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Annual failed attempt to capture how pretty the woods here are in fall! First one in the woods, second one taken on the walk home.
Also, while people who spray-paint in national parks and wilderness settings are obvious asswipes, this “we shall perish” graffiti courtesy of the local hoodlums made me laugh. The boulder next to it has a daisy-like cartoon flower, so it goes: Trapper Keeper! Then, “we shall perish,” which seems about right for being a teenager.
The U.S. Polar Rock Repository. All collected rocks from the poles are catalogued here.
Arctic rocks at the U.S. Polar Rock Repository
This is the what greets visitors at the Byrd Polar Research Center.
#ThrowbackT….Om ni ma ray mugler…Paris burned…Narcissis chanting ala absolutely fagulous…1990…warm memories keep me warm.
Right this way, sir, your room is ready.
The second GIF, “RAAAHHH UNHAND ME, I AM THE NIGHT!”
I know I’ve rebageled this before but like I liTERALLY CAN’T HANDLE HOW FUCKING ADORABLE THIS IS
SOBS GROSSLY BECAUSE BATS
Last night, Lowell and I were at the pub for dinner—cheeseburgers at the bar!—and in the Ladies a woman I’d never spoken to before stopped me as I was going into a stall and said, “Oh my god, that’s my high-school boyfriend out there talking to my husband.”
She was maybe early 30s, very congenial, and not the type to usually snag a female-friend facsimile in the Ladies (read: not drunk!). It was just that he was *THE BOYFRIEND*—I think she even said this, with quotes around it for emphasis—and she hadn’t seen him in a long time. So we chatted, then she took a deep breath and went back out. And then I went back out, and she and I didn’t make eye contact while I put on my coat, and I tried to not steal any looks at The Boyfriend. Which was extremely hard not to do. (I hope he was wearing a leather jacket and smoking a Camel, though.)
And scene! I don’t know why I love this so much except that I hope someday we are all very old and still having drama in the Ladies bathroom.
My grandfather with two of my uncles at a wedding rehearsal in the ’70s. One of my cousins visited last weekend, and he told me how on our grandfather’s side we’re descended from a Hessian mercenary who switched sides to fight for the Americans during the Revolution. After the war, he was awarded land on what’s now the Ohio-Indiana border, where a lot of my mother’s family, the Wienerschnitzels, remain multitudinous on the ground. (I’ve gotten a lot more interested in family history b/c of Maud’s The Begats book.)
So Hessian mercenary? Huh, I don’t see it.
Singer Ella Fitzgerald performing at Mr. Kelly’s nightclub, 1958.
[Christine on Flickr]
I am enthralled by this photograph. Perfection.
There was a photograph in my parents’ copy of National Geographic’s Our Amazing World of Nature that scared the bejesus out of me when I was a little kid. If I was paging through the book, I’d flip past the spread with that photo, and then of course circle back and stare at it for a long, long time. Ocean creature similar to these guys. Grimacing face, lots of sharp little teeth. It was the reason I avoided touching bottom in any body of water—ocean, sea, Lake Michigan… little lake by my best friend’s family’s cabin up north.
All of which is to say: These guys look so friendly. And dorky! They’re really doing great work rehabbing the whole Ocean Floor Creature With Teeth brand.
"Surprisingly enough, the novel is entertaining, although the plot consists just of one fantastical and bizarre incident after another, without any of the suspense or character development normally considered necessary for a good novel. The tone, which is slyly humorous and ironic, rescues the book from the boredom brought on by a mere catalog of incidents. My favorite part is when dwarfs are pinched to death."
The last sentence. I really love Gothic novel synopsis.
Right now I feel half grieving witch, half Koko the week after All Ball died.
Once, after something hard had happened, my friend Danielle said, “I bawled so hard my eyes were like little rat assholes,” and it’s one of the consolations of crying too much to think of that line whenever I look in the mirror. I wasn’t sure whether to go to yoga this morning because of the rat-asshole eyes and then decided it was fine—that my friend P., who teaches, would be okay with it, and so would the other women in the class (the two men who are usually there are nicely oblivious), and that maybe it’s be a good thing for me to not be afraid of being messy in public and the one who cries in shavasana. I don’t know what it is about grief; it’s just a ball of hurt and rawness, and I keep trying to give it shape and meaning, and one of those shapes is to try to see it as a Growth Opportunity, when I’m not sure that’s what it is.
I shilly-shallied, though. I kept going into the bathroom and forgetting what I was there for. It’s a pretty day here, and I parked on the street a block down from the studio and followed behind this woman I always see, who has a cute haircut and walks her older dog without a leash, shepherding her up the street. The dog is mid-size and barrel-chested with age. We walked along, me carrying my mat behind them, up the quiet church-y street, lots of nice easy fall sunlight, and turned the corner together. The woman went up to her apartment, herding her dog, and I went to the studio door, and it was locked because I was late.
On the way home, I listened to the Cure and cried like crazy to “Inbetween Days” driving down the highway and then played it again and cried some more, and made fun of myself a little, and that felt as good as lying in shavasana. Or not as good but .. fine. I had forgotten this part of this particular kind of sadness, that with the wanting to give it shape is the recognition that you can’t. I was thinking how after a friend’s funeral in my 20s, I ended up at a party with some friends of his from college that I’d only met once or twice before, and we were standing by the keg together in our funeral clothes, drinking beer from plastic cups, and I kept nipping cheese cubes from a deli plate nearby, while talking to one of the friends with, as the night went on, a feeling of great intimacy and understanding because we were mourning the same person, while also knowing we’d never see each other again. I still like that guy and now I can’t even remember his name. And why did I eat all that cheese that didn’t even taste good? I remember feeling like a goblin who couldn’t stop gulping cheese cubes and beer. Then going off into the icy Minneapolis dark and to the strange Best Western hotel room where I was staying and taking off my funeral clothes. And I thought about that, and Lucy, and whether I let her down and all the tormenting things you think about that you have to think about until I know one day you don’t anymore, and how we’re all falling imperfectly through the universe like this. So wander up the sunny street, watch the woman with her dog, press on the locked studio door, be confused for a second, come home, drink coffee, write a messy rat-asshole thing.
1. Puppy. Tingle Alley windowsill.
2. With pinata in bungalow.
Lucy Frye, 2002-2014. Lucy de la Falaise, Lucy Fur, Lucy Magoosy, Flickertail, Bunny, Bee, Honeycomb, Stinks, Bat cat frog dog, Neville Stinkbottom. Best, most ridiculous, most beloved of little dogs.
She died unexpectedly today. I am so heartbroken and stunned.
Kati Horna (1912 - 2000)
Leonora Carrington, 1960
cc: tinglealley, author of “How to Be Old: Two Women, Their Husbands, Their Cats, Their Alchemy,” featuring Leonora Carrington and her friend, Remedios Varo.
Oh Kati Horna! There’s a wonderful book, Surreal Friends
, about her friendship with Carrington and Varo. It has beautiful plates of work by the three of them, too.
Return to the mothership
More Funny Pictures and memes
My brother made such a long high pitch squeal noise when I showed him this picture.
The other day my friend Angela was lecturing her daughter, who is five or so, on something. Her daughter started whirling her arms in a sort of disco roll and then abracadabra-ed her fingers straight out in front of her.
My friend continued talking, her daughter did the disco-roll, finger-thing again.
Friend: “Are you… trying to put a spell on me?”
Angela taught me the roll-finger thing over the weekend, and it is indeed the best, most satisfying thing to do when you’re finding something tedious. Five, six rolls then FINGERS OUT.
Edith Wharton with bat friends.
Stevie Nicks with ewok friend. (Via.)
Portrait of Kim Novak for Bell Book and Candle directed by Richard Quine, 1958. Photo by Robert Coburn
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Yesterday afternoon I was drinking coffee in the kitchen and talking to Lowell about whether we wanted to meet friends downtown for a drink and is a fuse in the bathroom blown or are those lightbulbs burnt out, all just ordinary domestic pitter-patter, and this snake came tumbling down from a stairwell to the attic and landed beside me. Plonk. A foot away. As I told the sewing circle, for a second I thought, “Maybe it’s a rubber snake?” as if that would make his being there more explicable.
The snake was probably surprised too. Sliding from the attic along the upstairs floor, past the old futon and the litter box and the winter clothes bins, and then whoops! falling through the air. He was stunned from the fall, so easy to catch. We put him in a wire bathroom wastebasket with a pizza box on top and that seemed hard on his dignity. Ancient beast trapped in a Bed Bath & Beyond wastebasket. He kept coiling and recoiling and swaying up and down like smoke. After taking some pictures for IDing — he’s a black rat snake, probably a teenager — we released him in the woods behind the house.
For now, putting off thinking too in-depth about whether there are more like him up in the attic (all teenagers! stealing liquor, bumming rides, sleeping till 2).