Category Archives: idea

How about Rapunzel?

My niece is pregnant, waiting for the new little person to shape and mold. But he or she (perhaps she knows which, I do not — not that it matters so much any more…), will need a distinctive name, and pronto.

I love words in general, and names specifically, so I can’t stop thinking about this.  I started to notice that a lot of names I might like to give to a baby are already on cars.

Sierra
Avalon
Jetta
Soul
Solara
Celica
Ranger (my favorite)
Liberty
Cooper
Pilot
Scout
Leaf
Windstar
Forester
Rogue
Opel
Pathfinder
Insight (a little abstract)
Mustang

Jolie, don’t worry; I have more.

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to my friend’s friend on Facebook, who thinks Donald Trump is morally superior to Hillary Clinton

I don’t know you, and it’s probably not worth engaging, but I would say you clearly need more information.

I recommend today’s Washington Post editorial, but it’s very long with words of more than two syllables, and would take a lot of concentration.  It’s boldly called, “Donald Trump is a Unique Threat to American Democracy.” But the currently available piece on the New Yorker Radio Hour by the fellow who ghost-wrote The Art of the Deal is also available, and you can just listen. (When you hear the two different voices, that is the female interviewer and the male writer, so don’t be confused about that.)

While you’re thinking about this, when you aim to disqualify Hillary Clinton because she is allegedly married to an adulterer, does the known adultery of candidate Trump trouble you? If not, how do you hold both of those ideas in your head at one time?

back to simple

SC camping how-to

Like my simple recipe for fitness:
Look down.
Two legs?
Use them.

We sometimes make excuses complicated when the solution is not.  (I will not say what soul-sapping task  I was doing just before I encountered this.)

The picture is from the Sierra Club, with credit to Go Camping Australia, on Facebook.

listen for yourself; you’ll shudder in agreement

Haiku for today.

The day starts badly
When Dylan sings Sinatra.
I go back to bed.

Hear it here:  http://www.npr.org/player/v2/mediaPlayer.html?action=1&t=1&islist=false&id=383282309&m=383455001

Well, the wait is over; healing and salvation offered here

CIMG2326

The town of Berkeley Springs is considered by some to be a sacred place, where good spirits converge.  There’s that magical hot water just bubbling out of the earth, right? Thus, it’s the annual gathering spot of all kinds of alternative healers at the Festival of Light.

For a five-dollar entry fee, you can find massage therapists for whatever hurts, palm readers, crystal handlers, future-tellers and past-life revealers.  You may commune, spiritually, with a lost loved one, human or another species.  You may purchase a stone or stick that was blessed under a full moon.  (I’m sorry I did not buy the special socks showing acupressure points but attractive enough for daily wear.)

CIMG2327

All of that harmless activity drew out this proud cross-bearing citizen, with his deep background of holy texts and protected by the First Amendment, who just needed all who enter here to know that this was contrary to the Christian Bible, and akin to devilry and witchcraft. (I heard that the local gendarmerie made a sweep of the building but found nothing technically illegal.)

I did not see his socks, but I think the burlap robe could be cited for a fashion crime.

the white stool — thinking down, not around

white stool

My photo of the white stool, Berkeley Springs, 28 July 2014

Now that I’m not working at a proper day job, I’m spending more time doing manual work, time-consuming, sometimes smelly or otherwise untoward, usually in some way creative – baking bread, pulling weeds, sorting books; the mind has time to wander more deeply. I’m not looking around horizontally — not looking about to see who else is around, wondering why I’m doing the pointless thing at a desk in a cubicle, knowing that it doesn’t matter to me at all, nor much to anyone else either. Instead the thoughts go vertical.

I’m now in the wake of refinishing a piece of furniture, an old stool once owned by partner William’s grandparents, that has been somewhere for all these years, I think with his mother, Sally, who took it up to our Berkeley Springs house when she did some of the initial furnishing there.  It has been sitting in the kitchen or the bathroom there, or traveling between them. I’ve been painting other things here and in Berkeley Springs, and maybe it’s bewitching, because I tend to look around for the next project, so far two chairs on our DC porch (similarly vintage, never upgraded), a canvas ‘rug,’ the kitchen floor. There’s always a little paint left over — or I see where to get more.  I have invested in my own paint can, brushes, roller, so that I don’t have to share with William or suffer through his complaints about my improper cleaning. (I’ve improved at that.)

So I have this odd bench with a strange, u-shaped top shelf.  For sitting?  So that you can set a tall object on the second step, like the vase here?  Was it like a potty chair? It has clearly been painted a few times, so surely it needs to be painted again. First you strip the old paint layers.  For that, I bought that product I knew existed, helpfully called “paint stripper.”  The words on the can suggest that after applying the thick pasty stuff to the surface and waiting a few minutes to an hour, multiple layers of paint, applied even way back when the family had household servants, will just want to jump off the furniture and head out somewhere, job done, leaving bare wood, exposing the tree it once was.

It doesn’t happen that way.  The first application probably cleans the old paint a little, and scraping does little to remove it.  A second application and second scraping reveal that the white stool was once green.  A third application and scraping show some wood.

You see what I mean about the slowness of time and ability to think and ponder. Once you have made such a smelly mess, you cannot stop whenever you feel like it – not like just putting the book down or the knitting aside — because that would mean cleaning it all up and admitting defeat. So you start to observe and wonder, deeper, below the first layers, going vertical instead of horizontal. What is this thing now and what will it be? Who sat here? Who fell off?  Why green? Then why white? It’s not pretty, but sturdy; it wobbles not at all. Was this made by a true craftsperson? Do the screws tell its origin? Why do I care about it?

When will all this paint be gone, if ever?

And it was going so well

I check Craigslist every now and then to see if anyone suitable might like to live in our guest room.  This guy was everything we’d love/put up with until paragraph 6.

Here’s the big one: I have a pet parakeet and therefore my housemate(s) would need to be bird-friendly! Peanut is the smartest, most friendly and sweet little bird I have ever met. He can be a little shy around new people but usually accepts any room/housemates into his “flock.” He doesn’t make much noise and he’s pretty low maintenance, but ideally his cage door would always be open. He could certainly stay in my bedroom most of the time, but I’d want to allow him to “stretch his wings” periodically. He’s hand tame and there’s never any problem putting him in the cage if I need to.

Uh, no thank you.