Archive for September, 2009

if you like terrariums…

The Fern and Moss is a blog to check out. I happen to love ferns…so delicate….and moss, which in every case, is the perfect shade of green. I recently made two terrariums…we shall see how they hold up.



September is starting a new school in a big city. You’ve been craving anonymity, and boy, now you’ve got it. 7 million people. The first night, your anorexic roommate rises in her bed and pounds grubby handprints onto the wall, then falls right back to sleep, while you lay in the semi-darkness, pretending to be. The smudgy prints stay the entire year, hidden, mercifully, under a giant “Breathless” poster. She’ll leave by the end of the week. You’ve stayed. But you’re not really there; caught up in the undertow of a melancholy so thick, you can’t see your own reflection. You stay in your bed day after day in the same thin white slip, desperately reading Prozac Nation for a clue, and pout and scream at the city because its wind tunnels furiously between the tall buildings and right through you. It doesn’t listen. It doesn’t care. You decide you don’t, either.

September is slogging along perimeters of wet soccer field, even though you’ve never cared for running; it’s so heavy and makes your lungs scream. But you love staring down opponents (you’re good at that) while guarding your cage, and concede defeat only when the ball smartly smacks your hand, scoring as you stare dumbly at your finger bones and swear they’re broken (Judy Lee, you rocked. Even though you played for Beaver River). You’re good at this, but decide to sit out senior year, because you won’t humiliate yourself and your coach while you spend every single weekend drinking. You’re honest. You content yourself with shutting out the senior boy’s soccer team during gym and leave it at that.

September is speed and inebriation, a blur of tardiness and languor spent visiting the zoo, or shopping at Barbara Moss when you’re not hiding out three consecutive periods in the Art room, either modeling or drawing. No one says anything. You wake in the morning and pop the speed you’ve scored from your little sister, wandering the week in a haze; living for the weekend, when you can get blasted out of your mind; uttering strange, silly things while your friends hold you up. You never intend to get sick, but somehow you almost always do, because you haven’t figured out when to stop. But every time, you fall asleep with a silly smile on your face. And it’s the only time you really smile. It’s the only time you can really sleep.

September is strange and new, but final, in its way, when the dirt and blue carnations cover your father in the cold, hard ground. Everything is dying, or on its way, you decide, and you can’t understand or relate to your classmate’s freshman enthusiasm. Nothing is ever the same.

But September is the ninth month, the pregnant month; full and heavy as it is, it will always, always have possibility. You pack your six year old into the car and off to school, and hope for better. Always, better.

tasty and cute

Pretty, pretty food! Epicute, the blog.

homework, shmomework

“You need to do your homework and then you can go play outside, sweetie.”

“Homework? Whattttt??? I don’t like homework! I’m not doing it! Hmmph.”

:Arms cross. Little arms.:

“Yep, gotta do your homework. Just one page. It’s really easy.”

“But I ripped it up! I can’t do it!”

:smug, self satisfied look:

“Oh. O.k. Well, collect all the pieces up and give it to Miss Bellacosa tomorrow morning. Tell her what you did with your homework.”

:look of total alarm. A little mind can be seen backpedaling, spinning furiously:

“No, wait! I didn’t really, Mama! I was just kidding! Ok, ok, I’ll do it”


I have to give it to her, though. The five exercises were not that easy. They involved writing a chosen number, then drawing the equivilant bundles with the slant slashed across in the next column. I realized upon scanning the example that for 43 years, I’ve been getting this wrong. See, I’d always thought there were only three little lines, which were then slashed, instead of four. And, the slash, as far as I knew, didn’t count. I’ve actually graduated high school with this erroneous information, uncorrected. Well, it’s not I’ve I’ve actually needed this information…Not like I’ve been hanging out in a cave….or a prison cell….or some deserted island, scratching out a rudimentary calendar.

“I think they’ve always been this way, ” my friend Shelly offered, when I recounted my confusion. But the bundle trios look so much prettier! Really. That should be taken into account, no?

she knows…

From Artist Lenore Tawney:

Creation is a defiance of ordinary verbal communication. Its origins lie in the ineffable part of one’s own being and are much closer to the silence of the universe, than to its noises and verbalizations. Art is always just beyond language. Each work seems to be called up from a bottomless chaos and despite the magic order it finds in the artist’s creation, retains always the memory of the original chaos to which it is destined to return. The man of deep insight knows that authentic life is not lived arbitrarily but is governed by a secret mesh of invisible images.

From Scraps of Memory: Findings from Lenore Tawney’s Notes: Poetry.
Lenore Tawney


My favorite window shopping store…though I have yet to step into the real thing (I’d likely embarrass myself and beg them to let me move in).  I content myself with its website and keep every single catalogue. Just a few of my favorite pretty-pretties here:


The rituals of making…a constant process of doing and undoing… , between pain and pleasure… privacy and disclosure… fact and fable… a never end love affair between the artist and object making.

Sandra Saldanha

September 2009
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