The last time we pooh-poohed the cat for scratching among some picture frames stacked in the corner behind the couch we later found a scorpion among the frames. So we consider the cat’s interest in something that we dismiss with, “there’s nothing there,” as a interesting enough to warrant investigation.
Her latest fascination has been with the TV, or the armoire the TV sits in, or possible the two candles that are atop the TV. She has to leap through a tiny opening to get access to the back of the TV. Since she has no purchase on the armoire or the TV, she may slip and fall a few times in attempting to squeeze through this spot in order to conduct her search for whatever the mystery object is. But . . .
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I want to go absolutely everywhere. Not being Oprah, I’ll have to restrict myself to a few places I can afford. The problem is, I can hardly afford to go anywhere. I recently priced a trip to Alaska that would include a boat ride up from Vancouver (which of course, requires several days stay) to catch a train for a few days in Denali National Park. This brief introduction to both Vancouver and Alaska would cost nearly $5000. What’s wrong with that picture? Tell me how to do it for $1500 and . . .
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Naomi Dagen Bloom, over at A Little Red Hen published an interview about me, me, me the other day. Thanks for being interested in my story, Naomi.
At one time in American life, laundry day was Monday. That’s because it was an all day effort with wringer washers and outdoor clothes lines. Now, laundry is something you do any time day or night, possibly while doing three other things at the same time.
What are you doing with all the time women previously spent doing laundry? Blogging? Maybe you’re thinking about the news that there are 8 Democrats who’ve announced they’ll run for Pres. Of those eight, we have a sort of Hispanic American (Bill Richardson), a sort of African American (Barak Obama), and a female American (Hillary Clinton). This is more fun than laundry any old time. . .
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Most of my days are spent either in New Mexico or Texas. New Mexico is famous for its artists, Texas for its music. It’s the quality of light that creates this artistic phenomena.
The Texas light is filtered, tentative, uncertain, and often hidden by moist and drooping layers of obscurity. New Mexico light is blazing, piercing as a spotlight. If you want to sit and brood with your guitar, go to Texas. If you want to examine every petal of a flower, go to New Mexico.
A couple of years ago I was in Italy and found the light, and even the plants and soil, very like New Mexico. No wonder Italy is such a hotbed of art . . .
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With the icy footing slowing me down, and the traffic forcing me uncomfortably close to the edge of the overgrown gully next to the road, I was a bit nervous about walking at this time of the day. Suddenly my feet slipped and I careened into the gully. I skimmed along on the ice, out of control, until I slammed into a mesquite bush and stopped. As falls are judged, this one would not earn a 10, but I didn’t think anything was broken. I stood up and searched for a way back up the short but slick slope to the road. That’s when I saw . . .
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I’m slow, I know, but I just watched Not Without My Daughter, the Sally Field flick about Iran during the 1980s. The thing that struck me about the whole film was the sentence that “paradise is a Persian word.”
I also just finished reading Never Let Me Go by Kazou Ishiguaro. The plot of this book is science fiction, but one of the underlying themes is how cultures and social systems are born out of human hope, longing, fear, and circumstance. And isolation. The very human characters . . .
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I heard a man muttering outside my tent. I peered through the door flap to see someone sitting on the big log in front of my dying fire, hands extended to the meager warmth.
I crawled out and stood in front of him. His grizzly mop of uncut hair hung beneath a tattered hunting cap–the kind with ear flaps. His coat was filthy and torn. He looked up at me with a dim, distracted glance and continued muttering.
I went to my food stash and returned with a granola bar, an orange, and a bottle of water. He . . .
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My sister poked her head through the door and caught me picking sweaters. “Wear the blue,” she said, “that’s your color.”
She strutted her way into the bathroom and I picked up the yellow sweater and pulled it over my head. I fluffed my hair and shouldered my bag. In the kitchen, I grabbed a granola bar and a juice box. My mom glanced at me over her coffee cup. Her eyes were bloodshot and she wasn’t about to move quickly.
“You look like crap in yellow,” mom muttered. I answered by banging out the back door and running across the street to my ride with Jaime.
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It’s a video cam world. Video of your kid’s daycare class, video of busy intersections, video of ATM machines, video of celebrities caught being less than perfect.
Like many things in the modern world, video cams are both a blessing and a curse. My favorite video cam was of an eagle’s nest.
You could watch the newly hatched eagles grow, see the parents come and go with food for the babies. The young eagles learned to move around, stretch their wings, waited while new feathers grew in, waited while their dinner order was being delivered.
My least favorite video . . .
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