Nothing happening between these ears, so I set myself the task of wandering our private quarters this morning and snapping a record of "favorite things."
I forgot to turn on the camera half the time, something in the order of "Ooh, shiny!" -- mouth agape. And so you missed my collection of stones and crystals stored in my grandmother's cut glass bowl.
My earrings from Tehran. They're red, gold, and beautiful.
The world's most incredible twig basket ($1.05 at the Thrift Store).
The soup tureen (with mismatched lid) I inherited from my (multi-millionaire) aunt.
One of Fred's guitars, in the process of being lovingly refinished.
The double chocolate prune cake I whipped up at 4 AM. Don't let the "prune" fool you, it ain't in no way health food.
My closet full of slings, casts, braces, walkers, spare wheelchair parts, and -- inexplicably -- seventeen empty coffee cans.
Ah, but I did manage to get pictures of some things quite dear to the old coeur!
One to Count Cadence by James Crumley. It's been a long, slow read about a part of the world and a time that was all too quick, all too real, and much too... moist. (That's for those of you who have passed a monsoon season in the P.I.) It's pretty rare for this Sister-Unit to wonder whether the Brother-Units have read something. Anyway, it's the first favorite thing by virtue of being the first "currently in favor" thing captured with the video camera ON. Oh, and that long metal thingy is -- verily! -- a most appreciated item: one of my five reacher-grabber thingies. Gimp gold!
Yeah, then there's Buddy the Kitten, some guy whose sweet goodness outshines the sun [It's Fred!], and my humongous bottle of bear repellent. Special dispensation from Captain Haddock and Tante Louise permits me to attach the UDAP Bear 911 canister to my wheelchair so that I may render impotent any intruder into the peace of Marlinspike Hall. In reality, of course, I keep it in a cluttered carry-all stashed under my jewelry tree.
Shoot. The jewelry tree! That *is* one of my favorite things. Drat. Oh, well, next go round. I wonder how many times Scorsese has felt the sting of remorse over a lost shot?
My Pléiades cigar box! You can pick one up at eBay for under ten bucks, but the love of the thing here depicted comes from the guy who gave it -- one of the world's most invested poseurs -- for whom I was a mannerism he briefly affected. He thought I'd like it, and I did. {shiver :: ick :: ewww}
Beyond that, the water-stained warped box is cherished as an adequate container for the things contained -- a tough category that includes granules of fine (Parisian) pastels in its corners, and, in its most recently incarnated use, an absorbent receptacle for the blood stains from glucose testing.
Unintended, but correct, is the inclusion of my flowery cane. It's a great way for people who are uncomfortable around disability to disassociate. With that cane as a prop, such folk can exclaim, "If you have to have a cane, why not get a pretty one, right?" If things are particularly squirrel-y, this $12 cane can sustain a monologue until the ambulance arrives.
My Tracy Porter tea cup and saucer. It's not a favorite thing... It's more a sometimes perfect note, when perfect means facile. I was aiming at the stuff in it! Fred went through a Winnie the Pooh figurine stage a decade or so back, and would bring home gift ensembles featuring the bear or maybe -- my favorite -- Eeyore. It was reminiscent of Barbie stylings, somehow -- Teacher Barbie or Barbie Collector Twilight Saga Bella Doll.
[We used to enjoy making Alternative Crèches, and Winnie the Pooh + Friends were terrific in the Underwater Nativity before we moved our considerable talents on to Stonehenge Parodies [shout out to @HengeClub ].
Nestled under the cup is an Iranian prayer rosary, or tasbih, given to me by a woman who uses them as worry beads. I use them as bracelets. I hope she's grown less worried with age; I might profit from her serenity with more wrist adornments.
Then there's a brief interlude with My Boys: Grandfather, TW and his charming grin, Adrean, Grader Boob as a Young Man, Some Dood with a Goo-Goo Eyed Woman Draped on his Shoulder, and then a seamless and meaningful segue into a shot of My Favorite Hair Bands.
Wow, I should be issuing a blanket apology. Whatever. I like textiles!
Mon bel oranger by José Mauro de Vasconcelos only made the director's cut because I ran across it by accident a few days back. The felines dislodged it from a bookcase and my hand crossed it like a live wire while restoring order. I decided to read it aloud and have been enjoying that. Very much, in fact.
Disturbing trend: the Iranian Worry-Bead Woman? She also introduced me to Mon bel oranger. A few years later, I had a wonderfully blue neon light constructed to form Zézé, the personnage principal that she somehow brings to mind.
So it's My Sweet Orange Tree in English... but very few USAmericans know of it. Have you read it? It's a children's classic that adults have come to mostly via translation. Of course, according to Amazon, you need to shell out $250 for an English copy, which might explain a few things. It needs to be back in print! It's one of those books to cherish, to force into a loved one's hands. Good going, felines. I wonder what they've in store for me next. Probably Tolkien.
Clearly losing my hold on reality, this videographer next centers her food processor in the frame, delightfully accented by some juicy red bells, followed by a candid shot of favorite flavors: ginger, cayenne, rosemary, cumin, balsamic vinegar. Wasabi? What the heck is wasabi doing in this shot? Am I queen of sushi? No, I am not. In sauces, dressings, toppings, fine -- but do I gravitate to wasabi, first off, first thing, as first choice in a flavor profile? No, I do not. Harrumph.
Knives. Okay, so we have a few knives. I confess that the paring knife collection is over the top, and I cannot see why we have more than two boning knives, but heck, we just do.
Should you ever hear that I've met my demise in some sort of violent domestic conflict? Check the kitchen, count the knives. Look between my shoulder blades. Is that a Chinese cleaver parting my tresses? [Psst! I would check into Sven Feingold's whereabouts and his alibi. I hate to insinuate, but if La Bonne et Belle Bianca Castafiore serves as his witness, or even Cabana Boy (recently found to be Sven's biological son)? Someone may well be getting away with murder...]
Finally... my favorite triptych, our Laughing Buddha, plus a beloved detail of that old cliched Klimt and his golden kisses. The cat condo keeps getting shoved in front of it, and so it's fitting that Buddy the Kitten should languidly drape himself into the last shot.
Pray for sleep, because in the queue of things-that-might-pass-as-interesting should my brain not rest a bit are such pressing topics as:
The Linen Closets: A Retrospective;
Fred's Flashlights; and...
Dobby's Secret Stash of Tiny Top Hats.
I forgot to turn on the camera half the time, something in the order of "Ooh, shiny!" -- mouth agape. And so you missed my collection of stones and crystals stored in my grandmother's cut glass bowl.
My earrings from Tehran. They're red, gold, and beautiful.
The world's most incredible twig basket ($1.05 at the Thrift Store).
The soup tureen (with mismatched lid) I inherited from my (multi-millionaire) aunt.
One of Fred's guitars, in the process of being lovingly refinished.
The double chocolate prune cake I whipped up at 4 AM. Don't let the "prune" fool you, it ain't in no way health food.
My closet full of slings, casts, braces, walkers, spare wheelchair parts, and -- inexplicably -- seventeen empty coffee cans.
Ah, but I did manage to get pictures of some things quite dear to the old coeur!
One to Count Cadence by James Crumley. It's been a long, slow read about a part of the world and a time that was all too quick, all too real, and much too... moist. (That's for those of you who have passed a monsoon season in the P.I.) It's pretty rare for this Sister-Unit to wonder whether the Brother-Units have read something. Anyway, it's the first favorite thing by virtue of being the first "currently in favor" thing captured with the video camera ON. Oh, and that long metal thingy is -- verily! -- a most appreciated item: one of my five reacher-grabber thingies. Gimp gold!
Yeah, then there's Buddy the Kitten, some guy whose sweet goodness outshines the sun [It's Fred!], and my humongous bottle of bear repellent. Special dispensation from Captain Haddock and Tante Louise permits me to attach the UDAP Bear 911 canister to my wheelchair so that I may render impotent any intruder into the peace of Marlinspike Hall. In reality, of course, I keep it in a cluttered carry-all stashed under my jewelry tree.
Shoot. The jewelry tree! That *is* one of my favorite things. Drat. Oh, well, next go round. I wonder how many times Scorsese has felt the sting of remorse over a lost shot?
My Pléiades cigar box! You can pick one up at eBay for under ten bucks, but the love of the thing here depicted comes from the guy who gave it -- one of the world's most invested poseurs -- for whom I was a mannerism he briefly affected. He thought I'd like it, and I did. {shiver :: ick :: ewww}
Beyond that, the water-stained warped box is cherished as an adequate container for the things contained -- a tough category that includes granules of fine (Parisian) pastels in its corners, and, in its most recently incarnated use, an absorbent receptacle for the blood stains from glucose testing.
Unintended, but correct, is the inclusion of my flowery cane. It's a great way for people who are uncomfortable around disability to disassociate. With that cane as a prop, such folk can exclaim, "If you have to have a cane, why not get a pretty one, right?" If things are particularly squirrel-y, this $12 cane can sustain a monologue until the ambulance arrives.
My Tracy Porter tea cup and saucer. It's not a favorite thing... It's more a sometimes perfect note, when perfect means facile. I was aiming at the stuff in it! Fred went through a Winnie the Pooh figurine stage a decade or so back, and would bring home gift ensembles featuring the bear or maybe -- my favorite -- Eeyore. It was reminiscent of Barbie stylings, somehow -- Teacher Barbie or Barbie Collector Twilight Saga Bella Doll.
[We used to enjoy making Alternative Crèches, and Winnie the Pooh + Friends were terrific in the Underwater Nativity before we moved our considerable talents on to Stonehenge Parodies [shout out to @HengeClub ].
Nestled under the cup is an Iranian prayer rosary, or tasbih, given to me by a woman who uses them as worry beads. I use them as bracelets. I hope she's grown less worried with age; I might profit from her serenity with more wrist adornments.
Then there's a brief interlude with My Boys: Grandfather, TW and his charming grin, Adrean, Grader Boob as a Young Man, Some Dood with a Goo-Goo Eyed Woman Draped on his Shoulder, and then a seamless and meaningful segue into a shot of My Favorite Hair Bands.
Wow, I should be issuing a blanket apology. Whatever. I like textiles!
Mon bel oranger by José Mauro de Vasconcelos only made the director's cut because I ran across it by accident a few days back. The felines dislodged it from a bookcase and my hand crossed it like a live wire while restoring order. I decided to read it aloud and have been enjoying that. Very much, in fact.
Disturbing trend: the Iranian Worry-Bead Woman? She also introduced me to Mon bel oranger. A few years later, I had a wonderfully blue neon light constructed to form Zézé, the personnage principal that she somehow brings to mind.
So it's My Sweet Orange Tree in English... but very few USAmericans know of it. Have you read it? It's a children's classic that adults have come to mostly via translation. Of course, according to Amazon, you need to shell out $250 for an English copy, which might explain a few things. It needs to be back in print! It's one of those books to cherish, to force into a loved one's hands. Good going, felines. I wonder what they've in store for me next. Probably Tolkien.
Clearly losing my hold on reality, this videographer next centers her food processor in the frame, delightfully accented by some juicy red bells, followed by a candid shot of favorite flavors: ginger, cayenne, rosemary, cumin, balsamic vinegar. Wasabi? What the heck is wasabi doing in this shot? Am I queen of sushi? No, I am not. In sauces, dressings, toppings, fine -- but do I gravitate to wasabi, first off, first thing, as first choice in a flavor profile? No, I do not. Harrumph.
Knives. Okay, so we have a few knives. I confess that the paring knife collection is over the top, and I cannot see why we have more than two boning knives, but heck, we just do.
Should you ever hear that I've met my demise in some sort of violent domestic conflict? Check the kitchen, count the knives. Look between my shoulder blades. Is that a Chinese cleaver parting my tresses? [Psst! I would check into Sven Feingold's whereabouts and his alibi. I hate to insinuate, but if La Bonne et Belle Bianca Castafiore serves as his witness, or even Cabana Boy (recently found to be Sven's biological son)? Someone may well be getting away with murder...]
Finally... my favorite triptych, our Laughing Buddha, plus a beloved detail of that old cliched Klimt and his golden kisses. The cat condo keeps getting shoved in front of it, and so it's fitting that Buddy the Kitten should languidly drape himself into the last shot.
Pray for sleep, because in the queue of things-that-might-pass-as-interesting should my brain not rest a bit are such pressing topics as:
The Linen Closets: A Retrospective;
Fred's Flashlights; and...
Dobby's Secret Stash of Tiny Top Hats.
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