Peg Duthie's Blog, page 5
July 9, 2021
birbs and bursts
Life is immense and intense, with many people and apps behaving badly, critters where they shouldn't be (roach in the sink, moths in the cupboard), and yargh, but the new job is hella fun, my carnivorous plant has been snacking on pests in my study, and I've spent at least an hour (and usually more like four) on a lake or river every weekend since the start of May. I am not much of a bird watcher, but I do enjoy hanging out with the herons and ducks on Percy Priest:
That said, it has become so crowded at the lake on Sundays that I'm going to stay home. There's plenty to do here, with fireflies for company. When I looked up from the tomato vines last week, the pink bursts at the top of the crepe myrtles caught my eye. This week, the plants with open flowers include an azalea, zinnias, mallows, peppers, and eggplants, along with the first balloonflower:
What energy I've had for writing has been reserved for correspondence, although I did lunge for pencil and scratch pad during a Zoominar where gems were blinking in and out of existence within the auto-captioning.
I do have a new publication credit: "Reverence" appears in Shelter in This Place: Meditations on 2020, a Unitarian Universalist anthology published by Skinner House.
A fully vaccinated friend tested positive for COVID this week. I had already planned to heed my gut and err on the side of caution through the rest of the summer, and likely beyond -- no to gyms, no to indoor shape-note singing, no to outdoor contradancing. I'm not going to be a hermit -- I have people to thank and connections to tend, so I'll host some small gatherings and hit a few happy hours -- but it does simplify life a smidge to look at all the diversions on offer and recognize that they are not for me. Not right now, and probably not soon. I'd like to feel more at ease when I'm on a bike. My "watch later" queue has 144 clips. There are five or six vases/glasses around the house stuffed with tomato cuttings. There's getting out the vote. The ironing pile is again taller than an average German shepherd. There's plenty to do.
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That said, it has become so crowded at the lake on Sundays that I'm going to stay home. There's plenty to do here, with fireflies for company. When I looked up from the tomato vines last week, the pink bursts at the top of the crepe myrtles caught my eye. This week, the plants with open flowers include an azalea, zinnias, mallows, peppers, and eggplants, along with the first balloonflower:
What energy I've had for writing has been reserved for correspondence, although I did lunge for pencil and scratch pad during a Zoominar where gems were blinking in and out of existence within the auto-captioning.
I do have a new publication credit: "Reverence" appears in Shelter in This Place: Meditations on 2020, a Unitarian Universalist anthology published by Skinner House.
A fully vaccinated friend tested positive for COVID this week. I had already planned to heed my gut and err on the side of caution through the rest of the summer, and likely beyond -- no to gyms, no to indoor shape-note singing, no to outdoor contradancing. I'm not going to be a hermit -- I have people to thank and connections to tend, so I'll host some small gatherings and hit a few happy hours -- but it does simplify life a smidge to look at all the diversions on offer and recognize that they are not for me. Not right now, and probably not soon. I'd like to feel more at ease when I'm on a bike. My "watch later" queue has 144 clips. There are five or six vases/glasses around the house stuffed with tomato cuttings. There's getting out the vote. The ironing pile is again taller than an average German shepherd. There's plenty to do.
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June 5, 2021
mending and tending
Today I retrieved my seam-ripper and extracted broken nosewires from three masks: they'd been washed and adjusted so often since March 2020 that the metal had snapped. I was off-camera during two of the three events I attended during my virtual college reunion today, and I liked being able to deal with much of the mending pile while listening to the presentations. (As for the on-camera social, I cackled out loud when a friend DM'd, "Dude you put on lipstick" . . . )
I had to bail on the two choral projects I mentioned in my previous post. That didn't feel good, nor did heading into today's Bach workshop with no real prep. But summer is not yet here. One of my former choir directors often ended our read-through rehearsals with "You know what you need to do." Yeah.
The front garden received several compliments this week. ("Your flowers are lookin' good, hon.") A volunteer French hollyhock is at its peak, front and center with tiers of blooms. Friends brought by a rosebush that I settled in the back yard, along with some tomato seedlings that Miel had culled from their garden. Some of the cherry tomato plants are showing clusters of tiny green globes. The radish seeds from 2013 or thereabouts have germinated, as have two of the basil seeds from a packet sent by the United Negro College Fund. The basil starters from the nurseries haven't thrived in my outdoor planters, but an aging tiny-leaved plant I'd been neglecting has now put forth a new cascade of white blossoms. It's too early to tell if the parsnips are going to materialize.
I harvested some mint and kale to go with the chicken tikka masala I pulled from the freezer, and doctored today's orange slushie with honey and sumac. I need to plow through a fair amount of work + paperwork tomorrow, but I am pleasantly achy from this morning's workout (2.5 hours of kayaking and paddleboard yoga), and I expect to sleep well.
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May 16, 2021
First draft: What Else You Need To Know Today
This American Life is not usually my jam, but I caught the tail end of Episode 737 on my drive home from Percy Priest yesterday, and as Ira Glass closing litany spun out, I thought, “Niiiice!” and “What a great writing prompt!” So here’s a riff . . .
Here’s What Else You Need To Know Today
The wirecutters you find first are the right wirecutters.
It helps, though, to put the best wirecutters in your future way.
Not every wire serves a stake or a wreath.
Show me a piano, and I’ll sing to you of dinner theater stubs.
Numbers can lie, but words fool around more.
Music can vault you into the clouds, but figured bass keeps my heart grounded.
Your skin is delicious not because it was baked by the sun, but because it tastes of the sun in Friday’s soup.
It’s not about cleaning your plate, but appreciating the preparation of it.
You are not betraying the ancestors when you outgrow a recipe.
Especially if it always felt like too-tight tights. Or the other things that have never quite fit you.
The camera does add ten pounds, but most people aren’t looking at you.
You—yes, you—are a part of this dance, even if your feet stay on the floor.
We will not survive this, but we have stories to tell.
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Here’s What Else You Need To Know Today
The wirecutters you find first are the right wirecutters.
It helps, though, to put the best wirecutters in your future way.
Not every wire serves a stake or a wreath.
Show me a piano, and I’ll sing to you of dinner theater stubs.
Numbers can lie, but words fool around more.
Music can vault you into the clouds, but figured bass keeps my heart grounded.
Your skin is delicious not because it was baked by the sun, but because it tastes of the sun in Friday’s soup.
It’s not about cleaning your plate, but appreciating the preparation of it.
You are not betraying the ancestors when you outgrow a recipe.
Especially if it always felt like too-tight tights. Or the other things that have never quite fit you.
The camera does add ten pounds, but most people aren’t looking at you.
You—yes, you—are a part of this dance, even if your feet stay on the floor.
We will not survive this, but we have stories to tell.
comments
May 14, 2021
hair in a tantrum / eyes like two streaks of fire
Today's subject line is from Bachelor's "Stay in the Car," which has been earworming me since I heard it on WXNP earlier this week.
Dance recommendation: Anna Morrissey's All Together Alone, a modern take on "Ebben? ne andrò lontana," which I've adored since playing viola for it eons ago. Up until May 29. Warning for light-sensitives: there is some strobe action in it.
I keep meaning to mention the Stay at Home Choir's recording of Christopher Tin's "Sogno di Volare," which I sang on. (I chose to participate audio-only on this one.)
A Catholic composer who had also been involved with "Sogno" contacted me via Instagram about joining the virtual choir for one of his recordings, so that's in my practice folder now. I've sat out most of this year's SAHC projects, but they're doing another run at Ode to Joy, this time with a new German text by Michael Köhlmeier, and there's no registration fee for this one. It's unclear if there will be a recording involved, nor can I make the first alto sectional, but I do not care -- any time I can spend with that piece will help me refuel.
Today I squeezed in two dance sessions -- one for a reel that will be shown at a UK folk festival in June, and Karen Arceneaux's Beginner Horton class with Ailey Extension, where we're learning a combination to Billie Eilish's "Lovely" that Karen choreographed with Mental Health Awareness Month in mind. My back and shoulder are not 100%, and I stepped on a splinter last night (ow!), and there's like forty hours of work to fit into the next fourteen, so I'm pleased with myself for showing up (on camera, even!) and staying more focused than not.
It's not all wine and roses here, but my roses are doing very well this year, and my mom-in-law brought two bottles of prosecco to lunch on Sunday, along with this bouquet:
What I served (for four people total):
deviled eggs
bacon jam balls on red pepper strips
cashews
pickled garlic
tortellini with shrimp in a radish-lemon-anchovy sauce (adapted from an Anita Lo recipe)
green beans seasoned with butter and raspberry balsamic vinegar
zucchini soufflé
almond layer cake from Sweet 16th
The next afternoon, the other two members of the museum editorial team came over for our production meeting. I made another plate of deviled eggs, the junior editor brought Russian tea cookies, and we collectively put away more cake while having ourselves a merry time and discussing at length All the Things Due.
A week ago, something decided to eat every mallow seedling in my back yard. It left the adjacent zinnia seedlings alone, and I hadn't spent too much time thinning out the mallows, so I was amused as well as annoyed: I mean, clearly it was a really tasty snack for the critter? It had even consumed the scraps I had pulled from the ground earlier that Friday.
Being slightly ridiculous, I had put some of the bigger thinnings in water in hopes of transplanting them, and by yesterday some of them had developed long plump roots, so they went into some of the dirt patches out front. Fingers crossed . . .
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Dance recommendation: Anna Morrissey's All Together Alone, a modern take on "Ebben? ne andrò lontana," which I've adored since playing viola for it eons ago. Up until May 29. Warning for light-sensitives: there is some strobe action in it.
I keep meaning to mention the Stay at Home Choir's recording of Christopher Tin's "Sogno di Volare," which I sang on. (I chose to participate audio-only on this one.)
A Catholic composer who had also been involved with "Sogno" contacted me via Instagram about joining the virtual choir for one of his recordings, so that's in my practice folder now. I've sat out most of this year's SAHC projects, but they're doing another run at Ode to Joy, this time with a new German text by Michael Köhlmeier, and there's no registration fee for this one. It's unclear if there will be a recording involved, nor can I make the first alto sectional, but I do not care -- any time I can spend with that piece will help me refuel.
Today I squeezed in two dance sessions -- one for a reel that will be shown at a UK folk festival in June, and Karen Arceneaux's Beginner Horton class with Ailey Extension, where we're learning a combination to Billie Eilish's "Lovely" that Karen choreographed with Mental Health Awareness Month in mind. My back and shoulder are not 100%, and I stepped on a splinter last night (ow!), and there's like forty hours of work to fit into the next fourteen, so I'm pleased with myself for showing up (on camera, even!) and staying more focused than not.
It's not all wine and roses here, but my roses are doing very well this year, and my mom-in-law brought two bottles of prosecco to lunch on Sunday, along with this bouquet:
What I served (for four people total):
deviled eggs
bacon jam balls on red pepper strips
cashews
pickled garlic
tortellini with shrimp in a radish-lemon-anchovy sauce (adapted from an Anita Lo recipe)
green beans seasoned with butter and raspberry balsamic vinegar
zucchini soufflé
almond layer cake from Sweet 16th
The next afternoon, the other two members of the museum editorial team came over for our production meeting. I made another plate of deviled eggs, the junior editor brought Russian tea cookies, and we collectively put away more cake while having ourselves a merry time and discussing at length All the Things Due.
A week ago, something decided to eat every mallow seedling in my back yard. It left the adjacent zinnia seedlings alone, and I hadn't spent too much time thinning out the mallows, so I was amused as well as annoyed: I mean, clearly it was a really tasty snack for the critter? It had even consumed the scraps I had pulled from the ground earlier that Friday.
Being slightly ridiculous, I had put some of the bigger thinnings in water in hopes of transplanting them, and by yesterday some of them had developed long plump roots, so they went into some of the dirt patches out front. Fingers crossed . . .
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April 29, 2021
O if I were Scotland I would turn my back
The subject line's from Adrian Mitchell's "After the Third Election of Thatcher," which continues:
This is in the collection Blue Coffee: Poems, 1985 - 1996, which has this opposite the table of contents:
Today's household misadventure was a result of following directions: the recipe said to use a food processor to pulverize ginger in boiling water. Ow. I'm irritated not only at the mess, but by the fact that I'd already experienced this mishap before, when attempting to puree soup. On a less grouchy note, I have used up the aging ginger in the fridge, and there will be ginger-orange jello soon.
The rain let up now and then a few times today. I took breaks from the Scottish show to tug at weeds, thin out mallows, and tie up stems, as one of the "Sky's the Limit" rose bushes has become a rose sprawl. It is also producing red instead of yellow flowers this year.
Also entertaining: the Christmas cactus closest to the cyclamen now has a new bud.
My recent bathtub reading included the October 2001 issue of Sculpture, which included Anne Barclay Morgan's interview of Westen Charles. The installation that interested me most was Retirement . The artist provided some background:
I tossed the magazine into recycling after I was done . . . and then dug it out a day or three later, wanting to reread the description after seeing Patty Seyburn's Ode to John Hinkles, Junior and Senior, which begins:
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. . . and climb on my horse and ride away
And if I were Wales I would turn my back
And climb on my horse and ride away . . .
This is in the collection Blue Coffee: Poems, 1985 - 1996, which has this opposite the table of contents:
EDUCATIONAL HEALTH WARNING
None of the work in this or any other of my books is to be used in connection with any examination whatsoever. Reduce the size of classes in State schools to twelve and I might reconsider.
Today's household misadventure was a result of following directions: the recipe said to use a food processor to pulverize ginger in boiling water. Ow. I'm irritated not only at the mess, but by the fact that I'd already experienced this mishap before, when attempting to puree soup. On a less grouchy note, I have used up the aging ginger in the fridge, and there will be ginger-orange jello soon.
The rain let up now and then a few times today. I took breaks from the Scottish show to tug at weeds, thin out mallows, and tie up stems, as one of the "Sky's the Limit" rose bushes has become a rose sprawl. It is also producing red instead of yellow flowers this year.
Also entertaining: the Christmas cactus closest to the cyclamen now has a new bud.
My recent bathtub reading included the October 2001 issue of Sculpture, which included Anne Barclay Morgan's interview of Westen Charles. The installation that interested me most was Retirement . The artist provided some background:
I tossed the magazine into recycling after I was done . . . and then dug it out a day or three later, wanting to reread the description after seeing Patty Seyburn's Ode to John Hinkles, Junior and Senior, which begins:
A man filled the thumb hole of his favorite
bowling ball with his father’s ashes,
then bowled a perfect game.
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April 27, 2021
everybody here has seams and scars
The subject line is from Vienna Teng's "Level Up." I've been rewatching the video with new appreciation, now that I've spent more time practicing combinations within the past five years than during the previous forty-five. (I have not become good at combinations, but neither am I trying to be Xin Ying or So Young An or Masazumi Chaya. I am aiming to become the healthiest I've ever been . . . )
Given that Teng and her partner aren't professional dancers, the choreography in the opening minute really impresses me now. The sequence between 0:57 and 1:03 has always made me catch my breath.
I was thinking about Vienna because I first saw Alex Wong and Ben Sollee perform with her at the Belcourt. Alex, in turn, has recently introduced me to an array of performers and artists I'll be paying closer attention to (and have, in some cases, put on my next Bandcamp Friday list): Ruby Ibarra, Rotana (a Saudi-born artist whose songs on Sunday included one about self-pleasure), MILCK, and Surrija.
My favorite Surrija track so far is "Sylvette," which is ironic, because I spent dozens of hours this past year wrangling content about Picasso (becoming a Françoise Gilot fan along the way, as well as ever more firmly Team Braque), and not once did Lydia Corbett ever come up.
The past few days have been rife with derp -- sunfried tomato seedlings, pizza sticking like tar to its pan, and other mishaps -- but I managed to deliver some thises and thatses, and also didn't get killed riding my bike to the East Nashville Farmers Market (I rewarded myself with a tangerine popsicle when I got there).
Then there are the guys in another league:
(The dude cruised up at least a block on just the back wheel. His buddy behind me cheerily bellowed "Awww yeah" when I snapped the pic.)
Elsewhere, in other negotiations with movement, there's a virtual formal ball for English country dancers next week. The band's recordings include "Ransom Note," which I'm going to hope is on the program because the tune is so beautiful, and I have a lovely memory of whirling around to it in Decatur two Septembers ago.
Vicki Swan was kind enough to invite me to join the dance mosaic she compiled for "Bonnie at Morn." I'm in the third tile up from the lower left corner:
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Given that Teng and her partner aren't professional dancers, the choreography in the opening minute really impresses me now. The sequence between 0:57 and 1:03 has always made me catch my breath.
I was thinking about Vienna because I first saw Alex Wong and Ben Sollee perform with her at the Belcourt. Alex, in turn, has recently introduced me to an array of performers and artists I'll be paying closer attention to (and have, in some cases, put on my next Bandcamp Friday list): Ruby Ibarra, Rotana (a Saudi-born artist whose songs on Sunday included one about self-pleasure), MILCK, and Surrija.
My favorite Surrija track so far is "Sylvette," which is ironic, because I spent dozens of hours this past year wrangling content about Picasso (becoming a Françoise Gilot fan along the way, as well as ever more firmly Team Braque), and not once did Lydia Corbett ever come up.
The past few days have been rife with derp -- sunfried tomato seedlings, pizza sticking like tar to its pan, and other mishaps -- but I managed to deliver some thises and thatses, and also didn't get killed riding my bike to the East Nashville Farmers Market (I rewarded myself with a tangerine popsicle when I got there).
Then there are the guys in another league:
(The dude cruised up at least a block on just the back wheel. His buddy behind me cheerily bellowed "Awww yeah" when I snapped the pic.)
Elsewhere, in other negotiations with movement, there's a virtual formal ball for English country dancers next week. The band's recordings include "Ransom Note," which I'm going to hope is on the program because the tune is so beautiful, and I have a lovely memory of whirling around to it in Decatur two Septembers ago.
Vicki Swan was kind enough to invite me to join the dance mosaic she compiled for "Bonnie at Morn." I'm in the third tile up from the lower left corner:
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April 25, 2021
floofs, fuchsia, photinia . . .
Saturday had a number of "I am the daughter of my ancestors" moments -- those instances where being extra wasn't in the game plan, but putting the kitchen trash and recycling bins (and a couple of plastic hampers as well) on the driveway to get a free pre-scrubbing soak in the rain, that happened. There was also vacuuming the floor of the trash drawer and freezer, and studying date and time units in Mandarin, as well as the more routine using up of aging ingredients/leftovers, plus some saving of styrofoam trays to use as plant saucers.
The outdoor plants survived this week's plunge in temperature. I wrapped one of my mother's skirts around the Jacob's ladder and draped t-shirts over the parsley and chives. The photinia is in bloom, as is a neighbor's honeysuckle. The first round of mallow and zinnia seedlings are far enough along for thinning; I extended the patch today, emptying out the soup container where I'd kept the mallow pods. Most of my energy, though, went toward weeding around the rosebushes, and scattering garlic scraps around them.
I started all the chocolate cherry tomato plants at the same time, but as these snapshots illustrate, the seedlings are growing at distinctly different rates. I didn't track if/when or how often I moved the plants between shelf/counter/floor and yard, but the ones furthest along likely spent the most time on the sunroom shelf.
Spending money on a non-utilitarian plant would have been out of character among the ancestors, but the Floof basket is earning its keep as entertainment. (It's generally known as a chenille plant, but the BYM greets it as "Floof!" every time he catches sight of it.) The fuchsia, too:
A show I am working on calls fuchsias "disordered." I raised my eyebrows at that claim, but hey, maybe Scottish flowers are more punk? (Or the SME more genteel. . . .)
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The outdoor plants survived this week's plunge in temperature. I wrapped one of my mother's skirts around the Jacob's ladder and draped t-shirts over the parsley and chives. The photinia is in bloom, as is a neighbor's honeysuckle. The first round of mallow and zinnia seedlings are far enough along for thinning; I extended the patch today, emptying out the soup container where I'd kept the mallow pods. Most of my energy, though, went toward weeding around the rosebushes, and scattering garlic scraps around them.
I started all the chocolate cherry tomato plants at the same time, but as these snapshots illustrate, the seedlings are growing at distinctly different rates. I didn't track if/when or how often I moved the plants between shelf/counter/floor and yard, but the ones furthest along likely spent the most time on the sunroom shelf.
Spending money on a non-utilitarian plant would have been out of character among the ancestors, but the Floof basket is earning its keep as entertainment. (It's generally known as a chenille plant, but the BYM greets it as "Floof!" every time he catches sight of it.) The fuchsia, too:
A show I am working on calls fuchsias "disordered." I raised my eyebrows at that claim, but hey, maybe Scottish flowers are more punk? (Or the SME more genteel. . . .)
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April 19, 2021
not Congress, lobster, love, luau . . .
[The subject line's from Gwendolyn Brooks, "Boy Breaking Glass." Because.]
My culinary mode the past two days could probably be classified as Southern Weird. Lunch yesterday was green tomato and okra soup, seasoned with leftover Easter ham. And breakfast was a 5M sandwich - mortadella, Muenster, and mint with mayo and mustard. I also cooked three pounds of bacon. Any fool who wants to insist that I'm not Southern or American can stuff it.
Harvesting the mint reminded me that I had no idea what had happened to the Kentucky Derby field since January. So I checked in here and there, and for you hunch bettors, the longshots in the field include a bay colt named Midnight Bourbon and a gray colt named Soup and Sandwich. (And they even shared a recent headline because they worked out the same morning . . .)
Tonight's English country dance gathering featured beautiful playing by Dave Wiesler. And speaking of ECD, I'm in the leftmost file in this mosaic a UK nyckelharpist assembled earlier this month:
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My culinary mode the past two days could probably be classified as Southern Weird. Lunch yesterday was green tomato and okra soup, seasoned with leftover Easter ham. And breakfast was a 5M sandwich - mortadella, Muenster, and mint with mayo and mustard. I also cooked three pounds of bacon. Any fool who wants to insist that I'm not Southern or American can stuff it.
Harvesting the mint reminded me that I had no idea what had happened to the Kentucky Derby field since January. So I checked in here and there, and for you hunch bettors, the longshots in the field include a bay colt named Midnight Bourbon and a gray colt named Soup and Sandwich. (And they even shared a recent headline because they worked out the same morning . . .)
Tonight's English country dance gathering featured beautiful playing by Dave Wiesler. And speaking of ECD, I'm in the leftmost file in this mosaic a UK nyckelharpist assembled earlier this month:
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April 17, 2021
mushily powerful
Don't tell the BYM, because he already thinks my garlic intake verges on chemical warfare . . . but there is a lot of garlic in our fridge right now. I pickled around a quart and a half earlier this month after bringing home a bag from the 99-cent produce shelf, and today I roasted 11 heads as a favor for a friend of a friend.
After pelting out of the house for an appointment this morning, I gave thanks to Past Me for the leftover coffee she'd poured into jars last week. Present Me notes that the water left over from soaking dried mushrooms looks a lot like leftover coffee, and that it would be wise to revive my habit of labeling jars.
I am exceedingly late to both the Tom Hiddleston and Letters Live parties, but y'all, this reading of Gerald Durrell's letter to Lee McGeorge is something else. (At YouTube, the comments for this clip include a copy of the letter.)
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April 15, 2021
#ShowYourself and other voicings
First, a signal boost for the next two weekends:
I first saw Alex Wong perform when he toured with Vienna Teng as her percussionist. He moved to Nashville a few years later, and I've since been to his house for food (an earlier edition of Angelhouse Family Dinners and music. He's now raising funds for AAPI justice/assistance orgs through a virtual tour, and the first four sessions were terrific (including a beautifully filmed capoeira duet to Bob Dylan's "Boots of Spanish Leather"). The lineup for this weekend includes a book artist, poet Ciona Rouse (who was terrific in Nick Cave: Feat. Nashville a few years ago), and Kentucky cellist Ben Sollee (whom, come to think of it, I also first heard via a Vienna Teng tour, and whose "Bury Me With My Car" had me doubled over laughing during that session).
Life hurtles on. Many people hurting. Many platters spinning. Many postcards to write.
This week I've edited in both French and English, next week will include some Spanish translation, and I'm blasting Gaelic punk as I power through some of the prep for the museum's next big show.
I caught most of last night's White Sox no-hitter against Cleveland, which was fun.
The chenille basket is definitely doing better outdoors, especially since I've been making a point of putting in full sun for the recommended 4 to 6 hours. All the kale plants may have come home or come down with something bacterial; the roses may have not one disease but two, but are also putting forth lots of clean leaves and buds, so I swore and snipped and sprayed yesterday and am opting to be optimistic. The irises are spectacular. I need to clear ground for the tomatoes and other starters from my church's herb fair, and some zinnia seedlings are emerging in a patch I've started in the back yard. Indoors, the Paula Jane fuchsia is gorgeous, most of the chocolate cherry tomato seedlings are doing well, and there is a lopsided bloom on the never-quite-healthy miniature rosebush.
I went on a Poshmark tear earlier this week (splurging on five cute dresses for $58 total) and picked up my two new pairs of glasses (sun and standard). The latter torched my FSA but were definitely overdue. One of the Poshmark bundles I've been rolling my eyes at the hot takes on various platforms about upcoming fashion trends. Some of us who wear ratty pjs all day when no one's watching AND don heels and bling when we feel like turning heads do so with no one's permission and nary a pang of existential torment. FFS.
One of the Poshmark bundles included hearts and other shapes cut out of a variety of publications, including The Hobbit; a multilingual census or healthcare help line handout; a twentieth-century novel involving typewriters, trains, and failed love; a handwritten flyer seeking a renter; and a Phinney Center newsletter. I don't quite know what (if anything) to make of it, but it certainly raised the week's surrealism quotient.
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I first saw Alex Wong perform when he toured with Vienna Teng as her percussionist. He moved to Nashville a few years later, and I've since been to his house for food (an earlier edition of Angelhouse Family Dinners and music. He's now raising funds for AAPI justice/assistance orgs through a virtual tour, and the first four sessions were terrific (including a beautifully filmed capoeira duet to Bob Dylan's "Boots of Spanish Leather"). The lineup for this weekend includes a book artist, poet Ciona Rouse (who was terrific in Nick Cave: Feat. Nashville a few years ago), and Kentucky cellist Ben Sollee (whom, come to think of it, I also first heard via a Vienna Teng tour, and whose "Bury Me With My Car" had me doubled over laughing during that session).
Life hurtles on. Many people hurting. Many platters spinning. Many postcards to write.
This week I've edited in both French and English, next week will include some Spanish translation, and I'm blasting Gaelic punk as I power through some of the prep for the museum's next big show.
I caught most of last night's White Sox no-hitter against Cleveland, which was fun.
The chenille basket is definitely doing better outdoors, especially since I've been making a point of putting in full sun for the recommended 4 to 6 hours. All the kale plants may have come home or come down with something bacterial; the roses may have not one disease but two, but are also putting forth lots of clean leaves and buds, so I swore and snipped and sprayed yesterday and am opting to be optimistic. The irises are spectacular. I need to clear ground for the tomatoes and other starters from my church's herb fair, and some zinnia seedlings are emerging in a patch I've started in the back yard. Indoors, the Paula Jane fuchsia is gorgeous, most of the chocolate cherry tomato seedlings are doing well, and there is a lopsided bloom on the never-quite-healthy miniature rosebush.
I went on a Poshmark tear earlier this week (splurging on five cute dresses for $58 total) and picked up my two new pairs of glasses (sun and standard). The latter torched my FSA but were definitely overdue. One of the Poshmark bundles I've been rolling my eyes at the hot takes on various platforms about upcoming fashion trends. Some of us who wear ratty pjs all day when no one's watching AND don heels and bling when we feel like turning heads do so with no one's permission and nary a pang of existential torment. FFS.
One of the Poshmark bundles included hearts and other shapes cut out of a variety of publications, including The Hobbit; a multilingual census or healthcare help line handout; a twentieth-century novel involving typewriters, trains, and failed love; a handwritten flyer seeking a renter; and a Phinney Center newsletter. I don't quite know what (if anything) to make of it, but it certainly raised the week's surrealism quotient.
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