Recap

Ingo Maurer - Lucellino

Two weekends ago I went to New York for a mini-vacation and to visit with some much-missed friends. Since I've been horridly sick since then I haven't had the energy to do too much remembering and writing, but I'm finally starting to feel better, so here goes.

Since David was busy with work on Friday (when I arrived), I met my friend Pablo at Grand Central to show him some of my favorite little spots in my old neighborhood. I had some time before Pablo arrived and so I walked over to my beloved NY Public Library, the main, lion-bedecked branch. They were showing bits and pieces of Jack Kerouac writing, photography, and history. I had studied Kerouac and the other Beats in college with Ann Charters (who actually had a photograph exhibited, which was pretty neat), so I was really excited to see an exhibit so tailored to my own interests. Oddly enough, what i found most interesting were the pages and pages of "fantasy" sports statistics that Kerouac had compiled as a child and then throughout his life. He was apparently a bit compulsive about statistics and had a great love for Baseball, horse racing, and other sports. He would create fantasy teams, stage games, tabulate results, and even write up a miniature broadsheet announcing the outcome of the matches and games.

I met up with Pablo and we travelled to the Neue Galerie where they had taken down all of the Schiele (to my dismay) in order to stage a full Klimt exhibition. I hadn't been there since the acquisition of Adele Bloch-Bauer so it was a treat to see that masterpiece as well as the scores of drawings they were showing. Espresso at the Cafe Sabarsky only added to the experience. Pablo and I walked down Madison (past my favorite shops) and over to La Tour to have some delicious french bistro food.

Saturday was absolutely frigid but David and I went into the city to see the
Ingo Maurer lighting exhibit at the Cooper Hewitt Museum of Design. It was FANTASTIC, beautiful, provocative, and really, really fun. There were flying lightbulbs, holographic images, LED wallpaper, wax tables, animatronic toys, and a breathtaking cracked porcelain chandelier. We got slices of pizza at Pintailes and then pastries at Payard and went home to nap/rest before going out.

David and I met two friends at Joe's Pub to see Tim Fite perform. I honestly don't know how to describe this performance other than to say I smiled alot and it was because of the animation, the stories, the paper hat that I kept, the expensive drinks, and the heaps of laughter and singing that were going on. It was a damn fun show and we went dancing at the Annex afterwards. Saturday ended at like 5 am with pierogis at Veselka. I was exhausted and very happy.

Sunday was quiet, David, Ryan and I saw Atonement in the afternoon and then we went downtown to meet Pablo and a friend of his for dinner at Supper. Dinner was delicious, the company was fantastic, and we got to sneak glances at a few famous faces while there.

It was a wonderful weekend and exactly what I needed.

The flu knocked me pretty squarely on my back, but I've been reading pages out of Pessoa's Book of Disquiet, and cramming way too many sewing projects into my head. I plan on resuming my embroidery as well as my attempts to learn how to make my own clothes!

Recap

Ingo Maurer - Lucellino

Two weekends ago I went to New York for a mini-vacation and to visit with some much-missed friends. Since I've been horridly sick since then I haven't had the energy to do too much remembering and writing, but I'm finally starting to feel better, so here goes.

Since David was busy with work on Friday (when I arrived), I met my friend Pablo at Grand Central to show him some of my favorite little spots in my old neighborhood. I had some time before Pablo arrived and so I walked over to my beloved NY Public Library, the main, lion-bedecked branch. They were showing bits and pieces of Jack Kerouac writing, photography, and history. I had studied Kerouac and the other Beats in college with Ann Charters (who actually had a photograph exhibited, which was pretty neat), so I was really excited to see an exhibit so tailored to my own interests. Oddly enough, what i found most interesting were the pages and pages of "fantasy" sports statistics that Kerouac had compiled as a child and then throughout his life. He was apparently a bit compulsive about statistics and had a great love for Baseball, horse racing, and other sports. He would create fantasy teams, stage games, tabulate results, and even write up a miniature broadsheet announcing the outcome of the matches and games.

I met up with Pablo and we travelled to the Neue Galerie where they had taken down all of the Schiele (to my dismay) in order to stage a full Klimt exhibition. I hadn't been there since the acquisition of Adele Bloch-Bauer so it was a treat to see that masterpiece as well as the scores of drawings they were showing. Espresso at the Cafe Sabarsky only added to the experience. Pablo and I walked down Madison (past my favorite shops) and over to La Tour to have some delicious french bistro food.

Saturday was absolutely frigid but David and I went into the city to see the
Ingo Maurer lighting exhibit at the Cooper Hewitt Museum of Design. It was FANTASTIC, beautiful, provocative, and really, really fun. There were flying lightbulbs, holographic images, LED wallpaper, wax tables, animatronic toys, and a breathtaking cracked porcelain chandelier. We got slices of pizza at Pintailes and then pastries at Payard and went home to nap/rest before going out.

David and I met two friends at Joe's Pub to see Tim Fite perform. I honestly don't know how to describe this performance other than to say I smiled alot and it was because of the animation, the stories, the paper hat that I kept, the expensive drinks, and the heaps of laughter and singing that were going on. It was a damn fun show and we went dancing at the Annex afterwards. Saturday ended at like 5 am with pierogis at Veselka. I was exhausted and very happy.

Sunday was quiet, David, Ryan and I saw Atonement in the afternoon and then we went downtown to meet Pablo and a friend of his for dinner at Supper. Dinner was delicious, the company was fantastic, and we got to sneak glances at a few famous faces while there.

It was a wonderful weekend and exactly what I needed.

The flu knocked me pretty squarely on my back, but I've been reading pages out of Pessoa's Book of Disquiet, and cramming way too many sewing projects into my head. I plan on resuming my embroidery as well as my attempts to learn how to make my own clothes!

Hoovers, Dysons and other vacuums...


Hi Folks,

I don't mean to steal "grumpyoldwoman's " comment but I just reread her post in respect of hoovering, dysoning and Henry-ing and I feel I must own up to being addicted to vacuuming, I can't sit down in the morning to have breakfast or read the paper until I have made the bed, vacuumed, dusted, cleaned the Bathroom and finally loaded and set the washing machine.... Yeah ! " I know I have a problem " I'm thinking of starting a support group but I'm not sure how many people I would be able to round up who have the same problem - therefore how many I could persuade to join my organisation ?

Have no idea where the addiction has come from, it's not as though I was brought up in a home where my Mum was extraordinarily clean, and in actual fact it doesn't bother me at all to sit in someones's home who lives in a total "tip" ! It's just that I can't bear it in my own home. It is not helped either by having carpets laid throughout the flat which are plain, dark blue and on which you can see a crumb, fleck of wool or literally anything at all... It drives me batty, I got another Dyson about 8 months ago to replace the last one, which had lived a whole 10 years before it gave up the ghost. The problem with this latest one is that as well as picking up all dust and rubbish lying on the carpets it also sucks up and changes the green rubberised underfelt underneath the carpet to a fine green powder . So now we have patches of carpet which are underfelt-less (is there such a word) ? anyway, I have a constant reminder of my dead as a dodo underfelt everytime I vacuum as you can clearly see the fine green powder stacking up inside the clear canister holder of the Dyson. mmmm..... nice.

I used to have an old detached 8 apartment house years ago and even then I had to vacuum every day - the daft thing is while I was doing it I knew I was going over carpets in rooms which I'd hardly used - I still vacuumed them though ! (DUH)..... I definitely have a problem, I will either have to change from having plain coloured carpets , or go for cream-coloured carpets that don't show all the itty bitty crumbs or lay some wood flooring....

Any suggestions ? Kate X.

Blimey, no wonder I chose lunatic-kate for my blog.
P.S. The photograph is a representation of a gorgeous cottage - where I would love to live - one day . Ahhh... Heaven, well my idea of it anyway.

My Favourite Animals....


Hello again,

Decided to get rid of the "Grannie on a Moped" piccie and opted for the canine beauty instead, can't help it, am a sucker for animals and "Dogs" in particular. I can't understand people who don't like dogs ..... it's a total mystery to me - Blimey! I can remember when I was 4 years old when I "rescued" a Fox Terrier from the park across the road. We later learned that he was called Whiskey (same as my Nan's cat).

I say "rescued" knowing that in actual fact I sorta kidnapped him, well, I put it into his head. I had had a long conversation with him in the park and asked him if he would like to come and stay at my house for a while - I didn't have a dog at the time and I told him that I liked the look of him and would like to have a pal who would enjoy playing in the park with me. He could play with balls and run about with me having all sorts of adventures - I suppose he thought it would be a good deal for him and so he followed me back across the road to where I stayed.

I imagine you can guess what my Mum had to say about bringing home a dog, she checked his tag and phoned his owner who was frantic, he had run away that morning. My Mum explained that there was no way " we " could have a dog in the house, there were, after all - Mum, Dad, my brother of 18 months and myself in a flat which had one bedroom a living room and bathroom so there was no way we could have a dog. I was bereft and it took two weeks for me to forget Whiskey who had been "my" dog (I got a reward from his owners so that helped - a bit) !

I have memories of each and every one of the several dogs which have shared my life since. Unfortunately, my demented other doesn't like dogs - so for the last 5 years since "Trixie" died I have been completely dog-less .

I met my present husband about 18 years ago and at that time DO (demented other) had to accept that Trixie was in my life too so between them there was a sort of agreement or pact to agree to differ, as it were. I think the fact that DO doesn't like dogs stems from not having had any pets when he was young. He was one of 8 children you see and I assume that his Mother had no room for anything else never mind pets..... she had enough to cope with !

Trixie was a cross Westie cum Cairn ( she looked like a Westie but just had something not quite right about her as a pedigree westie). I got her as a young dog (from a Rescue Home) and she lived until she was 18 or more.... She died about 4 years ago now and after she died she used to visit us - No, I'm not joking (or telling porkies). Just after I went to bed at night and after I had put out the light, I could swear that I could hear her coming into the bedroom, circle several times round and round and finally settle down to sleep on the floor at my side of the bed. It was something she always did while alive, I was terrified to put my hand down the side of the bed in case I could really feel her. I had that feeling for months after she died - and I can't walk by a westie without thinking of her and missing her.

She was the last dog I had and I will probably never get another as DO could not countenance having another one. He likes us to have the freedom to be able to come and go as we please, seeing as how the two of us are retired and "Old Fogeys". I suppose he is right, but OMG do I miss these wagging tails..........

Flaming Nora, I've just posted another Epistle, Bye for now chicks - Love Kate X.

Childhood Memories...


As usual folks I am compelled to write more of my rememberings, when I needed to type a title for this post I hit a brick wall. Does that happen to you at all or is it just because I'm a relative newcomer to the world of Blogging?

Talk about the past coming up to haunt you - someone was talking about mice in their house recently and it rung bells with me - I know - really must see about my Tinnitus....

Memory clicking in stage left - This is something which will probably convince you that I really am "round the twist" as it were. When I was nearly eleven years old my family moved to stay in a house where the back garden and Drying Green backed on to a field. I was the eldest of five children and to live near such a large (playground) was a marvellous experience for us. We all have memories of playing there, while the grass was long we would be hunters running through jungles and have adventures and when the grass had been cut we would attempt to build huts and have places where we could hide using branches and wood etc. In other words it was quite an idyllic play area for youngsters.

Now for the first five years after we moved there during the last days of Autumn and Winter was creeping in - my parents lives and ours were tormented by little pests (field mice) who, no matter how my Dad sealed up holes, laid traps etc and did everything he could to stop them getting into our house - he never ever succeeded. Sure as God made little apples, we would all be sitting round the TV on a winters night and we would hear a scuffle coming from somewhere and a little animal would shoot from the Kitchen across the floor of the Living Room to goodness knows where... Now this happening would be more than a little disconcerting for the kids who were in the unfortunate position of being on the floor - rather than on one of the "chairs" belonging to "The Suite", if you had not quickly bagged a seat then you would have to loll floorwards. Keeping an eye open for little beasties with long tails.

As I said, my parents were tearing their hair out for nearly five years, one autumn afternoon my Mum was sitting at her sewing machine - going good style, probably making another matching outfit for us kids (from we were toddlers till we were too old for them, we each had a matching gingham set - girls skirts - boys shirts girls white tops. (we looked like kids from Sound of Music) Only we wore them more than they did.

The TV was on while she sewed and something she heard made her stop and take notice, it was a lady talking about how to get rid of mice and beasties from your house. She said that all that was required would be to go into every room and walk-in cupboard in your house and just explain to the mice or whatever, that you were afraid of them and that they would be better off going to ................. and that "they" would like them to stay "there". Now the point of the missing words is to let you know that you had to tell the mice where to go, but you must not tell anyone else. This suggestion to Mum was helpful as at the time we had a little problem with a neighbour of ours. This then was an electric light moment for Mum. She thought about it - but said nothing to any of us and on a day later in the week she tried it out. It was only afterwards that she owned up to the action which she had taken and told us that while she was doing it she was very embarrassed and felt a right TWIT. But she had to do it - as she had come to the end of her tether and was dreading another winter with our little friends.

From that day on none of us ever saw any sign , or hide nor hair of any little wild creature in the house . My Mum lived another thirty years and died in that house which was still mice-less. All of our family can attest to this and all of us remember the fright you got each time one of the little tykes made an appearance.

I tell you something else too, none of us have ever had any problems with vermin of any kind in any of our houses and a few of us have lived in or near the countryside. I can't speak for the rest but wherever I have lived I always have a little walkaround and have a word on the quiet with any tiny creatures that might be listening.

Sleep well Chicks, Kate X.

Even more rememberings...


Hello again all,

Yeah I know me again, the nutter who sits at a PC a lot of her time trying to ........ erm do what exactly? Well to be honest, I'm not too sure - I only know that even writing this blog is like a kind of therapy, a friend told me recently that even if no-one even saw it - it would be good for my sanity and therefore therapeutic reasons. Now that comment there gave me the reason for setting my thoughts down in black and white - another thing about a PC it's a hellova lot easier to type, scroll back, erase and add things you forget (as I do all the time) - it's certainly quicker than writing it all out in longhand. Gosh, do people still do longhand writing - Oh mind you - I watched J.K. Rowling being interviewed the other day and she was talking about writing out her books in longhand. Flaming Nora, must have plenty of muscles in her writing arm, just think of how many words are in one of her books.

Blimey, here I go again, my wayward mind is making the connection between J.K. Rowling's writing arm and Martina Navratilova's arm - wow! Have you ever noticed the difference in the sizes of her arms ? just shows you what all that exercise does for you..... OOps... now, why is it I wanted to log in at this time of night and chat on here erm.... Oh yes, now I remember !

I was chatting about memories of my Nan - another fond, well not so fond at the time, related to when I stayed over and Nan used to wash my hair - I was still about three, now this was at the time when everyone washed their hair once a week - my day was Friday night ( this was also in the old black and white days when there were only a few makers of shampoo and only three types ie. for dry hair, normal hair, and greasy hair, my they were uncomplicated days). OH BOY ! did I make a fuss... I was terrified of the water running over my face you see, am convinced that in a previous life I drowned. Picture this, Nan and I in the small scullery (kitchenette) of her house - it must only have measured about six feet by four feet. Anyway, I was kneeling on a chair at the sink with towel well wrapped round my neck, she would then proceed to spray the water on to me noddle - screams would then ensue and a break was called. Next try more or less proceeded the same way... I got myself sooo worked up that she would deposit me outside the door of the tenement flat with the door closed till I calmed down sufficiently to try again. Inevitably I would have to relent and plead and tearfully accept that my hair had to be washed so I approached the "gallows" as it were with not very good grace. We went through the procedure - I would imagine loads of times. I am still petrified of water over my face when swimming - I can swim, learned at school - the breaststroke, but can't swim and breathe at the same time so when I need to breathe I stop and put my feet down . I daren't go near the Deep end 'cos certain sure I would drown - God knows what I look like swimming - probably like some demented duck with my neck groaning - must be doing some amount of damage to my neck discs...

The thing that got me, was that when my younger sister and brother were born, a wonderful invention was made and put on the market. It consisted of a 'thingy' that went over your head and it was elasticated and fitted your head, it stayed in place over your ears and the flippen water or shampoo never got near your face or even into your eyes. Oh isn't life awkward, then , when my children were young they brought out shampoos for children which didn't sting eyes - Oh what I would have given for these things to have been on the go when I was wee ..... God bless Mr. Johnson I say !

Well folks, I think I'd better put a sock in it and get back to bed 'cos that's now 2 am. and I desperately need my sleep - Art Class tomorrow where I can indulge my artistic bent for a while.

Bye chicks, Kate X.

More Rememberings.....




Hi There,


Flippen Nora! normally when I log on to engage in chat with you I don't have any bother but as luck would have it this morning the Universe is on a conspiring bent and I have just spent some time trying firstly to unravel the mysteries of attempting to join you. I have said before that machinery (beg puddin') technology and I are not joined at the hip, in fact to be honest, we are not even pen pals. The next problem came when I tried to check this post - I ended up losing the post then finding it in draft - and I haven't a scoobie how to retrieve it out of there - however, managed to print off a post copy, so I'll just re-type - Grrrrrrr!

So I am repeating myself again (not unusual) however - This is now Wednesday and this is the day when I child-sit (well he's not a baby now) my youngest grandchild. This is when Shambles Manor earns it's name, so we have to batten down the hatches and get ready for the tornado or hurricane that is Louis, he is, what people call a "right cutie" but they all are, all 8 of them .
He can as they all can at that age, twist anyone round his little finger and being a child of two and a half (with the wiles of a ten year old) can cause havoc wherever he deposits his little feet.

There is a reason for my bringing up the fact that I'm looking after him today, it is due to the fact that I was dreaming last night - do you ever dream dreams which are so incredibly real that when you wake you don't know whether or not you are awake ? I do get some "stoaters" ( a Scottish expression for really amazing) ! In the dream I was taken back to the time when I was only about three years old and staying over at my Nana's - she had a cat called Whiskey! it was a demon for catching mice - bringing them home to her and the little "toe rag" would put it down in front of her - Whiskey would lift his paw to let the mouse think it could get away and let it go a few steps and then grasp it firmly again! So can you picture this ? Nan's living room, table at window, Nana standing on one chair at one side of the table and me on the other both screaming, her at Whiskey yelling "stop it Whiskey, LEAVE IT ALONE ! LEEEAAVEEE "! Whiskey finally got the message when he was ready and Nan was finally able to clear away the mess - that cat was something else...

I used to stay over nearly every weekend at Nana's and loved nothing better than at night sitting in front of the "real fire" in the grate, getting a cool cup of sweet tea handed to me . Then later lying in bed ' cooering up to her back' and falling asleep hearing her talk about "the old days". I spent most weekends there for years and although she died over thirty five years ago I still miss her. Isn't it amazing what comes to your mind out of the blue and memory chugs into play - I have no idea whether many or indeed any of you will read this - most will , I assume think it is rubbish, but it is weird how the older you get - the more you remember.

Now, if I could remember where I put the presents for my God-daughter's 21st (which I'm ashamed to say was last June by the way) I would be more than a little relieved. The problem is I moved them a few days ago and can't for the life of me remember where I put them. Maybe if they still lived on the other side of the City it would be easier ?? No not really let's be honest, I've always been late - for everything..

Blimey, I'd better stop this post it's getting more like an Epistle every time - till next time chicks.


Love Kate xxx.

Automata




I’m pretty bad at following up on suggestions that people give me, either through word of mouth, or right here on this blog, but I’ve finally gotten around to reading some suggested selections out of William James’ Principles of Psychology.

The first thing which struck me was the importance of automatic writing, something I first learned of in my undergraduate Modern Art class when we were studying Andre Breton and the other surrealists. I wrote an essay on the concept and role of the surrealist muse, and one of the activities which I had come across and mentioned in passing is the automatic writing. I did not, however, do very much research into what it actually was, and so, James’ comments were very interesting to me.

Now M. Janet found in several subjects like this that if he came up behind them whilst they were plunged in conversation with a third party, and addressed them in a whisper, telling them to raise their hand or perform other simple acts, they would obey the order given, although their talking intelligence was quite unconscious of receiving it. Leading them from one thing to another, he made them reply by signs to his whispered questions, and finally made them answer in writing, if a pencil were placed in their hand. The primary consciousness meanwhile went on with the conversation, entirely unaware of these performances on the hand’s part. The consciousness which presided over these latter appeared in its turn to be quite as little disturbed by the upper consciousness’s concerns.

I found this conclusion especially interesting:

It must be admitted, therefore, that in certain persons, at least, the total possible consciousness may be split into parts which coexist but mutually ignore each other, and share the objects of knowledge between them. More remarkable still, they are complementary.

These two passages brought me back to the thinking I was doing back in (I think)Summer/Fall of 2006 when I was amidst Proust and just finishing Orlando. Also to the image or concept of a constellatory personality conglomerate.

The passage is actually a quote from B.P. Browne’s Metaphysics:

No thoughts leave the mind of one and cross into the mind of the other. When we speak of an exchange of thought, even the crudest mind knows that this is a mere figure of speech. . . . To perceive another's thought, we must construct his thought within ourselves; . . . this thought is our own and is strictly original with us. At the same time we owe it to the other; and if it had not originated with him, it would probably not have originated with us.

Automata




I’m pretty bad at following up on suggestions that people give me, either through word of mouth, or right here on this blog, but I’ve finally gotten around to reading some suggested selections out of William James’ Principles of Psychology.

The first thing which struck me was the importance of automatic writing, something I first learned of in my undergraduate Modern Art class when we were studying Andre Breton and the other surrealists. I wrote an essay on the concept and role of the surrealist muse, and one of the activities which I had come across and mentioned in passing is the automatic writing. I did not, however, do very much research into what it actually was, and so, James’ comments were very interesting to me.

Now M. Janet found in several subjects like this that if he came up behind them whilst they were plunged in conversation with a third party, and addressed them in a whisper, telling them to raise their hand or perform other simple acts, they would obey the order given, although their talking intelligence was quite unconscious of receiving it. Leading them from one thing to another, he made them reply by signs to his whispered questions, and finally made them answer in writing, if a pencil were placed in their hand. The primary consciousness meanwhile went on with the conversation, entirely unaware of these performances on the hand’s part. The consciousness which presided over these latter appeared in its turn to be quite as little disturbed by the upper consciousness’s concerns.

I found this conclusion especially interesting:

It must be admitted, therefore, that in certain persons, at least, the total possible consciousness may be split into parts which coexist but mutually ignore each other, and share the objects of knowledge between them. More remarkable still, they are complementary.

These two passages brought me back to the thinking I was doing back in (I think)Summer/Fall of 2006 when I was amidst Proust and just finishing Orlando. Also to the image or concept of a constellatory personality conglomerate.

The passage is actually a quote from B.P. Browne’s Metaphysics:

No thoughts leave the mind of one and cross into the mind of the other. When we speak of an exchange of thought, even the crudest mind knows that this is a mere figure of speech. . . . To perceive another's thought, we must construct his thought within ourselves; . . . this thought is our own and is strictly original with us. At the same time we owe it to the other; and if it had not originated with him, it would probably not have originated with us.

If Wishes Were Wings ...


... There would be some lovely man in my life
... He would be on his way home to our lovely apartment
... He would have some vegetarian Pho with him
... and a copy of Boxer by the National
... and then even being [horridly] sick wouldn't be so bad and I would be able to post about my amazing weekend in NY

If Wishes Were Wings ...


... There would be some lovely man in my life
... He would be on his way home to our lovely apartment
... He would have some vegetarian Pho with him
... and a copy of Boxer by the National
... and then even being [horridly] sick wouldn't be so bad and I would be able to post about my amazing weekend in NY

Rememberings.. of what ?


Hello again All,

I tried to re-set my colour on the posts - and as you can see my taste in Wallpaper is as lacking as my sense of furniture arranging so I have given up in the meantime.. Well, I did say that I lived in 'Shambles Manor' didn't I ?

As I look out of my garret I can see all sorts of thing floating by - ducks, swans , hens, huh ? well, not quite hens yet - but I can picture then joining the general hubbub in the near future should the rain and torrents continue. At the mo' we are only under 6 feet of water and the land of the tartan and the Haggi is being swamped (if you'll pardon the expression) by deluges which are ever being poured on us by "on high".

Let us not however dwell on that though, my imagination is rolling onward comrades - I remember when the world was black and white and people were nice to each other, when nobody locked their doors and when music was played and you could hear the lyrics - and what's more the lyrics actually made sense and could really mean something to people. But I won't indulge myself in nostalgia because life now has the "internet" among other things, that is some invention ! Flaming Nora, I don't even know who invented the Computer, Internet and E Mails - ( check that out later Kate).... I am trying desperately to increase me poor brain cells and if I can't get near to my beautiful P.C. on a daily basis I am HELL to live with (just ask my demented other).

Have you ever looked through photographs with someone (old photos - Oh Lord, are there any other kinds).. and the other person say "Oh my goodness, you look soooooo young" - Grrrr.. Well, considering the fact that I am now in me dotage (well not quite, but nearly - ermm.. whisper it 60 - harumph ! and I've stopped counting).... I didn't take to her comment too well - she is still in her 20's you see, then she said it again - ARGHH ! I was only 19 in the photo, it was taken in another lifetime and what's more I looked rather good as it happens, was dressed to go to a wedding, at that time you dressed to go - only in the kind of dressed up gear that we 19yr olds used to dress in . ie cream silk dress, cream bag, velvet hat in a gorgeous shade of petrol blue (though you can't see that in the photo in black and white land y'know) and, wait for it - a full length (real) fur coat. (at that time my future mother in laws best)... It went down to my calves don'tcha know and I thought I was the bees knees....

I did try to explain that when she was my age she would , in her head still be thinking like a 20 year old but it's very difficult to get younger ones to understand, just like it's difficult to grasp the fact that we are all aging at a hang of a rate and time is so precious and so quick in dissappearing. Hence the reason for this blog - I reasoned that if I wrote this before old age caught up with me then my family would be able to see that although I acted like a nutcase i did try and use some brain cells to engage in communication with people and not just sink into oblivion.

Blimey, I've gone on a bit in this Blog - Well 'him indoors' does say that I don't know when to stop, Hmmmm.... what next ?

Cheers till next time chicks, Kate X.

Typical Mixups and me..


Hi Folks,

This is just typical, ya follow all the directions to join this group of nutters (though to be honest there ain't many instructions needed) ... and what happens - a ruddy unholy mess erupts ! Hey people out there, this page was supposed to be coloured "rose pink" flippen Nora ! I can't do anything right! either that or the Universe is conspiring against me once again... know what I mean ? eeeeeeekkk! OK start again Kate, cool calm and corrected...

Hello All - my name is Kate and to all who don't know me you soon will - I'm a bit of a nutcase if truth be known and to do this was only suggested to me the other day about joining this site, this suggestion was made by a friend - who also is a nutter by the way. I did tell her that I didn't have the inclination to join 'another' site . But you all know how it is when someone plants a seed (and me being a typical people pleaser) it can't help but grow - in this case though I doubt she knew what she was starting.

Let's see picture this - a P.C. in the corner of the spare room, (empty) a chair (empty) a keyboard yelling for attention --- OK, I was Sold.. The only thing is I am not alone, I have a demented male companion who seeks attention a lot of the time (husband) . Now what is he gonna say when I gently slip into the conversation the fact that I'm going to join another Blogging site - ooooeeer.. don't think he will be painting rainbows ... what to do? I know I'll just do it and pay for it afterwards - ( well, that's what most women do anyway - what the Hell) !!!

So now people you are up to date, I'm here and ready to go ... Let me tell you a story about Shambles Manor ( our House in the wilds of Scotland ) on the outside of which the midges live and wild Haggi roam the streets......

Love Kate X.




Another Double Feature





I have a photograph by Gabriele Beveridge in the post below; she's an artist I discovered through the website Advice to Sink In Slowly, which was in turn recommended by the 16 Sparrows blog, Behind the Curtain. (Behind the Curtain is an amazing collection of links, tips, and writing, and an apt complement to the mischievous stationary that I'm such a fan of. I discovered Miranda Lehman and her photography and music through that site, and for that alone I am forever grateful).

Beveridge's art is just stunning and I am so glad to have come across it. Below are a series of images from her series: "An Ending Anywhere, series of 11 darkslides holding photographs of flowers on anonymous graves, 2007" [click to enlarge!]










Another Double Feature





I have a photograph by Gabriele Beveridge in the post below; she's an artist I discovered through the website Advice to Sink In Slowly, which was in turn recommended by the 16 Sparrows blog, Behind the Curtain. (Behind the Curtain is an amazing collection of links, tips, and writing, and an apt complement to the mischievous stationary that I'm such a fan of. I discovered Miranda Lehman and her photography and music through that site, and for that alone I am forever grateful).

Beveridge's art is just stunning and I am so glad to have come across it. Below are a series of images from her series: "An Ending Anywhere, series of 11 darkslides holding photographs of flowers on anonymous graves, 2007" [click to enlarge!]










Briefly


Gabriele Beveridge, from the Wales collection


I've been reading and really enjoying Etienne Gilson's Arts of the Beautiful. Some passages that I found especially intriguing:

15: The perfect artist is not he who puts the highest art at the service of the highest truth, but he who puts the highest truth at the service of the most perfect art.

23: The pleasures of cognition are sometimes light and like a sort of continued state of well-being, as is the pleasure that ordinarily accompanies reading; but for their inebriating effect and violence, few pleasures can compare with those attending discovery of one of those key ideas which confer order on a multitude of other ideas and a new intelligibility on reality.

24: Those who have never put down a book of erudition, science or philosophy, to catch their breath, so to speak, and recover from the strong emotion they experience, certainly, ignore one of the most exquisite pleasures of intellectual life.

26: The initial confusion between the beautiful in knowledge, the beautiful in nature, and the beautiful in art is at the very root of the erroneous notion of art conceived as one of the varieties of imitation … Of itself, a work of art is neither true nor false.

Briefly


Gabriele Beveridge, from the Wales collection


I've been reading and really enjoying Etienne Gilson's Arts of the Beautiful. Some passages that I found especially intriguing:

15: The perfect artist is not he who puts the highest art at the service of the highest truth, but he who puts the highest truth at the service of the most perfect art.

23: The pleasures of cognition are sometimes light and like a sort of continued state of well-being, as is the pleasure that ordinarily accompanies reading; but for their inebriating effect and violence, few pleasures can compare with those attending discovery of one of those key ideas which confer order on a multitude of other ideas and a new intelligibility on reality.

24: Those who have never put down a book of erudition, science or philosophy, to catch their breath, so to speak, and recover from the strong emotion they experience, certainly, ignore one of the most exquisite pleasures of intellectual life.

26: The initial confusion between the beautiful in knowledge, the beautiful in nature, and the beautiful in art is at the very root of the erroneous notion of art conceived as one of the varieties of imitation … Of itself, a work of art is neither true nor false.

Blinded by Science!

More like mesmerized, but either way I've long been fascinated by mathematical and scientific concepts that my liberal arts brain loves but fails to understand.

However! I recently discovered
xkcd and am in the process of re-educating myself by way of such illuminating comics as this:



(here)

They're seriously awesome.

Blinded by Science!

More like mesmerized, but either way I've long been fascinated by mathematical and scientific concepts that my liberal arts brain loves but fails to understand.

However! I recently discovered
xkcd and am in the process of re-educating myself by way of such illuminating comics as this:



(here)

They're seriously awesome.

On Stupidity

Odilon Redon

In re-reading the notebook mentioned in the post below, I found this gem from issue 36 of FMR:

From Leonardo Sciascia's essay on "Alberto Savinio:"

... faced with a stupidity his thoughts are filled with wonder like Kant's in contemplation of the starry sky. 'Stupidity, this unavowable love, exercises a hypnotic hold on us, an unswerving attraction. I have sometimes felt it in the tram, in public places, in a cafe. I am sitting in the cafe, with several strangers sitting beside me, while I am wandering through the most uncharted continents of thought. As usually happens, their talk gives off an air of ineffable, inspired, spell-binding stupidity. Gradually, my adventure grows dim, I lose the thread of my solitary journey, I give in to the primordial wave of stupidity, my ear is full of the siren song. Intelligence, farewell! I no longer think, I no longer seek, I no longer desire. A rapturous languor steals over me, as when after a prolonged period of insomnia steals one's sinews melt in the voluptuous prostration of sleep. Now turning to you, I ask you: for us sons of Intelligence, for us sons of sin, might not this lure not perhaps be the very distant, nostalgic call of Paradise Lost?'

On Stupidity

Odilon Redon

In re-reading the notebook mentioned in the post below, I found this gem from issue 36 of FMR:

From Leonardo Sciascia's essay on "Alberto Savinio:"

... faced with a stupidity his thoughts are filled with wonder like Kant's in contemplation of the starry sky. 'Stupidity, this unavowable love, exercises a hypnotic hold on us, an unswerving attraction. I have sometimes felt it in the tram, in public places, in a cafe. I am sitting in the cafe, with several strangers sitting beside me, while I am wandering through the most uncharted continents of thought. As usually happens, their talk gives off an air of ineffable, inspired, spell-binding stupidity. Gradually, my adventure grows dim, I lose the thread of my solitary journey, I give in to the primordial wave of stupidity, my ear is full of the siren song. Intelligence, farewell! I no longer think, I no longer seek, I no longer desire. A rapturous languor steals over me, as when after a prolonged period of insomnia steals one's sinews melt in the voluptuous prostration of sleep. Now turning to you, I ask you: for us sons of Intelligence, for us sons of sin, might not this lure not perhaps be the very distant, nostalgic call of Paradise Lost?'

Memory, Satisfaction and Confusion

[Tower by an unknown Flemish master]

Last night was my first class at St. John’s in the position of tutor, and once again I found myself in Annapolis, tracing the paths that were so familiar to me, thinking thoughts that had grown foreign, and savoring the taste of satisfied nostalgia.

When I left Annapolis for NY I intended to leave behind a life of solitude, quietude, and an over-abundance of inwardness. New York provided me with the breath of new air that I so craved, but I was incorrect in thinking that a new lifestyle would be the better lifestyle. During those first few months in New York I found myself missing my former life terribly.

I missed sitting in my quiet sunlit kitchen, listening to classical music or some recently discovered album, beginning my studies into aesthetics or simply reading a new and challenging work of literature. I missed the silence of early weekend mornings in Annapolis when I could walk down to the docks, visit my fellow baristas, and pass an hour with a cup of coffee and one of those delicious scones that I have never found replicated anywhere.

Even the sidewalks there fill me with joy: uneven and treacherous, but constantly unexpected. The roots of decades-old trees twist between the bricks, heaving them and creating new definitions of “level.”

I missed my runs across the lamp lit bridge, starting at sunset and ending at twilight, and the little art shop that always had such unexpected bits of paper that I still use in my little, forgotten projects.

When I began my reading and preparation for class last night, I decided to pull out an old notebook, well, not so much old as discarded. It’s a wonderful notebook, large sheets of grid paper, separated into five different-colored sections. I like to use grid paper because it tends to accommodate smaller, boxy writing. The first two sections of this notebook actually still contain the studies and notes I was working on when I left Annapolis, ranging from all of my beloved notes on
FMR magazine to my laconic writings on Gilson’s Art of the Beautiful and Lessing’s Laocoon.

I stumbled across some very interesting notes which had started from an essay in v. 36 of FMR and worked its way through the pages of a variety of different works of literature. (I should back up: last night’s class reading was Genesis Chapters I – XI. I had particularly wanted to spend some time on Babel, which wasn’t in the cards, leaving plenty of time for some great discussion of the relationship between God and man).

In the two-year-old notes out of this notebook I found quite a few excerpts and comments that I plan on sharing here (don’t know why I didn’t before), but the ones that stood out the most were my comments on an essay titled "The desert of namelessness" by Giorgio Manganelli. This volume also contained excerpts from Augustine's City of God as well as various representations of the Tower of Babel, of which Mr. H at the now-quiet
Giornale Nuovo has posted several.

In Manganelli's article he quotes Borges on the Tower of Babel:

The labyrinth of Crete and the Tower of Babel in the plain of Shinar: no other buildings constructed by man within recorded history are as disturbing and rich with significance as these. In a note on the Tower of Babel written for FMR shortly before his death, Jorge Luis Borges declared that this strange structure -- which has never ceased to fascinate artists and writers -- 'continues to project its shadow over the imagination of men.' Perhaps because the confusion of tongues still exists. Or because each time man dreams of a daring, new project, he is assailed by the memory of the first great technological disaster. Or, in the end, simply because the tower, like the labyrinth, remains an enigmatic symbol of the mystical and the infinite.

I’m currently reading some Samuel Beckett which has been recommended to me so many times that I was starting to develop a guilt complex about my negligence. I’m also planning on resuming some of the studies I left off when I moved from Annapolis to NY and lost access to the wonderful library that I called home for two years.

And to Mr. Fabbri, if you’re still reading, thank you so much for recommending that film. I watched it on New Year’s Eve, just as the year was changing, and it was perfection.

Memory, Satisfaction and Confusion

[Tower by an unknown Flemish master]

Last night was my first class at St. John’s in the position of tutor, and once again I found myself in Annapolis, tracing the paths that were so familiar to me, thinking thoughts that had grown foreign, and savoring the taste of satisfied nostalgia.

When I left Annapolis for NY I intended to leave behind a life of solitude, quietude, and an over-abundance of inwardness. New York provided me with the breath of new air that I so craved, but I was incorrect in thinking that a new lifestyle would be the better lifestyle. During those first few months in New York I found myself missing my former life terribly.

I missed sitting in my quiet sunlit kitchen, listening to classical music or some recently discovered album, beginning my studies into aesthetics or simply reading a new and challenging work of literature. I missed the silence of early weekend mornings in Annapolis when I could walk down to the docks, visit my fellow baristas, and pass an hour with a cup of coffee and one of those delicious scones that I have never found replicated anywhere.

Even the sidewalks there fill me with joy: uneven and treacherous, but constantly unexpected. The roots of decades-old trees twist between the bricks, heaving them and creating new definitions of “level.”

I missed my runs across the lamp lit bridge, starting at sunset and ending at twilight, and the little art shop that always had such unexpected bits of paper that I still use in my little, forgotten projects.

When I began my reading and preparation for class last night, I decided to pull out an old notebook, well, not so much old as discarded. It’s a wonderful notebook, large sheets of grid paper, separated into five different-colored sections. I like to use grid paper because it tends to accommodate smaller, boxy writing. The first two sections of this notebook actually still contain the studies and notes I was working on when I left Annapolis, ranging from all of my beloved notes on
FMR magazine to my laconic writings on Gilson’s Art of the Beautiful and Lessing’s Laocoon.

I stumbled across some very interesting notes which had started from an essay in v. 36 of FMR and worked its way through the pages of a variety of different works of literature. (I should back up: last night’s class reading was Genesis Chapters I – XI. I had particularly wanted to spend some time on Babel, which wasn’t in the cards, leaving plenty of time for some great discussion of the relationship between God and man).

In the two-year-old notes out of this notebook I found quite a few excerpts and comments that I plan on sharing here (don’t know why I didn’t before), but the ones that stood out the most were my comments on an essay titled "The desert of namelessness" by Giorgio Manganelli. This volume also contained excerpts from Augustine's City of God as well as various representations of the Tower of Babel, of which Mr. H at the now-quiet
Giornale Nuovo has posted several.

In Manganelli's article he quotes Borges on the Tower of Babel:

The labyrinth of Crete and the Tower of Babel in the plain of Shinar: no other buildings constructed by man within recorded history are as disturbing and rich with significance as these. In a note on the Tower of Babel written for FMR shortly before his death, Jorge Luis Borges declared that this strange structure -- which has never ceased to fascinate artists and writers -- 'continues to project its shadow over the imagination of men.' Perhaps because the confusion of tongues still exists. Or because each time man dreams of a daring, new project, he is assailed by the memory of the first great technological disaster. Or, in the end, simply because the tower, like the labyrinth, remains an enigmatic symbol of the mystical and the infinite.

I’m currently reading some Samuel Beckett which has been recommended to me so many times that I was starting to develop a guilt complex about my negligence. I’m also planning on resuming some of the studies I left off when I moved from Annapolis to NY and lost access to the wonderful library that I called home for two years.

And to Mr. Fabbri, if you’re still reading, thank you so much for recommending that film. I watched it on New Year’s Eve, just as the year was changing, and it was perfection.