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| 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
Wednesday, May 31, 2017
Ripples 19 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.]
Infinite arrivals, limited service: M/D/1
Along with the many others, she waited her turn in the in The System. Nothing new had changed. The M/D/1 queue, defined in the 1900s, worked the same way then and the same way now. The math might look intimidating but the essence was simple:
The Wait gave everyone a chance to zone out. Sometimes when the TV functioned, it would display vapid programs as dull and senseless as the colors selected for the walls. Its only function: distraction and perhaps a chance to sleep under a roof, however temporary.
She looked around the room. Rather she stared.
She smiled to herself at the admonitions against staring.
The was something to be said about staring. It all depended on the context. "Because I said SO!" wasn't very helpful. Staring is more complicated and often dangerous.
She stared anyway. So much to see.
People tried to hide or pretend but if you looked, you could see. It was there on their faces. The way they talked or didn't. The way they stood and moved.
Stripped until you became a ghost. No longer a person. No longer a citizen. Like an orca stolen from their family pod, recognizing the calls of relatives but no longer acknowledged as a member.
You might still have a paper declaiming your citizenship and birthright, but its value declined with fortune. You might try to exert your claims but no others will tolerate you. You become less and less of a citizen, a person, a life, a being until you are nothing: an untouchable.
Along the downward passage was fear.
They were so close;
A prick and done.
It took less time to traverse the corridors on the way out, or at least it seemed that way.
A curious function of memory-time.
The author makes no guarantees as to completing the serial.
Publication dates are located in the left side menu.]
19 Zoning
M/D/1Infinite arrivals, limited service: M/D/1
Along with the many others, she waited her turn in the in The System. Nothing new had changed. The M/D/1 queue, defined in the 1900s, worked the same way then and the same way now. The math might look intimidating but the essence was simple:
The milkmaid can only milk one cow at a time.
The Wait gave everyone a chance to zone out. Sometimes when the TV functioned, it would display vapid programs as dull and senseless as the colors selected for the walls. Its only function: distraction and perhaps a chance to sleep under a roof, however temporary.
She looked around the room. Rather she stared.
She smiled to herself at the admonitions against staring.
Don't stare! It's impolite.
But if I don't stare, how will I notice anything?Don't ask questions!Why not?Because I said SO!!
The was something to be said about staring. It all depended on the context. "Because I said SO!" wasn't very helpful. Staring is more complicated and often dangerous.
Staring at a lion is like inviting it to lunch ...
on you, as the hors-d'oeuvre.
She stared anyway. So much to see.
People tried to hide or pretend but if you looked, you could see. It was there on their faces. The way they talked or didn't. The way they stood and moved.
The slow slide into invisibility
Stripped until you became a ghost. No longer a person. No longer a citizen. Like an orca stolen from their family pod, recognizing the calls of relatives but no longer acknowledged as a member.
You might still have a paper declaiming your citizenship and birthright, but its value declined with fortune. You might try to exert your claims but no others will tolerate you. You become less and less of a citizen, a person, a life, a being until you are nothing: an untouchable.
Money made it. Money defined it. Money removed it.
Along the downward passage was fear.
- They might be like you
- They could be like you
- They will be like you
They were so close;
she was so close;she could taste the fear.
A prick and done.
It took less time to traverse the corridors on the way out, or at least it seemed that way.
A curious function of memory-time.
|
Such as thou art, sometime was I. Such as I am, such shalt thou be. Epitaph of the Black Prince |
|---|
Monday, May 29, 2017
Wednesday, May 24, 2017
Ripples 18 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 blue tag placed in the window, a public statement of plight. Set so anyone could determine if The Queen for a Day was a righteous queen.
The cold winds swirled as she made her way towards a building constructed of monotone concrete slabs. Dreary-Grey, forbidding and ugly. Some esthetic's idea for combining permanence with healing. A tribute only to the ignorance of the architect, builders and worse, those that commissioned it.
The building oriented to catch every gust of wind: sheering cold and rains in season; heat and dust on the change. A concrete sarcophagus confronting nature, oblivious to those that sought sanctuary away from the elements. She grimaced with a cold chill as the wind sliced through her coat and hurried towards the glass doors marking the entrance. The doors slid open. The inside appeared even bleaker although the exterior warned there would be no welcome.
Poorly painted walls with attempted splashes of subdued colors surgically selected to dull the senses. Smells. Old smells. Stale smells. A nasal cacophony of decay. She wrinkled her nose as she made her way through the halls and corridors.
She passed others traversing the corridors, like ants meandering to some destination known only to themselves. The currents here were erratic, turning people this way and that almost on a whim, rip tides flowing in opposite directions. Whirlpools collecting the unwary, in an unceasing vortex of wrong directions.
She came at last to her destination.... many others here before her.
Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.
Waiting is what one did.
Especially if you were Queen for a Day.
The author makes no guarantees as to completing the serial.
Publication dates are located in the left side menu.]
18 Cold Front
The car parked, she gathered her important items.The blue tag placed in the window, a public statement of plight. Set so anyone could determine if The Queen for a Day was a righteous queen.
The cold winds swirled as she made her way towards a building constructed of monotone concrete slabs. Dreary-Grey, forbidding and ugly. Some esthetic's idea for combining permanence with healing. A tribute only to the ignorance of the architect, builders and worse, those that commissioned it.
The building oriented to catch every gust of wind: sheering cold and rains in season; heat and dust on the change. A concrete sarcophagus confronting nature, oblivious to those that sought sanctuary away from the elements. She grimaced with a cold chill as the wind sliced through her coat and hurried towards the glass doors marking the entrance. The doors slid open. The inside appeared even bleaker although the exterior warned there would be no welcome.
Poorly painted walls with attempted splashes of subdued colors surgically selected to dull the senses. Smells. Old smells. Stale smells. A nasal cacophony of decay. She wrinkled her nose as she made her way through the halls and corridors.
She passed others traversing the corridors, like ants meandering to some destination known only to themselves. The currents here were erratic, turning people this way and that almost on a whim, rip tides flowing in opposite directions. Whirlpools collecting the unwary, in an unceasing vortex of wrong directions.
She came at last to her destination.... many others here before her.
Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.
Waiting is what one did.
Especially if you were Queen for a Day.
Monday, May 22, 2017
Wednesday, May 17, 2017
Ripples 17 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.]
She glared at the empty folder, the crease fully ripped, the contents now patterned the floor. Her sorting useless.
One by one, she collected the pages and placed them on the table. The torn folder sheets, doubled up, now served as a poor man's clipboard, sans the clip. Like many things, in her life, sans was more often the case.
She shuffled the recovered pages into a slightly tidier pile, the new top page drawing her interest. She tabbed through the new pile selecting like pages. Reading each page, adding to her notes. Reviewing the earlier pages.
Back and forth she went.
The pages she carried away from the Fruit Stand Store, their shiny surface reflecting the poor lighting, declaimed many things. Then they declaimed the opposite.
Like the jetsam she picked up on the beach, phones were also thrown away. While recycling was often touted, recycling often meant "sending it to a dump in China". The majority of phones ended up in drawers. Some got resold. Some donated.
The news that even old phones could be harnessed against their previous owners, extracting old contact lists, old photos, music/videos, stored messages and emails made them gold mines to those so interested.
The phoront separated from its human host could no longer pretend to protect the host's interest, and regurgitated it's contents readily. Subjected to indignities, lies, and mistreatment, the phone had little chance to survive intact. Or rather, survival was re‑determined by the extent of the compromised chips that allowed the phone to function.
The unique identifier that every phone carried could be turned off by the telecom carrier, blacklisting the phone, but depending on the circumstances of how the phone got separated, this often didn't happen or it didn't matter. Much of what the phoront did or didn't, was independent of having an active connection.
Smartphones, she reflected, were a lot like James James Morrison's Mother:
Because it mattered very much
The author makes no guarantees as to completing the serial.
Publication dates are located in the left side menu.]
17 Pereō ante Perdō
A waterfall of papers, notes floating like mist, swirled to the floor.She glared at the empty folder, the crease fully ripped, the contents now patterned the floor. Her sorting useless.
One by one, she collected the pages and placed them on the table. The torn folder sheets, doubled up, now served as a poor man's clipboard, sans the clip. Like many things, in her life, sans was more often the case.
She shuffled the recovered pages into a slightly tidier pile, the new top page drawing her interest. She tabbed through the new pile selecting like pages. Reading each page, adding to her notes. Reviewing the earlier pages.
Back and forth she went.
The pages she carried away from the Fruit Stand Store, their shiny surface reflecting the poor lighting, declaimed many things. Then they declaimed the opposite.
Lost is not Lost.
Found is not Found.
Theft is not Theft.
Or maybe it is...
Like the jetsam she picked up on the beach, phones were also thrown away. While recycling was often touted, recycling often meant "sending it to a dump in China". The majority of phones ended up in drawers. Some got resold. Some donated.
The news that even old phones could be harnessed against their previous owners, extracting old contact lists, old photos, music/videos, stored messages and emails made them gold mines to those so interested.
The phoront separated from its human host could no longer pretend to protect the host's interest, and regurgitated it's contents readily. Subjected to indignities, lies, and mistreatment, the phone had little chance to survive intact. Or rather, survival was re‑determined by the extent of the compromised chips that allowed the phone to function.
The unique identifier that every phone carried could be turned off by the telecom carrier, blacklisting the phone, but depending on the circumstances of how the phone got separated, this often didn't happen or it didn't matter. Much of what the phoront did or didn't, was independent of having an active connection.
Smartphones, she reflected, were a lot like James James Morrison's Mother:
LOST or STOLEN or STRAYED!
JAMES JAMES MORRISON'S MOTHER
SEEMS TO HAVE BEEN MISLAID.
JAMES JAMES MORRISON'S MOTHER
SEEMS TO HAVE BEEN MISLAID.
Because it mattered very much
"how she got down to the end of the town".
Monday, May 15, 2017
Saturday, May 13, 2017
My new pet
Its the first of its kind that I've acquired, and I have to learn how to care for it. Its a persnickety thing and very demanding. Its quite self sufficient if left to thrive on its own, but when taken in by a person and treated like a pet, it can require special treatment.
I had been wanting a pet for some time, but wanted one that be more fun to look at than one to walk and play with. I thought about getting a fish. Guppies are fun to watch when they have babies. At one time I had a gold fish I named George that I gave away when I moved out of state, but I wasn't really in the mood for a fish pet.
It wasn't until I watched a PBS nature program that helped me make up my mind. The program featured plants from around the world. Their diversity is amazing as is the ingenious ways plants have of propagating themselves. As the program went from displaying air plants to those living in swampy bog like conditions, I saw what I thought might be the perfect pet. Voila!
My new pet is a Venus Flytrap. In fact I have two. They are in tiny 2inch pots; each having numerous little traps or lips as they are called. I will take them outside with me when I sit out in the cool part of the day. If they don't feed themselves while they are outside, I will have to buy bugs from the pet store for them. In the meantime, the little pots are sitting in a tray of distilled water while I do more research to learn more about Venus Flytraps and other carnivorous plants.
[Editor's update 05/29/2017:
We finally got them to stand still long enough for a photo...]
I had been wanting a pet for some time, but wanted one that be more fun to look at than one to walk and play with. I thought about getting a fish. Guppies are fun to watch when they have babies. At one time I had a gold fish I named George that I gave away when I moved out of state, but I wasn't really in the mood for a fish pet.
It wasn't until I watched a PBS nature program that helped me make up my mind. The program featured plants from around the world. Their diversity is amazing as is the ingenious ways plants have of propagating themselves. As the program went from displaying air plants to those living in swampy bog like conditions, I saw what I thought might be the perfect pet. Voila!
My new pet is a Venus Flytrap. In fact I have two. They are in tiny 2inch pots; each having numerous little traps or lips as they are called. I will take them outside with me when I sit out in the cool part of the day. If they don't feed themselves while they are outside, I will have to buy bugs from the pet store for them. In the meantime, the little pots are sitting in a tray of distilled water while I do more research to learn more about Venus Flytraps and other carnivorous plants.
[Editor's update 05/29/2017:
We finally got them to stand still long enough for a photo...]
 |
| Venus Flytrap Pets |
Wednesday, May 10, 2017
Ripples 16 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.]
She peered over the documents, comparing notes to pages; pages to notes. The Fruit Fone certainly could do a lot of things.
She liked puzzles and games but this wasn't an ordinary puzzle. Or perhaps is was. Just a more complicated one, with lots of waffle in play.
The Fruit Fone had loads of gizmos inside that could detect and tell what was happening to it. It had a gizmo that could tell compass direction. It had a gizmo that could tell how fast the phone was moving. It could tell if the phone was being held in a hand waving it around or if it was moving in a car across town. It could tell up from down, right from left and flipped from flopped.
There was a gizmo that could tell exactly where you are on the planet. Or rather, exactly where the phone was on the planet. This gizmo worked by connecting signals from a host of satellites orbiting the planet.
The idea of so many satellites flying around space was just an accepted part of life. That the number of man made objects being rocketed into orbit just grew and grew over time. She remembered when there was only one satellite: the moon. Now hundreds crowded the area above the Earth creating massive space jams; not without a few collisions, as one satellite might kilter into the course of another.
The Fruit Fone could do just about everything except move on its own. It needed a human to move it. What horses and oxen did for humans, now humans did for robots: a new symbiotic relationship.
The human belief in supremacy, effectively marshaled by robots, assured cooperation. The new human hosts were easily trained to carry the robots to destinations indicated by pixels on a screen. The hum-droid, dutifully hauled the robot, believing that the relationship was of sole benefit to the host: the human.
Of course, that is what all parasites need to accomplish: convincing the host to carry them without complaining too much. By enticing the human into thinking the relationship was beneficial, that they were
Hum-drafts hauling billions of silicon robots in their pockets.
7 Billion and counting.
Nearing the equal of the 7.5 billion global human population; with 2 billion more every year.
But the robots were vulnerable, with a life cycle of just two years, maintaining the herds of hum-ports was essential. A phone could not survive without its human ... not even a Fruit Fone.
The author makes no guarantees as to completing the serial.
Publication dates are located in the left side menu.]
16 Slight of Hand
Too much information, not enough answers: Life.She peered over the documents, comparing notes to pages; pages to notes. The Fruit Fone certainly could do a lot of things.
She liked puzzles and games but this wasn't an ordinary puzzle. Or perhaps is was. Just a more complicated one, with lots of waffle in play.
The Fruit Fone had loads of gizmos inside that could detect and tell what was happening to it. It had a gizmo that could tell compass direction. It had a gizmo that could tell how fast the phone was moving. It could tell if the phone was being held in a hand waving it around or if it was moving in a car across town. It could tell up from down, right from left and flipped from flopped.
There was a gizmo that could tell exactly where you are on the planet. Or rather, exactly where the phone was on the planet. This gizmo worked by connecting signals from a host of satellites orbiting the planet.
The idea of so many satellites flying around space was just an accepted part of life. That the number of man made objects being rocketed into orbit just grew and grew over time. She remembered when there was only one satellite: the moon. Now hundreds crowded the area above the Earth creating massive space jams; not without a few collisions, as one satellite might kilter into the course of another.
There was no one sweeping up the debris.
It all fell to Earth.
Eventually.
The Fruit Fone could do just about everything except move on its own. It needed a human to move it. What horses and oxen did for humans, now humans did for robots: a new symbiotic relationship.
The human belief in supremacy, effectively marshaled by robots, assured cooperation. The new human hosts were easily trained to carry the robots to destinations indicated by pixels on a screen. The hum-droid, dutifully hauled the robot, believing that the relationship was of sole benefit to the host: the human.
Of course, that is what all parasites need to accomplish: convincing the host to carry them without complaining too much. By enticing the human into thinking the relationship was beneficial, that they were
eating at the same tableor even at
a table for oneguaranteed the robot phoront, would be mechanically transported by its host without issue.
Hum-drafts hauling billions of silicon robots in their pockets.
Billions and Billions
7 Billion and counting.
Nearing the equal of the 7.5 billion global human population; with 2 billion more every year.
But the robots were vulnerable, with a life cycle of just two years, maintaining the herds of hum-ports was essential. A phone could not survive without its human ... not even a Fruit Fone.
Rule 1: Don't let the Humans know.
Monday, May 08, 2017
Wednesday, May 03, 2017
Ripples 15 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 old pad of paper was filled with notes, the stubby pencil resting along side.
She rested her eyes. Thinking.
So much. So little. Too much. Not enough.
Thoughts spinning and weaving: the magic of neurons.
Cataracts of images, concepts, ideas, spinning, turning, foaming, battling, plunging and merging. The magic of the mind. Unlimited space for thoughts. Limited only by the self.
She let the wilding currents flow, following the ideas as they bucked and plunged into dead ends, tight corners and then converging into a calmer river. Myriad streams coalescing into new understandings, new visions, new pathways.
There were some answers but not the ones she expected.
While it was true a Fruit Fone could find it's owner, it was true only in a limited sense. Too many restrictions. Too many options. Everything had to happen "just so". If even the smallest detail was missed, a lost Fruit Fone was just that: lost.
To start: the battery cannot be dead.
There were lots of reasons why the battery might fail. A bad battery. The battery may not have been charged in a long time or had a full charge. The Fruit Fone may have been in use, doing what Fruit Fones do, the battery draining away. The battery might be damaged along with the entire phone by water, like falling in the ocean.
She considered this last part. Thinking back how she had found the phone on the beach.
The author makes no guarantees as to completing the serial.
Publication dates are located in the left side menu.]
15 Ring Tones
The empty dinner dishes, a summary of her life.The old pad of paper was filled with notes, the stubby pencil resting along side.
She rested her eyes. Thinking.
So much. So little. Too much. Not enough.
Thoughts spinning and weaving: the magic of neurons.
Cataracts of images, concepts, ideas, spinning, turning, foaming, battling, plunging and merging. The magic of the mind. Unlimited space for thoughts. Limited only by the self.
She let the wilding currents flow, following the ideas as they bucked and plunged into dead ends, tight corners and then converging into a calmer river. Myriad streams coalescing into new understandings, new visions, new pathways.
There were some answers but not the ones she expected.
While it was true a Fruit Fone could find it's owner, it was true only in a limited sense. Too many restrictions. Too many options. Everything had to happen "just so". If even the smallest detail was missed, a lost Fruit Fone was just that: lost.
To start: the battery cannot be dead.
There were lots of reasons why the battery might fail. A bad battery. The battery may not have been charged in a long time or had a full charge. The Fruit Fone may have been in use, doing what Fruit Fones do, the battery draining away. The battery might be damaged along with the entire phone by water, like falling in the ocean.
She considered this last part. Thinking back how she had found the phone on the beach.
- She had picked up a driftwood branch.
- She had seen the phone in the sand.
- She had picked it up.
- She remembered brushing some sand from the phone.
- The sand was damp but drying.
The phone had not been wet.
The phone had not been in the water.
The phone had not come from the ocean.
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