tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-104429722024-02-20T10:30:07.286-05:00mappa mundi"The quality of a map cannot be judged simply by its scientific precision but by its ability to serve its purpose and in that context aesthetic and design considerations are every bit as important as the mathematical, and often more so." -- Peter Barber, <i>The Map Book</i>Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14793601965773276686noreply@blogger.comBlogger129125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10442972.post-14528789029524354892010-02-14T22:24:00.002-05:002010-02-14T22:26:55.148-05:00Happy Valentine's Day!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZlze1AfXUSQdSXfe7xjGyRjWIqfvaohyhQkDeZzkfI-x9XVfH1DevXU9cY8yv0B3SDj9HS0Pka6_9WJloC-U_D_WO_nMALWJpaluUMEkq5wjk3om2ZN5cP_WxEzhoaxhHTlB8ww/s1600-h/valentines+cookies.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZlze1AfXUSQdSXfe7xjGyRjWIqfvaohyhQkDeZzkfI-x9XVfH1DevXU9cY8yv0B3SDj9HS0Pka6_9WJloC-U_D_WO_nMALWJpaluUMEkq5wjk3om2ZN5cP_WxEzhoaxhHTlB8ww/s400/valentines+cookies.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5438306237437161842" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Hope everyone's was sweet.Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14793601965773276686noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10442972.post-73075653468035651092010-01-23T14:02:00.006-05:002010-01-23T14:26:18.308-05:00Coats of Arms, Shoes of Feet<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMMTEWAX2EE0RpcM03_FYvyiCkjz4GxzN-FYuXPRbLzk_Wgt24D9Kv4gD6d8fbdJo6DICYaPBTExvVm1FQNulcBSfBThqeCuFKc25UhOqbdM8tApl9EHuNm3mVzlf8VgBXa3OAmQ/s1600-h/Tassled+shoes+xsm.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 280px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMMTEWAX2EE0RpcM03_FYvyiCkjz4GxzN-FYuXPRbLzk_Wgt24D9Kv4gD6d8fbdJo6DICYaPBTExvVm1FQNulcBSfBThqeCuFKc25UhOqbdM8tApl9EHuNm3mVzlf8VgBXa3OAmQ/s400/Tassled+shoes+xsm.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5430016052367056930" border="0" /></a>In January 1610, Galileo Galilei set up a telescope on the grounds of the Jesuit Collegio Romano in order to decisively show his colleagues, at long last, the movements of the planets and the moons of Jupiter. Once he had demonstrated his new findings to his satisfaction the Father of Modern Science, in true Italian fashion, threw a banquet, and several months later he published his treatise, <a href="http://www.rarebookroom.org/Control/galsid/index.html"><span>The Starry Messenger</span></a>. Astronomy was changed forever.<br /><br />Four hundred years later, Meridith McNeal is celebrating her own findings with “In the Footsteps of the Starry Messenger,” an exhibition of pen and ink and watercolor drawings at <a href="http://www.figureworks.com/">Figureworks</a> in Brooklyn. In the spring of 2009, McNeal found herself working in a studio at the American Academy in Rome on the very spot where Galileo made his celestial discoveries. In his honor, and in the spirit of inquiry both artistic and historical, she set out to capture the essence of the place and its people.<br /><br />The starry messenger’s footsteps here are not just metaphorical but visible: Shoes, of every description and period, dominate the show, as well as representations of the bounty of the Academy—its toweringly stocked kitchen shelves, ripe fruit, attendant cats.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6mb21-XIGczkChGuxYeNDqfyWdXtVlXbqWjn6gFVnlchG1GMIDMZIV06dgF-a9CnOyLWAE2u1i4F5RY1hWooKS_b7o6rXxMoHsuqnl7k8O6D3y6Jj_ZmCoWBIaj2R9H_yaMLtbQ/s1600-h/IMG_7124.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6mb21-XIGczkChGuxYeNDqfyWdXtVlXbqWjn6gFVnlchG1GMIDMZIV06dgF-a9CnOyLWAE2u1i4F5RY1hWooKS_b7o6rXxMoHsuqnl7k8O6D3y6Jj_ZmCoWBIaj2R9H_yaMLtbQ/s400/IMG_7124.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5430015067962167362" border="0" /></a>But the shoes are the headliners. Hung singly and in one magnificent constellation of 16, the drawings are incarnations of a city’s worth of souls, and just as diverse. There are ghostly baby shoes, a sexily reclining pair of ’70s wedges, shiny red Mary Janes, a pair of buckled shoes with a skirt in the brown, pink, and lemon of ’50s trim, expressionistic bold black heels, and the wonderfully graphic “Black Boots with Orange Skirt,” which surely would have made Andy Warhol’s heart beat a little faster. Each work is as different as a face on a busy street, and together they form an intensely pleasing collection of temperaments and slices of time.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYRng0cSeGnCWWmdJREeK5ls6TQ7glg1tuQp14jTgLTt4Z0TLBoGb-6Ev3XjVY87znHDDEU4Jx0FRGI8DPwu9URGm71pfxAlNYBn8fBQq-ukeUOQnXPW06pX5xQNVwUfITDx70iQ/s1600-h/apples+finished+cropped+to+edge+lg.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 304px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYRng0cSeGnCWWmdJREeK5ls6TQ7glg1tuQp14jTgLTt4Z0TLBoGb-6Ev3XjVY87znHDDEU4Jx0FRGI8DPwu9URGm71pfxAlNYBn8fBQq-ukeUOQnXPW06pX5xQNVwUfITDx70iQ/s400/apples+finished+cropped+to+edge+lg.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5430015060817800690" border="0" /></a>There are also some larger pieces to locate us in place and pay homage to Galileo’s banquet. A black and white portrait of the Academy’s kitchen looms dark but not in the least ominous, holding all the quiet promise of a public space at rest. The ink is laid on lushly, with shelves of glassware gleaming from a breakfront cupboard like stars in the firmament. “Apples by the Academy Gate” is voluptuously tactile: pebbles, leaves, a plastic bag, a newspaper, metal bins, and the fresh apples. The rendering, as in all the work here, is strong and personal, each texture given its own character but all part of a bustling whole.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8tSnd6_0s7CrexfPva8dPNSuATMqcJUAzFlVdQirUIzRhH0TdJFfJE7vpuuO0lmxukI_HmnUeoReM93yMsqTOjB_fhjYrQGRSGUQXO8vHjn312VXDJrXAU62fviiMrFvkVrvcDg/s1600-h/Accedamia+lg.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 312px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8tSnd6_0s7CrexfPva8dPNSuATMqcJUAzFlVdQirUIzRhH0TdJFfJE7vpuuO0lmxukI_HmnUeoReM93yMsqTOjB_fhjYrQGRSGUQXO8vHjn312VXDJrXAU62fviiMrFvkVrvcDg/s400/Accedamia+lg.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5430015073305050898" border="0" /></a>In a way, though, the linchpin of the show is one of the quieter pieces, "l'Accademia." McNeal’s drawing, done in nib pen and ink with watercolor and Italian glitter eyeliner, is a refashioning of the coat of arms representing l'Accademia dei Lincei (the Academy of the Lynx-Eyed), Galileo’s scientific brotherhood. Here the wreath serves as a window onto her studio, with wineglass, brushes and hula hoop rampant, but it also sets the tone for the collection as a whole. For what are the shoes if not coats of arms or a sort? Whether the central image on a textured field of cobblestones or surmounted by the mantling of a woman’s skirt, each is an emblem preceding and representing its wearer. If they aren’t riding into battle, they are at least stepping out into the street, which is close enough. The two handsome black and white cat portraits that dominate one wall are heraldic as well, classical lions <span style="font-style: italic;">couchant</span> composed as central elements crossed with strong diagonals.<br /><br />This modern heraldry brings the span between 17th and 21st centuries to a human scale. These are Meridith McNeal’s stars, her banquet, her Accademia; although largely concerned with street-level imagery, “In the Footsteps of the Starry Messenger” is celestial in scope. The show is infused with the progression of her gaze: First down, then up and out, over and over—much as Galileo’s would have wandered in the process of discovering how the universe works. In 1610 he wrote in his foreword:<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">“THE STARRY MESSENGER: Revealing great, unusual, and remarkable spectacles, opening these to the consideration of every man, and especially of philosophers and astronomers.”</span><br /><br />I would add to that artists, and the rest of us as well.<br /><p><em><span style="font-size:13px;">(All artwork © Meridith McNeal 2010.)</span></em></p>Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14793601965773276686noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10442972.post-55608727102505644132010-01-14T14:33:00.003-05:002010-01-14T14:37:50.548-05:00The Very Definition of True Love<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJK1uu7s6RXLCsS8BJkCFe9o12XDVak6vv8xGqxNNYf6bE-Vej1XIcE-HbLD2ISweCwZ3k36LVRZxMJFRQ1bWlsFDcplvi9E7syFBYgaNVOhzAtxBObIN6aFMr62TA6-6U-h9vsg/s1600-h/loverboys.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJK1uu7s6RXLCsS8BJkCFe9o12XDVak6vv8xGqxNNYf6bE-Vej1XIcE-HbLD2ISweCwZ3k36LVRZxMJFRQ1bWlsFDcplvi9E7syFBYgaNVOhzAtxBObIN6aFMr62TA6-6U-h9vsg/s400/loverboys.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426681548006012290" border="0" /></a>Look at these two. I mean, really.Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14793601965773276686noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10442972.post-44187921855259752782010-01-01T22:35:00.004-05:002010-01-01T22:50:00.779-05:00Two Oh One Oh<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhljI20yqRo8CfqPTOpZvQhxCTYZzvK0bpaEt1zSsS8JyxQxeJU0n6iHHw6jBPWBPNwsqSjXMtIx0kB8cdB5i9Vlu2USHVZgtYGSvAHSOIDuPYsBFqIUs8AuFaH8xSN88J9650b2w/s1600-h/2010.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 348px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhljI20yqRo8CfqPTOpZvQhxCTYZzvK0bpaEt1zSsS8JyxQxeJU0n6iHHw6jBPWBPNwsqSjXMtIx0kB8cdB5i9Vlu2USHVZgtYGSvAHSOIDuPYsBFqIUs8AuFaH8xSN88J9650b2w/s400/2010.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5421983046696524706" border="0" /></a>Two-oh-one-oh. That's what my mom, who is nearly 82 and tends toward wild imprecision, calls this year. Last year was two-oh-oh-nine. "<span style="font-style: italic;">Two thousand nine</span>, mom," I would correct her endlessly, and she would agree until the next time, and eventually I just had to give up. I wonder if it isn't an oldster inability, on her part, to wrap her mind around the fact that the name of the year now starts with "two thousand." It rolls off my tongue just fine. But maybe if I were 82 it would be a bit more conceptually difficult.<br /><br />So, two-oh-one-oh. I always say that I'm not really one for reflection prompted by the calendar date, but that's a big old lie. Sometimes I'm happier than others to see the numbers roll over, to say goodbye to a certain period, but there's something satisfying in looking at a big chunk of time like a year to see what I think of it. And this one in particular is fun. Two-oh-oh-nine was a very good year, by my reckoning.<br /><br />The main thing to recommend it was that I did everything I set out to do. Mind you, we're not talking about finding a cure for cancer or ending world hunger or fostering troubled teenagers. I didn't even pay that extra month on my mortgage that I always say I'll do when I get my tax return. My goals are generally not real lofty. I have a few directives to live by: Do no harm, be compassionate where possible, don't litter, don't gossip, and don't be lame. I hate—loathe—lameness, both personally and in general. But since I can't do anything about other people's lameness and it's pointless to even try, I just worry about my own.<br /><br />And 2009? Was a year that I wasn't lame. I started blogging for Readerville at the beginning of the year, and while that was something I hadn't really given any thought to before beyond this chatty half-assed enterprise, I liked doing it right away. And when Readerville closed up shop in June my immediate, gut-punch reaction was that I'd start up my <span style="font-style: italic;">own</span> damn blog. And I did. Like Fire launched in September, and within a couple of months I'd made friends with the fine people over at <a href="http://www.openlettersmonthly.com/">Open Letters Monthly</a> and agreed to partner up with them. Today marks the official startup of <a href="http://www.openlettersmonthly.com/likefire/">Like Fire 2.0</a>, official blog of Open Letters. And away we go.<br /><br />It's not even a matter of how successful I was or wasn't with the blog. It's just that I said I was going to do it and I did. Maybe I'm setting the bar low for myself, but so be it. There was a bunch of other stuff: I got in the habit of walking a couple of miles with the dog every day before work; rescued a couple of beautiful cats on my block and found them a happy home, painted the downstairs apartment and got a nice tenant, worked hard at my job, took care of my mom, paid down a large chunk of debt. I ate well. Wrote a lot, read a lot. Didn't do anything particularly regrettable.<br /><br />I can't even come up with any good resolutions—eat less sugar, call my friends more, sharpen my knives regularly—but that stuff is ongoing. Mostly I just want another year of not being lame, and continuing to have fun. Two-oh-oh-nine was fun. And if I can keep the basic momentum going for two-oh-one-oh, I'll be happy. That and make the extra payment on my mortgage come April. That would be pretty un-lame of me.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwy2ShJ2cVQEl-LT9U9U8GreVjG4zHOr2SH0TgvkX3CdPaQvPjod4v90eZDKC5roOlj-hoob7sv-CtnEDo8rV6wlSEFyGvB2_YdXO_UVfVRx6ZKvMUl9vaAw9Dyt3BPXWz5X2W6Q/s1600-h/bedfellows.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 299px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwy2ShJ2cVQEl-LT9U9U8GreVjG4zHOr2SH0TgvkX3CdPaQvPjod4v90eZDKC5roOlj-hoob7sv-CtnEDo8rV6wlSEFyGvB2_YdXO_UVfVRx6ZKvMUl9vaAw9Dyt3BPXWz5X2W6Q/s400/bedfellows.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5421981683302661954" border="0" /></a>These fellows aren't lame either. They're just resting.Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14793601965773276686noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10442972.post-25063449067082777122009-10-10T15:50:00.011-04:002009-10-10T17:32:25.504-04:00A Big Storm Knocked It Over<a href="http://www.likefire.org/">Like Fire</a> wasn't the only thing that got its germination at BEA last May. I also, if you remember, picked up a bunch of seed packets—seed packets were popular giveaways in 2009—including these sunflower seeds from, appropriately enough, Columbia University Press.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBwi_If7h7bTNzbNMUABgVNLfQrQbzqmA7yZpSkVfqSXKBy2PT-J4762jUyl07FKtl_A6HxnTAX34TtO7Yzjt85tRmNzzVjSOfZqvPDgyV9KEVydfmVcEPTJeibtZy8l1x3duHUQ/s1600-h/columbiafront001.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 143px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBwi_If7h7bTNzbNMUABgVNLfQrQbzqmA7yZpSkVfqSXKBy2PT-J4762jUyl07FKtl_A6HxnTAX34TtO7Yzjt85tRmNzzVjSOfZqvPDgyV9KEVydfmVcEPTJeibtZy8l1x3duHUQ/s200/columbiafront001.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5391066204706084786" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkxTCj6GcPvFIhXFMniOVwS20c9g99tCGGJGVRzaV9_CNhH8g-S-6V-AEC9ZcFYXBqPvct5_iC3aC-tW2YZFz15Kq7qs6FPtkI5XNe1YiVyvp_ghKEtUnEeoL26uIo80rpjLXw-w/s1600-h/columbiaback001.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 143px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkxTCj6GcPvFIhXFMniOVwS20c9g99tCGGJGVRzaV9_CNhH8g-S-6V-AEC9ZcFYXBqPvct5_iC3aC-tW2YZFz15Kq7qs6FPtkI5XNe1YiVyvp_ghKEtUnEeoL26uIo80rpjLXw-w/s200/columbiaback001.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5391066903491811138" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><a style="font-weight: bold;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0HpOGmb4yENR-9Q9RY2UQZCBsWl5fccYNO1ujoqhnhQHQdVyqKUyzRnWEIDwQDmDveU8WQAvr0Jf4-50rnSTfD0z9okksBIXU1YZtTHe-lqzlM9B1bYX5F5NoemBMXNz5ZDmz5g/s1600-h/columbiafront001.jpg"><br /></a></div>I did in fact plant them on the weird elevated platform in front of my house, and not only did they grow but they grew HUGE. Every day for the past few weeks I meant to go out and take photos. Seriously, every day. They were monstrous and cheerful—you could see them from a block away. During the last two weeks of September I was vetting new tenants for the downstairs rental unit, and I always got a kick out of telling people who wanted to come see the place "It's the house with the sunflowers."<br /><br />And then last Wednesday we had a big old windstorm. Tree limbs went down, chunks of the city lost power, and I came home to find my giant sunflowers broken, every one of them, hanging down with their faces to the sidewalk. I wasn't brokenhearted, though. They probably wouldn't have lasted another month, I had found a nice tenant for the apartment, and really—if that's the worst thing that happens to me all week, I'll take it.<br /><br />The next evening I came home and even from the bottom of the hill I could see they were all gone. We live across the street from the neighborhood community center, and I figured some bored kids messing around after school must have pulled them out. But once inside I saw that Jeff had gotten home early and cut the survivors down to fit in a jar.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqntmYnzqbgswKq4t9MNSZu6s3BuDVn2yXmQ7D1oty7tM1iBpYV4Ca7ujt3aNdHIyhp1SLdtCdTh-p3Sot9oHkmIl02H-N1I49CN4il1dMDNzP_RESOUncG3HiKoAWrtAYZOWv7Q/s1600-h/francis+sunflowers.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqntmYnzqbgswKq4t9MNSZu6s3BuDVn2yXmQ7D1oty7tM1iBpYV4Ca7ujt3aNdHIyhp1SLdtCdTh-p3Sot9oHkmIl02H-N1I49CN4il1dMDNzP_RESOUncG3HiKoAWrtAYZOWv7Q/s400/francis+sunflowers.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5391065702254634466" border="0" /></a>So that's it, summer's over. The cats are quite taken with the sunflowers, and every time I look at them (the flowers, that is) I think of Van Gogh. I turned the heat on last week. And off we sail into fall, and whatever the winter holds. Life is good.Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14793601965773276686noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10442972.post-61224855989693891212009-09-20T21:49:00.004-04:002009-09-21T12:18:41.844-04:00Like FireWhen <a href="http://www.readerville.com/">Readerville</a> closed up shop last June, right away I started thinking about putting together my own literary blog. It had been a great roller coaster ride -- staying on top of every shred of book and publishing news, scrolling through my endless feeds and waiting for that excellent <span style="font-style: italic;">click</span> that happened when I came upon an item I knew I'd have something to say about. Writing every day was good for me, having the opportunity to follow my opinions where they led and whittle them down to something articulate. Mostly it was fun.<br /><br />So I dug deep into my inner Andy Hardy and spent the summer tinkering in that virtual barn out back. And finally -- <span style="font-style: italic;">Hey Kids!</span> -- I'm putting up my own show.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.likefire.org/"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 122px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX2AW0S0nBpsrW8T6ZVrNVYBABMybwcO_1XIh-wj6wN70e607Q8VObaI4dKtj_VmEqZUxL6dfWnPq-lER-2_sFmKw8PMKdLl3qx1Ck1nOS7W7xwWW5FSBLhfWAONtdcMeQoVxFJw/s400/likefire+banner+long.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5383953923063204882" border="0" /></a> <a href="http://www.likefire.org/">Like Fire</a> is a collaborative effort with some fellow Readerville alumni which will hopefully go on to amuse and delight and inform all our friends and fans. Another litblog, yes, but hopefully full enough of content and opinion to have its own flavor. We also take submissions, so if you have something related to books or the industry, please send it along to <a href="mailto:likefire.mail@gmail.com">likefire.mail@gmail.com</a>.<br /><br />I won't abandon Mappa Mundi, though, I promise. I'm way too fond of it -- and where else am I going to post all those pet photos?Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14793601965773276686noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10442972.post-61769947039394255822009-09-02T23:00:00.011-04:002009-09-04T14:08:38.205-04:00Treasure<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.ronsaari.com/stockImages/diners/tomsRestaurant1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 375px; height: 248px;" src="http://www.ronsaari.com/stockImages/diners/tomsRestaurant1.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>I had lunch with Pat, my one and only work friend, yesterday. This week marks three years I've been at the workplace, and that's all I'm going to say about that right now. If I've learned only one thing there -- and I have to wonder sometimes if this might not in fact be the case -- it's that you don't sit up front in Tom's during the first week of school unless you want to eat your sandwich with someone's mom and dad mugging on the other side of the window while their embarrassed kid takes pictures. It's like the most famous landmark in New York City for a week, and the folks are lined up three deep to get their photo snapped on the sidewalk.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://g-ecx.images-amazon.com/images/G/01/ciu/d6/69/d4441363ada0648467f60110.L.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 265px; height: 419px;" src="http://g-ecx.images-amazon.com/images/G/01/ciu/d6/69/d4441363ada0648467f60110.L.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>Pat and I had a nice lunch as far in the back as we could get seats, and then dawdled along in the sun, looking at books for sale on the street. Right off I gravitated to a hardcover copy of Eudora Welty's <a href="http://www.amazon.com/One-Writers-Beginnings-Eudora-Welty/dp/0674639251/ref=ed_oe_h?tag=bookb03-20"><span style="font-style: italic;">One Writer's Beginnings</span></a> -- I'd seen it on the guy's table before and thought it was something I'd like, but never picked it up. I find I'm a little more adventurous when I'm browsing with someone else, though, especially if we're trying to kill some time. So I opened it and there, on the flyleaf, was this:<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizAKb10A1vsEgoGaqWey6v4hzzNHaeFdCjGGGXFGXCIwnkeOR3WmJff4Cho2MLC9G6HGLRP9vyuOWrkdld1hhi_aZXzyDAvOza-_Ow52RhC6yI0ot4GLFCyTV3_kk6SnIse8uP5Q/s1600-h/eudora001.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 265px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizAKb10A1vsEgoGaqWey6v4hzzNHaeFdCjGGGXFGXCIwnkeOR3WmJff4Cho2MLC9G6HGLRP9vyuOWrkdld1hhi_aZXzyDAvOza-_Ow52RhC6yI0ot4GLFCyTV3_kk6SnIse8uP5Q/s400/eudora001.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5377416080009938514" border="0" /></a>"How much?" I asked.<br /><br />"Four dollars," he said.<br /><br />I had a pang of guilt. It didn't last long. In 25+ years of buying secondhand books, I've never found any buried treasure, not once. This felt like the universe patting me indulgently on the back of the hand -- "That's nice, dear" -- but right around now I could use a little babying from the powers that be.<br /><br />I Googled the signature when I got back to the office and yes, it's hers. The book's not a first -- more like a tenth -- and while it might have netted the guy a bit more than $4 it wouldn't have made him rich. On the other hand, it made me very rich indeed. On a day that was hard in need of a ray of sunshine, a $4 copy of <span style="font-style: italic;">One Writer's Beginnings</span> with Eudora Welty's handwriting in the front -- "Jackson, Missippi / March 23, 1984" -- was just fine.Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14793601965773276686noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10442972.post-62600888054301237142009-09-01T22:11:00.004-04:002009-09-01T22:22:27.880-04:00SeptemberWow, I really went the whole month of August without blogging once? That's pretty flimsy. I've got some other projects up my sleeve and a lot going on but still, not to the exclusion of everything else in life. I've just been going through a little radio silence phase, I guess, and apologies to everyone I owe email. Let's just think of it as a fallow period, a bit of mental crop rotation so the soil of my psyche can replenish. Or some such compost-worthy shit.<br /><br />More later. Bed calls ever earlier. But to tide you over, here's a nice picture of three of the four cute furry animals who live here getting cozy on the world's skankiest dog bed.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZe8gx2TwrIuluFraHlyp8-4WGDf5ckwfQF62nc0_obcOcmxkhU76ll1H_w14HU43HZuBWsdt6bUrYVUYa_NItLvHgbJwrsILHCvtcKmWd78x0LbzLd_yDzWdqSCU1llW5B_2Eug/s1600-h/DorrieFrancisAlvy1.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 299px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZe8gx2TwrIuluFraHlyp8-4WGDf5ckwfQF62nc0_obcOcmxkhU76ll1H_w14HU43HZuBWsdt6bUrYVUYa_NItLvHgbJwrsILHCvtcKmWd78x0LbzLd_yDzWdqSCU1llW5B_2Eug/s400/DorrieFrancisAlvy1.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376689299390023842" border="0" /></a>Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14793601965773276686noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10442972.post-43044808727476866122009-07-20T21:31:00.006-04:002009-07-20T22:41:46.827-04:00Thanksgiving in JulySaturday was one of those really rare stunning New York summer days -- hot and sunny but not sticky or heavy. It's been notably cool for July anyway, but to get true summer that's not disgusting -- that's a thing of beauty around here.<br /><br />I went into the city to see my friend Heather, with the idea of hitting up some galleries. But they were all closed -- odd for a Saturday, but we guessed everyone was off in the Hamptons. So we did what we would have done anyway, which was walk and talk -- she's someone I can talk to all day and never get tired. We hung out on the 23rd Street pier for a while, which has gotten a nice makeover since I was last over that way. Everyone was out taking the sun, with sailboats tacking across the Hudson and the water sparkling. I could have jumped in.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAJjWIKJ8vb4F7kPqWIjfVm1LuMdoqPv2sQp2PpHaKX__OBYjFo1nlJ6eIjKWlna4Egbi2zzqDpFsUQcIl7TEJSb0s6JcIAXxzuxptRvf2OCxwKzT3jH9FmTHrPxTK3qp4WkpHAA/s1600-h/saturday7-18.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAJjWIKJ8vb4F7kPqWIjfVm1LuMdoqPv2sQp2PpHaKX__OBYjFo1nlJ6eIjKWlna4Egbi2zzqDpFsUQcIl7TEJSb0s6JcIAXxzuxptRvf2OCxwKzT3jH9FmTHrPxTK3qp4WkpHAA/s400/saturday7-18.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5360733139302327762" border="0" /></a>Then we walked over to Tenth Avenue and climbed up to <a href="http://www.thehighline.org/">The High Line</a>, which I've wanted to see since it opened last month. It's a length of elevated freight rail tracks built in the 1930s and abandoned in 1980, reclaimed at the beginning of the '00s as park space and spruced up <span style="font-style: italic;">super</span> nice. It's all concrete and wood and steel in perfect proportion, filled with indigenous, New York State prairie-type plantings, and all sorts of great detailing that fits in with the existing cityscape -- no small feat when you consider the whole crazy pentimento effect of New York City in the 21st century. There are some ridiculously cool sleek highrises towering above it, and crumbly roofs from the century before last with rusty watertowers alongside. My favorite thing was a long stone wall of tall multicolored mullioned windows -- I'm a sucker for colored glass and this was really classy.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOpfVsBgvur8kjPG9PC2-C9TBwGnjKgGlEcWP3HS42q0EcCEy6oqHqLal-mYz3jZoVmWHNFd5Lrx0QjooKSVXr86y2m6e_WyTmEgRIk6yS0oMbCHeM2EgjprDOpZ5UQxVNvtDzwg/s1600-h/saturday7-18highline.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOpfVsBgvur8kjPG9PC2-C9TBwGnjKgGlEcWP3HS42q0EcCEy6oqHqLal-mYz3jZoVmWHNFd5Lrx0QjooKSVXr86y2m6e_WyTmEgRIk6yS0oMbCHeM2EgjprDOpZ5UQxVNvtDzwg/s400/saturday7-18highline.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5360733142741680338" border="0" /></a>After walking and talking and walking and talking, we headed up to the Bronx and had a big grilled feast, salmon and corn and black bean/mango salsa and salad.<br /><br />And then Sunday night? We had our friends John and Margarita and their dogs over for a big grilled feast, chicken and burgers and corn and summer squash and salad.<br /><br />That was a lot of feasting in one weekend, a lot of talking and drinking and passing food around the table and pretending we didn't see Mr. Bonkers stick his entire head in the salad bowl, looking for cucumbers. Forget Christmas in July -- this weekend was our Thanksgiving in July. I can go back to my hermit ways for a while, but it was nice doing some extended bread-breaking with friends.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJSguMwRr55hygN6WTPuAOVtwbFMwF6AawX6Fp-YiVEPPaYhMOKDzsEhPbjXzpLtzwMi2xqn2OWshPWDBcQIcCdRb4Jp6SC2YF2_lUJieFy3Ll-8fVqwmanU1NCy0FOWtkMM4UNg/s1600-h/In+the+sun.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJSguMwRr55hygN6WTPuAOVtwbFMwF6AawX6Fp-YiVEPPaYhMOKDzsEhPbjXzpLtzwMi2xqn2OWshPWDBcQIcCdRb4Jp6SC2YF2_lUJieFy3Ll-8fVqwmanU1NCy0FOWtkMM4UNg/s400/In+the+sun.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5360733149980554610" border="0" /></a>Sunday was the fourth anniversary of Milo's death. I didn't dwell on it much during the day, but this morning around 4 I woke up with a little indigestion, a little of the dreaded Monday hangover, and lay in the dark thinking about him. I'll always miss my boy -- he was a shooting star and his time with me was far too short. You know how when you're a kid you get this vision of how you're going to be as an adult, this very personal archetype that you either ditch or hang on to or some variation thereof? I always wanted to be a cool artist lady in a beat-up pickup truck with a dog in the front seat. Not a mommy, not a businesswoman, not a nurse or a fireman. She was it. And though I lost track of her for a while -- my childrearing years weren't really conducive to keeping that particular vision alive -- I got her back. I got to be the cool artist lady in the beat-up pickup truck, even if I was really a slightly geeky publishing lady in a beat-up Blazer, and Milo was that dog. He was the key that turned in the lock and gave me a second chance to be what I wanted. He was my good dog, sitting in the front seat.<br /><span style="text-decoration: underline;"><br /></span>The thing is, though, if Milo were still alive there's a very good chance we would never have adopted Dorrie. And she's my good dog too. It's just one of those things that there's no way to really think about in a straight line.<br /><span style="text-decoration: underline;"><br /></span>So I woke her up and pulled her into my arms with her head on my shoulder, and snuggled with my good dog until it got light out and I figured I might as well just get up. Milo always liked being held that same way, and I guess wherever he is he must appreciate the fact that I'm still snuggling in bed with a white spotty dog. Whatever else you can say about me, I sure do pick good ones.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij0een1_JvT9wziYr3fqKCzN4WlQHELdYg2B0t-i3dAXOkpmljoKZD5J_YezCOi1C_O11h6i7QySC8nlZTc8eJXQBqOvVoZDpmOFz3-VYkeZIBEcMDuc2MGfTduzrIkGQ-UFPfmQ/s1600-h/yawn.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij0een1_JvT9wziYr3fqKCzN4WlQHELdYg2B0t-i3dAXOkpmljoKZD5J_YezCOi1C_O11h6i7QySC8nlZTc8eJXQBqOvVoZDpmOFz3-VYkeZIBEcMDuc2MGfTduzrIkGQ-UFPfmQ/s400/yawn.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5360734177302134754" border="0" /></a>Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14793601965773276686noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10442972.post-55672268388297185422009-07-16T21:52:00.008-04:002009-07-17T00:01:28.969-04:00Summertime and The Russian Prize<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4ITiTxFg9jbLTkTSbC5bEk6WQZdx1xgV300SjLadY8-6cHExHU-H6KixeIhAr-zkEkNf9ta0BCrIkb5Dl3gwf8iqMRe3rzlkAM3kViVDZhFoJE279H5jFGC_L-tkOL2gcIYCANw/s1600-h/russian+chocolate001.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 358px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4ITiTxFg9jbLTkTSbC5bEk6WQZdx1xgV300SjLadY8-6cHExHU-H6KixeIhAr-zkEkNf9ta0BCrIkb5Dl3gwf8iqMRe3rzlkAM3kViVDZhFoJE279H5jFGC_L-tkOL2gcIYCANw/s400/russian+chocolate001.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359258729434913442" border="0" /></a>Summer's finally come to New York. Look, I'm not complaining -- it's the middle of July, and this is the first really irritatingly hot and sticky day that hasn't cooled off after the sun went down. Cold pasta, cherries, and wine for dinner, and the fans all going full-blast. When I turned on the floor fan in the living room -- first time this year -- a huge dust bunny came skittering out and Francis went crazy. He chased it, then he stalked it, then pounced. It had to have been a hell of a disappointment. The tenure of the other two cats has pretty much assured that this house is rodent-free, so he never gets to catch anything.<br /><br />So my guest blogger gig at Bookninja is over as of tonight, since <a href="http://www.bookninja.com/?p=5684">George is back</a>. It was a lot of fun, and I hope that everyone who followed me there will keep checking it out on a regular basis. It's a really good joint. My fellow bloggers were awesome too -- they put me to shame, honestly, with all their energy. I see they all kept up with <span style="font-style: italic;">their</span> personal blogs just fine. But hey, we all do what we can do and anyway, I have a few tricks left up my sleeve. Stay tuned.<br /><br />Earlier this evening I was reading various newsworthy items and got myself worked up into a whole bloggy lather with one of my usual rants, which is how I dearly wish to see the farthest corners of world literature spread around to all readerly consciousnesses -- seriously, it should be <a href="http://www.putumayo.com/en/">as accessible and unscary</a> as world music has gotten, and available in Starbucks as well -- and I came upon <a href="http://quarterlyconversation.com/margarita-meklina-the-russian-prize">Margarita Meklina's account at The Quarterly Conversation</a> of her trip back to Russia after winning the <em>Russkaya Premia</em> literary prize.<br /><br />It's a good story, dark and touching. The other finalists she mentions, though, just stopped me in my tracks. Not so much the creepy wanking Ossetian, but Boris Khazanov, hoping to be handed a literary prize from the same state that jailed him for six years in the 50s for anti-Soviet propaganda. How in the world could that feel? Literally, how in the world -- a Google search of his name turned up some Russian language books and a Boris Khazanov who lives in New Hampshire and gave money to Obama's campaign. The one I want is a German expat, whose speech focused on "language, which becomes frozen in immigration as though in a fridge."<br /><br />Or Andrei Nazarov, whose family was killed in the Revolution and who said the award should go to Nabokov and Bunin, who never received such a prize from their own government. The backstorie seems as far from the American literary prize machine as you can get, and I'm hungry to know more. Nazarov shares his name with a pro hockey player, and while I realize it's fully possible to both play hockey and write -- hey, I can -- I doubt they're the same person.<br /><br />So for all my grand ideas of world literature for the people and how it would make us better citizens of the universe, I end up only being as good as my search engine, and I end up feeling very solidly American. But Meklina's essay is a really wonderful window into a whole different room, and I appreciate that. It's a big internet, and I like it that way.<br /><br />Did I mention that it's hot? The dog is hot, the cats are hot. We've gotten off easy so far, but I guess summer's here now.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1o_XCwHkSZbb5_-8qcFOczZGujCu1fi-TRUdz55GfjogZ0lDL6aQfNr5NlDjit6gVe9L-xeJXMSfHTdgcLzPHS55Q-qAdTPCtOQL_Knuemr_-9L3JKGdDeWJTpE81hAQxIa2hOg/s1600-h/francis&alvy1.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 299px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1o_XCwHkSZbb5_-8qcFOczZGujCu1fi-TRUdz55GfjogZ0lDL6aQfNr5NlDjit6gVe9L-xeJXMSfHTdgcLzPHS55Q-qAdTPCtOQL_Knuemr_-9L3JKGdDeWJTpE81hAQxIa2hOg/s400/francis&alvy1.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359259081675611266" border="0" /></a><em></em>Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14793601965773276686noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10442972.post-53220682593966186712009-07-05T22:40:00.003-04:002009-07-05T22:56:47.191-04:00Open Letter<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.crackerpacks.com/2/Boy_Buffalo_16-2.gif"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 501px;" src="http://www.crackerpacks.com/2/Boy_Buffalo_16-2.gif" alt="" border="0" /></a>Dear Teenagers of Kingsbridge,<br /><br />First of all, we want to give you credit for having gotten hold of all those fireworks. Really, we think it's SO cool you were able to talk your Uncle Sonny into picking up that big bag of them when he was down in West Virginia last month, and we commend you for not having blown off any of your fingers. Seriously.<br /><br />But can we give you some advice? <span style="font-style: italic;">They don't go bad.</span> You can save whatever you have left over for next year, and they'll still be fine -- you don't HAVE to set them all off tonight. What if you can't get any next year? What if Uncle Sonny gets caught violating his parole and can't make it down to see that guy he knows? You'll be really, really glad to have a few laid away for the Fourth of July, 2010. Just hide them in the back of your sock drawer -- when your mom find them she'll be so happy they're not weed she'll forget she ever saw anything. Really. I'm a mom. I know.<br /><br />To tide you over until then, check out the <a href="http://www.crackerpacks.com/">Museum of Firecracker Label Art</a>. They're quite beautiful, and they won't scare the dog.<br /><br />(via Coudal Partners' <a href="http://www.coudal.com/moom/">Museum of Online Museums</a>)Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14793601965773276686noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10442972.post-26784474767133136542009-06-29T12:58:00.004-04:002009-06-29T13:24:20.761-04:00Some DaysThere are some days, Mondays in particular, when halfway down the hill from my house and headed toward the train I find myself in a state of real befuddlement. If I stop and think about it I understand perfectly well what's going on, but otherwise my forebrain, chugging along, remains perplexed: What the hell am I doing here? Why on earth am I leaving my lovely, sunny, comfortable house and the company of my sweet animals to go to work? Wasn't I just <span style="font-style: italic;">there</span> a few days ago?<br /><br />It's not like this is an unusual situation. I go to work pretty much every weekday of my life, barring a couple weeks of vacation scratched out of the year, and it's not as though I don't like my job. For the most part I do satisfying, interesting work and these days it's rarely unpleasant or boring, and my office is in a stunning library building on a beautiful college campus. My commute is reasonable. Corporate culture does not encourage staying past 5:00. I definitely count myself among the lucky.<br /><br />But that doesn't always cut it. There are some days when a regular paycheck, health benefits, and the promise of intellectual engagement just aren't enough. When <span style="font-style: italic;">twice</span> the paycheck wouldn't be enough. I'm a nester, and I've feathered myself a seriously nice one -- kind of bowerbird-like, full of shiny crap and odds and ends, but that's how I like it. Some mornings I feel like I'm prying myself out of there with a psychic crowbar.<br /><br />There have been times in my history when my home life was so lousy it was a relief to get to the office, and I dragged my feet when it was time to leave. I've worked hard to change that, and successfully. But the backlash is that now, if I didn't have to leave my home in order to keep it, I probably wouldn't, ever. Or at least not often. It's the nicest place I know.<br /><br />If working from home was ever an option I don't doubt I'd eventually end up with cabin fever, but I sure wouldn't mind finding out for myself.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTXk1pr5KLP6A3KdaD3E3CNtTny-6lwLN6GiH1s9AL3i1tmRwgO8JCQugoINkbhnZX53R5QhRRG8pblCZcWHhskuGVa6rjLzRDjvEohvjlHxAbfJ42J4B3yPUmecxQmm8Tn2UPVg/s1600-h/cats+books.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTXk1pr5KLP6A3KdaD3E3CNtTny-6lwLN6GiH1s9AL3i1tmRwgO8JCQugoINkbhnZX53R5QhRRG8pblCZcWHhskuGVa6rjLzRDjvEohvjlHxAbfJ42J4B3yPUmecxQmm8Tn2UPVg/s400/cats+books.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5352800331466236130" border="0" /></a>Speaking of working from home, I'm going to be doing a bunch of that in addition to my day job, because thanks to all your love and support I've been voted one of <a href="http://www.bookninja.com/">Bookninja</a>'s guest bloggers for the first two weeks of July. The whole process reminded me a bit of running for Class President in fourth grade -- not so much the nature of the competition as that it was the only other time I've ever been up for any kind of mass election. And I remember my mom, when I came home glumly announcing that I had withdrawn from the race because nobody really liked me, saying in the way that all card-carrying moms do, "But honey, it's not a popularity contest." And I remember staring at her with incredulity that she could even think of pawning off such bullshit on me, because <span style="font-style: italic;">of COURSE it was a popularity contest. What else could it possibly be?</span> Even though I was nine and still kind of wide-eyed about the world, I remember her credibility suffered for that one.<br /><br />So this is my revenge on fourth grade. Everyone set your RSS feeds to <a href="http://www.bookninja.com/">Bookninja</a> -- the guest blogging commences on July 2, but you should all be reading it now. Thanks for the love, guys.<br /><br />[And upon careful cross-platform reading, I see one of my fellow guest bloggers, Sarah, has also <a href="http://www.citizenreader.com/citizen/2009/06/wow-wo-holy-shit-wow-the-sequel.html">invoked student council elections</a>. I'm guessing there's a definite pathology at work amongst us all...]Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14793601965773276686noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10442972.post-15267275646248163342009-06-25T10:50:00.003-04:002009-06-25T11:05:01.713-04:00Don't Cry for Me, Mappa MundiOh goodness, it’s been a while. It really wasn’t my intention to extend my respectful moment of silence for Readerville quite this long, but there have been distractions. Among other things, I’ve been ahhhhh… hiking the Appalachian Trail of the blog world, ifyouknowwhatImean. It’s OK, Mappa Mundi knows about it. We’re cool.<br /><br />And I actually do have a few things to say, but the middle of the workday isn’t an optimal time for anything involving deep thoughts, literary or otherwise (other than, “No, no, I really think you need a comma here. No, really. Seriously, look…”). However: I realize I’ve been pretty negligent in certain avenues of self-promotion, and need to ask all my faithful readers, if they haven’t already, to vote for me for <a href="http://www.bookninja.com/?p=5576">Bookninja guest blogger</a>. I was doing a good job of playing it cool and detached all week, but with this recent post George has done a good job of whipping me into a competitive frenzy (OK, not that hard to do). So vote for me! Today, if you don’t mind. Thank you, thank you, I love you.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://media-2.web.britannica.com/eb-media/47/99147-004-FCC3C09C.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 359px; height: 269px;" src="http://media-2.web.britannica.com/eb-media/47/99147-004-FCC3C09C.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>And I'll be back later with some real stuff.Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14793601965773276686noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10442972.post-9801539114053606772009-06-07T22:00:00.009-04:002009-06-07T22:57:02.543-04:00Still Looking UpI loved Readerville. Unapologetically, no irony, no reserve of cool to draw on. When I first joined almost exactly six years ago I had friends who read copiously and passed books around, I was adventurous about picking things I'd never heard of off the library shelves, and I had piles of those beautiful little Common Reader catalogs dogeared and marked up with Sharpies. But finding a place where a bunch of smart, snarky people wanted to talk books and pretty much just roll around in them, that was like coming home.<br /><br />I met a lot of excellent people there, many of them face to face -- really good friends who will be friends for life. I met the man I love and live with on Readerville. And while I suppose it's remotely possible our paths might have crossed otherwise, the chances of a girl from the Bronx and a boy from Texas meeting up randomly, no matter how much they both love reading and old movies and cooking with cast iron, would have been awfully slim otherwise. When I first started posting there I was working a deadly boring office manager job, and as I realized how comfortable I was immersed in a bookish world it also occurred to me that I could possibly scrape a living out of it (this being in the days when you could). And when I got laid off five years ago I decided it was now or never and took the plunge, found a cool job at entry-level wages, nearly starved, but never looked back. And when Karen offered me the gig blogging for Readerville, I thought about it for five minutes and then jumped in. As much work as it turned out to be, dutifully plowing through RSS feeds every night after dinner and through many a lunch hour, I loved it -- loved figuring out what the hell I was doing, working on the craft of it, and finding myself in the middle of a whole litblogging community I hadn't known about. A year ago I would have laughed my head off at the phrase "litblogging community." Now I'm trying to figure out what I need to do to keep the momentum going, because I like doing this.<br /><br />I'm sure most people read my last blog post on Readerville Friday and rolled their eyes, thinking I was being awfully drama queeny. But I knew that Readerville was closing up shop and I meant it as a bit of an elegy, and also as a reminder -- to myself as much as anyone -- that there's always a next thing, so long as you keep looking up.<br /><br />I'm posting it again here. Sorry if you've read it - indulge me, OK? It's the best goodbye I could muster to a place that meant a lot to me. Thanks, Karen, and everyone else there who made it feel like my favorite local watering hole -- overindulgence, bar fights, fixed pool games, generous pours, kisses, and all.<br /><blockquote>Anyone who's spent time in Readerville's Judging A Book thread knows that for the past few years one of the most common book cover tropes has been shoes -- <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Giants-House-Romance-Elizabeth-McCracken/dp/B000A3WW1M/ref=ed_oe_p_bargain">big</a> and <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Truth-About-Celia-novel/dp/B000C4SG28/ref=ed_oe_h_bargain">little</a> shoes, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Time-Travelers-Wife-Audrey-Niffenegger/dp/015602943X/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1244425923&sr=8-1">shoes next to feet</a>, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Balzac-Little-Chinese-Seamstress-Novel/dp/0385722206/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1244425994&sr=1-1">you name it</a>. Shoes have become a standard Readerville snowclone, especially when talking about book design -- for a while there orange was the new shoes, and antique labels, and hand-drawn type.<br /><br />Dan Chaon's <a href="http://www.amazon.com/You-Remind-Me-Novel/dp/0345441400/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1244426052&sr=1-1">You Remind Me of Me</a>, back in 2005, was an early adapter. The first galley I got my hands on at this year's BEA was also his -- <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Await-Your-Reply-Dan-Chaon/dp/0345476026/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1244426095&sr=1-1">Await Your Reply</a>, out in September from Ballantine. Looking at that expanse of clouds on the cover got me thinking, and then comparing galleys with fellow Book Expo visitors. So it's settled: This year, sky is the new shoes.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/41fRKWNbEWL._SL500_AA240_.jpg"> </a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://ebooks-imgs.connect.com/ebooks/product/400/000/000/000/000/031/581/400000000000000031581_s4.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 161px; height: 241px;" src="http://ebooks-imgs.connect.com/ebooks/product/400/000/000/000/000/031/581/400000000000000031581_s4.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/41fRKWNbEWL._SL500_AA240_.jpg"> <img style="cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 240px;" src="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/41fRKWNbEWL._SL500_AA240_.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />In the next six months alone we have Iain Banks' <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Transition-Iain-M-Banks/dp/0316071986/ref=sr_1_10?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1244426145&sr=1-10">Transition</a>, Kate Braestrup's <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Marriage-Other-Acts-Charity-Memoir/dp/0316031917/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1244426181&sr=1-1">Marriage, and Other Acts of Charity</a>, Joshua Ferris' <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Unnamed-Joshua-Ferris/dp/0316034010/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1244426211&sr=1-1">The Unnamed</a>, Amanda C. Gable's <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Confederate-General-Rides-North-Novel/dp/1416598391/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1244426242&sr=1-1">The Confederate General Rides North</a>, Lauren Grodstein's <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Friend-Family-Lauren-Grodstein/dp/1565129164/ref=sr_1_4?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1244426277&sr=1-4">A Friend of the Family</a>, Ha Jin's <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Good-Fall-Stories-Ha-Jin/dp/0307378683/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1244426304&sr=1-1">A Good Fall</a>, Naseem Rakha's <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Crying-Tree-Novel-Naseem-Rakha/dp/0767931408/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1244426329&sr=1-1">The Crying Tree</a>, and Richard Russo's <a href="http://www.amazon.com/That-Cape-Magic-Richard-Russo/dp/0375414967/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1244426366&sr=1-1">That Old Cape Magic</a>. All of them feature low horizons or no horizons, with skies blue or gray, cloudy or clear. Some have birds, some have folks.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/51EQeIqsArL._SL500_AA240_.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 240px;" src="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/51EQeIqsArL._SL500_AA240_.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/41FVhssnsfL._SL500_AA240_.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 240px;" src="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/41FVhssnsfL._SL500_AA240_.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/41q9jF4g2HL._SL500_AA240_.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 240px;" src="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/41q9jF4g2HL._SL500_AA240_.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/41ZXLR1lTEL._SL500_AA240_.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 240px;" src="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/41ZXLR1lTEL._SL500_AA240_.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/21cjzZCHMIL._SL500_AA180_.jpg"> <img style="cursor: pointer; width: 230px; height: 220px;" src="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/21cjzZCHMIL._SL500_AA180_.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="text-decoration: underline;"> </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/41JB8Du6k2L._SL500_AA240_.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 240px;" src="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/41JB8Du6k2L._SL500_AA240_.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/51iNpUPy1dL._SL500_AA240_.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 240px;" src="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/51iNpUPy1dL._SL500_AA240_.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/41kOtJQrPML._SL500_AA240_.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 240px;" src="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/41kOtJQrPML._SL500_AA240_.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />But the message maintains: <span style="font-style: italic;">Look up, not down!</span> Publishing, the country, the entire world is unsure and in flux; things are changing, and not always as we wish they would. There is the temptation to stop in our tracks and look stubbornly down to see if in fact the earth isn't shifting under our feet. But we as readers know that books are microcosms of the world, whether in sympathy or as fantasy or fact, and their covers have advice to offer us all, right there out in front. Enough with the shoe-gazing, enough self-absorption. It's time to move past the personal to the universal, to expand our horizons outward, to see what these times want from us. Nearly 100 years ago E.M. Forster advised us to Only Connect, and it's time, again, to remember.<br /><br />The world is changing. Look up, up and out.</blockquote>Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14793601965773276686noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10442972.post-89980992421735012642009-06-02T22:27:00.008-04:002009-06-03T07:14:28.275-04:00This TallSo everyone has been saying to me in pointed fashion, "You're still going to blog, right?" And to one and all I reply, <span style="font-style: italic;">No. Never again. I'm through with this blogging thing forever</span>.<br /><br />Kidding. However, there is this issue now. For the entire month of May it was understood, sometimes implicitly and sometimes very explicitly, that I was blogging to meet my daily requirement, and if I didn't have anything in particular to say I was damn well going to say it anyway. But now if I put something up, it's because I have a point to make. It's like having a dinner party as opposed to cooking something on a Tuesday night after work so we don't go to bed hungry. Doing the blogathon absolved me of all fear of self-importance. It was like the opposite of irony. (Wait... what? Well, I knew what I meant when I typed it a second ago.)<br /><br />So just to throw off that yoke of heaviness, I'd like to share something with you, my readers:<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBir5vsSRQp5Yus0WzPyg61hkrjOCX5_Km4XZa-Cbv1ywNULLgaIhzF9zScIrsmu7veKNhG1RiEf2n49JCBzWyyTivHg3sS5MK8H-IhZXcGiIYzJ0hkiCUdsHPSzcxcVA54wD_-Q/s1600-h/IMG00011-20090602-1236.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBir5vsSRQp5Yus0WzPyg61hkrjOCX5_Km4XZa-Cbv1ywNULLgaIhzF9zScIrsmu7veKNhG1RiEf2n49JCBzWyyTivHg3sS5MK8H-IhZXcGiIYzJ0hkiCUdsHPSzcxcVA54wD_-Q/s400/IMG00011-20090602-1236.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5342923794953643890" border="0" /></a>I bank at HSBC, and every HSBC branch in the city has this tape mounted to the side of every exit door, with heights from 4'-6" to 6'-6" calibrated on it. Presumably there is a security camera aimed straight at it so as to record any criminals on their way out. And for years and years now, without fail -- probably on the average of twice a month -- I have never walked out of an HSBC bank without saying to myself, <span style="font-style: italic;">"You must be THIS TALL to rob the bank."</span> And, silently, laughing my fool head off for a moment.<br /><span style="text-decoration: underline;"><br /></span>So now you know just how deeply dorky I am. I hope you people are satisfied.Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14793601965773276686noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10442972.post-84695139574397965692009-05-31T22:00:00.008-04:002009-05-31T23:37:34.201-04:00More Birthdays, No SeedsMy goodness, could this really be the last day of the May Blogathon? Why, it's gone by just like <span style="font-style: italic;">that</span>.<br /><br />Well... no it hasn't. But it's been interesting. Between this and my regular blogging gig for <a href="http://www.readerville.com/index.php/blog/">Readerville</a>, the month has felt at times like boot camp for Writing Without the Muse. Which is a <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Writing-Without-Muse-Beth-Joselow/dp/1885266731/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1243822777&sr=8-1">book</a> that I in fact own, but have I found time to reference it once in the past 31 days? I have not. Flying, as ever, without the net. There were times when I sat down in front of the computer and the well felt absolutely dry, but it mattered to me that I do this, and it made for an interesting trip. I'm a big believer in pushing things and going on the proverbial journey. It's been a fun one. I'm glad it's over, though.<br /><br />Today is my birthday. I've now officially missed the window of time for getting that "45" shoulder tattoo, which is probably a good thing.<br /><div style="text-align: left;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxN6swlJW0NeZfqiBtNJvqeNDlngWKWSx1jtnRpzZMnmuHjNuBrRqcSddMB0p8LEEKYwJDjoyd0rLUlc2BdoJMPfRhiMfRGrnCEs1WvpFLaTwvg58TRzybfMW6rkAUKj5tdlOhVA/s1600-h/45adapyell.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 162px; height: 162px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxN6swlJW0NeZfqiBtNJvqeNDlngWKWSx1jtnRpzZMnmuHjNuBrRqcSddMB0p8LEEKYwJDjoyd0rLUlc2BdoJMPfRhiMfRGrnCEs1WvpFLaTwvg58TRzybfMW6rkAUKj5tdlOhVA/s400/45adapyell.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5342195271772109410" border="0" /></a>I'll always regret it a tiny bit, though.<br /></div><br />My day was extremely chilled out. We drove out to a little diner I like in Tarrytown, 20 minutes away, so I could get eggs benedict -- not a diner staple in my part of Kingsbridge, sadly. Did the week's grocery shopping, puttered in the yard. I never got around to planting the new seeds, but I weeded, cleaned up the raised beds -- thank you, neighborhood cats of Summit Place! -- and did some needed thinning. That included the lettuce and spinach, which was getting crowded and leggy, and that meant we had the most unbelievably fresh salad with dinner. There's nothing quite like eating something that was alive very recently, and the greens were crisp and melting at the same time.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh18432B5w1T_0fSdohOvxq3BQn4tl6ogyV8bGygf_Lr4Ps89OgZdIz2Rn_PBNjW_l_meF54knbr2sEeV89s7lS72exysGgTWz-ufD_9lLm3UqwkJXf3K6hepB2xcIlKtIIrf30MQ/s1600-h/greens.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh18432B5w1T_0fSdohOvxq3BQn4tl6ogyV8bGygf_Lr4Ps89OgZdIz2Rn_PBNjW_l_meF54knbr2sEeV89s7lS72exysGgTWz-ufD_9lLm3UqwkJXf3K6hepB2xcIlKtIIrf30MQ/s400/greens.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5342193422682263122" border="0" /></a>For my birthday dinner I made spaghetti and meatballs, one of my favorite meals ever, along with the aforementioned world's freshest salad and a nice bottle of red wine. All eaten off the gorgeous placemats my friend Margarita crocheted me, and in good company to boot.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiybUShsKnyU8616LPdbpntAjTODF1s7hsI2S84mRllPL8TqL-52drza_WxslqabLk196-IoGLaFcjNi8rY36N86krR2crwu3WkmDEITkDlVl-AzZzHpT4b2gC83awBZqnYjEIuw/s1600-h/dinner.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 299px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiybUShsKnyU8616LPdbpntAjTODF1s7hsI2S84mRllPL8TqL-52drza_WxslqabLk196-IoGLaFcjNi8rY36N86krR2crwu3WkmDEITkDlVl-AzZzHpT4b2gC83awBZqnYjEIuw/s400/dinner.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5342193414565633794" border="0" /></a>Dorrie got a new collar and a new chewie, and all was well in her world too.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmvauBSXKh-2ef62WmjVg2ESS2mOu2DFfHCEXkbYg4qXt1S9YMqvuCyeIrF4TNhO-SFS8GaBsXZHAqDcRQlzgo9iU4JbpThadL_fSMXhseInQK6cMbVYgn1DuECzlLPRv6b3_bEw/s1600-h/birthdaygirl4.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 299px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmvauBSXKh-2ef62WmjVg2ESS2mOu2DFfHCEXkbYg4qXt1S9YMqvuCyeIrF4TNhO-SFS8GaBsXZHAqDcRQlzgo9iU4JbpThadL_fSMXhseInQK6cMbVYgn1DuECzlLPRv6b3_bEw/s400/birthdaygirl4.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5342193405366944306" border="0" /></a>On the way to the grocery store and back I was blasting one of my favorite old cds in the car, Squeeze's <span style="font-style: italic;">Argybargy</span>. There are a lot of albums that rocket me back to my teens, but that one never fails to put me in a state of extreme good cheer. So I drove and sang and drummed on the side of the car out of the open window and exposed the good people of the north Bronx to their dose of early 80s music for the afternoon, and it was all in all a very good birthday.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUNkjsQnfXrxJ9vNcZDLbhWkRn8iFYvjl16-cEE0Irsp8ff3Hb7s9x7hRTnUT6mZUCt_iEW99jN1uH7_9CCh1gYq3sfuE4YMkomZCjmdmSo_ef2fNhRBVlk2uKX96zebbkUg-_Bw/s1600-h/birthdaygirl5.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUNkjsQnfXrxJ9vNcZDLbhWkRn8iFYvjl16-cEE0Irsp8ff3Hb7s9x7hRTnUT6mZUCt_iEW99jN1uH7_9CCh1gYq3sfuE4YMkomZCjmdmSo_ef2fNhRBVlk2uKX96zebbkUg-_Bw/s400/birthdaygirl5.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5342193413355911570" border="0" /></a>All in all, it's been a very good month. Thanks for bearing with me.<span style="text-decoration: underline;"><br /></span>Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14793601965773276686noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10442972.post-55461967806930118082009-05-30T22:30:00.005-04:002009-05-30T23:28:43.085-04:00More Seeds, and a Birthday<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRErLrfUskwVWSURjk8MhjNpGK-Otn8hkQVl3oidZy-ljc1umlZ2fFLrpwVAgHECirin-IrLKHgK_umnEmQOcVa9XTLuORy6l2McXDDqZRbX4RuPxcuPM_v4cI1hzJ0GdcIv0_fQ/s1600-h/columbiafront001.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 286px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRErLrfUskwVWSURjk8MhjNpGK-Otn8hkQVl3oidZy-ljc1umlZ2fFLrpwVAgHECirin-IrLKHgK_umnEmQOcVa9XTLuORy6l2McXDDqZRbX4RuPxcuPM_v4cI1hzJ0GdcIv0_fQ/s400/columbiafront001.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5341811182528550178" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkRY7XiVSCkkO5W4unT5u0-JRqcRNgQN-dH_sR5BRTv_a9B0Rsq7xTYfcZZARo7YuY0h8ihKrt9JKTIc_yR6AOckYVjxjDTvuWH8N3ZEd3MvUmHxN7PdMboEOp5wXTYKhps4oztg/s1600-h/columbiaback001.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 286px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkRY7XiVSCkkO5W4unT5u0-JRqcRNgQN-dH_sR5BRTv_a9B0Rsq7xTYfcZZARo7YuY0h8ihKrt9JKTIc_yR6AOckYVjxjDTvuWH8N3ZEd3MvUmHxN7PdMboEOp5wXTYKhps4oztg/s400/columbiaback001.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5341811184398116514" border="0" /></a>Columbia University Press had seeds too!<br /><br />They're sunflowers, which is entirely appropriate because then I'll be able to watch the birds when they come to pick all the seeds out of the soil, which is inevitably what happens when I try to plant sunflowers. It could only more apropos if it were an anthology of bird and squirrel poetry.<br /><br />At any rate, I'm done with BEA for this year, and I have to say I came away with a good feeling about things. Not the publishing industry, obviously -- I am not smoking anything that good (or anything at all, with this pain in the ass cough). But as far as my little place in the universe... understand, I haven't been at this long enough to really <span style="font-style: italic;">feel</span> like I have a place. Rather than travel the whole traditional route of getting an internship at some publishing house or magazine straight out of college and working my way up, this was a midlife crisis career change, one of those if-you-don't-seize-this-moment-to-try-doing-something-you-love-you-will-always-regret-it decisions. A very good decision, and I think I've done fine. But the fact is that haven't been around that long, and I've come at the business from a weird, oblique angle.<br /><br />In the past couple of days, though, I've had a few good encounters that made me feel like I do, in fact, have something of my own to bring to the table. I don't necessarily have one slottable skill -- and when there were so many jobs and divisions of labor in the publishing world, I think that was definitely out of my favor. But things are shifting so dramatically, nobody knows much more than anyone else as to what the scenery will look like when the dust settles. And I walked out of there today thinking that for all the times my mother said, <span style="font-style: italic;">"But you're so smart! You can do so many things!"</span> and I said, <span style="font-style: italic;">"Mom, you don't understand this business, that's not enough"</span> -- hey, maybe mom was on to something.<br /><br />And don't tell me that mothers are always right. Tell my son.<br /><br />Also, I got to hang out with Levi Stahl, of <a href="http://ivebeenreadinglately.blogspot.com/">Ivebeenreadinglately</a>, who is very charming and is almost my birthday twin. This is obviously a fine week to have been born in -- two of my best friends in the world, <a href="http://cdbaby.com/cd/laslocameo">Leslie</a> and <a href="http://meridith.mcneal.googlepages.com/home">Meridith</a>, had a birthday yesterday, I have a dog run friend born on June 2nd and an ex-roommate on the 4th and wait... whose birthday could it be today?<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkU_lGc_H7PDQpFowHwb3oPpl0D0lzWy-LIUbWeYNqHwg5HK47-2QLO5MFkXGF7eIQh2CMI3duSihrQbvuNQOVfkOMaNvwBwuj73Hl2LVV8m5qYFYljd9aimMhhlJh8sc5DSelQw/s1600-h/birthdaygirl3.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 347px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkU_lGc_H7PDQpFowHwb3oPpl0D0lzWy-LIUbWeYNqHwg5HK47-2QLO5MFkXGF7eIQh2CMI3duSihrQbvuNQOVfkOMaNvwBwuj73Hl2LVV8m5qYFYljd9aimMhhlJh8sc5DSelQw/s400/birthdaygirl3.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5341823063888568194" border="0" /></a>Who might have gotten a new stuffed toy and a treat with dinner? And who also went for run with me this morning? Somebody's had a big day.<br /><br />Well... we all have. Happy birthday, Dorrie.Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14793601965773276686noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10442972.post-4240281058869664352009-05-29T22:19:00.007-04:002009-05-29T23:23:00.775-04:00SeedsAbsolutely my favorite BEA loot, bar none, was this wildflower seed packet from NYRB Classics.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkOrpOxXhhURDz_FE5XfO8gsvCg30d9k8sZ6-OlMAVi9iWwraPRLlg7JSfjJPqmTTCkriSDrBliC9KwSHnR8Yleh8LItBahgI0zCYouJejC6gLPyw5DBRi_3GDxTRCAyxodyw2gg/s1600-h/nyrbfront001.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 286px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkOrpOxXhhURDz_FE5XfO8gsvCg30d9k8sZ6-OlMAVi9iWwraPRLlg7JSfjJPqmTTCkriSDrBliC9KwSHnR8Yleh8LItBahgI0zCYouJejC6gLPyw5DBRi_3GDxTRCAyxodyw2gg/s400/nyrbfront001.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5341437105758698258" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiBYGLvdnziT7pimquCueW8HfZqdUm7fPT_DLcRQXtHddoQ41qVcrXrxEGMH8gwnY7PdOnVlGZtFaEmHlowsGBoUgFIZpKJC8b1QDm0LAr8_-KfQ8s-GM6BZk4AJh8gF5JG8B_4g/s1600-h/nyrbback002.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 286px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiBYGLvdnziT7pimquCueW8HfZqdUm7fPT_DLcRQXtHddoQ41qVcrXrxEGMH8gwnY7PdOnVlGZtFaEmHlowsGBoUgFIZpKJC8b1QDm0LAr8_-KfQ8s-GM6BZk4AJh8gF5JG8B_4g/s400/nyrbback002.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5341437103482985634" border="0" /></a>Well OK, that and the signed ARC of <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Await-Your-Reply-Dan-Chaon/dp/0345476026/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1243650053&sr=8-2">Dan Chaon's newest</a>.<br /><br />Margarita gave me some cosmos seeds, and I have some poppies too... I'm thinking if Sunday's nice I'm going to make a little wildflower garden. That odd weedy platform to the right of my front steps might be just the spot, although it's a pain -- and kind of scary -- to constantly shuffle along that narrow ledge with soil and tools and what have you. Still, it's a spot in need of some aesthetic enhancement, and that's a good excuse.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_CA0JhKakmhGpYLVWkpMsPhT1gwx0CapaDmRNIUqNbx4iA_fxqe0LEQrdd6F3NJJF_q4HeiiXpHtsES4PVHG-Hjz70D3BaNSOBcrha8U76yL7T-p9oet8ehDIsBWjxvISzYAjHg/s1600-h/front.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_CA0JhKakmhGpYLVWkpMsPhT1gwx0CapaDmRNIUqNbx4iA_fxqe0LEQrdd6F3NJJF_q4HeiiXpHtsES4PVHG-Hjz70D3BaNSOBcrha8U76yL7T-p9oet8ehDIsBWjxvISzYAjHg/s400/front.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5341438537847566146" border="0" /></a>BEA was both fun and tiring. I was tweeting it from my new Blackberry (@lisapeet1), with a definite learning curve involved. But I do like the medium, and tomorrow is another day. Today, I think, is over.<br /><br />But, one day early for Caturday, I leave you with Francis and Alvy together again:<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUwO5ITchKZAl10LwWyDguOr76M2BuTNQfc63c1936OegROCrJRYK2jqKfmy1V7-G3aIfaBgBQ0dO45sHmHntYyPKBv1RcusQDyhLXytQITqMAaQSVJV3c_FsoXuQEYsThn62E_A/s1600-h/francis&alvyfighting.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUwO5ITchKZAl10LwWyDguOr76M2BuTNQfc63c1936OegROCrJRYK2jqKfmy1V7-G3aIfaBgBQ0dO45sHmHntYyPKBv1RcusQDyhLXytQITqMAaQSVJV3c_FsoXuQEYsThn62E_A/s400/francis&alvyfighting.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5341450476485313490" border="0" /></a>That Alvy is a tough little fat fur seal.Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14793601965773276686noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10442972.post-36229752015798545772009-05-28T22:07:00.004-04:002009-05-28T22:24:44.968-04:00GraduationToday has been an astonishing oscillation of the shitty and the sublime, in such rapid succession as to give me whiplash.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6HecN-PVs1y80Jn0f35it2BAqy6_s-zXk2lgWTdd4QkDpnAP6NdRzfNndMBTWGuFSdvWAg96WduE7rVKeKgUQoVPgS1s5-m4sgVBHFPqzHaPWmXBgGfe358LEA8yeF7E0mT86tw/s1600-h/IMG00004-20090528-0628.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6HecN-PVs1y80Jn0f35it2BAqy6_s-zXk2lgWTdd4QkDpnAP6NdRzfNndMBTWGuFSdvWAg96WduE7rVKeKgUQoVPgS1s5-m4sgVBHFPqzHaPWmXBgGfe358LEA8yeF7E0mT86tw/s400/IMG00004-20090528-0628.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5341063174579308578" border="0" /></a>But my first sight of the morning, when I was out for (another!) good run with Dorrie, was a line of flowers and teddy bears in boxes being unloaded across the street from Lehman College for their graduation ceremony. I actually stopped and screwed around with the camera on this new phone for a minute to capture it, and the image stayed in my head all day through good and bad. A little on the rainbowy side, but I needed that, and to think about all those city kids feeling like they accomplished something and psyching themselves up for whatever comes next. I was talking to a friend tonight about inertia, how it just takes the smallest nudge to set a body in motion and how kindly it wants to stay in motion once that happens.<br /><br />It's been many years since I graduated from anything, but there is motion. And that'll do.Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14793601965773276686noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10442972.post-52477491320830777192009-05-27T20:55:00.009-04:002009-05-28T10:49:48.392-04:00Showing Up<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT_OrqFm0oPuNllfM38YeCgJiaeTtVVkVnMwsKRjlU0krXDsKB9iQAba3tvmABDicPf15wyc-Nseqhp7pqU7l3cwTYi6pNffNo8sMGIpf0w_WulpqX8n1X4uAnrTZlpMP6IUvCKg/s1600-h/Picture+3.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 279px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT_OrqFm0oPuNllfM38YeCgJiaeTtVVkVnMwsKRjlU0krXDsKB9iQAba3tvmABDicPf15wyc-Nseqhp7pqU7l3cwTYi6pNffNo8sMGIpf0w_WulpqX8n1X4uAnrTZlpMP6IUvCKg/s400/Picture+3.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5340684388376885474" border="0" /></a>Usually on weekdays I get up early and walk around the <a href="http://images.google.com/imgres?imgurl=http://graphics8.nytimes.com/images/2009/02/12/nyregion/12jerome2-600.jpg&imgrefurl=http://www.nytimes.com/2009/02/13/nyregion/13jerome.html&usg=__BrD1MtRdCdgkdLkeg0Puh8GXySY=&h=331&w=600&sz=85&hl=en&start=16&sig2=oPp87TA1KgrrcOcr6O4yuQ&um=1&tbnid=M4_YP92hCMo_2M:&tbnh=74&tbnw=135&prev=/images%3Fq%3Djerome%2Bpark%2Breservoir%26hl%3Den%26client%3Dfirefox-a%26rls%3Dorg.mozilla:en-US:official%26sa%3DN%26um%3D1&ei=kOkdSsTGJYmlmQe9yMzFBg">Jerome Park Reservoir</a> with my friend Stephanie and our dogs. It's just under two miles around, and while we don't power-walk it or anything that's still two miles I wouldn't be clocking if we didn't make a daily event of it. It's a good time of the day -- for half an hour or so every morning I can be pretty sure that nothing terrible is going to happen. We'll walk and talk, our dogs will sniff and pee, other walkers and joggers will say hi to us and we'll say hi back. I keep saying I'm going to bring my camera some morning, because there's always something of vague interest: a stretch of grass littered with notes passed in class and then dumped when school was over, a homemade cargo carrier made out of the basket of a shopping cart, lashed with rope to the roof of a dinged-up station wagon. But generally it's not a remarkable time, just a comforting one. Whatever else the day has in store for me can wait.<br /><br />This morning Stephanie didn't come out, though, so Dorrie and I went alone, and I ran a good half of it. I used to run -- not long distances, but a few miles faithfully three times a week. I always really liked it. I don't enjoy many forms of enforced exercise, but running appealed to me from the start. Most of all, I think because there are so many ways to hurt yourself. You have to be extremely mindful and present in your body the whole time, thinking about the axis you're moving on and your breath and how your legs are extending and how your feet hit the ground, which bones and muscles and in what order. Something like a treadmill or exercise bike, where you could conceivably read at the same time, doesn't cut it in the same way. There's not the same occupation of my body and involvement with what it's doing -- to me it's like eating with a cold or going to a church service without believing.<br /><span style="text-decoration: underline;"><br /></span>I never pretended to be any kind of serious runner, and lord knows <a href="http://www.amazon.com/What-Talk-About-When-Running/dp/0307269191/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1243472915&sr=8-1">Haruki Murakami</a> said it all a whole lot better than I ever will. But I liked it. Predictably, I did hurt myself, ending up with something strained on the bottom of my foot. Took it easy, fell out of the good habits, did something to another part of my foot, and so it goes. As soon as it became optional, I lost my discipline.<br /><br />So it was nice to run a little today. I was just jogging, really, a languid trot that Dorrie could keep up with easily. But I was pleased to see that I had some leftover muscle memory and my body still did the right things, and I still had decent wind even with whatever's been sponging up my lungs for the past couple of weeks. It was a misty cool morning, and I came home sweaty and stretched out. And I got a hint of that old buzz -- because come on, anyone who knows me knows I'm always in it for the buzz.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPqbIu72pGQmpKJn4bA_iMOgBCbGK6fuXHk31ehQWOJ3PdFnrYbGopJugtfrkvm1TtBUYrTE_eDM0YqxLrQoh8VzMJ-hEflk5rVHFRBbZdJ6Ei4_keczWRdXOFGCShyB80HSHB8A/s1600-h/IMG00001-20090527-1854.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 336px; height: 248px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPqbIu72pGQmpKJn4bA_iMOgBCbGK6fuXHk31ehQWOJ3PdFnrYbGopJugtfrkvm1TtBUYrTE_eDM0YqxLrQoh8VzMJ-hEflk5rVHFRBbZdJ6Ei4_keczWRdXOFGCShyB80HSHB8A/s400/IMG00001-20090527-1854.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5340681098214092994" border="0" /></a>It was good to remember that the distance between doing a thing and not doing it is actually small and reasonable, and that falling back into good practices isn't that much harder than falling out of them. That mostly it's about showing up.<br /><br />Right now I'm swilling Nyquil straight from the bottle and trying to make sense of the extraordinary pile of BEA email in my inbox, but I figure I feel better than I would have if I'd slept that extra half hour this morning. I'll be out there again tomorrow, barring rain, walking if not running, but enjoying a half hour of grace before the day has its way with me.Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14793601965773276686noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10442972.post-23607549068011269392009-05-26T16:48:00.006-04:002009-05-26T20:35:52.191-04:00Listen to Me, Dammit!It's always tempting to anthropomorphize the animals, some times more than others.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2JWatAPZUAA8JDIiV5YnptigHRHW1Z5c9S5seqe6amYYe-hAPq1l77BeuACO5Yd5z01sgI4NI9DE9bcg72Kzv-XavprYhHh7Wa7XfgvEQc3EaDrgR-6tms0G93zzgRGKD96ZYYg/s1600-h/we+need+to+talk.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2JWatAPZUAA8JDIiV5YnptigHRHW1Z5c9S5seqe6amYYe-hAPq1l77BeuACO5Yd5z01sgI4NI9DE9bcg72Kzv-XavprYhHh7Wa7XfgvEQc3EaDrgR-6tms0G93zzgRGKD96ZYYg/s400/we+need+to+talk.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5340237574676883618" border="0" /></a>It's hard to imagine there isn't a very intense conversation going on here. And who knows? Maybe there is.Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14793601965773276686noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10442972.post-32492906435306467732009-05-25T22:34:00.004-04:002009-05-25T22:53:29.029-04:00Yashica-Mat<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.lostinpixels.hu/photos/0407_yashica_mat_124g.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 339px; height: 519px;" src="http://www.lostinpixels.hu/photos/0407_yashica_mat_124g.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>I spent some time tonight poking around in the attic, and surprised myself by finding my dad's old Yashica-Mat. I'd been half-heartedly wondering where it was ever since I moved here. Presumably it still works -- at least it did ten years ago, when Gideon went through a stage of taking photos with it. I wonder if you can even get that 2x2 format film anymore, or if it's some kind of ridiculous specialty item.<br /><br />But I wasn't looking for the camera. I was pawing through my insane number of boxes (there's nothing like a lifelong apartment-dweller who suddenly comes into possession of a house with full attic for an example of some seriously random packratism) in search of some slide boxes that had been my father's. I found them, finally -- three steel boxes, about 8 x 11 x 2, surprisingly heavy. Especially the one I was looking for, which was filled with glass slides, presumably taken with the very same Yashika-Mat in Okinawa in the early 50s. My dad, an anthropologist, did field service there during the Korean War studying the effects of the conflict and the influx of servicemen on Okinawan hookers and their families. I realize this is ripe for all sorts of off-color comments, but hey -- we're talking about my father, so as far as I'm concerned I'm not going to go there.<br /><br />I'd looked at them briefly a few years ago, when I came into possession of a bunch of his stuff, and I'd been meaning to pull them out again. They were as haunting and beautiful as I remembered -- neatly labeled on a piece of oak tag by subject: Material culture, Okinawan wedding, Okinawan bullfight, brothels and whores (nice, dad), children, adults and children, adults, houses and villages, and markets. Each one painstakingly edged in black cloth tape, which made getting them out of their slots a bit of a pain, but the effect was elegant.<br /><br />I wish they scanned more clearly, but I probably need a better scanner with a setting specifically for slides and transparencies, plus I didn't sit down with the needed damp cloth and clean them. But here are a few, just to give an idea of what's in this box of slides from 55-odd years ago.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdXPnnIc8K6JjDj_FuQfVtumxdj-rKcfepOnMZ2xWr46zVRP8hB-JvpiUejl2DA2nvIbU1wJpv60p_2L7_A3h1rqPQtdLMWo2Eq3ITNX-bGNmOGFwrkIcKvqb7DcKIaBsKXXKMLw/s1600-h/okinawa001.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 282px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdXPnnIc8K6JjDj_FuQfVtumxdj-rKcfepOnMZ2xWr46zVRP8hB-JvpiUejl2DA2nvIbU1wJpv60p_2L7_A3h1rqPQtdLMWo2Eq3ITNX-bGNmOGFwrkIcKvqb7DcKIaBsKXXKMLw/s400/okinawa001.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5339956038683755842" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR8bRyhIjtBbsqHShpU2nBfkgb8D68jMppe4gU2vDcc_RVHDZ_KKqz_IXW2H1Oud_hwvoGOVwVhpZHJZDyeSkGFpJVi_2OdkfgXrpOK2i6PgeFuo7bwEXsvoUGK8O07sYu6Uz3Jw/s1600-h/okinawa+hooker003.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 291px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR8bRyhIjtBbsqHShpU2nBfkgb8D68jMppe4gU2vDcc_RVHDZ_KKqz_IXW2H1Oud_hwvoGOVwVhpZHJZDyeSkGFpJVi_2OdkfgXrpOK2i6PgeFuo7bwEXsvoUGK8O07sYu6Uz3Jw/s400/okinawa+hooker003.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5339958809917545474" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6vMDMQAOWyHJooSvmaQQaU8pvTNKylymg2V8r8z-Yl7bsJGOq1m3JhaXI08lhm1Uk_uPHTEqPwrJDSQlzYp3HFHQs3PXxvHmgSi231u-I6sgXmk9god0MjH0wU5OVSm9u7JySBA/s1600-h/okinawa+bullfight001.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 286px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6vMDMQAOWyHJooSvmaQQaU8pvTNKylymg2V8r8z-Yl7bsJGOq1m3JhaXI08lhm1Uk_uPHTEqPwrJDSQlzYp3HFHQs3PXxvHmgSi231u-I6sgXmk9god0MjH0wU5OVSm9u7JySBA/s400/okinawa+bullfight001.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5339956032251860802" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrk5CEypb2vuIdXKbvzsS0ZQtEYgqaMbbNMUgRzxxWzzc4E2k1LqdGIK9V33ZhgB7OZUWXwOJw5klTLYDJaInZyTG9trxc7mOzMM5HnXJRmUwfN1UuDguTE4Krz6zGx_Ij8Fi1NQ/s1600-h/okinawa+boy001.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 287px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrk5CEypb2vuIdXKbvzsS0ZQtEYgqaMbbNMUgRzxxWzzc4E2k1LqdGIK9V33ZhgB7OZUWXwOJw5klTLYDJaInZyTG9trxc7mOzMM5HnXJRmUwfN1UuDguTE4Krz6zGx_Ij8Fi1NQ/s400/okinawa+boy001.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5339956027671513618" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgapo1XTYa7R3OjvqFEySHnh_8Hp125JjBOrLw4mHiF75e0n3vPo8033jD6Erv4BaI7tJf8Nb9yNsxjliXsQ-7ynUipiH-oGynA_ZlEwtwNayKMplT85dvy7-NbRrxIQD1miOOjjA/s1600-h/okinawa+hooker002.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 289px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgapo1XTYa7R3OjvqFEySHnh_8Hp125JjBOrLw4mHiF75e0n3vPo8033jD6Erv4BaI7tJf8Nb9yNsxjliXsQ-7ynUipiH-oGynA_ZlEwtwNayKMplT85dvy7-NbRrxIQD1miOOjjA/s400/okinawa+hooker002.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5339956036387807410" border="0" /></a>Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14793601965773276686noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10442972.post-60037315850703653952009-05-25T00:10:00.006-04:002009-05-25T00:41:11.850-04:00Wordle<span style="text-decoration: underline;"></span>Back late from a wonderful day in the country laden with licorice and Jack Daniels and glossy magazines and a big root bundle of lily of the valley and SUCH a tired little dog (who is the Best Guest Ever and should be invited everywhere). I got nothin'.<br /><br />Well, I got this, a Wordle word picture of my blog (and, by extension, I guess my universe):<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc7RoOvRTzrB-sKPfIt5NZOpcbshKC4MwFd0x6cyferwQXK2aca2Tw26bylE2EbUOi4TNFSlkHxjrjEuj-e-IieTD0Scl3225pqwPvZ1Rnn8BfzQj070LoJDGTVA2xVrVuNgTxPw/s1600-h/Picture+1.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 268px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc7RoOvRTzrB-sKPfIt5NZOpcbshKC4MwFd0x6cyferwQXK2aca2Tw26bylE2EbUOi4TNFSlkHxjrjEuj-e-IieTD0Scl3225pqwPvZ1Rnn8BfzQj070LoJDGTVA2xVrVuNgTxPw/s400/Picture+1.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5339612343179699602" border="0" /></a>Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14793601965773276686noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10442972.post-33918074006206690632009-05-24T00:16:00.005-04:002009-05-24T01:29:59.677-04:00Pat Pat PatUsually patting oneself on the back for something that's supposed to be a selfless action -- charity, a gift -- is considered to be a bad thing. I'm not sure why... you can argue yourself blue in the face over whether the altruism gene is really the selfishness gene in disguise, but it's all the same thing: You're making someone else feel better and in return you're making yourself feel good as well. Otherwise it's something else, self-sacrifice or work or another form of exchange.<br /><br />Today I went down to New York Presbyterian to visit a friend who unexpectedly wound up in the hospital. So aside from the very serious and multilayered concerns, which take a while to sink in and work their way around my mind anyway, my first -- and easiest to handle -- thought was, What do I bring? Given that flowers aren't allowed and she's not the teddy bear/mylar balloon sort?<br /><br />I love giving presents. Not on cue -- I'm not a fan of Christmas for that reason -- but I love that click when I see just the thing for someone, and tend to stockpile gifts all through the year and hope I can find them when birthdays roll around. So when inspiration struck when I needed it this time around, I was so pleased. On my way down to the east side I stopped by <a href="http://www.bookculture.com/">Book Culture</a>, one of the two fine indie bookstores near my office. It used to be Labyrinth Books, for those of you who know the 'hood, and I think the new name is a bit unfortunate -- it makes me think of petri dishes. But regardless, it has the best selection of glossy high-end magazines and literary journals of any place I know uptown. And there I purchased:<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.adbusters.org/"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 165px;" src="http://www.adbusters.org/files/subscribe_v2.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.bust.com/"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 191px;" src="http://www.bust.com/images/stories/kath_sub_r1_c1.gif" alt="" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.papermag.com/?section=magazine"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 202px;" src="http://www.papermag.com/modules/archive/uploaded_images/3268_mg_cover_may09.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.giantrobot.com/"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 213px;" src="http://secure.giantrobot.com/images/products/2009-01-22/19.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.juxtapoz.com/"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 193px;" src="http://shop.juxtapoz.com/images/products/product_thumbnail_344245.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>All of them fat, fun, and trashy/smart, with interesting articles to read and great pictures to look at if she wasn't up to reading (the links all work, if you're interested). The whole bunch tied up in a green ribbon and delivered in one of the excellent Book Culture tote bags, because eventually all that loot needs to be hauled home...<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bookculture.files.wordpress.com/2008/12/dec-2008-031.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 180px;" src="http://bookculture.files.wordpress.com/2008/12/dec-2008-031.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>What can I say? I was just tickled with the gifts I bore, and I had a fine old time picking them out. I love shiny lowbrow/highbrow magazines, but I don't tend to splurge on myself like that. And I know she wouldn't either, which made them extra fun to buy. I hope when she gets to them they cheer her up a little.<br /><br />If I ever end up in the hospital, faithful readers, I hope you all will take the hint.Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14793601965773276686noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10442972.post-16813680457041278412009-05-22T22:39:00.004-04:002009-05-22T23:44:39.767-04:00Here Comes a Regular<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://static.panoramio.com/photos/original/6344321.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 265px;" src="http://static.panoramio.com/photos/original/6344321.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>For someone who's not much of a joiner, I do like the concept of being a regular somewhere. Back in my late teens and 20s, it was at a fine old East Village dive called the Holiday Cocktail Lounge (that's it in the photo above), sadly no longer among the establishments left standing now that <a href="http://blogs.villagevoice.com/forkintheroad/archives/2009/02/stefan_lutak_ow.php">Stefan</a> is gone. In my mid-20s to 30s, I was a park mom in the Tompkins Square Park playground -- also apparently <a href="http://nycitynewsservice.com/2008/10/17/tompkins-square-playground-in-limbo/">no longer extant</a>. It wasn't a glamorous society, but it saved my sanity pretty much every day and I still have good friends from that time.<br /><br />These days, it's the dog run. I get home from work and feed the cats and change into a t-shirt and sweats, and then I get Dorrie all worked up: "You want to go to the park? You want to go to the PARK?" She is very clear in turn that yes, she does, and off we go through the convivial afterwork urban-suburban streets, saying hi to the neighbors as we pass, to our local: The Fort Independence Park dog run.<br /><br />It's a nice spot, rolling and leafy, and a good group of people and dogs. We're the hardcores, the ones who were there every night all winter, when it was dark before I even left the house and the wind blew in bitingly off the reservoir. These days it's lush and cool after the heat of the afternoon ends, and we all lounge around on the benches and fall into the rhythms of talking about nothing in particular as the evenings stretch out. Like a bar with no alcohol, like a playground with no children -- there are children in and out all the time, but not ours, which makes all the difference -- and our dogs all know each other and can, for the most part, be trusted.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2VP-D-RPGeh-xeaYLjc1GKERHPc-1g-GGvjFKTc-qxYLIdF8krf_RPC944vgYA3e8R2-XB_jwPPwy9y9pyLrFmoOYvMrVP52XuBr3zbNfs5GSiOdJzy1xgmVPlBYEv5KzcR4Xcg/s1600-h/hersheychester&dorrie.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 299px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2VP-D-RPGeh-xeaYLjc1GKERHPc-1g-GGvjFKTc-qxYLIdF8krf_RPC944vgYA3e8R2-XB_jwPPwy9y9pyLrFmoOYvMrVP52XuBr3zbNfs5GSiOdJzy1xgmVPlBYEv5KzcR4Xcg/s400/hersheychester&dorrie.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5338856574980174738" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHKZGXSt8FRD7DnoU-AjrE-As74kyYeNXQBHqOe30fPDUKaxw7quGK3bl-eKFqOW_0Ae-aaNBnVRbinpLDVdL4eTFl9DSwbQKJuKlEBOlOAMN_HTQXCELTku_v3q1swaAAffmSIw/s1600-h/dorrie&chester1.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 299px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHKZGXSt8FRD7DnoU-AjrE-As74kyYeNXQBHqOe30fPDUKaxw7quGK3bl-eKFqOW_0Ae-aaNBnVRbinpLDVdL4eTFl9DSwbQKJuKlEBOlOAMN_HTQXCELTku_v3q1swaAAffmSIw/s400/dorrie&chester1.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5338856561359280002" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjulkPiNoK7GzZ_ptois5YxInEELyED2svch5efgJoNgaqch8aLU1nZUGewc_8UZ2sALWpOXMGYFw_KrPIPYykDXe8EHSulPB_LH8jNKGz1DvQwSRZ9AHBs4Po9ZbSCiT6hEpVwg/s1600-h/dorrie&chester2.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjulkPiNoK7GzZ_ptois5YxInEELyED2svch5efgJoNgaqch8aLU1nZUGewc_8UZ2sALWpOXMGYFw_KrPIPYykDXe8EHSulPB_LH8jNKGz1DvQwSRZ9AHBs4Po9ZbSCiT6hEpVwg/s400/dorrie&chester2.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5338856566751928834" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7vJ6Q18JmWl5v8QolUBPrgb2TI7Hu3X2uIMnV4Ci0QRsjmDn4hPhpyyD-hotRJ3p9Qfi2oLDEafFOEsOA6osOLVUHPQkCpF6RNKLLzpVz4Sgdj82-ht1vgQKYZPa4PkLS9HF8uQ/s1600-h/dorrie&chester3.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 299px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7vJ6Q18JmWl5v8QolUBPrgb2TI7Hu3X2uIMnV4Ci0QRsjmDn4hPhpyyD-hotRJ3p9Qfi2oLDEafFOEsOA6osOLVUHPQkCpF6RNKLLzpVz4Sgdj82-ht1vgQKYZPa4PkLS9HF8uQ/s400/dorrie&chester3.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5338856567677703554" border="0" /></a>It's a pleasant part of the day, with work over and dinner not quite a worry yet; a pleasure but also, because of the dogs' needs, a necessity. We stay longer than we need to most of the time, but the concept of exactly how long that might be is up for debate. The dogs play, we talk, and it's all very agreeable and good for the soul. And at the end of the evening the dogs are tired, which was kind of our point all along.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNQn8RKiMU_kYmZfg3XuhKPFzlcdoc8_Q_-UvHgDtMuMGTxUncbegTFeKZqJcA7pv2C1QObD6gwz7li_yExVPsARSbfAaYezR1SYvSJzytXV5f-qWSMSugtWzgFiQzHKzkqtma4w/s1600-h/stonehenge.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNQn8RKiMU_kYmZfg3XuhKPFzlcdoc8_Q_-UvHgDtMuMGTxUncbegTFeKZqJcA7pv2C1QObD6gwz7li_yExVPsARSbfAaYezR1SYvSJzytXV5f-qWSMSugtWzgFiQzHKzkqtma4w/s400/stonehenge.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5338856577719242066" border="0" /></a>Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14793601965773276686noreply@blogger.com3