So do you guys remember when I dreamt that I found a photograph of my mother and myself wearing turn-of-the-century clothing, feeding some weasels? You’ll recall that the photograph had a little written caption: We only feed weasels. I thought that was a pretty strange dream. But I’ve just realized its cause: lately I’d come across a box of old postcards which my grandmother had kept for many years. Some of these postcards have captions nearly as cryptic as that which I dreamt up:
I think we’ve got the germ of my dream right there.
Now, not all the postcards are funny; some of them are just pretty:
Some are just photos (Portlaoighse is where my people are from!):
There are a few others which are jokey:
And then there’s this one, probably my favorite after the cats:
The earliest of all the postcards is from 1910. It’s such a long time between then and now; there’s such a big loneliness of war and forgetting. These postcards – because they’re so immediate and human and especially because they weren’t made to last the ages – give me a feeling of connection with people who lived back then. I often feel rootless, and it’s good to have things like these cards to hold onto.
Some drawings for you today! First, a blonde smiling enigmatically:
And now, some gals I sketched in my 17th & 18th century philosophy book, quoting Bukowski:
“I keep him in a ten-foot cage with a
typewriter, feed him whiskey and raw whores,”
- from B’s “The Secret of My Endurance”
“I would like to be human
if they would only let me.”
- from part VIII of B’s “Horsemeat”
You guys, I love that 17th&18th century philosophy class so much, I can’t even tell you. Every discussion I’m so excited I just want to slap the table like a kid. I’ve been reading and thinking about this stuff forever while assuming that it was another one of those things that I’d never be able to talk to anyone about.
And finally, another blonde:
Actually, it might be the same blonde with a different hairstyle.
“When you read a good poem, do you wonder how the writer managed to form such interesting images? When you read a novel, do you think about how the author created characters you can relate to?
“If you study creative writing, you’ll try to answer questions like these, analyzing poetry and fiction to learn how writers create successful work. And, of course, you’ll try your hand at creating your own work, which you’ll share with professors and classmates. Although it’s very unlikely that you’ll make a living from writing poetry or fiction, you will gain the skills needed to work in fields such as editing, publishing, journalism, and advertising.”
Very unlikely! Better go into journalism! The measure of a good book is whether the novelist “created characters you can relate to!”
Ladies and gentlemen: things like this blurb are why I am angry all the time.
In these last few days I’ve had much reason to think about some especially Cool People. The 23rd, for example, was Manet’s birthday. Don’t get excited, though: he’s dead. Been dead for a while. Even so, he’s my favorite artist of all time ever. I want to show you my favorite piece of his, but I’m having a hard time locating a decent reproduction; it’s called Fleur Exotique, it’s a beautiful smallish etching, and I don’t know why everybody doesn’t love it as much as I do. All right, fine, here’s Berthe Morisot, which I love as well, and the subject of which, incidentally, I think I could play when the Manet biopic gets put together.
And today is Robert Burns day in Scotland! I don’t know what they do to celebrate, but I hope they pledge eternal love to one another.
Just a few days ago, singer-songwriter Kate McGarrigle passed away. What a cool lady. I didn’t know very much about her until recently, but her voice, as part of this video, was really present in my childhood. Rest in peace, Ms. McGarrigle! Your pretty voice sure brought a lot of happiness to one little girl.
I haven’t got any relevant images with which to decorate this post, so here, two an irrelevant images – the mountains outside my dorm COVERED IN SNOW!
Now, don’t any of you cheeky Apline goatherds be all sniffy and dismissive: it may not impress you, but this kind of snow is a big deal in these parts! If only I had better photos.
I show you this because normally there are MOUNTAINS in the background; that’s how thick the fog is.
I’m trapped in my room because, although you can’t really see it in this photo, it’s pouring rain. And it’s cold, wintery rain, too. Wonderful to look at (I miss the rain!) but just miserable to walk through, especially if you, like me, have gotten over-used to California weather, and no longer own an umbrella.
In other subjects, I wrote a little song today during my Intro to Philosophy class:
I wish I were a streetfighter in Brazil
or a tramp stealing pies off a window sill
or the rag-picker’s sister, the bone-picker’s wife,
I don’t care the person, I don’t care the price;
I don’t care who and I don’t care how;
I’ll be anyone ever who isn’t here now.
I’ve got two philosophy classes right now – one is this intro course, just to fill up space on my schedule, and one is a course in 17th and 18th century philosophy, which is really challenging and interesting. So you see how they sort of play off one another; intro might not seem as vastly, remarkably, punch you right under your ribs boring as it does if I didn’t have 17th& 18th century with which to compare it.
Orrrrr, maybe it would be awful regardless. After all, here’s a discussion on Socrates’ argument for the soul:
Squeak-voiced girl: I don’t get it. If he thinks souls are reincarnated, then what about reproduction?
Other squeak-voiced girl: Well, back then they didn’t know as much as we do now. They probably thought reproduction had more to do with magic than science.
Boy who thinks he’s so damn smart: Socrates just has a very weak argument. I can spot … wow, so many flaws.
VERBATIM.
Oh, and here’s a drawing of me doing my husband the bone-picker’s laundry:
I don’t know what those stains are, and I don’t want to know.
I just googled “We only feed weasels” to see if my brain had discovered something I hadn’t, but NOTHING comes from googling it. Fantastic! “We only feed weasels” will be my “Glove Pond”!
The “Spring” painting which I did not paint is a section of a piece by Alma Tadema. You can see the full piece here.
When I am talking about vitamins-not-drugs, I mean that little orange canister, not the pile of makeup. I am pretty sure you guys understand that makeup is not drugs.
Why does my voice sound so husky and low? Mostly it’s a lot more mezzo than alto.
