arse poetica

We Could All Use a Snuggle

What utter loves. The cuteness was so overwhelming that I took about 1,200 pictures of this from every conceivable angle. This one will do. Love how Kate's front leg and paw look so big. Ha.

Why, Yes, It *is* for Lack of Trying

Damn you, Twitter! You killed my blog! It's easier to write (and think) in snippets, I won't lie. Coupled w/ the holiday crush and a deadline push, not a lot of extra brainspace 'round these parts. And as always, the insanity of our political reality inspires more catatonia than logorrhea.

For a long time I didn't miss the blog, didn't even care, over it. What the hell else could be said about my hate for Donald Rumsfeld? (Given the endless depths of his venality, a lot probably.) Then as my deadline passed from memory and I was able to relax into reading other things, enjoyable things, articles and essays and fiction -- real, honest-to-god fiction! -- and, as always, it made me want to record a little something here and there. A week later, here I am.

Anyhoo, still alive. More latre as the inspiration (or frustration) comes. In the meantime, here's a pretty picture to further signify the unspeakably boring shoegazey nature of this post:

My shoe, my pal JM's coffee table.

Warmth

Love a fire, love a pal to share it with. Happy birthday to our pal Pablo who came over tonight for b-day cupcakes and tea! (Like an idjit I forgot to take pix of the pretty cupcakes. Grr. But here's a pretty fire instead.)

Toasty. It's finally winter in North Carolina.

Friday Finny Blogging

Okay, so it's Saturday. Still.

This is our papier-mâché reindeer, a.k.a. Finny's (momentary) arch nemesis #1. Finn didn't cotton to the interloper, inherited from grandma this weekend, making its home on the fireplace and decided to show the reindeer a little homegrown jujitsu this afternoon. They being roughly the same size, it was quite the stand-off for a harrowing 6 seconds. Getting no response from the placid deco, Finny said, Eff this noise, turned on her heels, and promptly went to sleep.

Believers

I've got some reading to do.

Bundles for sale at McSweeney's.

Aaaaaaiiiiiiyyy!!

Some visitors are slightly (sic) less welcome when we're engaged in our usual death match struggle w/ the yard. Treefrogs, slugs, toads, bluebirds, dragonflies, worms, and random yucky creepy crawlies all welcome.

Seconds before this picture was taken, I was lugging across the yard the rock underneath which this little lady was hiding/hanging out. Aaaiiiyy!!

Thank you, Ms. Black Widow, for not biting me.

Brrrr.

A. "Relaxing, calm, free of debris."

Q. What would our lives be like if we didn't have Little?

Dude!

I couldn't snap a photo of the total mess created by 1 puppy going after a small pack of annuals (that were "securely" placed in their would-be planter on top of the table), the trail of debris was so great. Dirt and plastic everywhere. Yes, those are the poor little fleurs torn asunder atop the table.

But not to worry, Spiderman helped me clean up.

Don't these shoes look like Spiderman? Is it just me? I laugh every time I look at this pic. [Careful observers will note that though there was a mess on our deck, and though it was not even 6 pm, yr humble correspondent lets nothing get in the way of her changing into her pajamas after work. NOTHING. Because that is the way I roll, people.]

(Tony) Toe, Table, Tail

First the Sopranos ends, then I break my toe.* Will the indignities never end?

*Actually, I broke my toe first, then came the Sopranos finale (sob!). On that sad topic I'll just say that I'm glad Tony didn't die. And Pauly Walnuts, for whom I always had a soft spot. Whoa!

Toe story: decided not to garden (why the urge always to put that in scare quotes?) in steel-toed boots today, and what a shame. Also, maybe it's not such a bright idea engaging in any garden-related program activities in the summer as this just makes us thirsty. And when db and I get thirsty, we get the bright idea to take a water break, momentarily putting on hold the unholy death match struggle in which we are engaged w/ our backyard.

To facilitate said water breaks, about an hour earlier I'd put a couple of water bottles in the freezer, because what is better when one is engaged in an unholy death match struggle w/ one's backyard in 90º weather than very cold water w/ ice chips in it? Nothing, friends, nothing.

So db calls out, "ae! Here you go," and lobs the water bottle to me from the deck (a well-placed lob; not his fault). Oh, I can almost taste it already, that cold, cold water. Here it comes...

Slipped right through my hands. Landed bottom edge-down w/ the full force of its weight right on my foot. If I had wanted to break my toe, I couldn't have managed a better angle. Came right in at a 45º angle -- whatta trajectory! -- like a little frozen missile.

How to describe the pain? Hmm. The kind where you go kind of deaf for a second and then all you can hear is your own breathing, deep and regular, your mind completely blank, as if you are trying to give birth to your toe -- anything to dislodge the offending body part. Just had to crouch in the grass for a few minutes making Darth Vader noises, because it would have been unseemly (not to mention ungainly) to hop around wailing and crying.

I was wearing these rubber-grippy work gloves that were neither rubbery nor grippy enough, apparently. Ech, it wasn't the gloves' fault either. It seems that I can no longer catch a half-frozen bottle of water lobbed at me from 35-ft in a perfectly reasonable arc at a perfectly reasonable speed in broad daylight when I am looking and prepared to catch it. Getting older sucks. I blame the Republicans.

P.S. It's the middle toe, and it's nice and bluey-purple. And very fat. Icing it w/ Trader Joe's Biryani rice didn't do diddly, but the tape is helping.

Room with a View

More on Phillip Johnson's Glass House, the not-visiting of which is causing me to cry into my pillow every night.

Behind the Glass Wall.

I mean, really, in my mind, this is my bedroom. Seriously. And that's my desk at the window w/ nary a paper on it. I have an active imagination obviously, because our actual bedroom -- I was going to say something snarky, but that would've been false because our bedroom's actually kind of great, spacious in a regular-person's-house kind of way, relatively sparse, though our view is hardly this grand. It's more mini-grand, insofar as a rambling, bramble-filled backyard is "grand." But that's a quibble for another day.

The article quotes friends and colleagues' remembrances of Johnson, and they provide a wonderful sketch of a very particular person. I especially liked this comment by Jasper Johns:

One of the first times I visited him there I said, “Philip, it’s so incredible that you’ve found this location for your house, because you’re not aware of being in it, you’re just aware of this incredible landscape.” Philip said, “Yes, I was very fortunate.” And then he said, “David, I think next year we’ll put those trees over there.”

Exactly! On a much-reduced scale (re: vision, realization, pocketbook), I feel that keenly.

Looks like Johnson and I had something else in common:

He was happiest being alone there with David. Literally every time David walked into the room, Philip’s face would light up with a big smile. He’d say, “David’s here!” as if this was a wonderful surprise.

Well, it is if you're lucky enough to recognize your good fortune.

Debauchery of Crackers

Late night discussions Chez ae & db inevitably turn, as all discussions do, to what we're going to eat.

Yap, yap, yap, salad, burritos, blah blah, vodka tonics, yap, yap, yap.

And then the evening they took a recriminating turn! To wit:

ae: We need to eat well, babe.
db: I do eat well! Don't draw me into your debauchery of crackers!