Magpie Tales 173...Afloat

The Promenade, 1918, by Marc Chagall 

 

 

Hands clasped tight in love

Joy filled her like helium

Promise kissed the air

 

 

 

 

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Magpie Tales 173...I haven't done a prompt for several weeks--not sure why.  This painting made me think of that wonderful euphoria of being in love, and since I haven't done a haiku for ages either...

 

Fathers

To all the wonderful, funny, sweet, loving, protective, caring, nurturing and decent men out there, just like my very own Dad:

Happy Father's Day

Miss you, Pops...

Week 24 of the 52s...Into The Wild

I've been (im)patiently waiting for my bookplates to show up from BookCrossing, and at last, they arrived in the post.

Twelve stickers, each with their own number, place of origin and other bits of info.  They look cool, and I'm really pleased with my photo...

Here's a close-up.  Can you read the tiny print down by the traveling book icon?  In case it doesn't show up if you've clicked on the photo:  the karma of literature - free and anonymous. 

This whole concept just speaks to me on so many levels.  Anything that encourages reading, broadens the mind, allows the imagination to soar, is a great thing.

It's been fun to design my own plates, choose a book, ponder where to set it free, participate in such a cool experience.

 



I have a difficult time letting go of books, though with the volume of reading I do, if I held onto every book that has filled my mind, I could overwhelm a coliseum.  What I'm saying is:  I still have a multitude of titles to pick from.

I wandered from bookcase to bookcase, pulling one out, putting it back, moving to the next.  At one point in the process, I had a thought: because of where I live--very small town in the middle of nowhere--would it make a difference in someone actually reading my book, or tossing it in the bin?  I can think of dozens of places in Edinburgh to leave a book and never have that thought cross my mind; I know the book would be read.  Does that mean I should chose a book based on the people who inhabit my current geography?

But no.  I decided to take the risk.  Besides the joy of sending a book out into the world, there's also the whole point inherent in the 52s: stepping out, taking those risks, doing something different and hopefully fun.

With that in mind, I chose this book, for two reasons:  First, the cover was designed to look old, well-read, a travelin' kind of book; and, it's a novel that is..."ultimately a love letter to literature, intended for readers as passionate about storytelling as its young hero."**
 
It was a great book, perhaps one that wouldn't have been chosen by the person who ultimately finds it...  

Course, I'm still struggling a bit with where to release it.  If the place is too local, I doubt it will go anywhere except perhaps in the garbage; too secluded and it's lost.  I do have an idea or two, so in the morning I'll pick one and hope for serendipity.

This was an interesting thing to do for my Week.  It was fun to chose a book, to officially belong to the global BookCrossing club--though I should probably work on my "fly, be free" mentality.

And maybe I should plan a vacation so I can get into a more populated environment.  After all, I have eleven more stickers and {gulp} books to send out into the world...


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**Editor's Choice, Entertainment Weekly

It's Always Something...

The weather cooled off a bit on Tuesday, which gave me the chance to catch up on things I can't/won't do in the blistering heat. 

One of those things was buying a new lawnmower before I lost the boys in the urban jungle of the backyard.  Because the lawn isn't very big, and I like to consider my carbon footprint is equally as small, I mow with an old-fashioned push mower.  Not only do I like the exercise, but it's quiet and efficient.  Of course, after I lug the box home, I still have to assemble the machine, though that didn't take long.  The new mower is wider, very sharp, and I had the lawn done in mere minutes.  What a wonderful tool, and I didn't even work up a sweat.  

[There was a time when a new pair of shoes, or a great Italian purse would have made my heart go pitter-patter.  Nowadays it's a shiny new lawnmower.  Where did I go wrong?]

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Wednesday morning--4:00am to be precise--Ozzy got weirdly frantic to go outside.  I'm not happy about this as I had stayed up until nearly 2:00am to finish this really good book.  Still, if a guy's gotta go...  I drag myself out of bed, open the back door, then flop back into bed to wait for him to come back inside when he's finished.  I wait.  And wait.  And wait some more.  Finally, I get up, go the back door and quietly hiss his name.  No response.  I go out onto the deck, barefoot and in my scanty sleepwear (men's boxers and a tank top) and hiss again.  Nothing.

Cursing, I come inside, throw on my hoody, jam my feet into flip flops, grab a flashlight and go back out.  I canvas the back, the front, then in case he's slipped past me, I go through the entire house.  Nada.

I begin to panic.  Where could he be?  I'm standing on the deck just outside the back door when I hear this odd rustling noise beneath my feet.  WTF is he doing under the deck?  There's no way I can reach him--he's in a place where only an 8-lb dog or a wild animal can maneuver.  I go to the opposite end of the deck where you can crawl under to access the house.


Picture this black hole in the dead of night.  My flashlight, one of those Eveready beacon-type things, barely penetrates the scary dark netherworld beneath the deck.  I do not want to crawl under there.  There are bugs and spiders and...things. 

I kneel down, call Ozzy, then get on my stomach and wiggle under a couple of feet, waving the flashlight like a light saber.  Finally I catch the glint of two little eyes.



Coaxing and cajoling, I finally get the little bastard moron out from under the bloody deck.  I have no idea why he's gone under there, why he wouldn't come out, or what the flaming hell he's doing.  I just know I had two hours sleep and had to slither under the deck in the pitch dark when I wouldn't even do it in broad daylight.

Back inside, Ozzy goes to his bed, I toss my clothes into the hamper and get out clean ones. I haven't turned on any lights; between my night vision and knowing my way around the bedroom blindfolded, all I'm trying to do is get my foot into the damned leg of another pair of boxers so I can get back to sleep.  I stagger, I flail, I think the edge of the bed is further away than it is...

I slammed into that corner right at mid-calf. It felt liked I'd been shot with a spear gun. Later in the day when my leg was aching, I looked at the bruise, and wow, it's truly, brutally impressive. So, I somehow survive the dark perils of crawling beneath the deck, then nuke myself in my own bedroom. Figures.

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Yesterday I had planned to get an early start on the next installment of the serial, but when I pulled into the driveway after taking the dogs down the valley for their walk, something looked...funny in the front garden. I let the dogs out of the car, then went to see what was amiss.

Those frigging blasted deer. Between leaving and returning--about an hour--they ate their way through my two new shrubs (the deer resistant ones), half the dogwood tree and most of the daylily greens that line the walkway. All they left behind were sticks and twigs. Visions of venison steaks wafted through my head.

So. Rather than have a nice cuppa and settle at the computer to write, I spent the better part of the morning and early afternoon trying to salvage my front yard, then spraying the disgusting deer repellent everywhere, including on myself when the breeze shifted. And hey, there's just nothing like the lovely stench of coyote pee to make a girl feel special.

Once I was finished, had another shower and threw all my clothes into the washing machine, I had to have a long talk with my deer hound. Apparently, my boy has been shirking his duties.

 

 

Ozzy spends most of his day on full alert at the front windows. He always warns me with a low growl when the deer enter the yard, which allows me to shoo them across the road and down the ridge before they decimate my plants. It seems they have figured out that if they wait until I drive away, they can have an undisturbed meal at the All You Can Eat Buffet.

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A really good thing:  This morning Max got his stitches removed, and got a clean bill of health from the vet. His missing toe doesn't actually look...missing. His foot looks a bit narrower, but honestly, you can't even tell he doesn't have all his toes. I'm sure that after several weeks of hopping and limping, it must feel wonderful to just walk.

I know I'd like to walk. Right into a nice, long vacation where there are no deer or scary dark places or corners of doom to reach out and maim a person. I'm gonna have to work on that...

 

Joyland

I pretty much took the day off yesterday, not only because it was Sunday and I like to kick back, but also because it was somewhere in the 90s, bizarrely humid and I could barely manage to make my lungs work, let alone walk or talk.
 
A perfect excuse then for a good book, some snacks and an ice cold Dos Equis to get myself through the day.
 
Grocery shopping earlier in the week, I saw Stephen King's new book, Joyland, on display at the checkout counter.  He's one of my favorite writers, not that I'm into horror or scary things, but because he can write a sentence, a paragraph, a story like nobody else.  That's not to say I've liked all his books.  I haven't.  And frankly I prefer his older work to some of the newer, especially the stuff after his near-death accident.
 


Joyland is old Stephen King.  Sucked me in immediately, I couldn't stop reading, and was completely mesmerized by the story.
 
I don't usually write book reviews; reading is so subjective and personal, and we all have our own opinions and preferences. 

So, this post isn't exactly a review but more a quick description of the story (from the back cover), and a few quotes from the book that just added to my ongoing love affair for a writer at the top of his game.
 





Blurb:
 

College student Devin Jones took the summer job at Joyland [an amusement park, 1973], hoping to forget the girl who broke his heart.  But he wound up facing something far more terrible: the legacy of a vicious murder, the fate of a dying child, and dark truths about life--and what comes after--that would change his world forever.  Joyland is at once a mystery, a horror story, and a bittersweet coming-of-age novel...

 

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A few bits from Devin:

 

"When you're twenty-one, life is a roadmap.  It's only when you get to be twenty-five or so that you begin to suspect you've been looking at the map upside down, and not until you're forty are you entirely sure.  By the time you're sixty, take it from me, you're fucking lost."

 

"When it comes to the past, everyone writes fiction."

 

"Nothing screws with memory like repetition."

 

"I remembered something my mother used to say. 'The devil can quote scripture.'"

 

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Even out of context, can you feel his words, how they effortlessly draw you in?  I honestly don't think there's anyone writing today who can tell the story of a boy's--or a young man's--coming-of-age quite like Stephen King. 

 

I love this writer...and I really loved this book.

 



Birdbrained

Through the mirror this morning whilst brushing my teeth, I happened to catch the perfect angle of light and shadow from the large window that overlooks the back deck.

I'm (sort of) used to the random kamikaze dive of the birds when they mistake the reflections of sky and trees for real life, but after I hung my prayer flags across the window in the bathroom, I thought I had eliminated the problem altogether.  At least I haven't had to dispose of any corpses recently.

Can you see them?  I count four ghost birds.  Four.  I can see one as a random event, but four?  How many birds does it take before the word gets passed along?  Apparently more than I would have thought.

Check out the middle one at the bottom.  With that wingspan it wasn't a small bird and yet it still flew beneath the flags and smack into the frigging window!  If you click on the photo, you can see not only the wings and body, but the tail.  That is a bird in full flight.  Can you imagine what a shock that must have been?  Soaring into the wild blue yonder...then SPLAT.  Oh man, what a headache.

Thankfully, as I said, there were no bodies heaped in carnage on the deck, though I think it's safe to say there's at least four birds out in the world with serious issues.  Gives a whole new meaning to the word birdbrained, doesn't it?

 

Week 23 of the 52s...Saturday Market

I got up early this morning in the hope that I could walk the boys and go the Saturday Market before it got too hot.  When I opened the blinds I was thrilled to see clouds and feel the cooler air.  Maybe a break in the weather is coming.

Down the mountain, meander on back roads to avoid the weekend tourist traffic, cross the river, and at last get to the quiet VA complex.  I'm still doing the shorter hikes because of Max and The Toe, but we were only about 15 minutes into the walk when the clouds suddenly dissipated and the temp began to rise.  Damn.  The Saturday Market is down the highway on the same side of the river where I am currently beginning to sweat in the instant humidity.  Double damn.  No question I will have to take the dogs home now, then retrace my route.  

And a good thing I did.  By the time I'd driven down, up, and back down again, then found the Market, it was blistering hot...at 10:30 in the morning.

I wasn't sure what to expect since I haven't been to the Market before.  I sort of pictured a flea market affair, and maybe a table or two of wilted veggies.  Shows what I know.  When folks have mentioned this Saturday event to me, they have always called it the Saturday Market.  Turns out, it's really called...

The Farmer's Market:

There were many tents/booths, with beautiful vegetables, fruits, artisan breads, crafts, plants and flowers. 

The Community Garden had a wonderful tent--actually two tents--with an incredible selection of organic veggies.  And I love what they call themselves.  Can't you just imagine the meeting where all the gardeners got together and came up with that name?

As I was strolling into a jewelry tent, the woman working there asked if she could see my ring.  (It's funny how I think I cruise through life under the radar when in fact I totally don't).  

I'm very much into natural gemstones and have been for years; most of my jewelry is some kind of stone, including my gorgeous purple Charoite ring she's interested in.  We talk gemstones for a bit, then her husband joins in and we have a pleasant few minutes chatting about their travels to Australia over the Winter and the gems they collected.  She cleans, polishes and determines what the stones will become, and he makes her ideas into jewelry.

My new Moukite earrings.  Australian Jasper.  The deep hue of kidney beans.  Four months ago they were small stones, laying in the red dust of the Australian Outback.  Now they dangle from my ears thousands of miles away.  How cool is that?

 
This stunning quilt caught my eye from two aisles away.  I could see it through the tents and though I resisted the urge to deviate from my up-one-aisle-down-the-next, I couldn't wait to see this beauty up close.  It was absolutely amazing.  150 different strips of fabric, perfect quilting, brilliant sense of color.

First Prize in the regional quilt show, 2012.

And, if that wasn't enough, she also won Second Prize with this one at the same show!  The quilter told me she was the first person in all the years of the quilt competition to win both top prizes.  No wonder.  And the funny thing was, she was just using the quilts as decoration for her booth!  They weren't part of her merchandise, or even for sale.

Oh, these were beautiful.  They just gleamed in the sun like rubies.  I had to ask the farm woman about those smaller, pale ones though.  She told me they're the real pie cherries.  Very tart, so when sugar is added in the cooking, you get the perfect pie.  Who knew?  Actually, I don't like cherry pie, though I do love biting into a juicy one, just picked off the tree this morning, like these...

The place was getting mobbed by this time, and the heat was brain warping.  I stopped at the high school pottery tent but couldn't get a good photograph with all the kids and people milling about.  When I managed to get to the table, I was so impressed with the work on display, and amazed to hear the school has three kilns and an exceedingly talented bunch of young potters.  The two kids manning the booth were so sweet and friendly, I just had to buy something to support the students.

My pottery, made by West, who is a senior at the high school and very cool...according to the two kids.  Thanks, West...it's a wonderful piece of work.

My last stop, just as I was getting lightheaded from the heat rising in thick waves from the asphalt, was at the Village Baker tent.  I just can't resist a great loaf of bread.  They had several unique blends, but my all natural, vegan, yeast free, Cranberry/Apricot was irresistible.  When I got home, I cut two slices, toasted them and called it lunch.  The first bite is tart like cranberries, then as I chewed, it mellowed into a sweet apricot flavor.  The texture is dense, though somehow light at the same time.  This could possibly be the best artisan bread I've ever had...seriously.

So, Week 23 of the 52s has been a great success.  I have delicious bread, a new piece of art, a bit of the Outback bobbing against my cheeks, and another new experience under my belt.

Now, if I can just avoid heat stroke...