Fanly roundup
My annual confession. :)
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Actually, to tell the truth, I'm rather proud of that one. I had an awful lot of fun researching West African geography and wildlife for it. It was originally planned as part of a longer, round-the-world story: here's hoping I get an excuse to write the rest of it.
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Actually, to tell the truth, I'm rather proud of that one. I had an awful lot of fun researching West African geography and wildlife for it. It was originally planned as part of a longer, round-the-world story: here's hoping I get an excuse to write the rest of it.
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groggy
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An observation
In the Pacific Northwest, sunshine is a punchline. Example:
Friend: From our new apartment, you can see the Olympic Mountains... on a clear day.
Everybody else: (Laughs sardonically)
Friend: From our new apartment, you can see the Olympic Mountains... on a clear day.
Everybody else: (Laughs sardonically)
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tired
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"Why on earth would that guy want to work here?"
It seemed an untoward question to ask. But my out-of-town guest muttered it snidely, well within earshot of our elevator operator on the Space Needle. Sure, I thought, it's not the most glamorous job on earth, but it must have its benefits.
Then I noticed his nametag, and all became clear: "BJ". With a name like that, surely you'd want to avoid jobs that regularly require you to declare, "Going down!"
Then I noticed his nametag, and all became clear: "BJ". With a name like that, surely you'd want to avoid jobs that regularly require you to declare, "Going down!"
The Seventh Art
A kitchen conversation...
Roommate Sean: So, did you do anything cool today?
Hannah: I saw 'The Tree of Life' at the Egyptian.
Sean: Oh, cool. Somebody told me it was dark.
Hannah: I wouldn't say that. In fact, it's one of those films where you walk out of the theatre and everything seems ten times brighter and more beautiful than before.
[Pause]
Sean: I heard 'Bridesmaids' was like that, too.
Roommate Sean: So, did you do anything cool today?
Hannah: I saw 'The Tree of Life' at the Egyptian.
Sean: Oh, cool. Somebody told me it was dark.
Hannah: I wouldn't say that. In fact, it's one of those films where you walk out of the theatre and everything seems ten times brighter and more beautiful than before.
[Pause]
Sean: I heard 'Bridesmaids' was like that, too.
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amused
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Goodbye, tranny hen.
My current dwelling, affectionately know to some as the Farmhouse (ironically, too, as we're well within Seattle's city limits), contains on its property a chicken coop. Three hens lived there when I moved in; we acquired four more chicks in February. The chicks, now pullets, nibble greedily at the dandelion greens that I pick on my morning walk.
The other night, my housemate Sean entered the kitchen and asserted, "One of those chickens is a man." Once the ferocious giggles died down, we realized he might have a point. Miss Sicilia was mighty dominant, and she did have a pronounced comb. Not to mention, I'd started waking up to crowing in the morning. Some research indicated that alpha-hens are capable of crowing, so I figured Sicilia was just exhibiting male-like tendencies in the absence of any roosters - sort of like the BDOCs at Mount Holyoke.
But today, another housemate confirmed that Sicilia's tail-feathers are decidedly roostery, and (s)he is heading off to the animal shelter. No roosters allowed in urban barnyards, sadly. Farewell, Sicilia.
In other news, has anyone else noticed how fugly Jasperware has gotten? What is that, the Lillian Vernon for Wedgwood line?
The other night, my housemate Sean entered the kitchen and asserted, "One of those chickens is a man." Once the ferocious giggles died down, we realized he might have a point. Miss Sicilia was mighty dominant, and she did have a pronounced comb. Not to mention, I'd started waking up to crowing in the morning. Some research indicated that alpha-hens are capable of crowing, so I figured Sicilia was just exhibiting male-like tendencies in the absence of any roosters - sort of like the BDOCs at Mount Holyoke.
But today, another housemate confirmed that Sicilia's tail-feathers are decidedly roostery, and (s)he is heading off to the animal shelter. No roosters allowed in urban barnyards, sadly. Farewell, Sicilia.
In other news, has anyone else noticed how fugly Jasperware has gotten? What is that, the Lillian Vernon for Wedgwood line?
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Sun!
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Missing the jack and the ace
On my week-ish-ly hour-long drive to my parents' house yesterday, I revisited Blonde on Blonde for the first time in about a year. Whenever I listen to the album, I find it difficult to consider Bob Dylan any less deserving of a spot in the poetic canon than William Blake or T.S. Eliot. Overzealous, perhaps. But the surrealism of some of those songs is truly sublime. Since my first acquaintance with Dylan, I've generally held 'Visions of Johanna' to be his tour de force.
But last night, I was unusually moved by 'Sad-Eyed Lady of the Lowlands', which Dylan called "the best song I ever wrote." Written for his bride, Sara Lownds, in the mid-1960s, the song has never been performed by Dylan in concert. His catalogs of arcane imagery are interposed by the repeated offer to lay down his creative genius at his beloved's feet. The Cambridge Companion to Bob Dylan asserts that it is "a gesture as emphatic (and yet as unactualized within the work) as Prospero drowning his book."
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But last night, I was unusually moved by 'Sad-Eyed Lady of the Lowlands', which Dylan called "the best song I ever wrote." Written for his bride, Sara Lownds, in the mid-1960s, the song has never been performed by Dylan in concert. His catalogs of arcane imagery are interposed by the repeated offer to lay down his creative genius at his beloved's feet. The Cambridge Companion to Bob Dylan asserts that it is "a gesture as emphatic (and yet as unactualized within the work) as Prospero drowning his book."
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A moon wrapped in brown paper
Spring is like a perhaps hand
Pitch pine and yarrow and the circuit of stars
In my childhood, my favorite bookstore - and indeed, the favorite bookstore of most bibliophiles in Colorado Springs - was the Chinook Bookshop. Situated in the town's very center, across the street from Acacia Park, it was owned by a classmate's grandparents. It inhabited three storefronts, and contained exceptionally knowledgeable staff, quirky window displays, and a handmade two-story playhouse in the children's section.
And books, of course. Many good books. I bought my first copy of The Lord of the Rings there. On my twelfth birthday, my friends and I camped out there in bathrobes (our ante-film-franchise notion of wizard's robes) to await the release of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. More mature titles would undoubtedly have been procured there, as well, had the shop continued to operate.
It did not. For a variety of reasons, including competition from chain bookstores, the Chinook closed its doors in the summer of 2004, precisely 45 years after it opened. The city went into mourning. In the weeks leading up to its closure, the store saw a steady stream of devotees, begging for a section sign, a light-switch cover - any memento of the beloved place. The other day, I found a Chinook bookmark in my old copy of Jane Eyre. Tonight I realized the bookmark was a relic of my family's own final visit to the Chinook.
All this is to say that the word 'Chinook' has strong connotations for me: either with the bookshop, or with the warm mountain breeze after which the shop was named. Here in the Pacific Northwest, though, 'Chinook' usually means something else. Until tonight, I'd only ever heard PNWers use it to refer to a variety of salmon, or to a local jargon of Indian and European tongues. With this poem, by a Washington poet, I'm pleased to learn that 'chinook' retains its windier definition in this clime.
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And books, of course. Many good books. I bought my first copy of The Lord of the Rings there. On my twelfth birthday, my friends and I camped out there in bathrobes (our ante-film-franchise notion of wizard's robes) to await the release of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. More mature titles would undoubtedly have been procured there, as well, had the shop continued to operate.
It did not. For a variety of reasons, including competition from chain bookstores, the Chinook closed its doors in the summer of 2004, precisely 45 years after it opened. The city went into mourning. In the weeks leading up to its closure, the store saw a steady stream of devotees, begging for a section sign, a light-switch cover - any memento of the beloved place. The other day, I found a Chinook bookmark in my old copy of Jane Eyre. Tonight I realized the bookmark was a relic of my family's own final visit to the Chinook.
All this is to say that the word 'Chinook' has strong connotations for me: either with the bookshop, or with the warm mountain breeze after which the shop was named. Here in the Pacific Northwest, though, 'Chinook' usually means something else. Until tonight, I'd only ever heard PNWers use it to refer to a variety of salmon, or to a local jargon of Indian and European tongues. With this poem, by a Washington poet, I'm pleased to learn that 'chinook' retains its windier definition in this clime.
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nostalgic
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