Toast Travels

I just walked in from a belated birthday lunch & it was wonderful. A chilly breeze has made everything a bit too cold & Julie is asleep in a pile of blankets next to the desk. The area around the desk looks much like this photograph from Toast (though I made my jam).

Toast has a little blog, Toast Travels, where they post on a wide variety of topics. I particularly like the latest one In Defence of Darkness.

The other online thing I loved this weekend was looking through Jilly's Menton Daily Photo. I'm behind in everything but enjoyed the ongoing wedding series. You have to follow the thread back as there's not a dedicated label. It's worth it. (I really really really get sick of everyone's wedding festival look-at-me stuff - this is so very different.) Also, Jilly's photographs of (male) flamenco dancers are gorgeous.

Have a lovely start to the week tomorrow.

(Happy Monday to Australians)

Still Life & Tabletop

No, I've not turned to drink. But I cannot see my tabletops right now & they are not "still life" in the classic sense. (Yes, I've tried squinting.)

Circumstances conspire to render me mostly silent (aren't you glad?) this week & post photographs & links & other people's giveaways. Circumstances do not involve my imminent capture by a butterfly-net wielding right wing lunatic (although, you never know). It's about the list of things I'm supposed to do/have said I will do. Many of them online.

There's a photography festival on here in DC (FotoWeek 2010). I'm trying to bite my tongue about the cutesy spelling...I've been guilty. More than once.

A couple of giveaways. Bleeding Espresso has one for a new cookbook (also reviewed), My Calabria. It's always fun to visit Michelle in Calabria, Italy.

The lovely & humorous Blue Gardenia has an exceptional giveaway that ends tomorrow (Tuesday, 9 November). It's a random generator winner, not an essay contest, & so can I just say something? Yeah, I can. Why do people shriek "I want I want" & the like on giveaways? It's so degrading. If the giveaway person gives instructions, I follow them. But I do not virtual-scream like a ninny. I'm sure you do not, either. The comments on this one, though, are tame compared to some sites I've seen. So no offense to BG readers. (photographs from Olga's Tabletop series)

Guardian Gourds

Happy Hallowe'en, Samhain, Nos Calan Gaeaf

A Hallowe'en photograph of me-as-Twiggy via scan of a crinkled snap has failed to amuse or please. Worse, I look entirely annoyed in the picture & have no idea why. So sorry, B, one of my sisters who sent it with a sweet note ("I thought you looked so beautiful..."). Maybe we can find it on a slide for next year. Fairy-lighted pumpkins against a dark blue sky will have to do for now. Lots & lots of spooky & scary Hallowe'en posts all over the wah-wah-web. (photograph via Martha Stewart)

PS: Happy birthday to John Keats

To Bend with Apples

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,

Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;

Conspiring with him how to load and bless Conspiring Working together; literally, to conspire is “to breathe together” (OED)

With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run; thatch-eves Thatch-eaves, the edge of thatched roofs

To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,

And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;

To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells

With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,

And still more, later flowers for the bees,

Until they think warm days will never cease,

For summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.-first stanza, To Autumn (John Keats)

I cannot help it (the Keats business). It's all Tina at the English Muse's fault because she mentioned yesterday's NYTimes Sunday travel section. I was perhaps unnaturally happy yesterday morning when I saw the Protestant Cemetery mentioned in a 36 Hours in Rome bit. But there you are. More To Autumn posts. Last night I was tossing about & thinking about Keats & his politics. His horror at the gap between rich & poor (about which he knew quite a lot first-hand). He would be agonized by today's lack of progress. So I'll leave it there & just pick up stanza by stanza. (I'm sort of kidding.) Someone else preoccupied today with autumn & poetry today is secret, fragile skies. Lovely photograph, too. (photograph via bohemea tumblr & on Julie's blog here)

PS: I've been fussing about to get the poem layout properly & Blogger is being defiant. So in it goes, unformatted. I'll try again later. Update - I hit publish on this yesterday with the wrong time on it & the feed stuck. So if you think, I saw that yesterday. Yes, you did. It's me, not you.

Every Leaf a Flower

Camus' view of autumn--Autumn is a second spring when every leaf is a flower. How very cheerful, really. (I won't hold that against him, though I'm beyond crabby.) It's still mostly green here, the odd yellow leaf blowing past. This beautiful photograph uses the Orton effect (see here) & was taken in Germany by the generous Olga. I was going to sneak political & social commentary in but Arts & Letters Daily is not making it easy. (I saw something interesting & cannot access it within the minutes I allow self to do this sort of thing.) Oh well. I can whip up & fold in sneaky links any time. (You can enjoy the photograph much more on Olga's flickr stream.)

Reminder: Don't forget about this dress design contest. I cannot stress enough: you just have to have a good idea & sketch a bit. You don't have to sew it, make a pattern, etc. Shabby Apple Dresses, Dare to Design. The competition ends Friday, 15 October. Then we'll vote.

Tutu & Blue Asters

Every flower has a history and every flower symbolizes something. Often the history and symbols are confusing and contradictory but they are still fascinating. If your birthday is in the month of September, your flower is the aster. Here is the story and language of your flower.

The Latin name for the aster is Aster, which literally means star. The association with stars, clearly references the flower’s shape. While we no longer use the word aster to refer to stars, we still use words that use the root aster in words with related meanings. The word asterisk literally means ‘little star,’ while the word disaster refers to something that occurred under a bad omen or something that was ‘ill-starred.’

The colloquial names for the aster are starwort and Michaelmas daisy. (From Suite101 by Melissa Howard)

(Blue aster by zizzy via flickr)

What I'd Be

without you. Racing over here to see "who"? Not yet. On a summer (it still is) play-list, blaring out of a teensy speaker is God Only Knows. Trust me, it's very cool in a mix. Julie swoons every time that song, Bus Stop or Try & Catch the Wind play. She's such a flower child-cat. At the same time, she enjoys the remastered Exile on Main Street. She's super cool in a friendly way & I wish I were more like her.

No, the subject is - what would I be without having flown many years ago, 16 September, at age 17* to Strasbourg, France. (via Luxembourg. Alone, baby, alone.) It's not that I regret our fast communication & info tech. It would have made a huge difference in my life some years later in the Middle East--for the better, possibly saved some lives. I don't pine for the good old days; they weren't always so good upon further examination. Anyway, as nervous as I was, I had to make the decisions on my own. That made me more confident, or at least damn nervier, than most 17-18 year old people today. Listen, I was never going to have much support no matter where I went or lived. (Material support? None. So before I receive more messages of "you had money, you grew up with..." No I did not. (This part is To Be Continued.)

I knew there weren't too many chances in life. If you think that's pessimistic, I would say it's realistic. You get a chance, you damn well better take it. Sometimes you can create an opportunity--but it's not all you, a lot depends on fate (or whatever you want to call it), other people, world events. (BTW, I'm not a fan of taking advantage of another person & calling that an opportunity.) That's why I went to Strasbourg & not to Paris.

Honestly, this whole enterprise is beyond ridiculous without a camera. These because the girl has a tripod & she's dressed in a manner similar to 1970s non-awfulness. (It wasn't all bad.) I wore hats & still do, but I don't think I had one this floppy. The rest are for-real Strasbourg photographs. The second one, it's the real place & it's a pigeonnier, close to the Rhine where I used to walk (approaching it through the other shot, which is a wheat field surrounded by the Strasbourg forest).

I have to break this up into parts. And then fix them. Bear with me. There are lots of great links here & on Julie's blog, Giulia Geranium. The Clever Pup is pondering Paris & has some current, good information on hotels. She researches this stuff to a fare-thee-well...so take advantage of it. Also, Liberty of London Girl's London Fashion Week Survival Kit giveaway is on until Thursday, 23 September. I still don't know if it's only for UK visitors, so enter anyway. It's fun to read the posts in between hideous world news bulletins. For those worried about Tea Party Poopers & assorted lunatics (if not, wow, wake up), The Political Carnival is my favorite place to check in. I rely on Laffy & Paddy to keep my spirits up, too. They are stylish, tweeting troublemakers.

(*soon to be 18 but I still love that I turned 18 in France. I'm hopeless about it, just let me have that, OK? Merci.)

Week's End - Fiammetta

It's too soon for autumn leaves but the photograph reminds me of fiammetta - little flame. Or, if you want to be picky about it, fiammette (plural, I am assuming & I'm not checking my dictionary. Correct me, I don't mind at all.) I've been reading Boccaccio via Keats (Isabella and the Pot of Basil). I was vaguely aware that Bocaccio was another Italian inspired by a woman who didn't look at him twice. (Petrarch, too.)

This past spring, I won La Bella Lingua by Dianne Hales from Michelle Fabio's Bleeding Espresso. Dianne wrote a charming chapter on Italian's Literary Lions. As soon as I read, "For years I barely glanced at the white marble busts of Italy's grandi that line the shady paths of Rome's Pincio, the gardens above the Piazza del Popolo," I thought/yelled "I noticed!" But Dianne was doing something I have never done in Rome--jogged. I salute her - it's a great place to run.

I'm in more fragile health & feeling Keats-y, so if there today, I'd be walking by that gorgeous view & sighing. Mainly about the horrible news from Italy & France that Roma are being treated worse than usual. I'm beyond upset. (You just knew I'd turn this into something sad, right? An editor once said to me...you turn a lovely poem into the apocalypse every damn time. Crikey. -- he was English. Then he went on to say something rude about melancholic Welsh ethnic stuff. Harumph.)

Where are the writers, the artists, the poets, the philosophers? (They are actually still valued in some fashion in Europe, unlike here in America.) Well, there are protests, yes. I'll find individual names as soon as I post this. But Italy. France. Shame. Your noble pasts will be so much cold marble statuary lining grand avenues if you continue this outrage. We'll leave WWII out of this, ahem, for now. (I'm talking to you, too, Hungary.) Scapegoats. Remind you of anything? Suddenly, flaming red maples, little flames licking at the blue sky don't seem so innocent.

Apologies to Dianne, for using her charming love letter to Italian in this manner. I did not plan it (obviously, or I'd taken more care with grammar). But that's it; I can't do much more today or the rest of the weekend. Here's where you can buy it (& visit Dianne). I definitely recommend it. This know-it-all didn't know most of it (so far). Giulia Geranium is supposed to start again on Tuesday; but I'm postponing it until I see friends off to Sudan next Sunday.

(The beautiful Jen Gotch photograph via Joanna Goddard's Cup of Jo)

Look at That Face

Look at that face -
Just look at it,
Look at that fabulous face of yours.
I knew first look I took at it,
This was the face that the world adores.

Look at those eyes -
As wise and as deep as the sea.
Look at that nose -
It shows what a nose should be.--The Roar of the Greasepaint --the Smell of the Crowd*

(*lyrics & music by Leslie Briscusse & Anthony Newley)

I want to get September started. Unwisely, I began by reading September 1, 1939 by WH Auden. (A poem he came to loathe & caused all manner of fuss about--something he was quite good at. Poets are such pains in the rear sometimes. I'm a pain in the rear. Haven't you noticed?) It's a poem included in many services, secular (yes, there are those kind) & otherwise, after September 11, 2001. I read it at one. I defended my clichéd choice on the following grounds: "It's only been a few days. There's still smoke in the freaking air. I can't think of anything else & five people are arguing in the corner about who gets to read "The Second Coming".

With all of that swirling in my head, plus Hurricane Earl chugging up the coast, I thought cute cat faces from this slightly altered Giulia Geranium post would be fun. As if on cue, a big wet pink feline nose is nudging me to hurry up already.

[images here, here, here, & here via we heart it]

Odour of Chrysanthemums

The short story title popped into my muddled mind a few hours ago. Snipping herbs & flowers, snapping off a few small vegetables (where I'm house/cat sitting), I sensed a change. Of course, it is late summer & it will be too hot for some time yet. I usually welcome the nearly imperceptible shift, the flip of the switch, to a new season. Not today, though, for all sorts of complicated reasons.

But what-ho? (Too much Jeeves & Wooster this summer. I'll be saying 'pip pip' soon.). A new mini-crisis on the literal horizon to divert me. (That's a good thing.) The entertaining birds in the back garden have cleverly timed the emptying of their feeders for this very moment--oh thanks les oiseaux. Now I'll be awake all night if I can't fill them before I collapse from fatigue (which I am about to do). Oh woe.

Strasbourg-of-the-past is what this twaddle above is about. Some of it anyway. Can you see why I drone on about the-rest-of-France & I-love-Alsace, just from that photograph? I hope so. Paris is grand, yes, but it is not the whole country.

[Strasbourg by thexmunichxromance via deviantArt & for good measure, another flower lady via style(dot)com archives]

Leaving the Station

I do miss Strasbourg & all Alsace, especially this time of year. Powerfully.

[photograph by Louis Faurer - 1960s originally via myvintagevogue flickr/no longer available; here is another link]

Week's End - To Autumn

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?/ Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,

--John Keats, complete poem...

Oh no, another Keats post? You bet. Thank you, Jane Campion, for your new film Bright Star. I heard high school students talking this afternoon & the word 'Keats' floated through the air between them. This wasn't in a school building.

Keats arrived in Rome (via Naples) 21 October 1820; the ship was quarantined & he did not arrive in Rome until 15 November. Though he did not write poetry in what were to be his last months, he wrote one letter, to his friend Charles Brown. It's heartbreaking, especially the last two lines. "...I can scarcely bid you good bye even in a letter. I always made an awkward bow."

The photographs are from the Keats-Shelley House near the Spanish Steps; the salon & Keats' bedroom. In these very rooms & at the Protestant Cemetery, I have disgraced myself several times with squeaky sniffs. Once, I embarrassed a younger sister & have not yet been forgiven. Ever after, I have visited alone.

A lovely weekend to all. (Sniff.)

Lungo Tevere by Giampaolo Macorig via flickr; Keats-Shelley House photographs by frattaglia via flickr; Protestant Cemetery, Keats' grave by Piero Montesacro via wikimedia commons.