The Pleasure of Counting? October 18, 2008

A few years ago, while working at a local bookstore, I happened upon a book called An Exaltation of Larks by none other than James Lipton, of Inside the Actor’s Studio fame.

This quirky little book (“a classic anthology of collective nouns,” as exciting as that may sound) piqued my interest, and sat upon my designated section of our “staff picks” shelf until the sad, sad day when someone bought it right out from under me.

I hadn’t thought about that book again until today, and decided to look up a bit of the priceless knowledge it once bestowed upon me, and share it with you here. You know, just in case you’ve ever wanted to know how to categorize a grouping of say, magpies. (The answer is tidings, by the way.)

———-

 A bevy of quail
A bouquet of pheasants [when flushed]
A brood of hens
A building of rooks
A cast of hawks [or falcons]
A charm of finches
A colony of penguins
A company of parrots
A congregation of plovers
A cover of coots
A covey of partridges [or grouse or ptarmigans]
A deceit of lapwings
A descent of woodpeckers
A dissimulation of birds
A dole of doves
An exaltation of larks
A fall of woodcocks
A flight of swallows [or doves, goshawks, or cormorants]
A gaggle of geese [wild or domesticated]
A host of sparrows
A kettle of hawks [riding a thermal]
A murmuration of starlings
A murder of crows
A muster of storks
A nye of pheasants [on the ground]
An ostentation of peacocks
A paddling of ducks [on the water]
A parliament of owls
A party of jays
A peep of chickens
A pitying of turtledoves
A raft of ducks
A rafter of turkeys
A siege of herons
A skein of geese [in flight]
A sord of mallards
A spring of teal
A tidings of magpies
A trip of dotterel
An unkindness of ravens
A watch of nightingales
A wedge of swans [or geese, flying in a "V"]
A wisp of snipe

—

There. Never say this blog didn’t attempt to be educational. 

Just Dandy August 22, 2008

It’s been quiet around these parts (the blog), ’cause it’s been hectic around these parts (life in general). Things are a little crazy, so I haven’t really gotten around to posting in a bit. But I did find something I wanted to share.

Ever had one of those days where you just wanted to get up in the middle of the workday, walk outside (nice weather permitting), kick off your shoes, and lay in the grass? Just boycott adulthood for a bit? (Personally, I made the statement the other day that I was going to pack up my things and move to the beach to start selling hemp jewelry by the sea. Yeah, I talk big.)

Well, next time you do, click here to  enjoy a bit of whimsical escapism, if only for a moment. Sure, being on a computer screen makes it a bit more sterile than the real thing. But sometimes we’ve got to take what we can get.

Picture Perfect July 30, 2008

It would be a bit disingenous for me to start waxing poetic about analog vs. digital technology. Hypocritical in fact, coming from a girl with a blog and a Flickr account. But there is a lot to be said for analog, specifically in photography.

I do not own a digital camera. I never have. This isn’t necessarily a philosophical stance; I am not opposed to them by any stretch of the imagination. They’re convenient. They’re fun to play with. And they’re damn affordable lately. But still, something in me still likes the feel of a film camera. I love the weight of them. I love the sound of the shutter (digital cameras and even some camera phones play recordings of that sound, which makes me giggle.) And I like actually receiving physicial printouts of my photos, because I know myself, and I will never print them out and frame them if I have to go through an extra step.

I used to be much more interested in photography as a hobby, but my interest has been piqued again as of late listening to the boy talk about his design projects. He found a few articles on lomographic cameras, and we’ve been researching them a little bit, specifically the Diana models. Lomographic cameras are basicaly a throwback to really inexpensive cameras manufactured in the 1960s, integrating the quirks and flaws of those cameras (light leaks, over-saturated colors, darkened corners) into more modern models.

The resulting photos appear to have an imperfect, almost nostalgic, dreamy quality. According to the web site, “A blurry-soft and dreamy-toned Diana image is more an interpretation of reality than a correct representation of it. In a way, it’s somehow more accurate to compare the Diana to an oily vintage typewriter than to a megapixel machine of today.” The examples I saw reminded me a bit of the poloroids I remember from my childhood.

This all just sounded too fun to pass up, so today we took a trip to our local Camera Doctor on our lunch breaks and picked up a Diana F+ (above). Isn’t she cute?

Will be experimenting quite a bit in the near future. More to come …

Why I Love Decatur, Part 1 July 15, 2008

Part of the beauty of working on the Decatur Square is the entertainment. Not only from the town crazies, as that is another blog post entirely. No, today I speak of the eccentric street corner musicians and performing artists livening up our lives on a daily basis.

Right now for instance, a man outside my window is playing a saxophone. A second ago he was playing “Somewhere Over the Rainbow,” and I can’t be entirely sure, but I think he’s just transitioned into a rousing renition of the “the Muppet Show” theme. It’s oddly and pleasantly calming background music at lunch time.

At other times you’re apt to find one of a handful of local guitar players who regularly serenade shoppers and patrons of the Brick Store Pub – one of which I consider the official town troubadour of Decatur – or as of late a lone drummer who has been playing the bongos up on the plaza, joined by someone from a local dance company performing with a bow staff.

There’s also a preacher out on the bandstand, usually on Thursdays, whose booming, echoing voice can be heard across the square to our office. Whether he is trying to save lost souls passing by or practicing for a sermon I’ve never been able to figure out. Some days he draws a crowd. Some days he just paces back and forth, preaching to the empty park benches. Either way, his enthusiasm never wanes.

Then there are the self-professed 21st century beatniks who gather for open mic nights on Sundays, their spoken word performances broadcast loudly from Java Monkey, a coffee house on Church Street. (The boy and I had our first date at one of these poetry slams.) It’s interesting to hear someone bare their soul to a full crowd at night, then see them doing odd jobs around town or slinging pizza orders at Mellow Mushroom during the day. It makes one feel like a bit of a voyeur.

Guess that’s what you get when you’re surrounded by music venues, playhouses, and dance studios. Performers. We’ve got ourselves quite a little cast of characters. God, I love it here.

The Fruits of Someone Else’s Labor July 14, 2008

I lucked out. In too many ways to mention, but I’m focusing on just one here. My humble little house has oddly disproportionate yard — and it’s full of wonderful little surprises.

To the right of my house, next to my driveway, is a good-sized peach tree. (How very Georgia, I know.) I’ve been patiently waiting, and the fruit is getting HUGE, but is still green and hard. The branches aren’t able to support the weight of the fruit any more, and many of them are dragging the ground. Looks a bit like a weeping willow.

In the back yard, near two TOWERING pecan trees (great climbing trees – I would have killed for this yard as a kid!) is a lovely little pear tree. This fruit isn’t quite ripe yet either, but that hasn’t stopped a plethora of wildlife from snatching it up. Little half-eaten pears can be found all over.

Honeysuckle, though now beginning to dry up, blankets the bushes in the front and back of the house, the fragrance tempting me to walk around with trumpet-shaped blossoms sticking out of my mouth like a little girl.

Wild strawberries pop up here and there, dotting the green lawn with flecks of red.

This cornucopia of treats brings all sorts of wildlife to the doorstep. We’re constantly catching glimpses of bunnies dashing across the grass – something that made last night’s “hare” themed Iron Chef a little uncomfortable. (Honestly, who cooks rabbit with CARROTS? That’s just adding insult to injury.)

But the very best thing about the yard are the loads and loads of blackberries cascading over the fence.

They’re absolutely gorgeous. Big, fat, ripe blackberries just begging to be picked, tempting to weigh the vines down to the ground. Every time we go into the back yard we stop by the fence to snack on some, and the sheer volume of them guarantees there will be more for later. The boy and I were playing Frisbee on Saturday and we constantly took breaks to pop them into our mouths like kids in candy stores – our fingers stained bright pink.

Not wanting the berries to go to waste, we decided to try our hands at making jam (or preserves – is there even a difference?). I’d seen Jamie Oliver make it with strawberries, and it seemed simple enough. We bought a few jars and began the picking process. One for the jar, one for the mouth, one for the jar…

But tasting how perfectly sweet they were made me realize that adding sugar would only ruin them. As I was shaking the jar to squish them down and make room for more berries, they burst and turned into a beautiful thick syrup. That’s all I wanted. We ate it last night on vanilla ice cream. It was absolutely delicious. I’m going to try it on yogurt next.

This is just too easy. I think I can dig this whole get-your-food-from-your-back-yard thing. Though I suspect if I actually had to plant anything it might dampen my enthusiasm. Previous residents (and Mother Nature) did all the work here. I just lazily hang out on a blanket in the grass with the boy and the dog, reaping the benefits.

Ping Pong for Peace! July 9, 2008

Odd photos make me smile. People in out-of-place situations do the same. There’s something deliciously awkward about watching a person finding joy in an unexpected or odd place. The photo below is a prime example.

It was taken from an article on BBC News called “Perks of Penance for Saudi Jihadis.” Citing interviews about a Saudi prison – which calls itself a “care centre” – it describes the methods rehabilitation used on its prisoners – or “beneficiaries”- mostly made up of militant al-Quaeda soldiers. This rehab includes activities such as swimming, video games, table tennis, and art therapy classes.

In exchange for the freedoms they are given, beneficiaries are expected to attend religious classes, where Islamic scholars challenge their extremist views, convincing them they have distorted the teachings of Islam.

Unbelievable you say? Well, according to the article, no one released from the center has “re-offended.” Granted the center isn’t very old, but that seems like a decent track record when you think that a lot of these men are coming straight out of Guantanamo.

I love the photo. At first glance it struck me as funny. What if that’s the answer? Put down your gun and pick up a ping-pong paddle. I know it’s a gross simplification of a very intense topic, but it made me think of a lyric in Flight of the Conchords “Ladies of the World.”

If every soldier in the world
Put down his weapon
and picked up a woman
What a wonderful world this would be …

Distraction + Pleasure = Peace?

On a more serious note, there was a great quote in this article from the director of this “Ideological Security Unit.”

“You cannot defeat ideology with force. You have to fight ideas with ideas.”

Whether you agree with this guy’s mission or not, that’s just good stuff.

[We] Need a Hero June 28, 2008

The boy introduced me to the band Dispatch when we first started dating. The music is something else, you should give it a listen. The song “Out Loud” sends chills up my spine and quickly became one of my favorites, but that’s for another post.

Last night, after driving home from dinner, their song “The General” came on, and the its lyrics affected me in a much different way that they had ever before. No surprise, but I got a lump in my throat listening to it. It is my understanding that the song was written before the war in Iraq, and by some accounts on the internet was actually written about child warfare, which makes it even more poignant and chilling.

But last night, singing along, I was struck with the thought that the figure in this song might be what we need in this moment in time. A leader who will step up, take responsibility, and send our boys and girls home, without shame.

I’ve posted a live clip of Dispatch singing this song, but because these boys’ frenetic tongues can be hard to decipher on first listening, I’ve also copied the lyrics below.

“General”

there was a decorated general with
a heart of gold, that likened him to
all the stories he told
of past battles, won and lost, and
legends of old a seasoned veteran in
his own time

on the battlefield, he gained
respectful fame with many medals
of bravery and stripes to his name
he grew a beard as soon as he could
to cover the scars on his face
and always urged his men on

but on the eve of a great battle
with the infantry in dream
the old general tossed in his sleep
and wrestled with its meaning
he awoke from the night
just to tell what he had seen
and walked slowly out of his tent

all the men held tall with their
chests in the air, with courage in
their blood and a fire in their stare
it was a grey morning and they all
wondered how they would fare
till the old general told them to go home

I have seen the others
and I have discovered
that this fight is not worth fighting
I have seen their mothers
and I will no other
to follow me where I’m going

Take a shower, shine your shoes
you got no time to lose
you are young men you must be living
go now you are forgiven

but the men stood fast with their
guns on their shoulders not knowing
what to do with the contradicting orders
the general said he would do his own
duty bout would not extend it not further
the men could go as they pleased

but not a man moved, their eyes gazed straight ahead
till one by one
they stepped back and not a word was said
and the old general was left with his
own words echoing in his head
he then prepared to fight

go now you are forgiven

Who will be our general?

A Sun-Drenched Life June 17, 2008

My tiny house – everyone says that, but I seriously mean itty bitty – has an even more tiny kitchen, which judging by the exposed pipes, tubes, and wires upon moving in, once also housed a washer and dryer.

From what I could tell, there was a spot for a washer ONLY, and for months I tried to solve the mystery of how it all once fit. Was it a stackable unit, which someone later prohibited by building the shelves that are there now? (If so, thanks a lot.) Was the dryer installed IN FRONT of the kitchen doorway (where the hookup seems to be) causing prior inhabitants to leap over it upon entering? Honestly, I can only think that someone once kept a dryer on the back stoop.

Up to this point, we had been surviving on a combination of laundromats, friends’ washers and dryers, and hand washing our clothes – none of these the most accessible options, especially for those few months we were car-less. When you think of the slightly lazy taurean mindset the boy and I were born with, you could see how the mounds of laundry were about to overtake the house.

So, after nearly an entire year without a laundry room, I broke down and posted a cry for help under the “wanted” section of Craigslist.org.

—–

In my humble abode, I have room for a washer but no dryer, and am having a hell of a time finding someone willing to split up a pair. I’m on a budget, and do not need anything new – I just need something that works. This is your perfect chance to get rid of that old eye sore – I can even pick up! Help!

—-

Within an hour or so, I had 10 responses in my email box of people dying to practically give away their old washers so they could get new ones. Gotta love Craigslist.

I also had a response from someone looking for a dryer and asking if I found one if I didn’t mind delivering it to their house when I picked up my washer.

Yeah, um, no. But thanks.

So after a trek to procure our new appliance – including two flights of stairs and a borrowed hand truck – we got the brand new (old) washer hooked up snugly between my stove and refrigerator. I’m happy to say it works great and even created a little counter space, which was until now, non-existent.

There’s just one issue with my new set-up. I’m now line-dry girl.

I’ve got a good sized back yard with a privacy fence, so I’m not self conscious of the clothesline way of life. And honestly, with as hot as it’s been here lately, clothes dry in about 10 minutes. Plus, line drying saves more energy than using an electric dryer – not to mention running a dryer in my itsy bitsy house would make it so hot it’s unbearable.

I’m not complaining. There are perks. But I have to say, I went home on my lunch break today and felt as if I’d stepped into a different century. And I had a hell of a time finding the simple supplies one needs to dry their clothes outdoors. Clothespins for example. I had to visit three stores before I found them.

Another century, indeed.

I’m kind of liking it so far, though. I like how my clothes smell after being dried in the sun, and I feel like I’m channeling a prior life when I’m out there barefoot in the grass, drinking up the sunshine. I have to say it’s not bad. Not bad at all.

Then again, ask me after it rains.

The Pleasure of Talking About the Weather May 20, 2008

I read an article today (is it just me, or do a lot of my posts begin with that statement?) that truly sickened me. The article itself was written beautifully, and it was enlightening to say the least, but the topic was not one I love to dwell on. Titled “The Most Curious Thing,” It was written by a filmmaker named Errol Morris who has completed a documentary on torture at Abu Ghraib.

(The article can be found at nytimes.com. It’s worth the read if you have time, but squeamish be forewarned. Lots of photos.)

Upon finishing the article I was a bit fired up, to say the least. It was in the middle of a rant to my (more conservative) sister about how much money is spent in Iraq every week – the lyrics of War Pigs furiously swimming in my brain – that I realized I’m on the road to becoming that girl. The girl whose blood starts boiling when discussing politics, particularly with those who do not share her point of view.

“This is what I hate about politics,” she responded. “People spend their time defending their political positions when they should be talking about the weather.”

The simplicity of the statement made me giggle. Very “stop and smell the roses.” But it drove home a point.

I’ve often drawn the connection between political sparring and playground antics. In our progressive (right?) society, every form of discrimination is discouraged, save one. Politics. In political arenas it is completely acceptable to act as childish as one pleases when another is speaking. There is no compromise, no gentility, no going out of one’s way to make another feel comfortable or accepted. One only goes out of one’s way to ridicule all those opposed.

It’s immature and offensive, but it’s easy to get emotionally involved in political talk, and I do it myself. I’ve discovered I need to check my soapbox at the door in certain arenas.

I find myself in the position of having differing values than most I grew up with. My ten-year high school reunion is in a few weeks, and I’m struck with the thought that I might not have much in common anymore with some of my former classmates. Then I tell myself to let go. Take everything less seriously for a bit. There is more to life than talking about the negativity of current events.

I came from a world of black and white politically, and I’ve grown into someone who sees more nuances of color every day. I’m miles from where I began, and I’m happy about this, but I know that sometimes you need to let go of your politics and just be for a while. Sometimes you need to just sit and talk about the weather.

This one’s for Mandy May 15, 2008

I’ve heard they can be ferocious, but this is striking fear into the heart of absolutely no one.