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THIS BLOG HAS MOVED TO www.misswhistle.blogspot.com
Whistling
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Love & Nourishment

It's the last day of May.   I can feel the panic rising in my chest.  It's the LAST DAY of May. Summer is here already, despite the clement weather on the west coast and the drizzly rain in England, summer is here with its suitcase.  There's an appreciation of Michael Ondaatje in the New Yorker that is enormously uplifting and somewhat assuages the panic. Here's something I liked:

"I don't really begin a novel, or any kind of book, with any sense of what's happening or even what's going to happen." -- Ondaatje.

This of course flies in the face of all the conventional wisdom on novel writing.

And then this quote from Paul McCartney: "You knocked off at five-thirty, so now you had time for an evening.  Very civilized.  I was living in London, so I'd go to the National to see Colin Blakely in 'Juno and the Paycock,' go to the movie, 'Far from the Madding Crowd,' go to an exhibition, a reception.  All these great things.  So the next morning, when you're having your cup of tea before recording, you'd be talking about that, and you'd be informed by it."

This is something like what the Artist's Way prescribes when she suggests that you go on an "artist's date" with yourself once a week.  We do really beg to be inspired, provoked, thrilled and also just prodded out of our stupor.

USA Today has asked for my opinion on the Lindsay Lohan/Paris Hilton/Nicole Ritchie situation. "It's a cover looking at young Hollywood gone wild -- how Paris, Lindsay, Nicole Richie etc are basically total train wrecks. What's going on with them and how did this happen? Or has this always been the case with young actors who have too much too soon and no one telling them to stop?"  I suggested that we start a charity called Much Love Starlet rescue to give them a little love and nourishment.

I vow to work extra hard for the next six weeks so that I can really enjoy my holiday and not just feel like a dilletante (how could I possibly be that when I can hardly spell the word?) 


Posted by misswhistle at 15:49 PDT
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Posted by misswhistle at 12:41 PDT
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poem
Flood
by Eliza Griswold
I woke to a voice within the room. perhaps.
The room itself: "You're wasting this life
expecting disappointment."
I packed my bag in the night
and peered in its leather belly
to count the essentials.
Nothing is essential.
To the east, the flood has begun.
Men call to each other on the water
for the comfort of voices.
Love surprises us.
It ends.


Posted by misswhistle at 12:32 PDT
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Wednesday, May 30, 2007


Posted by misswhistle at 17:42 PDT
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FW: Crrrrrap

J leaves today for eight days. I'm trying to be perky about it.


remote Posted by misswhistle at 11:21 PDT
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Monday, May 28, 2007
Coaster AKA Timmy

Posted by misswhistle at 17:32 PDT
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Gratitude

I can't believe I'm quoting Kathy Freston via Oprah.com:

Being grateful for what you have zeros in on what is working, which in turn magnetizes more of the same. Where you put your focus is where you direct your creative intention; so if you want abundance, be grateful for the vitality you have now. If you want a soulful relationship, be grateful for the soulful moments. Gratitude is like a seed you plant; it grows more as it is watered and nourished. Show your partner what you appreciate in them and let them know that they have a positive effect in your life. The acknowledgement of good will call forth more of the same.
 


Posted by misswhistle at 16:48 PDT
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Memorial Day
From the New York Times: Mary McHugh visited the grave of her fiancé, Sgt. James J. Regan, who was killed in Iraq in February. He is buried in the new Section 60 of Arlington National Cemetery for those killed in Iraq and Afghanistan.


Posted by misswhistle at 07:02 PDT
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Saturday, May 26, 2007
i carry your heart with me

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

-- ee cummings 


Posted by misswhistle at 12:20 PDT
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Friday, May 25, 2007
Pink medicine

Minks has strep, not "viral syndrome."  The lab reports came back this afternoon.  No wonder the poor thing has been feeling sick since last Saturday.

I have Marie Antoinette, Kill Bill and Stranger than Fiction laid out in front of me in the hopes that the brilliance will ooze off the pages and into my head.  Marie Antoinette is the most fun; it's bound in pink and contains five pages of "look book". 


Posted by misswhistle at 16:25 PDT
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Argentine curiosities

Posted by misswhistle at 09:51 PDT
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Spew

I'm in a house full of sleeping young humans and old dogs.  It's eight thirty and I overslept because I had my mid-early morning newspapers of the world review from about two till five.  I know that Hillary and Obama did not vote for the war funding bill, that after her clash with Elizabeth Rosie is considering not going back The View after the weekend, and that Donald Trump has taken Rosie's side, that there is no new news in the case of Madeleine McCann and that President Bush was shat on by a bird in the rose garden yesterday.  I have an assignment to study Yeats and to use him as my poetry muse.  My peripheral knowledge of him made me initially enthusiastic and now I think he's only good for borrowed lines to name books by Joan Didion.  Or it could be that my grasp of the classics is so thin that I'm finding him hard to decipher. Miss Calendar Girl will be here shortly and we will work on our piece together and I need to gather up my energies.  I've started to do something with the deer on Laurel Canyon story that I think I might like.  I'm reading Barbara Ras furiously (literally gulping it down while wondering why on earth I can't write like that!)  It's all about streamlining and focus today I think.  Here I have a nice pile of regurgitated thoughts and ideas and randomness and now, hopefully, I can move on.

I'm almost loathe to say this, but I took Timmy out for about three hours in the mountains yesterday afternoon while Minky slept (poor thing is still sick), just him, Dotsie and me, on a very hot day.  It was beautiful.  The shrub is graying.  It's that time of year.  But we listened to birds and looked at the purple mountains northeast of us and Timmy kept his little brown ears pricked happily forward.  Actually I took pictures of him with my phone because he was so sweet.  Jumby has a great little horse there.


Posted by misswhistle at 08:56 PDT
Updated: Friday, May 25, 2007 09:36 PDT
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Posted by misswhistle at 08:42 PDT
Updated: Friday, May 25, 2007 09:34 PDT
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Thursday, May 24, 2007
Girl Power

Tonsilitis is what seems to be afflicting Minks.  On and off from school and now in bed, sleeping a lot, completely out of character.  I'd forgotten about tonsilitis the disease I suffered from once every two months as a child, without fail, until I had my tonsils removed at 17.  Most birthdays were celebrated with tonsilitis, in Norway, usually when it was raining, lying in my grandmother's bed and staring at the raindrops on the apple tree outside.  And cups of hot chocolate with whipped cream as a treat.  I'm plying her with tea with honey and hot ribena and a pain au chocolate from the Canyon Store, where morning life goes on as usual, with all the usual characters, chatting up the attractive woman who makes the killer macchiatos.  They order their coffees and their pastries, wait for a while with the newspaper, greet their friends.  I have come home with a bag of rich tea, flakes, maltesers and rose's chocolates, not exactly a cure for tonsilitis, but put a smile on her face.  She has discovered Maddie Lear's blog (www.girlheadquarters.org) and is thinking of publishing her own. The first idea for a url (www.peacelovegirl.com) I shot down maybe too enthusiastically.  "Think of something more powerful" I said, and then wondered if I was channelling Arianna Huffington.  Ms. Lear, 12, who is in the 6th grade at Crossroads tackles feminism, the President, her horseback trauma and The Namesake in a snappy not unthoughtful style.  Minks is dreaming of becoming the Oprah of the internet for the tween/teen set.  I think it's marvellous. This is what days home in bed are all about -- dividing and conquering.

Is it me or was Bette Midler more than a tad "pitchy" on American Idol last night?  And to say that she has become a caricature of herself is an understatement.  


Posted by misswhistle at 09:21 PDT
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The gift that keeps on giving

Steve Gaghan is lovely.  Bright and brilliant and literate, and now he has found true happiness in the shape of his new wife, Minnie Mortimer.  While I could not be more thrilled for him, this snarky snippet from Radar Online amused me no end:

For filmmaker Stephen Gaghan, oil money is the gift that keeps on giving.

Gaghan, the writer-director behind 2005's Syriana, got married last weekend, to Minnie Mortimer, a member of one of New York's most prominent society clans. Mortimer is the great-granddaughter of Standard Oil president Henry Morgan Tilford (and sister-in-law of sometime Radar mascot Tinsley Mortimer).

Syriana, of course, was a "scathing" (as it was invariably described in reviews) look at the politics of the international oil business. Promoting the film in a Huffington Post blog, Gaghan wrote, "This massive pile of wealth, of found money from a puddle under the earth, has the same effect as the gravity of a black hole that bends and swallows the morality of all who pass into its orbit. You think you're immune? Well, I suspect you just haven't been induced yet, you haven't met your devil."

Gaghan and his devil met at Barry Diller's annual pre-Oscars picnic, according to parkavenuepeerage.com, and were wed on Saturday at Manhattan's St. Thomas Church. "It wasn't over-the-top expensive, but it was pretty much what you'd expect from a rich, Upper East Side society family," says one guest. "But it wasn't gross, which it easily could've been."

Adds the guest, "Nobody at the wedding mentioned the irony, but I'm sure it wasn't lost on Steve."

Photo: Getty Images

 


Posted by misswhistle at 07:30 PDT
Updated: Thursday, May 24, 2007 07:31 PDT
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Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Rhapsody today

I've finally gotten my hands on the Barbara Ras second collection of poetry "One Hidden Stuff."  The title comes from the quote from Ralph Waldo Emerson:

"Everything in Nature contains all the powers of Nature.  Everything is made of one hidden stuff." 

I think that even people who don't like poetry, or think that poetry is pompous or  pretentious, will love Barbara Ras.  I think that this is the type of poem that opens up poetry to the whole world, and I think in this poem she is actually trying to find the hidden stuff.  I love this poem:

RHAPSODY TODAY 

Maybe today will be the day you wake and for the first time
watch the full moon set surprisingly red over the fine edge of the earth.
Maybe today you'll see the fawn on its gawky legs, the spots on its side
floating tentatively like some leftover dazed grace,
so that you think about animals, their paths to righteousness,
and maybe you'll remember the day a dragonfly rode your shirt front
all the way around the lake, its jeweled body breathless but pulsing,
a little like first love.  Maybe today
you'll find gardenias floating in a blue wood-fired bowl and their scent
will bloom into the room like ghostly elephants, bugling softly,
and finally, you'll buy the tickets to Zanzibar,
somewhere with slow fans and ceremonious walking,
where the post office behind the soccer field will smell of cinnamon,
and on the way to the coast you'll visit a village
and the king there will remind you "without evil there is no good."
And though of course evil will entire into every day,
maybe today it will be impersonal, butting into your life quietly
like the deer head on the walls of the barbecue shack, or insidious
but distant like the human ear in a lab somewhere growing on the back of a mouse.
Maybe you can put even these out of your mind along with the cruelty
of strangers and imagine that today's the day a little bit of time
might stop, suspended in the foot a great blue heron holds above the water,
or maybe you'll watch the mourning doves and discover they warble
as they fly, so eternally amazed by flight that they call, I'm doing it, I'm doing it.
Why not make today the day you look
at the back of your eyelids in a fresh way, the glitter there
reminding you of the beach, the starstruck sand you sifted as a child,
sometimes finding a shell the size of a large speck and wondering
about the sound of the sea held in its infinitely small swirl
and what kind of ear it would take to hear it.
By now maybe it is noon, the sun squandering itself
like a coin burning a hole in the blue pocket of the sky,
and you think of the hours in the dead of the day in a dusty square,
a colonial city somewhere in Boyaca, and you remember
a burro in a plaza the size of a classroom, you waiting for the bus,
the burro waiting for nothing, while a dust devil picked up spinning, wind and dirt
dancing quietly, and you told yourself Remember this, the burro, the dust, and you
wrapped in a drenching solitude, and after all these years, you do.
Maybe today you'll make another memory like that, maybe it'll be the pelicans
and their orderly untalkative lineup in the sky with wings practicing
the language of knives.  Maybe it'll be the man shrimping,
a silhouette on the horizon at sunset, flinging his circular net up into the air to flash
a dainty daytime fireworks before it sinks into the sea.
Maybe it won't be today, maybe tomorrow, an even better day,
the brassy moon setting as you rise, maybe bouncing a bit before it slips
blissfully into the ocean, the Indian Ocean, of course, and overhead
the fabulous wingspan of the new birds, hungry
for the blue horizon.

-- Barbara Ras

 


Posted by misswhistle at 19:33 PDT
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Peonies

This is what happens.  I'm poring over allium and flox and thinking about English gardens and all I can see is this:

 

 

 

 

 

 

Like a great heffalump.  

Briar, who is a dead ringer for the dog in the Black Dog catalog (sans tail) lies next to me.  She understands that if we didn't live in California, we'd have a great big garden full of peonies in vivid rose and raspberry sundae and great groves of helleborus in green and ivory and burgundy.


Posted by misswhistle at 18:42 PDT
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The more bees

The more bees are disappearing, the more I find images of them in almost every newspaper, decorating stories on the Chelsea Flower show, for example.  I love that this image appears to be almost computer-generated.


Posted by misswhistle at 11:04 PDT
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In almost every picture

I picked up a book by erik kessels/marion blomeyer - "in almost every picture" - photographs of a beloved family dalmatian in all kinds of exotic places:

 

 I should add to this.  I've just looked at the book again.  There is a wonderful quality to these pictures, a nostalgia from the age in which they were taken, the texture of the film, of course, but also that the dog becomes front and center of each picture, whether it be at a little Greek taverna, or wading in the shallows, or sitting under a flowering tree in the garden.  My favorite is an image of the dog in its mistress's arms at the dining room table on what appears to be Christmas.

Apparently the author found these photos at a flea market in Spain, and decided to do them justice by publishing them.  They're quite moving.  And I say that not just because I'm besotted with my Dotsie. 


Posted by misswhistle at 11:03 PDT
Updated: Wednesday, May 23, 2007 11:19 PDT
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Hamlet, Roman architecture & butter

Say what you will, but I don't think that four pieces of ciabatta toast with english butter and honey is excessive on a morning when you've run a couple of miles on the treadmill while watching your husband sweat on his bike beside you, glancing too the hunting habits of the Chinese snow leopard in vivid High Definition.

I have been humbled.  I've thought about this a lot and the only words I have for it are humbled, by my son's eleventh grade Hamlet night - a performance collage inspired by Hamlet.  I am loathe to go to these things and do so with much eye-rolling and expecting it frankly to be crap, but I was truly amazed by the level of creativity & humor shown by the students.  There was visual art, theatre, poetry, hip-hop performance, jazz saxaphone, comedy, ballet... and all of it good, solid work.  Moreover, and maybe this is stating the most obvious, I realized that he was part of a community, a big, warm creative community of people all absolutely engaged.  Yes, it is one of those warm and fuzzy moments when you realize that your child has a life outside of the home, outside of his immediate family, in the big wide world.  Sigh.

Another echelon of creativity was reached this morning at Minky's Museum Day, which is a huge exhibit of the sixth grade's Archaeology project that they've been focusing on this semester.  I'm afraid the Roman Baths in Bath took somewhat of a nosedive yesterday when someone trip over them resulting in something that looked like an earthquake or the eruption of Mt Etna. The questionable columns fell, the roof caved, and all that was left was the sparkling silver pool.  My favorite was a stunning example of roman architecture created entirely from different kinds of pasta (imagine the sturdy walls you can make with lasagne, the columns created from fusili, the spaghetti fences).  I rather enjoyed the self-referential nature of the project too, even though Mr Webster assures Minks that pasta is a relatively modern Italian invention.  Anwyay, Emily, the pasta-architect genius behind this particular model, had managed to cover the stuff in a doughie substance so it almost appeared to be rendered.  Unbelievable.  It took all the will-power I could muster not to drive home and immediately raid my larder and the crafts drawer to challenge myself similarly.

I don't like to be mean.  I am mean, I know.  But it's not a quality in myself that I like enormously.  And I particularly dislike people who are unkind to people that they consider less than themselves, such as waiters, valet parkers, gardeners and cleaning ladies.  I have always gone out of my way to be respectful of everyone (except of course agents, lawyers and a**hole film directors, and anyone who talks loudly on a cell phone in a restaurant and people who are nasty to their children, oh, and people who don't like dogs) but, and I don't know why, Monica, my lovely cleaning lady, who is very young and has just come back from her week-long honeymoon in San Francisco, annoys me so much that I can hardly bear to be in the same room with her. I know she means well.  I know she's a few sandwiches short of a picnic.  I know that even though she says she wants to be a doctor, that is what I like to call a "pipe dream".  What irritates me is that she is slow and not even that meticulous.  She is painstakingly slow.  Even the size of her bottom doesn't annoy me.  To be honest, I'm sure I'm a little jealous of her J-Lo bottom.  (To be fair, hers is about three times the size of J-Lo's).   I have just sent the following email to my friend E and because it is still STILL annoying me, I am sharing it here.  I am sure God will strike me down.  And I can still hear Maureen's voice in my head, "Oh she's LOVELY, you are NICE to her aren't you?"  Yes Maureen, I am, honestly.  Most of the time.  Most of the time we get on well, especially when we work side by side, like when we were making brochettes for Jumby's birthday supper, we laughed and we chatted like old friends.  Anyway, witness:

I've never seen anyone unloading a dishwater in five steps before.  Step one, take out one glass. Step two, take out one more glass.  Step three, arrange one glass inside the other on the counter.  Step four, repeat steps one and two.  Step five, carry one (not three or four) glasses to the cupboard and place it in its proper place. Step six, repeat with each plate, glass, etc, never carrying more than one at a time. 

But the worst thing is, she scraped as much soft butter as she could from a pack I had out on the counter, meticulously and painstakingly of course, into a small china bowl and then threw the rest away -- a good quarter of a pound of it.  I fished it out of the trash and threw it back in the fridge as if I were a housewife during the war on rations.

I wish there was a cure for acute irritation.  Like Benadryl for the soul or something.

I do truly despise this bourgeois trait in myself.  At times like these, I wonder what my grandmother would do. One imagines she'd do something clever and witty and it would all be solved.  I've done what you're supposed to do with small children.  Removed myself.  I'm having a time out in the garden with my laptop, the dogs, and the soothing sound of running water.


Posted by misswhistle at 10:40 PDT
Updated: Wednesday, May 23, 2007 10:43 PDT
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