x_yAsGah3MCNID/s1600/100_1996.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjydw7nm8dL-PhlfUW1Z_PL2AQFKst85UhXda5qW-yt2b10wBdpLCG5qT3x18rNYw8Kgy8zSnm98_-Hp2961hu-voelEVOc1rNsqI9Dt8W2oZ9ODJQfaR8CSt6bZvCvO4x_yAsGah3MCNID/s400/100_1996.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sideling Hill Creek, downstream from Hemlock Hole</td></tr>
</tbody></table>We spend a lot of time looking out, up, or straight ahead. When we're driving we (hopefully) look at the road and the other vehicles around us; we look up at the clouds to see if it's going to rain; we look out at the landscape, at mountains or lakes or vast sweeping plains, perhaps searching for a landmark, perhaps simply enjoying the view.<br />
<br />
Without a doubt, looking up is what makes folks who are geologically inclined among the worst drivers on the road, providing stiff competition for the people who send and receive text messages while driving. Example: Me: "Look at that road cut!" My daughter: "LOOK AT THE ROAD!!!" <br />
<br />
I can see it now: the straight-laced state trooper peers at me through his mirrored dark glasses. "Ma'am, can I see your license and registration? No, you weren't going over the limit, but high-speed stratigraphy has been outlawed in this state. You'll appreciate that outcrop better if you're standing still."<br />
<br />
As I mentioned in my previous blog, my passion for rockhounding led me to look down, which led in turn to my appreciation for fungi and wildflowers. My habit of looking down is also, relatively speaking, safer for myself and those around me: I tend to not step on bees or other interesting insects and, despite what you may think, I manage to avoid MOST of the poison ivy that adorns the woods of south-central Pennsylvania. <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf2kg6bZLbP9YAfmL9RQFTTalWBRSvQ22FQHk3ajSEu0XhBsLFUcp4MLBMKdPreb_z68tNXmjz3_sBNpY_i3HreUSQRwka8SWevjV6J1t2SjeiqtsL7l0ly78yF_VWOrkXwDBOJFSsyQEj/s1600/hemlockhole3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf2kg6bZLbP9YAfmL9RQFTTalWBRSvQ22FQHk3ajSEu0XhBsLFUcp4MLBMKdPreb_z68tNXmjz3_sBNpY_i3HreUSQRwka8SWevjV6J1t2SjeiqtsL7l0ly78yF_VWOrkXwDBOJFSsyQEj/s320/hemlockhole3.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mist on Hemlock Hole<br />
Late August <br />
2009</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Sideling Hill Creek <a href="http://www.sidelinghillwatershed.org/wprofile.html">http://www.sidelinghillwatershed.org/wprofile.html</a> runs through Four Quarters Farm. <a href="http://www.4qf.org/">www.4qf.org</a> Like much of the landscape at Four Quarters, the creek is wildly beautiful, running past high cliffs formed from steeply tilted beds of "old red" Upper Devonian Catskill Formation sandstones.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG0thhx03Vb-_-36pO9BrlUrr29zvPD1F9s9-O5YlLb7tUGlbZ6YHzNFLsoqnQeBXSFVLvTma7kf_kCgHkE3gNhHkMgPLAffIPiIju_dnnedZTEMYMU7jIFw_DGYLH17d5YsV7mxQFnXmF/s1600/100_1627.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="111" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG0thhx03Vb-_-36pO9BrlUrr29zvPD1F9s9-O5YlLb7tUGlbZ6YHzNFLsoqnQeBXSFVLvTma7kf_kCgHkE3gNhHkMgPLAffIPiIju_dnnedZTEMYMU7jIFw_DGYLH17d5YsV7mxQFnXmF/s200/100_1627.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tourists! <br />
Boaters at Hemlock Hole<br />
During Reconstruction of the Steps <br />
in April 2010</td></tr>
</tbody></table>In the spring, the currents are brisk (spring floods in Sideling Hill Creek are legendary). For most of the season, campers cool off in the sublimely clear waters of two major swimming holes and a number of smaller pools, but about the middle of August the water level starts to drop, limiting the number of places that one can (or would want to) swim. This year the water level began dropping markedly in July; by mid-August long stretches of the creek bed became so dry as to be able to serve as a path.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMJLEHAsL2XKoyLkhCy4VAMjUcmb3HOgeM_5j-DfSunUx9qg8yjH0bVdfqsgCzpGcWqWjKpSeUCqrCUzoHgqsvR1kEq9FU270ZjPoFG81YgaqFWEvLlSHONLHN421AWsoK61nbOAAiASgE/s1600/100_2001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMJLEHAsL2XKoyLkhCy4VAMjUcmb3HOgeM_5j-DfSunUx9qg8yjH0bVdfqsgCzpGcWqWjKpSeUCqrCUzoHgqsvR1kEq9FU270ZjPoFG81YgaqFWEvLlSHONLHN421AWsoK61nbOAAiASgE/s200/100_2001.JPG" width="113" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
Looking Downstream<br />
from the Hemlock Hole. <br />
Taken from the Middle <br />
of Sideling Hill Creek <br />
in August 2010</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
Previously I had only walked the creek via a trail running from the camp to the farmhouse. I began a series of explorations, either alone or accompanied by anyone who was inclined to tag along, including photographers, longtime members, and even newcomers.<br />
<br />
According to John Harper, who wrote the chapter on the Devonian in <i>The Geology of Pennsylvania, </i>Sideling Hill Creek and its predecessor streams have been cutting through Sideling Hill and associated landforms for about 290 million years. To put this into perspective, the events that raised the Appalachian Mountains occurred about 300 million years ago--a mere 10 million years before. That sounds like a lot but in the context of the 4.5 billion year history of our planet, it's not. Really. In fact, it means that the creek was probably already there when the continent-continent collision that produced the southern Appalachians took place, and that the water started cutting into the rock pretty much as soon as the rock started rising. <i>Note: the first appearance of Homo sapiens sapiens is a by comparison only 195,000 years ago. Sideling Hill Creek is REALLY old. Okay, not as old as the Susquehanna, but pretty damned old.</i><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFX52g7tTS3MZ93pL87jMKQ_zU-9c_MVO8bqzVbRCryXEiYK9ZwOrtVXtSakg4rdjUIUmsd8eA9lWecvAIWQlvOX4EeKI_KqMoyE66iRG-2rAdFm_p7e0EjWImupZhATXkJC_PlQj26G3Q/s1600/100_0275.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFX52g7tTS3MZ93pL87jMKQ_zU-9c_MVO8bqzVbRCryXEiYK9ZwOrtVXtSakg4rdjUIUmsd8eA9lWecvAIWQlvOX4EeKI_KqMoyE66iRG-2rAdFm_p7e0EjWImupZhATXkJC_PlQj26G3Q/s320/100_0275.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Undercut Sedimentary Bed, Sideling Hill Creek<br />
August 2009</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
Walking downstream the cliffs, layered in pinkish brick red and pale green, rise high to your left. Certain beds seem to attract moss and lichen; others do not. Some beds are shot through with quartz veins; others have evidence of fossils. The stream's meandering power is strongly evident as well: less resistant beds have been cut deep back into the hillside, and you may find flood debris lodged in tree branches 7 feet off the ground. <br />
<br />
Last summer I became fascinated by how Sideling Hill Creek seemed to cross cut some of the rock beds; this summer I was able to make more detailed observations of the bedrock that ordinarily lies underwater. Some of this rock is very dark, seems much more resistant to erosion than other layers of the formation, and is pocked with craters, of which a number have worn straight through to become holes. In the picture below you will observe (especially at the left) the layers of rock plunging into the ground. I am still working out in my head how the creek came to be cutting across these beds instead of following them.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5pYiMInWwKRaL3BKtL3M-eVuhIVD21AaNSmC3VypHnLfw0p_rvNemFPcKFkv6wHAGH7OkqVTHhRA1YGN3WUXQPVchy9ns8uyV6dzAdRgMRVRlM1nVWrDIINz0kmhySSqreiOdYBdanxeB/s1600/100_2076.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="163" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5pYiMInWwKRaL3BKtL3M-eVuhIVD21AaNSmC3VypHnLfw0p_rvNemFPcKFkv6wHAGH7OkqVTHhRA1YGN3WUXQPVchy9ns8uyV6dzAdRgMRVRlM1nVWrDIINz0kmhySSqreiOdYBdanxeB/s640/100_2076.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Panoramic View of Quartz Arenite Beds in Sideling Hill Creek<br />
August 2010</td></tr>
</tbody></table>These stones had already gotten my attention: holed stones are considered sacred in many spiritual traditions, and over the years I have amassed quite a collection from a number of locations. In my time at Four Quarters I had collected a number of these rocks further upstream, but had puzzled over their origin: the rock was very hard and well-integrated like a quartzite, but quartzite was not a part of this sedimentary sequence. I posited that the parent rock had originally been a beach or lagoon bottom, and the holes belonged to ancient burrowing creatures, but how this worked into a quartzite I didn't know. <br />
<br />
During our conversation John Harper filled the gap for me, identifying this rock as <i>quartz arenite</i>, an extremely well cemented sandstone, and the fossil worm holes as <i>Skolithos</i>. Not to worry: knowing their name does not in any way diminish my fascination with them. <br />
<br />
Remember, when you're looking down, rocks are not the only thing you'll see:<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieh3i30qq_2zAs9BUxyfLlYhqu0jFX_n-5LPSAZROdduD_JnmyNeDOdP9gSxvk7_PDukP-0LcouV_FrnxPms2cRrBeSl7CHKjbES1_Q2Xr37yc8rFQ2Q6d0gEHS8xFObE2nk3pGOek50iV/s1600/100_2178.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieh3i30qq_2zAs9BUxyfLlYhqu0jFX_n-5LPSAZROdduD_JnmyNeDOdP9gSxvk7_PDukP-0LcouV_FrnxPms2cRrBeSl7CHKjbES1_Q2Xr37yc8rFQ2Q6d0gEHS8xFObE2nk3pGOek50iV/s320/100_2178.JPG" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Red-spotted Purple<br />
<i>Limenitis arthemis astyanax</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>This past week was the Week of the Voguing Butterflies. Everytime I turned around there was a butterfly in front of me, wings outspread as if to say, "I'm ready for my close up!"<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm9J7fP-FgD1oPBJ6d6HDyzRVC7-i8odwXrAYb5EyxmvdrcloPTnjOb5ERu9iLVSOkHP0icocDklqcLfhhSAWtFoi9lvDIxYKpvRDV3IRgdQJRhIT8u65YxY4rLl4clT51l9LzmDtwaqaX/s1600/butterfly1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm9J7fP-FgD1oPBJ6d6HDyzRVC7-i8odwXrAYb5EyxmvdrcloPTnjOb5ERu9iLVSOkHP0icocDklqcLfhhSAWtFoi9lvDIxYKpvRDV3IRgdQJRhIT8u65YxY4rLl4clT51l9LzmDtwaqaX/s320/butterfly1.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Red Admiral Butterfly<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>Unsurprisingly there is also a fair amount of debris from floods on the numerous islands in the middle of the creek bed. I found cobbles deposited in layers, their size a testament to the fury with which Sideling Hill Creek has flooded in the past. I ran across the remains of campsites that had been carried off, either in the spring floods, during a hurricane or summertime flash flood. <br />
<br />
And that is--I think--how Ganesh came to me.<br />
<br />
Sometimes, when the weather is especially fine, I like to go on walkabout before I head out from the Farm, to take pictures and--wait for it--look for rocks. On this particular occasion, armed with camera, tripod, and walking stick I set off down the path past the Fox Altar. I found a worn trail down to the creek bed, and spent the next hour wandering idly taking pictures of places I could not have reached earlier this spring. <br />
<br />
I was about to turn back when something oddly un-rocklike caught my eye. Before me lay an oxidized metal plaque: an elephant-headed god superimposed on the symbol for the sacred sound OM. I don't follow the Hindu gods, but I know one when I see one, and this was Ganesh, who is god of good fortune, of teachers and learning. It is from his trunk that the OM emanates.<br />
<br />
I could not believe my eyes. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhofR-sF7BjYkVC7fZMRdKD12TYuWx3BhvylR02UdCzti04DM7dv1Ysj3vC8YuJF6CqaiTW2IS7p9uKV1Z_Z_9l733iPXD9qbR8tmPOobk6cbP8kR1VweQ2swgOPsDjma-lEFzMHlPMlKHJ/s1600/100_2172.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhofR-sF7BjYkVC7fZMRdKD12TYuWx3BhvylR02UdCzti04DM7dv1Ysj3vC8YuJF6CqaiTW2IS7p9uKV1Z_Z_9l733iPXD9qbR8tmPOobk6cbP8kR1VweQ2swgOPsDjma-lEFzMHlPMlKHJ/s320/100_2172.JPG" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Ganesh Plaque<br />
Above the Arch<br />
Altar of Things Found</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Reaction has been universal: finding Ganesh in this fashion is considered to be extremely good luck. I took him home and cleaned him up, then brought him back to hang over the altar at the entrance to my campsite.<br />
<br />
SO...<br />
<br />
I hiked the creek bed trying to find understanding,<br />
<br />
find rocks,<br />
<br />
take pictures,<br />
<br />
and got the spiritual pot of gold.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
There is treasure everywhere. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10936182856032020479noreply@blogger.com2