Been reading a lot of HBR recently

This is actually one of the better articles I've ever read on how to encourage creativity and spark. Of course, your mileage may vary, but rarely is there ever an article that both gives specific, easily-achieved actions as well as room for personal interpretation. I wish it were a little longer and contained a bit more science or explanations as to why this works for the author, but oh well.

Here is the exercise/thought-process:

http://blogs.hbr.org/schwartz/2011/11/how-to-think-creatively.html

Is this similar to what you do, creative folks? Or does something different work better for you? I find when I can get into the rhythm (or "wave" as he calls it), I am feeling my most satisfied creatively. More often than not, life interrupts though.

Rule: Always get out of bed and write that thought down. You know the one. The brilliant one.

Cranking it out

I've decided that once I get an idea for a blog post, I should just type it up and push it out like I'm aggressive mom-to-be past the due date and I just want it all to be over (angry comments soon?).

Rule: If you are writing something - anything - online and you want it to be useful, one of the most basic things you can do is include the date. Yes, there was an article without a date and it annoyed me so much that I had to write a rule about it. There was also the time when I got excited about a band coming into my town... two years ago. Well that would be awesome if I had a frickin' TARDIS, but I DON'T! (ooh, watch my page hits increase now)

See here's the deal: you are on the internet. Ideas are flying around all the time. There are all sorts of cross-references. New technology/software comes out. Things are moving so fast, that yes, something you posted two months ago could become mildly irrelevant (or really irrelevant). I'm sorry if that scares you; that's what it means to be on the internet. But guess what! What's helpful to your readership (and folks using search engines) is a DATE! If I look up the top 10 iPhone photo applications, I want to know they're the top 10 RIGHT NOW. Not the top 10 applications that are now seen as feature-poor, sad pandas.

You think you can hide the irrelevance by hiding the date? Nope. What if somebody wants to give a "history of iPhone photo applications?" Your easily-searched site without a date could easily have been a good reference point, but nope, no date, so you've eliminated THAT use for your page too.

Please. Please, just include a date with your postings, folks. It doesn't hurt anything, and adds so much value to the reader. Even if they can't appreciate it consciously/immediately, they will once they look for it.

Also in other news, I've had a bout of inspired, productivity/self-improvement fever. In this regard, Ze Frank is still relevant even from 2006 (and just pretty damn amusing):



Psst... this is another example where including the date is good. If you're still relevant years later, it can only be impressive to see the date.

I have been wandering around amazed

That is what I have been doing this whole time instead of blogging. There's a ton to be amazed at out there.

Here are some of them:
- Everything being really dark during a rain shower except the neon green new leaves
- How long people are willing to wait in line for free cone day at Ben and Jerry's
- How quickly the weather can turn
- This amazing strainer/steamer thing. What an example of great design.

More wandering to come, but I promise more posts too. I need to feed my instagram to this blog. I'm too lazy to Google it. Someone wanna tell me an easy way to do it?

Rule: If you're going to walk slowly, walk slowly in order to observe the world around you. Otherwise, get outta my way!

Outta my way, peas! Photo credit: Dreamfarm website

This is not an amazing poem.

I am gearing myself up for my birthday, for which I am going to attempt to make a craaaaazy cake. (It's probably not that crazy, I'm just new to baking) Emboldened by assisting my boyfriend in making croissants, I feel ready for challenges!

So here is my anthem for taking this project on.
---

If you're having crumb problems, I feel bad for you son, I got 99 problems but a cake ain't one.

I got fat contol on silpat patrol
Foes that wanna make sure my oven's closed
Cake critics they say she's "Yolks, sugar, fold"
I'm from the kitchen, stupid, what type of recipes are those
If you grew up with holes in ya fondant rolled
You'd be celebrating the minute you was havin' dough
I'm like cut critics you can kiss my donut hole
If you don't like my pastries you can eat a dinner roll
I got beef with potatoes if i don't cook they cold
They make a good meal, but they're not desserts SO
Food blogs try and use my bundt pan
So readers can give 'em more hits for comments, suckers
I don't know why you're not a fan,
Or understand the tastebuds that Yellow Thunder has
I'm from easy bake to croissants, bitches I ain't dumb
I got 99 problems but a cake ain't one
Hit me

99 problems but the cake aint one
If you're havin' crumb problems, I feel bad for you son
I got 99 problems but a cake ain't one
Hit me

And here is the cake that I am hoping to make (it has 15 egg yolks! holy balls!):


Photo credit and recipe:
http://cafechocolada.blogspot.com/2011/01/bohemian-cake.html

Rule: Don't make two rules in one day. Shit.

Another amazing poem

(Reprinted WITHOUT permission... I hope I don't get sued one of these days)

Antilamentation

by Dorianne Laux

Regret nothing. Not the cruel novels you read
to the end just to find out who killed the cook, not
the insipid movies that made you cry in the dark,
in spite of your intelligence, your sophistication, not
the lover you left quivering in a hotel parking lot,
the one you beat to the punch line, the door or the one
who left you in your red dress and shoes, the ones
that crimped your toes, don't regret those.
Not the nights you called god names and cursed
your mother, sunk like a dog in the living room couch,
chewing your nails and crushed by loneliness.
You were meant to inhale those smoky nights
over a bottle of flat beer, to sweep stuck onion rings
across the dirty restaurant floor, to wear the frayed
coat with its loose buttons, its pockets full of struck matches.
You've walked those streets a thousand times and still
you end up here. Regret none of it, not one
of the wasted days you wanted to know nothing,
when the lights from the carnival rides
were the only stars you believed in, loving them
for their uselessness, not wanting to be saved.
You've traveled this far on the back of every mistake,
ridden in dark-eyed and morose but calm as a house
after the TV set has been pitched out the window.
Harmless as a broken ax. Emptied of expectation.
Relax. Don't bother remembering any of it. Let's stop here,
under the lit sign on the corner, and watch all the people walk by.

"Antilamentation" by Dorianne Laux, from The Book of Men. © W. W. Norton & Company, 2011.


Rule: Okay, this isn't really a rule, but I'm getting my daily dose of poetry from "The Writer's Almanac," which is the e-newsletter from Garrison Keillor, of "A Prairie Home Companion" fame. I highly recommend subscribing to it, to get more reading of awesome stuff into your life. Then again, you might be reading that week's post from me. Oh well. My favorite lines are "You were meant to inhale those smoky nights / over a bottle of flat beer, to sweep stuck onion rings / across the dirty restaurant floor, to wear the frayed / coat with its loose buttons, its pockets full of struck matches."

Things that make my brain happy

Here is my weekend!

Went to a Boilermakers Jazz Band show and danced the night away...


Bought some beautiful seckel pears at the farmers' market...


And made a pillow box and botanical tag for my friend's birthday present!


It was super nice to exercise my brains and my fingers.


Though when I made the cap for the acorn, the boy had no clue what was going on and was trying to guess what it was. "Sausage!" he yelled. "LOG!"


He didn't really link it at all with the oak leaf.


Oh well.

Rule: Take your brain out on a date. You will feel good about it.

Words are lovely

Let's read someone who says it better than I do:

(Reprinted WITHOUT permission)

Perhaps the World Ends Here

by Joy Harjo

The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what,
we must eat to live.
The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the
table so it has been since creation, and it will go on.
We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe
at the corners. They scrape their knees under it.
It is here that children are given instructions on what
it means to be human. We make men at it,
we make women.
At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts
of lovers.
Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms
around our children. They laugh with us at our poor
falling-down selves and as we put ourselves back
together once again at the table.
This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella
in the sun.
Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place
to hide in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate
the terrible victory.
We have given birth on this table, and have prepared
our parents for burial here.
At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow.
We pray of suffering and remorse.
We give thanks.
Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table,
while we are laughing and crying,
eating of the last sweet bite.

"Perhaps the World Ends Here" by Joy Harjo, from Reinventing the Enemy's Language. © W.W. Norton and Co., 1998.

Rule: Think of what the dining table/space means to you. Post comments. Also, when it is continually 90 degrees F and muggy as all getout, PICK UP YOUR DOG DOOKS. Oh the humanity. (Doo-manity)

Slurpy times but not those slurpy times.

So, yeah. This is me. "What an unflattering photo!" You might think. And yeah, it's pretty horrendous. But I don't care. Because I'm eating a mango.

I think that instead of everybody reading Michael Pollan (I mean... do read Michael Pollan and Wendell Berry and all those fun people) and having those people try to really slow down to eat, all people - allergic ones aside - should be given a mango and a knife. And maybe a sink or a tub or something.

Do you ever look at children, or even animals eating fruit and get a little bit envious? They way they just don't care, they love the food so much they kinda rub it on their heads or shove their faces into it? They are seriously relishing, reveling, and rioting in their food. We don't really do that anymore as adults in such a privileged country. Except when we eat mangoes.

You see, my friends, there is not a very good way of efficiently chopping up a mango. Mango pitters are just stupid; you really need to feel out the tasty portions near the pit with your teeth anyway or else you get some bitter, fiberous crap that makes you angry and gets stuck in your gums. The best way I know of to eat a mango is to slice off lobes from all four sides, then slicing a tic-tac-toe board into the fleshy side not quite to the skin. You then push at the center of the lobe from the other side, making it go from concave to convex, and the squares of mango extend and present themselves for eating.

Generally, it's easiest to eat this part with two hands. You can just nimbly grab the cubes with your teeth and pull them from the outer skin and you get delicious, sweet mango. Peeling with a vegetable peeler is okay, but you have to peel it about a thousand times over because there is a visually imperceptible layer under the skin that is still bitter, but looks like the tasty mango goodness. After eating all four lobes, you have a piece of mango that's shaped like a long shoebox. You look at it longingly, knowing the pit isn't really that big, and there's all that tasty mango left. Slicing it would be time-consuming. So, you pick it up with both hands, and just start gnawing at it, letting the tender parts tear gently from the pit and slide into your mouth. By this point, you should have mango on your cheeks, juice running from your palms to your elbows, and maybe a tiny fleck of mango on your nose.

You cannot ignore the mango at this point. Eating a mango is an attention-consuming, sense-engulfing, golden-juice-dripping process. You need to devote all of your concentration to eat this succulent thing. You can't check Facebook while eating it, unless you want your keyboard to be a sticky ant-incinerator (my laptop gets very hot). You need to be vigilant or the naked mango will go shooting from your slippery hands. Speaking of hands, eating a mango takes both of them. It takes a bit of time. It creates a great amount of enjoyment: the creamy, floral aroma; the clean, sweet taste with a hint of grass; the happy-colored fruit; the sheer hedonistic pleasure of taking food into your bare hands and putting it straight to your face. How can anyone be oblivious to a food that looks like sunshine and gets all over your upper body in the process?

More brazen than peaches, but with a similar satisfying, juicy ripeness, and less organized and chaste than an orange, mangoes are the symbol of happy, unabashed, carnal nature. A mango is that girl whose slept with everybody, but genuinely and consummately loved each of her companions. She's never been the prettiest or the most proper, but has always been the most fun. She forgets her purse everywhere, but all it has in it is lipstick, firecrackers, and cab fare. However, she remembers everybody's name, and never fails to pick flowers for every lonely person. The mango is tender, bright, hefty, and sensual.

Thanks, mangoes, for helping us understand the slow food movement.

Rule: Eat mangoes only with your hands and a knife. Also, throw out your mango-pitter if you have one. They're so silly.

Brains spill out

Rule: Make time for yourself and the things you value.

Remember that long list of stuff to do?

So far I have only done:
- buy an effing comforter and duvet cover (just bought a comforter that was attractive)
- find hippie deodorant that works well (actually just decided I'm not hippie enough for hippie deodorant and instead bought some awesome Nivea deodorant on the internet)
- save more money (just a little, but hooray!)
- read more

Which, I mean, crossing stuff off the list is cool, but this is not a lot compared to the original list. My comforter effing rocks though, especially in the chilly weather we're having. Anyway, what I'm trying to say is that I really don't have a post for you guys, so I'm going to dig up some old poetry and post it here as a placeholder. It's NaNoWriMo and Movember, y'all, and while I hate one and love the other, I don't have the temerity or hormones to do either (I'll let you guess which is a requirement of which). But maybe you'll see some better attempts at writing.

So I guess my rule really is:

Rule: Gee, Sandy should've planned ahead for this week, huh? Instead of pigging out on Kouign Amann and having crazy butter-induced dreams.

Anyway, at least this poem is fall-themed.

How I wanted to lecture my daughter

Don’t you feel kind of bad for them?
The saplings, so smooth and round and skinny
twigtips – outstretched - to feel - the sun?
Any old breeze can brush by
and bruise their ego, their limbs
trembling with rage and passion to grow upward
like they’re ready to get
outta this town.
Older trees creak – whisper – hushhh
in the night while the
saplings twist – breathe – ahhhh
so pliable. And then

The fall comes.

The chlorophyll withdraws.
Stately maples blush while the juveniles
burn so hot in the autumn light they
are on fire – they are on fire – they
are on fire – they
have so few of those leaves to drop,
you can see between each one
but they toss them on the ground until

nakedness.

A melancholy pool of red at their feet. And
later, when the ice comes,
I wonder:
Do they regret?

On things. Stuff. Objects.

Sorry about the missing post last week, 1.5 posts this week to make up. Going back to stories + objects, Slate recently put out an article featuring a project by Joshua Glenn and Rob Walker to pair writers up with random things and write stories about them (sound familiar to a previous blog post?). They also have issued a challenge to readers to create a story about a BBQ Sauce brush with holder that will be sold on eBay, the cash moneys going to the author.

Honestly, thinking about doing it. Will post story if I do.

Those who want to get in on it:

From Slate: You'll write a short story (500 words or fewer) in which this object plays an important role. (Please do not make reference to the fact that the object is being sold on eBay, and do not mention the penny that appears in the photo for scale—the story's plot should be independent of the project's context.) The stories must be e-mailed to slatesignificantobjects@gmail.com by Oct. 16 at 5 p.m. Please also tell us your full name and the city and state you're writing from. All submissions may be quoted—and attributed to their author—in a follow-up article on Slate announcing the winning entry.

Rule: Seriously consider this contest, and post thoughts in the comments. I'm interested to see what people come up with.

The Slate bit

The Significant Objects Project

To do list.

It's list time.

Things that just overwhelmed me recently:

- bought a ring from a vintage store. will imbue with meaning. somehow.
- get better at dancing
- get back out to Eastern Market before it gets cold
- get better at writing
- design my Halloween costume of Cthulu
- respond thoughtfully to others' emails (sorry, you know who you are!)
- be a good listener
- post a draft blog post I've been saving for a while
- attend more cultural/art events in the city (Arts on Foot, Crafty Bastards, Pilobolus, augh!)
- visit all the museums that are free
- go camping/cook stuff outdoors
- figure out if being in a relationship with no real plan is ok
- find hippie deodorant that works well (trying this out)
- participate more actively in my community-supported agriculture program
- travel more
- save more money (not sure how I will make this and previous work together)
- learn to cook better
- take more photos
- wear that scarf my boyfriend bought me
- become more fit
- dress like a French lady
- read more
- listen to more TED talks
- paint some ceramic
- use my ampersand printers blocks
- decorate my house like a European cafe
- reinvent wheel
- buy an effing comforter and duvet cover
- buy a pocketwatch
- decide what i want to do with life??
- start an etsy store?
- question marks
- try more restaurants
- move where my friends are/make my friends move where i am
- become better at making conversation
- be as smart as i was in high school
- go to the club with DVS and dance till i drop

I have no idea when I will have time to do all of these things.

Rule: Occasionally smack yourself in the face with all of your current goals. It will help you re-prioritize. Then figure out concrete ways to take the first step in achieving these goals. Any helpful tips welcome.

Porn for Wendell Berry

This is what I got in my inbox over the weekend. I feel like this might make Mr. Berry quite aroused.


Vegetable Love

by Barbara Crooker

Feel a tomato, heft its weight in your palm,
think of buttocks, breasts, this plump pulp.
And carrots, mud clinging to the root,
gold mined from the earth's tight purse.
And asparagus, that push their heads up,
rise to meet the returning sun,
and zucchini, green torpedoes
lurking in the Sargasso depths
of their raspy stalks and scratchy leaves.
And peppers, thick walls of cool jade, a green hush.
Secret caves. Sanctuary.
And beets, the dark blood of the earth.
And all the lettuces: bibb, flame, oak leaf, butter-
crunch, black-seeded Simpson, chicory, cos.
Elizabethan ruffs, crisp verbiage.
And spinach, the dark green
of northern forests, savoyed, ruffled,
hidden folds and clefts.
And basil, sweet basil, nuzzled
by fumbling bees drunk on the sun.
And cucumbers, crisp, cool white ice
in the heart of August, month of fire.
And peas in their delicate slippers,
little green boats, a string of beads,
repeating, repeating.
And sunflowers, nodding at night,
then rising to shout hallelujah! at noon.

All over the garden, the whisper of leaves
passing secrets and gossip, making assignations.
All of the vegetables bask in the sun,
languorous as lizards.
Quick, before the frost puts out
its green light, praise these vegetables,
earth's voluptuaries,
praise what comes from the dirt.

"Vegetable Love" by Barbara Crooker, from Radiance. © Word Press, 2005. Reprinted without permission.

Rule: Do these things. And then film yourself eating the vegetables. Then send copies to me.

Legacies

I was looking at vintage rings on etsy (no I was not leaving hints for my boyfriend), and admiring the craftsmanship and beauty of yesteryear. Today, lots of our jewelry is described as "architectural," "modern," and "sleek," where before they just wanted flowers made out of gems on their hands.



From Etsy, seller thesecretKohola

Seriously, look at that frickin' thing. Beautiful. As I was looking at them, I was wondering why I was looking at them, and why, even though some pieces were very reasonably priced, I wasn't inclined to buy most of them (I hungered after this one for a while).

I realized that almost all of the objects I own don't have any meaning attached to them. The few gifts I've received from previous boyfriends were nice, but rarely did any of them have a story. Those that did, ended up staying with me. My parents never gave my any physical objects of significant meaning, other than my car (read: escape from anything, guaranteed [add unconscious question mark]). I feel that maybe this is because I have lost any semblance of a real connection to them since I was a little kid. Many of my friends have family heirlooms, and I won't deny there is a bit of jealousy when I think of those objects, hallowed by time and inheritance, made into a passive participant and observer of the lives and stories of each new owner.

Looking at these vintage objects, I feel like I'd be borrowing other peoples' stories, that I would be putting them on my body, wearing them, sweating on them, using them, cooking them. Is that false? Or is it just adding another dimension to the overall tale of the object? I wonder if it varies between types of objects. Inherited engagement rings mean one thing, does an inherited set of turntables mean something different? Things pass from one person to another through friendship, bloodlines, love, necessity, birth, sale... One man's trash is another man's treasure. When he is done treasuring it, and gives it to someone else, what is the cumulative value of the object? Is it trash, or treasure? What about good luck charms? Do they really work passed on from person to person? Or is there one good luck charm meant for one person?

What happens to buried objects? Objects that never pass to another living being other than the worms and the insects? They live their own quiet life, dispersing into the world. Do they still have a value? Are they valued by the bugs?

I want to leave a legacy. I want to start an heirloom. What if I pass stuff on and tack on false stories? Stories that never happened? If I buy a beautiful necklace and tell a friend of mine my grandmother gave it to me, and I have always treasured it, and that I want her to have it, will there be some menacing green aura of lies surrounding it? Will it be a bad luck charm, something that haunts the person with confused dreams of an imaginary heritage?

But maybe if whoever I pass my object along to would understand that my purchase of it was simply to celebrate it's beauty, or perhaps to attach my own story and emotion to it in passing, like a Tibetan prayer flag (perhaps a presumptuous simile), spreading its blessing to the next person willing to receive it. I think also the passing from hand to hand, the muttering of awkward and heartfelt words, the stress of importance or meaning, the giving and taking are an act of consecration in themselves.

Rule: Identify an object that has significant meaning to you. Alternately, imbue an object with significant meaning.

I'm going to tell you a story

In the new year, I went to Alexandria, Va down near the water in Old Town to go buy tea. I like tea. Being from Taiwan, I have a certain tea affinity. The shop was in an old building. Lots of dark wood everywhere, most prominent being the richly-stained, giant, cavernous shelves that held beautiful apothecary jars of every size flecked with coffee and tea.

The shelves opposite the tea were packed full of beverage accoutrements. Infusers of all kinds, teapots, coffee mugs, tea mugs with built-in infusers, spoons to stir tea, spoons to measure tea, decorative pots, travel mugs, coasters, complete tea sets, serving trays, biscuits, cookies, chocolate, honey, and then there were other food items like fruit preserves, olive oil and vinegar, and food accessories like salt and pepper mills, egg-poaching cups, and placemats. Everything nestled something else.

There was a wonderful young man at the counter who had been working there for two and a half years. He knew the stock of tea very well, and was very excited about it. He made fabulous recommendations despite the fact that I was only making a small purchase. I ended up only buying three ounces of tea. Of course, together, me and my companion also ended up buying a ceramic mug, a tea-measuring spoon, some hot Hungarian paprika, and an oil mister (a veritable bounty of kitchen treasures) but we did spend a good deal of time with the young man.

That's how you know when a store really cares and is excited about its product - when no matter what you buy or even if you buy nothing, staff is willing to help you smell the product. I smelled a lot of teas.

That's when he walked in. He was an older gentleman, with little wisps of white hair on his head. Clouds mildly obscuring a mountain. He had a curved nose, wide, round eyes, and some age spots. The young man who had helped me make selections of tea previously asked him if he was looking for anything in particular.

"Do you have any verbena?"

"Oh you mean verveine?"

"Verveine, verbena, whatever you call it," he smiled as the young man reached up on the shelf to grab a mid-sized jar filled with large, brownish leaves.

"Would you like to smell it, sir?" the clerk opened the jar.

"I can recognize it just by the shape of the leaves, but sure!" He seemed thankful for the opportunity. He breathed in and sighed, "Ah, the sweet smell of verbena!"

The young man took the jar to the area where they portion the tea into small brown paper bags.

"How much would you like?" He grinned, everyone in the store was loving this man more and more every second.

"You wouldn't happen to have a pound of that, would you?" He asked.

"No, sorry," the clerk chuckled softly, "There's not even half a pound here," pulling out the long, whole leaves.

"I'll take what you've got!" He was adorable, gleeful extravagance.

"Ok," the clerk smiled, pulling out more leaves. They rustled deliciously. I wondered what distinguished verbena tea, never having tasted it myself. He ambled away with his purchase, clearly going straight home to enjoy. I envied the tea shop high-roller, buying the entire stock with innocent and unpretentious panache.

Rule: Become a delightful old person and clean out a store of some sort of indulgent item.

This is what ladies like me want to do on vacation

This is what could happen:

Grab a few of your best best friends. One you love and could live with forever, one you could be attracted to maybe, one who's a little awkward, very honest, and sweet. They all love to laugh. Go somewhere with cool mornings, balmy days, and nights without too much light pollution. Somewhere with a beach, preferably, but failing that, excellent rows of tiny, independent shops and fabulous sidewalks.

This is what you pack: underwear, socks, flip flops, curling/straightening iron, blouses, t-shirts, jeans, skirts, a bikini or two, contact lens solution, glasses, brush or comb, sunblock, sunglasses, lotion, some nice shoes, toothbrush, toothpaste, nail clippers, a small bit of jewelry, makeup, and q-tips. Fortunately for you, the friend who is always prepared has packed a camera (which you always lament forgetting), aloe (because none of you remembers to wear sunblock), mouthwash (because sometimes you don't feel like brushing your teeth), and q-tips (because you thought you packed yours, but you really just dropped it beside your bag).

There is lots of sun. There is lots of sunkissing. Possibly sunmaking-out. Your shoulders are a touch burnt, but that's ok. You spend all of your time in a bikini. You buy a bunch of cheese while giggling at the grocery store (still in bikinis). A chevre, a nice manchego, a St. Andre, a Gruyere, some random semi-soft cheese, and somebody splurges on some sort of fruit conserve. There are about a million different types of crackers in the snack aisle and you pick the one with the funny name. There is a decent amount of cooking (apron over bikini). There are lots of late-night greasy food runs. You make lots of cocktails and drink them and share them and it's ok to fart because a.) it's always been ok to fart b.) fart noises are funny and c.) we're spending a lot of time together and you just can't hold it in the whole time, ok? It's picture time and you all make your best fart faces.

Boys hold a lot of possibility and excitement and they holler like they don't know any better but it turns out they're all boring know-it-alls and you go find an excellent local jewelry shop and each end up buying some earrings. They sparkle and glint and are a great deal. Every morning you wake up and slowly sip tea or coffee or mimosas or belinis. You see squirrels or geese or some other animal that congregates on the ground and everybody decides to chase them. You start out slowly walking toward them and they edge away. Then the chase moves faster and they start to run and make a bunch of noise as they get all flustered. They honk and chatter.

You all reveal something sad about your lives. You make scrambled eggs with Gruyere and everybody is quiet and contemplative but by the time the eggs are gone everybody has put the feeling somewhere else. Maybe it is in your stomach with the eggs.

The last morning everybody wakes up and has breakfast together for the last time for a long time. It's quiet because you've been together this whole time and you're thinking of the parts of your life the others can't relate to because they live so far away. Packing is slow-going. Everyone talks in soothing tones. You touch each others shoulders or backs a lot. Everyone's hands are soft and cool. In your throat are memories. In your chest is a hollow. You swallow the memories into this hollow. It is a bittersweet pill that makes your thighs sluggish and your brain unable to draw up words to say to everyone, so all you say is, "See you soon! Have a safe trip!" You get home and are glad for your own bed. You hope she stops dating that guy. You hope the other can find a new job. You dream that they are all nesting dolls. You dream you are the biggest one. You dream they can all fit inside. You dream that you crack open and they all roll out. You wake up and go back to your life.

EDIT: Totally forgot to put down a rule.

Rule: When you're on vacation, you should be able to wear whatever you want and eat whatever you want.

Gotta Catch 'Em All

I've found that most of the people I know have their own way of capturing the world around them. Every day I see people take photos, write, paint, sew, play music, etc.

I feel like these are ways to hold close the beautiful and interesting things around you. It turns the moments, the light, the texture of the world and makes it physical. Archive-able. Sharable. You could say that it's a legacy of things you think about and notice. The part of your personality and aesthetic you wish to pass along, or at least record.



Walking around with something that I can capture the world around me with helps too. I feel like it sometimes it makes me more observant. It's like a little voice in my bag saying, "Look at that! Look at this!" I look for the things that inspire me. On a bad day, having that reminder to look for things I admire or that fiddle with my brain helps to reaffirm my satisfaction with my life and the world.



And at other times, it's handy for wonderful (and I mean that most literally) things I happen upon purely by accident.



And sometimes it's good for being selfish. Capturing to have for always. This piece of the world and of time to hold and think about. Sometimes something has texture that makes me want to rub my eyeballs on it. Sometimes a moment feels like a sound, or a set of words. Sometimes I want to wrap myself in soft things, pretty things, turn myself into a shape. Sometimes I want to put things that have survived human history under a glass jar to ogle, to appreciate, to mock.

I personally do this for vanity and selfishness and hedonism. I like reading the things that I write (sometimes) and looking at the photos I take, because (if I'm successful) they evoke in me the emotions I had when I wrote or photographed. Maybe it's because I'm a control freak and I like setting up my own stimuli.

Others might want to send a message straight into the retina. Make pupils contract. Make sphincters tighten. Make hearts beat and neck hairs stand on end. Sometimes they want people to be outraged, to be sympathetic, to be sad, to be joyful. Essentially sometimes they want people to care about something. These are worthy causes, especially if there's something important to say with these snippets of the world.

I don't really do that yet. Gotta work my way up to it, i guess.

Rule: Capture something of the world at least once for yourself or others.

Take sexy photos

...of stuff you love.

Today, a package arrive for my boss, and inside it was some stuff for him, and a little green-gold gem for me. Olive oil! A lovely present. I took it home and immediately admired it's clean, perfume-inspired labeling, but rustic, shapely packaging. I imagined the silky goodness inside. Putting it in my cupboard, I realized that the other olive oils I had were packaged beautifully and looked scrumptious as well! I decided to have a sexy photo shoot with them!

Forcin' it.

Yeah, they say you shouldn't force it. You can blow a gasket and whatnot. However, in the case of writing, to make a habit of writing helps, and to make a habit, sometimes you have to force it. So this is me, writing for the sake of writing. Squirting it out, for me and for you: my loving and loyal audience. Hunkering down and pushing out a few words. Squatting on the internet and bombing some prose onto this blog. Yeah you wanted that image in your head, I know it.

Rule: Force yourself to form those habits you know will be good for you or make you happy in the long run.

Next week, hopefully I will be posting on my new strange decorating/entertaining style. It doesn't have anything to do with forcing pellets, I promise.

It's everywhere, but it's still hard to find.

Just this weekend, when I was helping a friend do some yardwork, she pointed out to me the ingenious design of a jug of grass seed/growing material. The idea was to pour the seed mixture all over to grow new grass. On the flip-top lid were three pegs that scattered the seed mixture (which reminded us both of those plinko games) instead of emitting one long grass seed snake. Which, in retrospect, might've been kind of cool. There are lots of things around us that have good design, and I happen to respect thos things. Of course, it could've been a prettier jug, with a more ergonomic handle, but cost is a factor as always. In the same afternoon, the boy and I had just bought a hoe to help with turning the soil. I was pulling at a root when the whole top of it snapped off because it was made from aluminum (demerit number one... it's a gardening tool!) and the joint where the actual head met the handle was not reinforced (demerit number two). Dumb, dumb, dumb! I was incredulous. I'm not tiny, but I'm not supposed to be able to break the head off of a hoe.

Anyway, for me, nothing matches the satisfaction of really taking a look at the things around me and see good design (my budget doesn't allow my entire life's physical inventory to be this way, but still nice). Aesthetic, function, satisfaction of the tactile interaction - I guess it's part of aesthetic, but I just really like textured surfaces and sturdy buttons, ok - are subtle things that people are just now starting to place more consumer value upon. It's great, because this means now we will have more products that are better-designed and affordable, but it's also sad because we can take them for granted... And also I don't get to feel like a special hipster for appreciating good design. Opportunities to self-aggrandize aside (this is a blog, isn't it?), I'd like everyone to take a moment and find something that they really admire the design of. Feel free to post a comment, I'd love to read about it!

Also: appreciate this sexiness:





http://hardgraft.com/2unfold.html

You're cordially invited to share your thoughts

Rule: Share with me a moment. Leave your moment in the comments, or, if you're shy, email it to me at thatgirl [dot] sandy [@] gmail [dot you-know-the-rest].

Here's mine. This is from January.

I am in the kitchen snapping string beans under the ugly fluorescent light. All beautiful things and ugly things are visible under this light. There is soft music playing in the living room, and I can hear artists talk about tools and technique. Over this, there is the rhythmic sound of the string beans popping their green, wet noise in the harsh light. I am going to put the beans in a pan with salt, pepper, and olive oil. I'm going to roast them in the oven, and I will savor their exquisite crunch in my mouth. This is a clean, honest, and pure dish. This is a clean, honest, and pure moment.