 |
| Fine Time Art 18 by KimB 2017 |
Monday, June 26, 2017
Sunday, June 25, 2017
Plant update
I had to replace my two little Venus Fly Traps. I thought I was following the right care regime, but they died. Probably one reason for their demise was hunger. I had them sitting in a tray of water like they were in the shop, not realizing those in the shop were only temporarily sitting in water, then removed.
These two plants are not in the house. they are outside near the vegetable garden. They seemed to be thriving but they weren't eating any bugs. My son thought of putting a crumb of chocolate candy near by and that attracted a lot of ants, but they didn't crawl on the plant where they could have been trapped. Then my son put a tiny piece of fresh peach near the plants. That did the trick. Little fruit flies were attracted and now all the traps are closed. The plants are finally eating. I don't know how long it will be before they will want another meal. I have a lot to learn about these new pets.
These two plants are not in the house. they are outside near the vegetable garden. They seemed to be thriving but they weren't eating any bugs. My son thought of putting a crumb of chocolate candy near by and that attracted a lot of ants, but they didn't crawl on the plant where they could have been trapped. Then my son put a tiny piece of fresh peach near the plants. That did the trick. Little fruit flies were attracted and now all the traps are closed. The plants are finally eating. I don't know how long it will be before they will want another meal. I have a lot to learn about these new pets.
Monday, June 19, 2017
Friday, June 16, 2017
Temari project
I've been busy with my temari project. It's slow going. One would think embroidering some geometric shapes onto a Styrofoam ball with bright colored embroidery floss would be rather simple. I can't speak for others, but I'm finding the learning curve more complex than I had assumed when I first saw pictures of them on the internet.
The folk art of making temari thread balls originated in China and was introduced to Japan in the 7th century. Remnants of old kimonos were wadded into a ball shape and wrapped with strips of kimono fabric. The stitching became more decorative, displaying intricate embroidery. Women of the Japanese upper classes and aristocracy competed in creating beautiful temari, turning the craft into an art form.
It only takes a moment to understand the 'how to' instruction on making them, but executing is another matter. Following instructions on wrapping and laying fiberfill batting around a Styrofoam ball, then winding sewing thread around and around the ball for a sewing foundation was easy. I wrapped five Styrofoam balls while I watched TV one evening , thinking I'd start decorating them the next day.
Little did I realize my wrapping was going to be a problem. After dividing one ball into a simple eight division with thread to use as guide lines, I precisely placed pins at the north and south poles and at equal distances around the equator. After threading my needle with bright floss, I started to decorate a diamond shape. That's when I discovered the wrapping problem. I should have used more thread in wrapping which would have made it easier to use the needle. It also dawned on that it would have been prudent to have wrapped only one ball instead of five.
While I was embroidering, I thought of my sister, Esther. She was a genius with a needle. She did needlepoint, crewel, counted cross stitch, all manner of embroidery as well as numerous hand sewn quilts. Anything requiring the use of a needle was an easy task for her. She designed dresses for her three daughters and sewed them on the machine. She even made western shirts for her husband. I wish she was still with us so I could tell her again how much I envied her talent.
Esther would have shown me how to do the types of stitches traditionally used on temari, but now I have to study how to do them. I was tempted to stop working on the ball when my stiches lacked fineness and looked so amateurish, but I decided to finish it because we all know how to get to Carnegie Hall. Practice, Practice, Practice.
The folk art of making temari thread balls originated in China and was introduced to Japan in the 7th century. Remnants of old kimonos were wadded into a ball shape and wrapped with strips of kimono fabric. The stitching became more decorative, displaying intricate embroidery. Women of the Japanese upper classes and aristocracy competed in creating beautiful temari, turning the craft into an art form.
It only takes a moment to understand the 'how to' instruction on making them, but executing is another matter. Following instructions on wrapping and laying fiberfill batting around a Styrofoam ball, then winding sewing thread around and around the ball for a sewing foundation was easy. I wrapped five Styrofoam balls while I watched TV one evening , thinking I'd start decorating them the next day.
Little did I realize my wrapping was going to be a problem. After dividing one ball into a simple eight division with thread to use as guide lines, I precisely placed pins at the north and south poles and at equal distances around the equator. After threading my needle with bright floss, I started to decorate a diamond shape. That's when I discovered the wrapping problem. I should have used more thread in wrapping which would have made it easier to use the needle. It also dawned on that it would have been prudent to have wrapped only one ball instead of five.
While I was embroidering, I thought of my sister, Esther. She was a genius with a needle. She did needlepoint, crewel, counted cross stitch, all manner of embroidery as well as numerous hand sewn quilts. Anything requiring the use of a needle was an easy task for her. She designed dresses for her three daughters and sewed them on the machine. She even made western shirts for her husband. I wish she was still with us so I could tell her again how much I envied her talent.
Esther would have shown me how to do the types of stitches traditionally used on temari, but now I have to study how to do them. I was tempted to stop working on the ball when my stiches lacked fineness and looked so amateurish, but I decided to finish it because we all know how to get to Carnegie Hall. Practice, Practice, Practice.
Wednesday, June 14, 2017
Ripples 21 by KimB
[Editor's Note: Ripples is a serial story.
UPDATE 10/2018:
The author makes no guarantees as to completing the serial.
Publication dates are located in the left side menu.]
The noise of the outside world ended as the doors closed behind her. The soft swoosh separated the outside and from the inside.
Inside the light was different. The colors and hues a monotone. She looked behind her through the dark glass panes designed to change bright into dim and hot into cool.
Turning she passed down the hallway into a cavernous room. Bright lights and cold air redefined the outside and nullified it.
She was still welcome here. Just.
Tables and chairs, a few scattered couches, their cushions sagging from use, kiosks with pamphlets and row upon row upon row of the most valuable thing on the planet. More valuable than all the physical wealth of the world, yet only a small fraction of what had ever been.
There was so much and yet there was so little. What seemed like endless rows ended. Shelves that might go forever halted. Spaces. Empty Spaces. Places where things ought to be; yet were not.
There were those who believed that the most valuable thing on the planet was theirs and theirs alone. Theirs to do with what they wanted. Theirs to constrain. Theirs to control. Theirs to obscure. Theirs to obliterate.
There was a hunger there. A gnawing hunger. A covetous hunger.
The building devoured the rows. An empty shelf, the carcass of its latest feastings. The building ground its way through the rows and shelves granting wishes to those who believed it all belonged to them.
But of course it didn't.
The digested leavings, a compost of nothing, were what was then offered. A goulash without content or context. The texture, substance and weight removed. The aromas of spices and nuances of flavor sanitized into a dreary gruel. Visible only under the proper circumstances.
Teased, tempted and threatened, the custodians yielded up what was Everyone's. Abdicating the rights of the world to those few who claimed it. Permissions granted by physical possession; then jettisoned. A deliberate action of abandonment.
The most valuable thing on the planet lay chained to a future of instability. The engorgement lasting the span of months or at best years and then lost. Some would be lost forever.
A civilization burning its heritage. No need for flames this time. The building would devour all and there were many who would help it do so.
Foolish hubris.
Yet what was lost, might be found again. The most valuable thing on the planet was still there.
She made her way towards a desk to seek answers from what remained.
UPDATE 10/2018:
I am invoking the No Guarantee to Finish option
I've not run out of ideas but there is a definite lack of incentive to continue.
Such is the end of all serials.
The author makes no guarantees as to completing the serial.
Publication dates are located in the left side menu.]
There will be a break in publication
until the author writes new episodes.
21 Leaves on Leaves
Mild. Warm. Hot.
Cool. Cold. Frigid.
Dark. Dim. Bright.
Silent. Silent. Silent.
The noise of the outside world ended as the doors closed behind her. The soft swoosh separated the outside and from the inside.
Inside the light was different. The colors and hues a monotone. She looked behind her through the dark glass panes designed to change bright into dim and hot into cool.
Turning she passed down the hallway into a cavernous room. Bright lights and cold air redefined the outside and nullified it.
She was still welcome here. Just.
Tables and chairs, a few scattered couches, their cushions sagging from use, kiosks with pamphlets and row upon row upon row of the most valuable thing on the planet. More valuable than all the physical wealth of the world, yet only a small fraction of what had ever been.
There was so much and yet there was so little. What seemed like endless rows ended. Shelves that might go forever halted. Spaces. Empty Spaces. Places where things ought to be; yet were not.
There were those who believed that the most valuable thing on the planet was theirs and theirs alone. Theirs to do with what they wanted. Theirs to constrain. Theirs to control. Theirs to obscure. Theirs to obliterate.
There was a hunger there. A gnawing hunger. A covetous hunger.
When they claimed it was More. They provided Less.
When they claimed it was Better. They offered Lesser.
When they claimed it for All. They gave only Few.
It was Nothing. It was Petty. It was a Lie.
The building devoured the rows. An empty shelf, the carcass of its latest feastings. The building ground its way through the rows and shelves granting wishes to those who believed it all belonged to them.
But of course it didn't.
The digested leavings, a compost of nothing, were what was then offered. A goulash without content or context. The texture, substance and weight removed. The aromas of spices and nuances of flavor sanitized into a dreary gruel. Visible only under the proper circumstances.
Teased, tempted and threatened, the custodians yielded up what was Everyone's. Abdicating the rights of the world to those few who claimed it. Permissions granted by physical possession; then jettisoned. A deliberate action of abandonment.
The most valuable thing on the planet lay chained to a future of instability. The engorgement lasting the span of months or at best years and then lost. Some would be lost forever.
A civilization burning its heritage. No need for flames this time. The building would devour all and there were many who would help it do so.
Foolish hubris.
Yet what was lost, might be found again. The most valuable thing on the planet was still there.
She made her way towards a desk to seek answers from what remained.
Monday, June 12, 2017
Saturday, June 10, 2017
Othello and the Blue Blanket by KimB
MrsB always has a project or two or three or four or a dozen, at any one time. One of her many projects is knitting. Currently her focus is on baby blankets or small shoulder throws that ward off a chilly draft.
While she always plans to sell them, many of them end up as presents for birthdays, holidays, Christmas, New Years, and as Monday Morning Post Office surprises.
Every one is unique, like MrsB herself. She gets an idea and branches into a hundred directions at the same time. Her mind overflows with ideas and patterns. She works and works and rips and rips and works again and again until it matches her imagination. As soon as one is done, another is being started: another pattern, color, style to be turned into something practical and a unique piece of her.
Because only she can make these, don't you see.
Otherwise they wouldn't be a MrsB Baby Blanket. In a time of robotic automation, she works by hand. In a time of mass duplication, she makes one. In a time of orchestrated sameness, hers are extraordinary.
They are wonderful to look at and soft to the touch. They hold just the right amount of warmth when you want a nap and provide perfect comfort when getting over the sniffles.
I guard them jealously. I am careful about how I use them.
I am also en-garde against the cats ... and ... their claws.
Recently, I let Allen use one of my favorites: a Blue Blanket. It is soft to the touch, a wonderful shade of blue and the pattern of waves is like lace. After his nap, he folded it up neatly and left it on the dresser for me to put away.
He wasn't the only one watching though.
Othello, who rarely gets on the dressers, preferring instead the overstuffed padding of a leather recliner, noticed the blanket on the dresser. Slowly, slowly, he inched his way to the dresser. His eyes riveted on the blanket.
Quietly we watched him. He was so intent he didn't realize we had spotted him heading for the blanket. I was ready to dash in to rescue the blanket but Allen indicated we should wait and see what Othello would do. After all the Blue Blanket was folded into a small square and Othello is a very big cat.
Very carefully Othello looked and sniffed at the folded blanket and ever so gently, started to unfold it by pushing his head and nose into different seams. He carefully pushed this way and that, until he had it "Othello Size" and then cuddled up for a nice snooze hugging part of it as a pillow.
While she always plans to sell them, many of them end up as presents for birthdays, holidays, Christmas, New Years, and as Monday Morning Post Office surprises.
Every one is unique, like MrsB herself. She gets an idea and branches into a hundred directions at the same time. Her mind overflows with ideas and patterns. She works and works and rips and rips and works again and again until it matches her imagination. As soon as one is done, another is being started: another pattern, color, style to be turned into something practical and a unique piece of her.
Because only she can make these, don't you see.
Otherwise they wouldn't be a MrsB Baby Blanket. In a time of robotic automation, she works by hand. In a time of mass duplication, she makes one. In a time of orchestrated sameness, hers are extraordinary.
They are wonderful to look at and soft to the touch. They hold just the right amount of warmth when you want a nap and provide perfect comfort when getting over the sniffles.
I guard them jealously. I am careful about how I use them.
I am also en-garde against the cats ... and ... their claws.
Recently, I let Allen use one of my favorites: a Blue Blanket. It is soft to the touch, a wonderful shade of blue and the pattern of waves is like lace. After his nap, he folded it up neatly and left it on the dresser for me to put away.
He wasn't the only one watching though.
Othello, who rarely gets on the dressers, preferring instead the overstuffed padding of a leather recliner, noticed the blanket on the dresser. Slowly, slowly, he inched his way to the dresser. His eyes riveted on the blanket.
 |
| Othello unfolding the blanket |
Very carefully Othello looked and sniffed at the folded blanket and ever so gently, started to unfold it by pushing his head and nose into different seams. He carefully pushed this way and that, until he had it "Othello Size" and then cuddled up for a nice snooze hugging part of it as a pillow.
 |
| Othello and the Blue Blanket |
Friday, June 09, 2017
Fallin' In Among 'Em by KimB
MrsB will be 95 soon. It's an amazing milestone. Hers is an amazing life.
Nearly 65 years ago I "fell in among 'em". At least that's what MrsB (my Mom) always said about family: you just "fell in among 'em". There were times that "being among 'em" was a trial but there were more times that "being among 'em" was more fun than anyone can imagine.
MrsB (aka my Mom) always had a knack for taking what some might call "bad" and turning it around to something "fun and good". We could make up the most imaginative games with all sorts of arcane rules and just have a go at making the best of things. Whenever anyone was glum or down in the dumps, she had a fix: a card game tournament, a guessing game, a look-it-up game (way before internet when you actually had to look things up in B O O K S), or doing art projects like: drawings, watercolors or papier-mâché.
Those who stop here to read her stories or see her art work, know she is very special lady. Not just to the family but to everyone that meets her. She makes everyone feel like they "fell in among 'em" and that they are right at home.
Our stories still make us laugh:
MrsB has so many talents it's hard to grasp all the things she does. She rarely has time to "just do nothing". She works on a myriad of projects: finishing one and starting another. There is no time like "now".
There is something about everything she touches or does. It's hard to describe but there is a quality to her works the defies the plasticized, repetitive, stamped, sameness that flows around our modern lives; this sameness that we accept with few questions. The demands of oligarchs, mega-corporations and the self-centered-wealthy to: buy-this, use-that, do-this or else risk "not being IN".
Everything about her is unique. Everything she does is unique. Everything she does comes from an inner self that she pours into anything she touches: her family, her friends, her art works.
It's nearly 65 years now that I've "been among 'em". There were "good times" and "times made good". There were "better times" and "times made even better". MrsB and her life stories, the lives and stories of all our family and those of our friends both close and far are samples of "good times" and "good times made better".
I think it's a darn good thing I "fell in among 'em".
Happy Birthday Mom
Nearly 65 years ago I "fell in among 'em". At least that's what MrsB (my Mom) always said about family: you just "fell in among 'em". There were times that "being among 'em" was a trial but there were more times that "being among 'em" was more fun than anyone can imagine.
MrsB (aka my Mom) always had a knack for taking what some might call "bad" and turning it around to something "fun and good". We could make up the most imaginative games with all sorts of arcane rules and just have a go at making the best of things. Whenever anyone was glum or down in the dumps, she had a fix: a card game tournament, a guessing game, a look-it-up game (way before internet when you actually had to look things up in B O O K S), or doing art projects like: drawings, watercolors or papier-mâché.
Those who stop here to read her stories or see her art work, know she is very special lady. Not just to the family but to everyone that meets her. She makes everyone feel like they "fell in among 'em" and that they are right at home.
Our stories still make us laugh:
- The weekend at the beach when the park service decided that under an austerity program they would no longer buy minimal waxy toilet paper for the outhouse and supplied rolls of TP that had splinters in it.
- The time in Mexico when she found someone in the Mercado (open air market) selling peanuts and ordered 1 kilo of them.
(You have no idea how many peanuts make up a kilo and we ate them for several years.) - The time I came home with a wild opossum as a pet.
(Which got turned loose in an orchard and at least avoided the stew pot a while longer.) - The time my uncle pulled out a rifle and threatened to shoot her.
- The times she stood up to be counted and was noticed. The small Southern Town in the 1960s where she was noticed driving past a gathering near the local jail to see what was happening for herself. Our friends got a warning that a burning cross was going to be on their lawn if they didn't get "That Yankee Lady" out of town.
- The times she would not back down. Not for anyone. She did not tolerate discrimination, racism or sexism. She didn't tolerate those that took advantage of others.
- The time I applied for my first "big cook job" and was turned down because I was a woman and they didn't hire women for those positions. She made me to go back and DEMAND that job.
I did. I got the job. - The amazing dinners and family gatherings. Like the time we gave 7UP to Grandmother and told her it was champagne and she got all woozy-drunk.
MrsB has so many talents it's hard to grasp all the things she does. She rarely has time to "just do nothing". She works on a myriad of projects: finishing one and starting another. There is no time like "now".
There is something about everything she touches or does. It's hard to describe but there is a quality to her works the defies the plasticized, repetitive, stamped, sameness that flows around our modern lives; this sameness that we accept with few questions. The demands of oligarchs, mega-corporations and the self-centered-wealthy to: buy-this, use-that, do-this or else risk "not being IN".
Everything about her is unique. Everything she does is unique. Everything she does comes from an inner self that she pours into anything she touches: her family, her friends, her art works.
It's nearly 65 years now that I've "been among 'em". There were "good times" and "times made good". There were "better times" and "times made even better". MrsB and her life stories, the lives and stories of all our family and those of our friends both close and far are samples of "good times" and "good times made better".
I think it's a darn good thing I "fell in among 'em".
Happy Birthday Mom
Wednesday, June 07, 2017
Ripples 20 by KimB
[Editor's Note: Ripples is a serial story.
The author makes no guarantees as to completing the serial.
Publication dates are located in the left side menu.]
The tall trees swayed with the air currents, their ballet inscribed on the grass. Free to all.
No one watched.
Well, almost no one, she thought. I am watching. I am one. One is All.
She watched the shadow play and admired the tall trees striving for sunlight.
The trees moved in their own rhythms, seemingly unaware of their admirer. Survival when surrounded by concrete was difficult, sometimes impossible. Their daily struggle never ceasing. Their wind dancing an infinite expression of life.
A visible manifestation of: I AM.
She understood.
With some regret, she turned towards the building centered on a concrete base with its attending pools of asphalt, ringed by the dance of life.
She wondered, did the building ever watch? Did it feel the cool of the shade? Did it notice the leaves when they fell or when they swirled around the doors? Did the building sense the life around it?
So many modern buildings had been imbued with technology and sensors. They could tell time and weather. They could heat or cool themselves. They could open doors or lock them. They could summon assistance as needed. They could count what was inside. They knew those who entered and tracked them until they left. They had eyes to see and memories too.
Did the building notice the sky dance?
Perhaps.
But what did it make of the graceful arcs and swirls, the swaying in the sun and the cool grass beneath, the smell of damp earth and the fragrance of pine, the feel of soft leaves or the crunch of dried ones? It lived in a different way. It had no need of air or nourishment or love.
She thought it might be resentful.
She entered the building. Looking for answers. She knew inside there would be many answers. Many answers to many questions.
But would there be answers for her questions?
She would have to ask.
The doors closed behind her.
The author makes no guarantees as to completing the serial.
Publication dates are located in the left side menu.]
20 Paper Only
Shadows dancing.The tall trees swayed with the air currents, their ballet inscribed on the grass. Free to all.
No one watched.
Well, almost no one, she thought. I am watching. I am one. One is All.
She watched the shadow play and admired the tall trees striving for sunlight.
The trees moved in their own rhythms, seemingly unaware of their admirer. Survival when surrounded by concrete was difficult, sometimes impossible. Their daily struggle never ceasing. Their wind dancing an infinite expression of life.
A visible manifestation of: I AM.
She understood.
With some regret, she turned towards the building centered on a concrete base with its attending pools of asphalt, ringed by the dance of life.
She wondered, did the building ever watch? Did it feel the cool of the shade? Did it notice the leaves when they fell or when they swirled around the doors? Did the building sense the life around it?
So many modern buildings had been imbued with technology and sensors. They could tell time and weather. They could heat or cool themselves. They could open doors or lock them. They could summon assistance as needed. They could count what was inside. They knew those who entered and tracked them until they left. They had eyes to see and memories too.
Did the building notice the sky dance?
Perhaps.
But what did it make of the graceful arcs and swirls, the swaying in the sun and the cool grass beneath, the smell of damp earth and the fragrance of pine, the feel of soft leaves or the crunch of dried ones? It lived in a different way. It had no need of air or nourishment or love.
She thought it might be resentful.
She entered the building. Looking for answers. She knew inside there would be many answers. Many answers to many questions.
But would there be answers for her questions?
She would have to ask.
The doors closed behind her.
Monday, June 05, 2017
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
