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 |  Impromptu writing, whatever comes...on writing or whatever the question of the day is. |
    I've been blogging all through my days without knowing that it was blogging; although, this isn't necessarily the only thing I do without knowing what I'm doing. Since I write on anything that's available around me, my life has been full of pieces of scribbled paper flying about like confetti. I'm so happy to finally have a permanent place to chew the fat.  So far my chewing the fat is on and off.  Maybe, I lack teeth. Feel free to comment, if you wish.  Thank you very much, Cindy, for this honor and the beautiful graphic.  This Blog Continues in "Everyday Canvas "    |
| Recent news reports say that women have more germs in their offices and around their desks compared to men, but men have more germs in their wallets. (And I thought the only germs in the offices were the cranky office mates.) The study (not too extensive) was funded by the Clorox company. "The moldiest spot in the workers' offices was the bottom of their desk drawers, where many staffers stash food," the study says. I have great respect for Clorox, but it makes me choke. Chlorine smell is not good for asthma. This study nevertheless made me give a thorough wiping to everthing with Clorox wipes, while wearing a mask. Anyone who would see me could think I was out holding up my own desk. The reason for the germy offices is blamed on hand lotion. Since women use more hand lotion than men and women touch everything, hand lotion traps germs. Next time there's a flu or cold bug going around I am going to set up hand-lotion traps for those buggers. The food part made me laugh. Most anyone I know snacks at their desks, even if they go out for lunch. As to our male counterparts, you guys get ready to use discolored wallets. Your wives, girlfriends, sisters, or mothers will get you with Clorox. I am betting on that. We are not to use soap and water. That only pushes the germs around. What it prescribed is disinfectant wipes or sprays, so people like me can be germ-free even if they choke to death. On the other hand, I wonder if the Clorox's sales have been down.  |
| It appears to me, through some abracadabra, the publishing media stays ahead of all tabloid events. Before we can even digest and get over our shock and awe or disgust, a book is published on the event. Here's one: There's an author already for the astronaut-diaper-love-triangle. That was lightning quick. Too quick before I could even say diaper. And the other, which is from today's Newsday. "A Carle Place attorney who once represented Anna Nicole Smith said the former model signed a contract in the late 1990s giving him the exclusive book and movie rights to her story." The woman isn't even buried yet!  It takes me months to round up my characters and put my stories together. Okay, so I am not too into it or too fast or too capable, but it took even Isaac Asimov, possibly the most prolific of writers of all time, at least a month to write a novel. I think these bookish facts point to more than a writing capability. I think the publishing community is into black arts and they are all receiving messages from the great beyond. Too bad my sixth sense is at an all time low, but there may be writers among us on this site who could jump on the money-making wagon. Maybe we should all work on our ESPs, instead of grammar and syntax. Where are you, the authors of Writing.com? Are there no psychics among us who can start writing the story of the next hair-raising scandal before it happens? Our site could use a millionaire or two. |
| Most good literature happens by unloading one's emotional baggage. True. I love to look into emotional baggage when its components are neatly folded and tucked, then put in a chic valise to make them seem so neat and fashionable. I don't, however, like it when smelly garbage is offered as emotional baggage, without enclosing it in a plastic thrash bag. If we were to put our everyday garbage without putting it in a thrash can and without enclosing it in a thrash bag, no garbage collector would take away our garbage. Imagine each piece of garbage--torn packaging, broken things, diapers, used tissues, leftover spoiled food, fruit and vegetable peelings, dog doodoo--laid wide open on the curbside. Passers by could pass out from the stink if they can't hold their breath long enough. On the plus side, it is good to express ourselves through dumping. It makes us feel better. Venting helps anybody. Shrinks and priests encourage people to do just that to clean up the elements of society. Venting is what some blogs, personal journals, and diaries are for. On the other hand, there seems to flourish an idea that literature is personal garbage that reeks all over the place. It probably started with the encouragement of journaling, which has been taken the wrong way. Journaling is fine. I love doing it myself. One can find lots of good stuff--among all the garbage--in one's own personal journal to turn into good writing, but a personal diary or a journal entry that rambles on and on with expletives and says the same thing over and over again is not literature. It is venting. The subject of this entry came to me when I received a review yesterday for "Invalid Item" . It was a very nice review, which I appreciated greatly, about the new everyday writing challenge group that is just forming. The rules are easy on the writer; only personal garbage dumping type of daily journaling is not allowed, just because I would like the writers of this site to practice serious writing (settings, beginnings and endings to their stories, poetry, non-fiction etc.). The reviewer felt the daily writing I expected was lacking because of the ban on the daily personal garbage. Like I said before, there is nothing wrong with daily garbage dumping; moreover, it is needed. But most of time, it is not literature or even good writing. Also, we all do it to the nth degree already. See, I can vent, too. |
| I just found out something about my blogging style. I am a generalist blogger. A blog expert, or rather someone who considers himself a blog expert, told me this after seeing my blog. I guess this is one of those things that I am, without catching on to what I am, since recently, I have been plastered with numerous labels concerning what I am. Ouch!Bloggers are classified according to the type of writing they do in their blogs. At least, I am not a dialectical materialist or a political blogger. This friend tells me lifestyle bloggers and personal-life-dumping bloggers are the most common. Although my blogs have to do with my life, I like to keep the personals inside a real-life note-book. Yet, if wishes were horses… I wish I were a geek blogger, but that would be so far out for me. My traveling to Andromeda galaxy in this lifetime is more possible than my understanding any computer language, let alone doing anything with it. But I so admire geeks.  I think we should erect statues for geeks and I am not kidding. In my eyes, geeks are more powerful than mythical gods. What makes them godly is their performance. They are never show-offs or high-brows of the snobbish kind, but true-to-life doers, and their mythical feats can be neatly summarized in a pithy slogan: it's the programming, stupid. True geeks are elegant species who inspire a sort of techno-passion in klutzes like me. When I listen into the conversations of geeks, I think I am in an alien universe where the geek language has more ups and downs than Chinese. I could learn Chinese if I tried hard enough, but as hard as I try, computerisms pass me by, and no matter how much I aspire toward technical literacy, I could at best be a user and not a very good one at that. Although there are alpha geeks, as in alpha males, the she-geeks abound in the same arena. Their technical pursuits are not limited only to perfect programming, but these goddesses know every contraption and device before they are even invented. Seeing is believing, they know what to do when the computer makes a weird clicking sound, saying the primary hard drive is not found. They know to use the freezer to recover data and they also know to seal the hard disk in a ziplock bag to prevent condensation. Who'd have thought! In my next lifetime, say a hundred years from now, God is going to let me get born as a geek  and then, I'll be a geek blogger. Now, who says I don't write science fiction? |
| Literally speaking, Anita Shreve wrote Sea Glass; I have old glass, literally…all over the house. Something about glass enchants me. Maybe it is because glass is liquid originally and maybe as a kid, I watched a bottlemaker blow into the hot liquid to turn it into a vase. But I am not talking about fancy antique glass like Steuben glass or old lead and flint glass. The few pieces I have of those are tucked into the dining room hutch, and since I am afraid of the lead in them, they just stand there like wallflowers in a dance. The real partiers in my house are cups and saucers and bowls and plates that will be crude antiques give or take another decade. Tucked in the back of each cupboard and drawer, I find an old piece. Just a while ago, I found a large green bowl I used to use as a secondary punch bowl. This is from the time when anything indoors was in fashionable avocado. That is sixties for the youngsters. Come to think of it, does anyone serve punch anymore? Anyhow, I think we gave away my real punchbowl with the tiny handled cups hanging from its side when we moved south. Still I sneaked this green oldie, just a sidekick of the real punchbowl, to Florida on the backseat of my car wrapped in tee-shirts. For old times' sake I gave it a little tap and it answered me with a little thud. Most of the other glass items ring when tapped; this bowl thuds. Some of the other pieces, mostly see-through glass cups with handles have developed a foggy frost; I call it glass dementia, since it has happened in time probably because of the composition. The Antiques Roadshow people call it sick glass and they say the culprit is calcium. They recommend leaving the glass in a water and vinegar mix. I don’t know if I have the nerve to go that far for commonplace things I have too many of. My favorite glass pieces are plates and the bone-china mugs. I don't like chipped anything, but I refuse to throw away a mug with the picture of a purple iris on its side and a tiny chip on its lip. Maybe I have difficulty letting go of old glass because, when I pick up an old piece, I may be looking through the glass to the years past and I may think I see something of a prize. |
| Who says old women can't watch the Super Bowl? I am just doing that and typing at the same time. For Super Bowl fare, I baked burritos for hubby. He tasted one and said, "Why, this is only peppered beans in a caboose." Isn't that the idea? Since I don't know how to make that caboose and I am too uninformed in the art of putting burritos together, my burritos are frozen. They only need to be baked, and since I don't have the time or patience for an hour's bake time in the conventional oven, mine get done in the microwave, then put in the toaster over to give them that "fancy" look. Well, hubby's burritos came out okay. I burned part of the caboose in mine. As I felt the blushing grin spreading wide across my face, I tried hard to contain myself so as not to frighten hubby. He must have sensed something, because he gave me a sip of his beer. I do not drink beer, but it is Super Bowl, so what the heck! What if it gets mixed up with my cappuccino! Burnt burrito and cappuccino beer. A new taste, for sure. Right now, we're in second quarter. 9 to 14 in favor of Chicago. Hubby asks me Bears or Colts? I say, Colts. He says Bears. He goes with Bears because he has a cousin in Chicago. I say Colts because I like horses. I also like bears, but colts look so cute standing on thin legs, as these Colts are doing now. Maybe they'll pick up and run, but who knows? The trouble with football and me is that I can't watch it with rapt attention. As much as football is an infallible godsend for most of the population, I can't help but overlook that indulgence. I guess I'll always be a football newbie. This year, a burnt burrito may have something to do with it. |
| Are we getting pettier and pettier each day? Even New York Times, the paper who claims to be so high-brow? A few days ago, NY Times ran an article titled "Raining E-Blows on Egos" by Lisa W. Foderaro. The writer claims some of those explicit subject lines can embarrass some people and give them psychological hang-ups especially with the fear that their boss and office mates will see that they receive that kind (!) of e-mails. I could quote her, but I won't. Instead, I'll say what I understood from what she wrote. She claims that when office mates and bosses catch one of those organ augmentation stuff or certain undesirable invitations on the subject lines of the e-mails, the receiver may be excessively embarrassed or may become the target of teasing, which could lead to serious psychological problems. I had to laugh. You know, anyone who has worked in an office has to have some stamina to endure a bunch of stuff in the first place. If people can't take that, they are already in dire psychological trouble. They might as well go to business for themselves or else. Surely, this is not a pleasant situation and some junk e-mail do carry friendly tones to fool the onlooker at first sight, but that's just it. Everyone gets those e-mails, and everyone knows what they are. After all, "delete" is only a click away. |
| This morning, I saw a squirrel trying to scale a wall of my house. Salamanders, too, love to climb the walls as they scamper after tiny flies. The walls that link together to house something form the embracing arms of security. A wall that stands alone, however, arouses curiosity. Do you ever look at a wall and wonder what is hiding behind it? Robert Frost said in the "The Mending Wall": “Something there is that doesn’t love a wall...” "Before I built a wall I’d ask to know What was I walling in or walling out And to whom I was like to give offense..." Walls have had an immense influence on mankind since the dawn of civilization. The first walls were the cave walls. Man left his first traces of existence on the cave walls as the first hint of his soul and imagination, since he created art despite his new and unfamiliar status on the planet earth. Ever since, the walls have become mankind’s showcase. Man has made his walls out of a myriad of materials: wood like knotty pine, teak, cherry, mahogany, oak, sticks, tree trunks or logs, dry stone, cement, brick, glass, metal, plastic, hay, flesh, suspicion or sensitivity. He has filled these walls or left them hollowed. Then, he has painted the walls drab gray or in all colors or whitewashed them. Sometimes has kept them in their natural tones; he has wall-papered them not only with paper but with plastics and other invented materials; and he has paneled them with wood and synthetic materials. On top of these walls, he has hung tapestry, billboards, lamps, neon lights, flower boxes, paintings, mirrors, signs, inscriptions, advertisements, manifestos, photos, writing, and even poetry. Then, after ivy climbed the walls of some of his schools, the man has made those schools above and beyond the reach of others, calling them Ivy League Schools. As if all this wasn’t enough, man has invited the wall both in concept and expression into his language. Man walls in his feelings, walls out the unwanted, and stonewalls someone else’s offer of progress. He keeps four walls around himself, and when this becomes too much to handle for him, he climbs the walls, making off-the-wall comments. When he can’t proceed or his mind is blocked, he runs into a wall. He smirks at girls who are wallflowers standing on wall-to-wall carpeting. If he is too drunk or gets an ophthalmologic illness, he becomes walleyed. Man has given the name "wall" to natural structures and phenomena like the canyon walls, sea walls, the eye wall inside a hurricane, walls of time, the cell walls inside his body, and many other things in his universe. Sometimes man’s imagination and extra sensory perception take over for him to see apparitions drift through the walls. For possibly the similar reason, when he is afraid to tell his secrets, he’ll whisper to say, "the walls have ears," personifying the walls. He even gives four walls to his Pandora’s Box. Then, as a masochist, he opens that box. Occasionally, man reveres what a wall represents, as in the case of the Wailing Wall in Jerusalem and the black granite wall of Vietnam War Memorial. Sometimes, man brings down a wall constructed for one reason when its purpose has run out of fashion or it doesn’t serve his purposes anymore such as the Berlin Wall. Some nasty walls like prison walls are visible. Others may be invisible, but their malicious effects are felt deeply inside the humanity's psyche like the Iron Curtain, the Walls of Prejudice or Bias, Walls of Revenge, and Walls of Anger. Man attaches walls to everything in his life. He is the mason who builds the walls, only to protest and whine about them. Then, he tries to break through these walls or to bring them down, and for that, he spends more effort than erecting them. This getting rid of the walls business has to be carried out with caution, without banging into walls, hurting oneself, or hurting anyone who is walled in by one thing or another. Especially in the case of an inner child who is trapped inside the man’s being, one has to break down the walls gently but with firm hands, since inner children are especially sensitive. So, why does man build a wall? Probably, to challenge himself, since challenges employ and entertain. If only man wouldn't scrape his skin while climbing or breaking through! |
| I tell myself, no, I will not buy a handheld satellite radio. Way too many electronic contraptions in the house already. Dealing with so many electronic things, we are forgetting we are human and turning into robots. But a radio...A radio is different; it is special. I can do stuff around the house and listed to the radio. It need not tie me down with visuals. Radios used to be--and still are--my first love. It used to be, each town we went to had its own flair, its own personality, and its own radio program. Since we traveled a lot, I always carried a small radio with me with a headphone to listen in on the people of those towns. Up to until fifteen years ago, local programs provided a grand delight for me, more so than those snowy-screened TV sets in the hotel rooms. Now that the program syndication and satellite radios have taken over during the recent years, the radio stations for the general public have lost their appeal and personality. The syndicated talk show programs turn me off completely since most have foul-mouthed hosts and flimsy content. Worse yet, they think they are free to do and say anything no matter how unimportant, banal, or gross, just because they have achieved syndication and satellite broadcasting and they are above everybody and above any rules of conduct. Those who are not as gross, still, do not reflect the local color and they end up imitating one another, therefore making their shows uninteresting and mind-numbing. I remember in a small town in Tennessee, ten to twenty years ago, most of the music used to be in the lines of “monkey on the rope” or “your sweet boy stole my woman,” but I was truly entertained listening to the host with the local accent and that music the locals liked. In even earlier days, in larger towns, radio stations played all kinds of music. They went from rock to Latin, from classical to pop, from international to spiritual, from local talk shows to radio plays. They opened people’s eyes, ears, minds, and hearts to many possibilities. Once in New Orleans, I found a station where local volunteers read for the blind. I think they still do that in NPR all over the country, but only the blind are given a special contraption to hear it from. I wish I could still hear their voices. It was a delight for me to listen to regular folks read. Not all of them were as well-trained as the actors who read the well-known works of literary writers on the tapes for sale. Some people stumbled on their words, skipped something and then came back. Others had accents or read too fast or too slowly, but it was a wonderful, wonderful community thing, which made me wonder why other places didn’t emulate that. Our radio stations are not only syndicated these days, but also –since they are owned by bigger companies- they are politically biased. Where I live now, some stations are repulsively republican while others are nauseatingly liberal. To add to this, local stations are musically biased as well. While one station only plays rap, the other plays soul music, another plays heavy metal, another hip hop, another elevator music, and a rare one has classical on its agenda. If one is lucky, where he lives there’s a more multicultural, a little on the high-brow side, state-sponsored station. In most places, however, I find that to be non-existent, or if it exists, its signal is so weak that it is impossible to hear. On its own, the midnight programming, too, has gone totally to the dogs. So much so that a syndicated, far-out program that sometimes deals with the supernatural seems to be the most attention-worthy program. I can tell from the multitude of listener participation. True, better choices are on the web, but I can’t take a computer to bed when I lose sleep at night. I need to use a tiny radio with an earphone, but with the way radios are nowadays, I usually lose out. Maybe, I'll still get a satellite radio. Just maybe there's an obscure station in there somewhere that still carries on the true radio tradition. |
| Yesterday, I received a silk scarf as a present, which has been making me think about silk. Never mind if talk back and forth, and even digress, as I usually do, but I do love my scarf and I appreciate the fact that someone so special gave it to me. "Give us the luxuries of life, and we shall dispense with its necessities." I guess there are some facts attached to the silkworm's silk and cocoon, and they may be important enough to ponder about; although, I may go zigzag on the subject. Silk is more resilient than linen, cotton or rayon, wrinkles little, presses easily and holds its shape. Although I find some blouses to wrinkle more easily, I still love the fabric, especially the feel of silk. Yet, just for the feel of something is it worth all the trouble and the pain? Is it worth it to kill the silk larvae in their cocoons? Luckily, modern science has come up with alternate ways of giving that silky feeling to artificial textiles. Maybe the scientists took pity on the silk worms, because producing a yard of silk cloth takes 3,000 silk cocoons. And since I am mentioning thousands, more than 5,000 years ago, the Chinese discovered how to make silk from silkworm cocoons. For about 3,000 years, the Chinese kept this discovery a secret. Were they keeping the secret from other nations or lower castes?  Because poor people could not afford real silk, they tried to make other cloth look silky. Women would beat on cotton with sticks to soften the fibers. Next, they rubbed it against a big stone to make it shiny. The shiny cotton was called "chintz." Because chintz was a cheaper copy of silk, calling something "chintzy" means it is cheap and not of good quality.” Some people kept a secret for 3000 years? That is so unbelievable. Probably, they had never heard of industrial spies. At least, we are ahead of them now in the spying business. As to the beaten cotton, I guess anything that gets beaten on so much either softens and shines or falls apart. Instead of giving that cotton a weird name like chintz, shouldn’t we be revering it? After all, it manages to stay alive after all that abuse. Also, about chintz being a cheaper copy of silk, why think it a copy? Chintz is an original. It is beaten yet respectable cotton whereas pure silk is worm spit. There should be no comparison between the two. Oh, anyway...I still love my silk scarf. As to being chintzy, who in this world hasn’t been accused of being that? Don’t we all get beaten on one way or the other, no matter what our original material is? |
| When I have to, I can make myself sleep. Just closing my eyes and staying quiet are enough; however, once in a rare while, part of me rebels and wants me to do something worthwhile like reading a book or listening to music, encouraging the “you’re wasting your time with sleep” thought to keep me awake. Medical science has an advice list for insomnia, but no advice for sleep disorders could work for me. For example, if I avoided caffeine, it would do nothing to me. My body -as contrary as the person living inside it- actually feels sleepy if I drink a hot cup of tea or coffee. Still to be on the safe side, after 5 PM, I only drink decaf or herbal teas. Although I have written some verse on insomnia, I don’t have insomnia. I can happily say that I have never in my life used one sleeping pill. What I have should probably be called “Voluntary Sleep Resistance Syndrome.” This label, in reality, can be filed under the heading “struggling with the past, to claim the future.” The past started with my resistance (during dinosaur time) when getting put to bed while all the adults were still up and around. Since children like to imitate others, being the only child at the time didn’t help at all. Later on, through my school years, I made up excuses to stay up longer because I had “too much homework.” Even later, when my bedtime didn’t matter to anyone anymore, I reasoned that I was losing too much valuable time during sleep. This reasoning, I am afraid, is still in the background of my mind, working unnoticed like my circulatory system. Another theory I have as a reason for resistance can be called “the prince phobia.” They raised me on all kinds of stories. Of course, inside my mind I changed them -especially the ending- to my liking. One of these stories was the “Sleeping Beauty.” I decided way back when that I would never be a sleeping beauty if the prince did show up. In my version, the Sleeping Beauty never slept that long when the witch cursed her, but she woke up and had the witch put in jail. Sleeping Beauty’s parents, just to keep away the other witches from their contentious daughter, made it seem as if the princess had been sleeping. Sleeping Beauty looked over all the princes in her surroundings and didn’t let anyone come near her, except one naive-yet intelligent, gentle, and handsome prince who liked books. When the Sleeping Beauty saw the prince approaching, she faked sleep. This kind of faking has to be okay since some princes like princesses who are sleeping; yet, in reality, a true princess never sleeps. Maybe, this story telling and retelling had a subliminal effect on me about my bedtime, but then, who’d want an unknown prince kissing her while she slept? Not me, I'd rather know what I am getting into, unless I have African Trypanosomniasis, in other words sleeping sickness. One encouragement I give myself when I find myself resisting to sleep is to look forward to a dream, in case in it I find something good enough to write about. After all, dreams always make sleeping worthwhile, because anytime one is waiting for a dream, all resistance fades away. |
| A writer is a not machine but he turns coffee into half a scribbled page and then goes blank. I say this after Paul Erdss who said, "A Mathematician is a machine for turning coffee into theorems." Then, Montesquieu said, "The coffee is prepared in such a way that it makes those who drink it witty." In my case, witty doesn't cut it; coffee just gets me going. My husband loves fancy coffee. For him, we buy ours in bean form from a fancy coffee shop in the mall. Yesterday, while scanning through the bins of different brands of coffee, I saw the word robusta and said, “Maybe this time, we should try that one.” The salesclerk who himself is an enthusiast --since he and my husband casually discuss the importance of flavor and fragrance each time we stop by-- startled as if what I said was an insult. He said, “True coffee taste is found in Arabica coffees. You’ll never find their flavor and aroma in robustas.” Then, he began to educate me in the quality of different coffee beans. It seems there are only two major overall coffee divisions: Arabicas and Robustas. Arabica coffee beans -named for the Arabs- are the major commercial ones and they grow in semitropical climates near the Equator in either hemisphere, at high altitudes. These have to be monitored and picked with special care, which increases their price. Robusta trees grow their beans at lower altitudes and usually at Equatorial climates. Most supermarket brands in cans are made from robusta beans with robusta coffees also having twice the caffeine that Arabicas have. The only good robusta, he said, is the premium robusta, which is used in espresso blends. My taste buds must not have been that refined because I enjoy the taste of my coffee in proportion to my mood or the company I am with. If my mood or the company is “Heavenly,” my sips of coffee invade my tongue and palate with a delightful taste and divine aroma. Otherwise, what I’m drinking is just coffee. Sometimes, in special pampered moments, I treat myself to a Capuccino, which is not pure-bred coffee although it has an angelic face. The chortling sound and the enchanting fragrance of pure-bred coffee as it drips and a current book waiting to be read while plumped among soft pillows is always a most inviting vision, even if inside my daily life I have been rushing around. When this image crosses my mind, like a daydream it relaxes me even when a cup of coffee is not within my reach. Coating the palate, soaking my inner pores, like a wish, brown bliss glides around with a smooth swish and I close my eyes to drink life flippantly from a cup sip by sip, just to slosh out the bitterness and move my junk out of mind’s reach. So much of interaction has happened over coffee that the visions of coffee klatches with old friends and neighbors never leave me, for out of these gatherings vibrant memories have remained of teamwork, pouring cup after cup, overflowing with jovial gossip and friendly advice. No wonder someone said, “"In Café Veritas." Then comes the pragmatic side of the coffee. Without coffee, not much work would surface. Without coffee, most writing wouldn’t exist. While some people without their morning coffee cannot be fully awake, some writers too without a pot of coffee at their desk cannot write anything fit to arouse respect from their readers. Not that coffee is a muse, but what coffee does is to respectfully pinch and goad the writer into writing by opening up his mind and relaxing him at the same time. No matter what, I savor the flavor of gourmet or store brand, and pay my respects to caffeinated clarity and cordial chitchat with flurries of sentiment, while digging up passions and burying regrets inside the brown brew that crawls up my cup. |
| Aren’t words great? They help us to communicate and express ourselves; they can be used as healers and they can be used as weapons; they can be used to plan for our future and they can be used to document our past. They can be thought, written, coded, decoded, whispered, uttered, sang, or even screamed. If we mar them and they turn up being flawed, they can be fixed. They can be neglected, misused, or forgotten, but they can also be revived and easily corrected. They can be revered and applauded or passed over and excused. Sometimes very few words may mean much and tomes of words may mean little. The worst is when the words that come to us is not enough to say what we feel. James Earl Jones said: "One of the hardest things in life is having words in your heart that you can't utter.” Yet, the words and the way we use them may be roads to success or to downfall. They may be used persuasively or incompetently. With words, we may soar or stumble. Words may reawaken reality and encourage discovery. Words may capture fleeting memories and let us hold on to a bit of infinity. Words may mean encouragement, mercy, forgiveness, and love, but they may also downgrade, scorn, and wound. Since Valentine's Day is just about to appear at the horizon, another quote comes to mind concerning words and love. "Love is just a word until someone comes along and gives it meaning.” I guess that means words are only a little less important than the person we love the most. If imagination and ideas are our minds’ nutrition, then words encapsulate and offer that nutrition to us. Words may photograph our insides and show others the rich variety of perception, interpretation, expression, and experience we possess. While their presence can be delightful, their absence -when it matters- can be a balm. Shakespeare said: "When words are scarce, they are seldom spent in vain.” He probably had the wordy writers in mind. After I have mused over the importance of words, I can’t help but remember this quote. “The only place where 'success' comes before 'work' is the dictionary.” |
Sara King  informed me that she was trying to raise pumpkins with some degree of success (I'll let her tell you the degree) , and that in her home state Alaska, pumpkins are the rage. This was a fact I was totally ignorant of, so I ran a Google search. I couldn't believe the size of the 707 lbs pumpkin I saw that was raised in Alaska: http://www.peninsulaclarion.com/stories/090204/gar_090204new001001.shtmlMaybe the pumpkin in the photo above was partially grown cuddled in a greenhouse. Even so, for this once-upon-a-time gardener, this seemed like some magical feat. In the meantime, I learned a thing or two on pumpkins. Most pumpkins breathe through their stems and leaves. Yes, some have leaves attached to the stem, but not Jack-O-Lanterns. They just have the short, blunt stem. Maybe they grin because they can't breathe well. They must have asthma like me. The rind of the pumpkin is called its skin; its meat is the pulp, the part we make pumpkin pie and other yummy stuff. The pumpkin's lid is the part around the stem that we cut before hollowing it. Its ribs are the indented ridges on the skin running from top to bottom. The empty cavity after removing the pumpkin's "guts" is called cavity. Well if a fruit has guts, it better have brains, too. A pumpkin's brains are its fibrous, slimy, mushy strands. For these strands or brain, no transplanting (into human skull) enterprise is in the future--yet--for improved Stanford-Binet results.  (Are those tests still around?) Since a pumpkin has hundreds of seeds, each seed has a nut inside, wearing a "seed coat" on the outside, so it can stay warm and protected and can grow into another plant. Next, I found a recipe for an Alaska Pumpkin Pie: http://garden.blogware.com/blog/_archives/2005/11/15/1407057.html Then in the Anchorage Press, I read about making pumpkin ale. That means not only you can have a sweet tooth, but also, you can sweep down what sticks to it with a brew. I may just turn into a smashed pumpkin next Halloween. I learn so much from WC members… Thanks Sara King. |
| An experimental biotech stuff approved by the FDA is being used in the ice-cream. The substance has good points. It is supposed to help the ice-cream to re-crystallize in case it warms up. This substance is made from the blood proteins of a certain kind of an eel-like, bottom-dwelling fish found in the northern regions: western North Atlantic Ocean in the vicinity of Battle Harbor, in southern Labrador, in the Gulf of St. Lawrence, all around the coast of Newfoundland, in the Bay of Fundy, off Nova Scotia, and as far south as North Carolina.. The fish is known as eelpout, muttonfish, ocean pout, and congo eel. Who'd know the protein diet would advance this far! I think Dr. Atkins had nothing to do with this, but then maybe Breyers did, since they are the first ones to jump on the fish-blood wagon. It is astounding to think how ice-cream has changed from the days of the Roman emperor Nero Claudius Caesar who sent slaves to the mountains to bring snow and ice to cool and freeze the fruit drinks he loved so much. It wasn't Nero only but also later Marco Polo who got into ice-cream after witnessing the Chinese ice-cream techniques. Basic ice-cream should consist of milk, sweeteners, fruit, and emulsifiers. So many franchises claim that their product is the best ice-cream, because they make it with the finest ingredients. Now the blood of an ugly fish becomes one of those finest (!) ingredients. Probably, not everyone is going to use it, but if this thing helps the ice-cream, the use of fish blood will spread like wildfire. Maybe we won't even taste it or know about it. Still, I say, something fishy has gone into the ice-cream business. |
| Does it matter? I guess it does, because here and there, I keep reading contrasting views about whether we, the supposedly pure-bred Homo Sapiens, had any Neanderthal genes in us. The last prevailing stance was that Homo Sapiens were totally different from Neanderthals, because they were from different regions. Now, still another view: An article in The Associated Press by Randolph E. Schmid says that a skull found in a cave in Romania has features of both species, suggesting they may have interbred. Radiocarbon dating indicates it to be 35,000 to 40,000 years old. Then, someone else in Germany is trying to map the Neanderthal genome to understand any possible link to modern people. Well, I can think of a few possible…Oh, never mind! Anyhow, this makes me think. What if there was a Romeo Juliet story between a Neanderthal and a Homo Sapien 40,000 or more years ago? How would Shakespeare write that one? What about the balcony scene? I guess some lines could be copied exactly. "Being held a foe, he may not have access To breathe such vows as lovers use to swear;" Then, maybe, what if a WC writer wrote a Juliet Neanderthal and Romeo Sapien story? Don't look at me! I only read the weird stuff and make up even weirder stories. Count me out. This is a serious historical undertaking. Well, anybody up for it? |
| Our favorite restaurant was packed yesterday at lunch. We couldn't get to sit outside on the deck. Ouch! I love the deck, because not only there is the full ocean view, but we can see pelicans and gulls landing on the dock and we can watch the fish swim if we look down from the sides of the deck. While it is winter for most of the country now, this is South Florida with 79 degrees in January and a sweet breeze from the Atlantic, and my favorite restaurant is the Dolphin Bar in Jensen Beach, because it is right on the ocean. My first favorite restaurant used to be Rottie's in St. Lucie before the hurricanes Frances and Jeanne demolished it. Luckily for the area residents, Dolphin Bar recovered very quickly after the hurricanes and opened its doors within a few months. Most any restaurant on the water gets spoiled and serves less-than-great dishes, but not Dolphin Bar. I never ate anything I didn't like there. I love the deck, but the insides are terrific, too, still with some ocean view and with several rooms, rock walls, a fireplace (not that it is needed), and a high cathedral ceiling in the main room where the fireplace is. Their salad bar is great; although, when I go to a restaurant, I like to be served. Oh, I know, I am a sloth! A side dish of salad, however, comes with most of the dishes, and it is of choice greens and julienned carrots, turnips, and other scrumptious salad material. Their thousand island dressing is my favorite, and the bread rolls are freshly baked and warm. They also serve the best kind of wine, if you order. Even the house wine can be very agreeable. In my case, since wines dislike me, my drink pick usually is the lemonade, or iced-tea, or coffee. The entrees enchant any customer with great variety and careful, artistic preparation. Fresh fish is the best, really fresh. The Oriental Tuna is a favorite of mine. Most other customers enjoy shrimp prepared in many different ways. Yesterday, I had a dolphin sandwich. (Dolphin is another kind of fish, mistakenly named, not the cute kind of dolphin in the Sea World.) Last week, I had the Oriental Tuna, which made several customers ask the waiter, "I want what that lady over there is having." My husband swears by their prime rib, but anything on the menu is great. The place certainly pleases a broad spectrum of expectations and appetites, although the menu is said to be Bahamian. The portions are not small, but they are not too overflowing that they make you gag either. I like to eat every morsel, but I end up having the main dish wrapped for later, to save space for the desert. They have a chocolate cake to die for, and the tiramisu makes me forget about that little cholesterol problem I am having. What is so memorable is the feeling in the restaurant. The bar is full with friendly people and customers arrive by car or by boat, because the restaurant has a 200 feet long dock. The attire is not formal, considering the high quality of food. This makes the place even more attractive. Classy but casual would describe it the best. The owners are down-to earth people who live in small cottages on the grounds, while the restaurant has a flashy past. The place used to be The Outrigger Resort, owned by 1940s singer and movie starlet Frances Langford and her husband, Ralph Evinrude. Indoors, the walls on the foyer flaunt the photos of celebrities like Perry Como, Frank Sinatra, Bob Hope, Ginger Rogers, Jackie Gleason, and Richard Nixon. The prices are not expensive at all, considering the quality; although, some restaurant critics of the area place Dolphin Bar as expensive. To me expensive is when you don't get your money's worth and end up feeling sick to your stomach. Then, the best is still to come. Outside the restaurant area to the side of the building, a boutique shop offers many varieties of tropical bric-a-brac, some choice wine, clothing and other things. Inside the shop a very lovely, petite young lady helps the customers. Although I hate to shop, I drifted to the shop yesterday, because of the music. That young lady with the magic smile told me she always played CD's and this one was from Armik, the Flamenco guitarist and composer. No wonder, I was drawn in there, because I, too, have several Armik CDs. Well, if anybody is displeased with the Dolphin Bar, it is probably because they expect a chic French menu with waiters in tuxes. Dolphin Bar is not that, thank God. It is the scenery, ambiance, friendliness, and good food. I am glad that we have one restaurant left within short distance with all the other sea-front restaurants not rebuilding after the hurricanes or selling out to condo complexes. |
| Yesterday, we went to see "The Good Shepherd." I am not really a movie goer, but my husband loves the movies. So, once in a while, if I figure I won’t get out of the movie house without wanting to give it to Hollywood full steam, I accept to see a movie. Yesterday, however, hubby and I almost left the place without seeing the film. Reason: the movie was supposed to start at 3:45 in the afternoon. It started at 4:30 and for what? To show us chilling previews of whichever atrocious movie the Regency Theaters could get their hands on. Actually, the previews had already started when we got in, which was twenty minutes earlier. That makes it over an hour of previews. I wonder if serial killers lose it and become serial killers when subjected to such horrendous previews for such a long time. It is also possible that this tactic is contrived by the opposition to the movie industry as an underhanded scheme by executing torture on the general public. If I have paid to see a movie, I don't want to watch an hour of previews, okay? Anyhow, since we both enjoyed the movie, I may accept another venture, once this trauma of the previews is forgotten. For a while though, it will be HBO or Blockbuster movies for me. "The Good Shepherd" has mixed reviews and a lady in the movie house's restroom --yes, I talk to strangers-- complained to me that she didn't quite get the plot because of the frequent back and forth movement of the time frame. Neither my husband nor I had that or any other problem with the movie. I think "The Good Shepherd" is very well directed. Kudos to Robert de Niro, one of my favorite actors, who has now turned out to be one of my favorite directors. Matt Damon deserves an Oscar for portraying Edward Wilson, the American spy, who is a true patriot. The rest of the cast, Angelina Jolie, William Hurt, Alec Baldwin, Robert De Niro, Billy Crudup, Michael Gambon, Joe Pesci, and John Turturro all were spectacular. The main plot of the movie is set around the Bay of Pigs Invasion, but it is really Wilson's story, a human story happening around the time when CIA was born. The writer of the movie, Eric Roth, draws excellent characters. Movie goers should remember him from Forrest Gump and other highly acclaimed films. The success of this movie proved my time-tested belief: A high-class writer has to be behind every successful venture. |
| The FDA just approved a new diet drug by Pfizer, but only for the family pooch that imitates the other couch potatoes in the family. The drug is Slentrol that is meant to be included in a controlled diet and exercise program. Diet and exercise…hmmm! Do dogs make resolutions, too? Do they have treadmills in their gyms? Treadmills may be the most popular aerobic machine at the gym, but running on a road right and left to nowhere is probably a much more delightful game to a dog. The way most people..ahem doggies would use treadmills would lead to several loud barks. Not a soothing singing for the owners since that could get other dogs in the neighborhood to join the chorus. What seemed funny to me is the warning inside the drug's prospectus: "WARNINGS: Not for use in humans. Keep this and all drugs out of reach of children.Adverse reactions associated with humans ingesting dirlotapide include: abdominal distention, abdominal pain, diarrhea, flatulence, headache, increased serum transaminases, nausea, and vomiting. SLENTROL may cause eye-irritation. If accidental eye exposure occurs, flush the eyes immediately with clean water." Was this warning necessary? I'm sure it was. Should this drug have been around and should we have given it to our dog, I am sure my kids would have tried it, as well. So today, I'm just thankful for the lack of medical progress 20-25 years ago. Then, there are some people who might think...only because dogs and homosapiens are both mammals… Oh, never mind! |
| So sorry to read the passing of an artist who injected so much into my life and probably into many other lives as well, without being aware of it. Not only was he not aware of it, but also those of us who enjoyed his work did not know it was him who created what we enjoyed, but then, that is the life of a true artist for you. Yesterday the Disney artist Iwao Takamoto passed away in Cedars-Sinai Medical Center. Vice-president of special projects at his passing, Mr. Takamoto was the animation artist who created Scooby-Doo, Astro (Jetson's pooch), Penelope Pitstop, and many other cartoon characters. Actually, I had some years on me when these goodies came to the screen, but my children delighted in these cartoons and they made me watch with them (not that I needed anyone to twist my arm). If they said, "Mom, you have to see this…" then, I had to. All cartoons had a special place in my family's heart, but Atom Ant, Astro, and Penelope had led the way. Atom Ant was the hero in my two-year old's first story telling venture. Because I had missed the show, he had taken pity on me and wanted to tell me and his father what had happened in the show. By the time, we caught on to his story, he was all wet with sweat. He is 33 now . Probably, he still relives the challenge of it when he tries to tell us anything. Astro, Jetson's dog, made my older son (six at the time) cultivate an interest in the stars. He is still wishing we take up residence in another planet, since this one has gotten so messy and unmanageable.As for me, over the years, I actually identified myself with Penelope Pitstop, for pulling through most anything by the skin of my teeth.  Mr. Takamoto learned his art in a Japanese-American internment camp and was later hired by the Disney Studios. He received several lifetime achievement honors. He was 81 at his passing. |
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