March 13, 2007
SPC: Flickr tools #2
With little difference to the stiff neck I felt yesterday morning, I drove the kids down to the beach. All the elation that nearly winded me on the drive down to Half Moon Bay fizzled once I started lifting Chas out of deep tide pools and stretching to capture fossils embedded in the rocks. I remember the swirling panorama of beached seals and hungry surf, thinking, This is a very bad place to be with a stiff neck and two exploring preschoolers.
So I let both of the kids clamber their way back to the beach on their own (Chas is getting surprisingly nimble) and then rested in the tent while they bouldered and threw rocks at the incoming tide. This overexposed shot is taken from my little infirmary. I like the way it captures the heat, unforgiving light and pain (although I might be the only one to look at this picture and feel it). It also has a nice retro tint. What's your impression? I'm obliged to use these flickr tools for SPC's current challenge but I'm not sure I'd use these tools in my own. It lacks authenticity. Not sure I like that, although it has a home somewhere.
My advice to anyone waking up in the morning with a stiff neck is to traction yourself to a board for the rest of the day and hook yourself up to an IV and catheter. Don't drive a long, winding road to the beach, set up a tent, wrangle children across the rocks at low tide and then press reverse. That was a recipe for disaster. Damon says it wouldn't matter; that the muscle would spaz no matter what.
I wonder if he's right.
If you want to learn more about online photoediting tools , check out a gallery exhibiting some at SPC.
Posted by Steph at 07:32 PM | Comments (0)
February 19, 2007
Our Third Child
I read somewhere, ten years ago when we were puppy-surfing, that a Jack Russell Terrier is like having a perpetual three year-old in the house. Well, that's pretty true. Seti, our dog, is all about the "now" and the "me" and balls and toys. He doesn't always share; in fact, he's always hoarded his own ball at the dog park, fending off dumbfounded pit bulls and retrievers five times his size, just by the obnoxious tang in his snarl. And, just like any preschooler, you can distract him off the nasty scent of a dead rat in the backyard just by saying the magic words "where's your ball?" It's so easy.
Ball. Ball is life. Well, ball is second to frisbee, but we're out of frisbees right now. We have two chronically wet tennis balls (you can see why, above) and one racquetball (a far superior choice to all manufactured dog toys for the medium dog set). Seti will carry the ball around the house, right under your feet, hoping you will throw it. When you sit down to talk on the phone, he will drop it at your feet. When you try disapppearning into the bathroom for ten minutes, he'll unlock the door with his razor sharp Jack Russell perserverence and drop the ball at your feet. And certainly, when you slip into a nice warm bath, ready to erase the day's grime off your body and soul, Seti will come and drop the dirty ball into the bathwater. Then he'll sit and stare at you imploringly, his brown eyes now big obsidian orbs, penetrating their voodoo into your weariness, and there's no way to resist him: you find yourself throwing the ball this way and that, trying to outwit the bastard but damned if he doesn't catch your every curveball! He's a machine. He'll do this all day. And here he is, twisting Chas' arm in the new bath.
Posted by Steph at 11:07 PM | Comments (4)
February 18, 2007
35
Birthdays. They just keep getting sweeter. Alis and I celebrated our birthdays tonight by having a fondue party up at her place in the Santa Cruz mountains. I think we both might be missing the absence of the yearly Red & Chocolate party, which used to include a few more guests than just the ten of us that were there tonight. It's normally such a wet, cold time of the year here, especially up in the mountains, where the rain freezes and sometimes turns to snow. But the weather is warmer this year. I cut a quince branch, already in flower, and attached it to the bow on her present. Fruit trees along the Saratoga avenues are white with blossoms, rolling hills at the open space preserve, where I run, are adorned in special corners with tiny pink and white buds, showering petals along the path. It's already Spring and it's righteous.
Every time I think it's a beautiful day down here in the valley, I'm blown away when I step out of my car in her driveway up on Skyline ridge. For starters, there's the quiet outdoor air there that's almost deafening, like the sound of nighttime in the suburbs after two fresh feet of snow. After the birds have gone to roost, near dusk, I can almost hear my ears ringing (thanks due in part to Chas and to a lesser extent, Ford, the loudest children I've ever known). And then there's the view. The breathtaking view that, were it not for the fog, would include the Pacific, beyond Santa Cruz.
Birthdays are sweeter and sweeter. I can cook in the same kitchen with my college buddy, smile about where we are right now, and look into the living room to see benchmarks we've left over the years since we met: solid ties with men that became important to us along the way; the three beautiful, vibrant children that this love made possible; our two little dogs who are getting older, followed by the ghosts we've grieved to tell goodbye, recently: three other dogs, a horse; a mother, a grandfather.
Turning 35 this year is the sweet little nudge in the arm, reminding me about babies and books and other priorities that can't wait behind my hedonism. But I think this year I might start lying about my age. Alis and I made a deal: it's not important for anyone to know. Except for the clerks at the grocery store, but I'll tell them my age any time because they still card me when I buy groceries (which, I now realize, tells me that I buy entirely too much booze). 35 used to be old. But I've never carried myself better (thank you, yoga. why didn't we meet sooner?) and my smile, most often, has a careworn grace to it that I am proud of, suggesting achievement and the attainment of purpose. I think motherhood did it to me.
...The rest of time I think I'm frowning, though, and I can attribute that to motherhood, too ;)
Damon, thanks for the photos! You're getting gooood!
Posted by Steph at 11:18 PM | Comments (4)
February 17, 2007
Available Light
Ford is poking a sea anemone, again, at Moss Beach, again. Because I can't get enough of the beach, and after all, it's a new moon (very very low tide). I'm in heaven here, atop briny algal mats and whirling fogscape, closing in on us at twilight.
We arrived too late in the day, as the fog shut the door on sunset. Quickly yielding to the cold and dark, we left with this one unruffled shot. We're learning to use available light, so Damon and I swapped the camera back and forth the whole fifteen minutes we were there. One of us would hold Chas (who was freezing) and the other would frantically stand still in the blue light, hoping that Ford would do the same.
Posted by Steph at 11:12 PM | Comments (0)
February 01, 2007
A Very Rare Quiet Moment
at the Academy of Sciences Museum in San Francisco.
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January 04, 2007
Goodbye, Austin
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January 03, 2007
Happy Holidays!
Chas asked me to make a nativity scene like the one on the table at our local church. He has played with it the past few weeks and I've rounded up the little figures for many evenings. I've found baby Jesus in the bedsheets, under the nightstand and in a shoe, among other places.
Ford wanted a houseful of gems, "Gems, Everywhere!" he mentioned many times. Santa met him somewhere on the way to halfway. But he got a microscope, so the handfuls (or little felted bowlfuls) of miniatures seemed pretty magnificent.
All Chas wanted were balls, which he was very pleased to recieve.
Our favorite Christmas book this year was Christmastime in Noisy Village, so I thought it was cute that, instead of skiiing on Christmas day (as the children did in the book), we instead skateboarded the rest of the day. I think it might become a new tradition, and the book is so wonderfully loaded with old family traditions that we continue today, anyway. have you read it?
We skated into the night and until eleven. So, that's moonlight. We don't have streetlights on our rural road.
I feel like that rocket in the picture above.
Posted by Steph at 01:51 PM | Comments (1)
October 16, 2006
Elgin Sausage Stampede
On Saturday morning, we rediscovered our old college schedule of getting up early and hauling ass to class, except this time we went to Elgin for a Sausage Run. I loved the morning drive, creeping out of night across the hills, still blanketed in fog. It's so breathtaking, this yawn of daybreak. I usually sleep through it, as do my children; we are a family that wakes up twenty minutes before school starts, and somehow this works for us. But to see what I've been missing makes me want to curb my nocturnal habits. Passing by our neighbors along the road, little glowing windows inside each shadowed house reminds me of forgotten habits: frosty morning jogs along Balckburn avenue in Providence, cats on the prowl in driveways that I pass, concert flyers waving on telephone poles, and showering before breakfast; the opposite sequence to my current routine, a thousand miles south.
Ford, quietly pouting in the center of the universe, was disappointed that the race didn't include him. So we pulled back, letting him sprint every now and then through the old town streets and across train tracks. I even gave him my number, and trailed behind him through the finish line. I want to be the family that runs together. It's a lifelong sport. And my hip was killing me so this made good pretense. He ate it up.
A proper fun run, this race divvied up a kegger at the finish line along with steaming pork sausage (note: the best in Texas) and while I dislike eating pork, I couldn't resist pints of beer and hot sausage to follow the trail of woodsmoke that carried me from start to finish along the uninspired smalltown route. Even better: a bounce house for the squirts to decompress while we shotgunned refreshments.
Posted by Steph at 02:43 AM | Comments (0)
August 30, 2006
Sidewalk Circuitry
Ford is really, really into circuit boards. Sadly, I'm not. But his father steps up to the plate in my stead. When I walked outside before dinner, he and the boys were elbow-deep in chalk dust, reviewing their designs. So pervasive is the circuitboard concept in his everyday speech that I'm unsure where to begin elaborating on this current fascination. (oh, I just did a funny, did you get that? Because I just did) And, seeing as I've already had a day chock-full of the stuff, I must admit that I really don't want to discuss it any further. Maybe another day. Or maybe I can transcribe something from the engineering mini, himself?...
At any rate, I thought the grandparents would really love to see some of Ford's creations and I wanted to mention that I, for my part, am thrilled that he's finally beginning to enjoy drawing and sketching more than he used to. This is so important to me, that he always feels comfortable letting go with paint or pen, whatever medium. You see, for a long time he seemed to have little interest in this kind of activity, preferring to flip through books or pretend he was blowing things up. I tried never to push it, while always having accessible materials. Somwtimes I'd try getting him to work through a freeform "assignment" but it still didn't break any barriers (of course, knowing me, you'll understand that I'm certain it only made them!) I think that his seeing me spend more time at the desk doing my own work (which has been more frequent lately, as well) may have something to do with his increased comfort in expressing himself on paper.
Whatever. This just made me smile.
Posted by Steph at 08:29 PM | Comments (2)
July 25, 2006
SPC: Me As A...Farmer
No time. Gotta run. More SPC. More later.
Posted by Steph at 08:38 PM | Comments (10)
July 22, 2006
You'll Never Guess Who the Mother Is
On the drive home, as the kids fought over who would hold the chicken box on his lap, I began to doubt the success of the kids with the chicks. I figured it was a good idea I'd arbitrarily chose three versus two chicks: one would certainly meet its fate under one of the boys, and being left with two chicks is far better than being left with one.
But I may be wrong. In fact, the prognosis is GOOD. I watched them with a smile all day long, as they gently trod around the garden, the chicks weaving in and out of their footpath. They encouraged us outdoors the entire day, and I found time to rearrange the rosemary and trim the papyrus, harvest parsley bolts and this and that. Ford mentioned "I never knew there were SO MANY BUGS in our yard!" because the chicks: they never stopped harvesting them, too.
Ford is, to my surprise, the new mother hen. And he's a natural. To watch him cradle the chicks, or sprawl across the grass while the chicks scramble over him, for hours at a time, and compare this sight to the same child in a playdate full of little boys: one would never suspect the two images belonged to the one Ford. But it's true. He's come into his new role with all the fever of a new mother. Periodically, I'd have to come outside and feed him a yogurt or a half-sandwich because he was so preoccupied with shepherding the chicks.
But, as it turns out, they follow Ford everywhere; there's no need to chase them down. They believe that Ford is the mama hen and will run up to his feet, peep imploringly with pinched eyes, and all he has to do is pick them up before they drop their heads on a thumb and fall asleep. Ford looked up at me after his pullet, Abby, fell asleep this way. He had reddish purple circles under his eyes, his face flush with afternoon sweat, dry grass dangling from his knees. "Don't you just love the baby chicks? I'm not going to let anything happen to them."
He is drinking water from a glass right now, pausing after each sip to raise his chin to the ceiling and gulp it down, just as he's seen the chicks do when they drink from their shiny metal tray. He licks his lips and smiles, and I wink back. As I read him a new book at bedtime, he reaches over and pecks at my arm with his fingers. He's just so impressed with his new brood. For fun, I paint little glittery dots on his finger- and toenails, and we'll wait to see how the chicks respond tomorrow. But the young Mama Hen needs to go to sleep. And so do I. Tomorrow we build the coop!
Posted by Steph at 10:58 PM | Comments (11)
Baby Chicks!
Last weekend, the kids were so thrilled with the new chicks at the grandaparent's house that they insisted we get some of our own. So we did! Three Auraucana chicks. And when I get more sleep, I can talk all about them: Abby, Boo, and Betty. The kids named them i the car on the drive home.
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June 16, 2006
Red
   
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welcome sign + taillight + wagon + stew pot
hoop + rake + glitterpaint + caboose
chair + xylophone + amp + chickie knobs
paint + koolaid + firetruck + Zach the betta
ChasStrokes
colorweek.
Posted by Steph at 03:38 AM | Comments (4)
Blue
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glory + pool + wave + falling pennies
birdbath + jellypad + Ford's windchimes + love
slip-n-slide + porch + table + noon
gesso + globe + rug + bluerock
w i n d m i l l
colorweek.
Posted by Steph at 02:00 AM | Comments (0)
June 14, 2006
Black + Gray
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moleskine + redundant Lamaze toy + cutting block
Peter Rabbit + hat + cutting mat
Painting + tartlet + moka pot
In The Night Kitchen, Sendak + sculpture + scrub jay
crayon + otter + Letter magazine
D E A T H S T A R
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Brown
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Posted by Steph at 04:45 AM | Comments (5)
June 10, 2006
My Toys Are Your Toys
I made this aluminum starfish at RISD when we were told to design a toy. I'd just returned from a weekend at Narragannsett, where I'd found a scattering of beached brown sea stars. Inspired by the way they clung to my hands (I'd never before felt one) and their bumpy texture, I immediatedly brainstormed a way to recreate one (or a scattering of them). And because I couldn't get enough of the oily sharp smell of metalshop in winter, I HAD to make one out of aluminum. My favorite memories from school there are from this project.
And what a pang I felt when I looked up this morning to find Ford playing with it! He was whirring and buzzing it all over the house, pretending it was an omidriod robot, for HOURS. It was so rad. I almost cried.
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Posted by Steph at 07:29 AM | Comments (2)
May 22, 2006
It's Been Too Long
Chas wore this dress of mine yesterday. I had to roll it about six times until it was short enough for him to just barely clear the ground in, and he just barely cleared the ground all over the garden as he trampled the runner bean seedlings and bulldozed through the birdbath. Finally, he returned inside with a little wicker basket and a tiny Schleich lamb at the bottom of the basket, declaring his arrival with a wet pattering across the tile floor and up onto Damon's chest, where he soon fell asleep.
We went out on date last night. This is not something we do often, but my parents were in town and they decided to relieve us. So, after a quick bite and a paint lesson from my dad:
We left. We drove as fast as we could to make the 7 o'clock reservation. It was still hot outside, and my dress stuck to my legs in the car while I waited to the air conditioning ot kick in. Summer is just getting comfortable; you could see it in the smile of a man in his convertible, sunglasses reflecting the red light: summer is wedging itself back in the seat of the rocker, next to a side table with sweet iced tea and a paperback memoir.
Sunset raked over white table linens at the restaurant. Wine and hands, a sublime filet and the finest long grain rice from Texas; I felt ten years younger immersed in the quiet of our childless space. I mentioned that the restaurant reminded me of the bistro in Mill Valley, the one with the gorgeous hostess, but I realized that the similarity lay not in the setting but the absence of stress. Children have been the bane of our dining experiences. No matter how charming it is when they politely request macaroni and cheese, each good deed is met with an equally annoying faux pas: say, a fork thrown across the table and barely skewering the woman at the table behind me.
We kill 45 minutes atop a parking garage.
And then eat molten chocolate cake a la mode with pints of ale at the drafthouse theater.
My head is heavy and tipping off my shoulders on the winding road home, smiling and satiated but sleepy.
Posted by Steph at 05:05 AM | Comments (8)
April 27, 2006
Wild
In the morning, it’s the last thing I do. I dunk the special black comb with wide and narrow teeth into a tall glass, filled with water. I take a deep breath, forgetting to exhale, and recruit ten seconds and a truckload of patience.
You hear the water running, see me step forward with the glass and comb, and your eyes suddenly spark behind an impish grin. Suddenly, you are tearing through the house, little feet thumping across carpet, patting excitedly atop tile. Unleashed giggles bounce in your wake. I grope for a lock of hair and get nothing but a flurry of laughter and air.
It’s like wool back there: the comb would stand straight if you would sit still, but away you prance and the poor comb bounces in place atop your head like a clinging tranquilizer dart. You disappear behind a corner and discover a forgotten toy.
I kneel behind you as you play with the toy car. Sections of hair at a time, I gently unweave tiny dreads from the night before. Your hair is fine flax. As I arrange it, tame it with comb and water, you begin to look more like a normal toddler boy and less like a normal Chas.
Sloping waves mount each other in back, I swoop longish locks over one another, rounding my way forward to frame your face. The comb easily slides through your fringe in front; it is immune to your rowdy tossing in bed and tantrums in the carseat. I swing the comb down and around your cheek, parting it left. You grin, suddenly noticing me. With both hands, you grab my cheeks and screech! I see your tiny, perfectly round molars in back, and your squinting blue eyes coax me to drop the comb and tickle you.
After we stop laughing, we both sigh. Then, speechless with a hand over my mouth, I watch you tousle your hair up joyfully as a dog on a dungheap. When you are finished, you check my reaction with a curled lower lip and shadowed eyes, trying to mask your grin. But I see it! And we both acknowledge our dueling gumption.
Posted by Steph at 12:20 AM | Comments (11)
April 06, 2006
Chas,
I watched you carefully this afternoon, at the lake, while your brother threw a fit about his ill-fitting swimsuit. You were so content to walk the length of the short sandy ledge, back and forth, cautiously. When my busy eyes returned to you, I found you pouting, somehow affected by something I missed, ready to cry, but so willful not to. My eyes flinched and I bit my lip, but you stood there facing the sun and let your feelings rest with a deep sigh and a frown to the ground. Even when I was on alert, a bear-sized yellow lab lumbered up and grabbed the football you found, right out of your hands. The nerve! You YELLED at him, and pointed to "MUH BALL!" When the dog walked away, you looked at me so desperately. I had to do the impossible, and explain to you that it wasn't really your ball after all.
But then, I was fortunate that you are nineteen months old, you let your feelings go again, as I pulled you into the cold lake and encouraged you to splash. You upshifted to rowdy, and the raucous splashing started, drenching my shirt and sunglasses and soul with chilly wet abandon. The other day, you were in the lake right here with the two boys. You were frustrated that they kept swimming to and from the diving platform without you. So I watched you meditate through your approach, but always kept two hands behind you: sure enough, you walked all the way out to the platform, until your little button nose went under water, just before the metal ladder. When I scooped you up, I saw fearlessness in your chattering, toothy smile. You are so courageous and unfettered in the water. As I laughed and nuzzled my face into your neck, I felt pride mixed with fear: I can't leave you for a moment near water. You have dived into our bathtub, climbed into the kitchen sink, taken off towards the waterfall at the creek, traipsed along the edge of every fountain, submerged your own head (while lying face-down!) in the bathtub and stood in the rain and in the shower: completely in love with the feel of water around you. I'm so thankful we don't have a swimming pool, but really, it takes less than two inches of water.
While you were getting ready for bed tonight, I handed you your football so I could attend to Ford. While I brushed and cleaned and put on pajamas, you threw the ball high into the air over your head, over and over again. It would disappear and you'd laugh like a robust Vince Vaughan, and it would fall five feet in front or behind you. Then you threw it up a foot or two in the air, and you caught it! And you caught it again. You did this like you've been doing it for months. Have you? When I applauded, your joy noticed the audience, and you joined me in clapping, laughing even louder. And afterwards, you picked the football back up and threw it high again, catching it on the return.
For every day that I've forgotten to read to you, or let your wet diaper pickle your bottom, I've been rewarded with these little hints of determination. It's proof that there's a lot of nature to match nurture. It's amazing what you have managed to teach yourself while I've been preoccupied, and I'm happy so say that , at the very least, I haven't been too preoccupied to notice.
love, ma
Posted by Steph at 04:14 AM | Comments (7)
March 30, 2006
Breakfast at Stephanie's
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March 28, 2006
The Litter on the Lawn
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March 25, 2006
The Butt of My Brain
We meet our friends every afternoon to play at a playground. It's a standing date: around 4pm every day. By that time, at least one of the toddlers has taken a nap, and the big boys have built up considerable steam. They scamper, laugh, and shout potty talk like nobody's business. Polly and I stand, exasperated, torn between roles of shadowing the little ones as they teeter on the edge of tall perches and jumping into the storm to interrupt the trashy talk. We wonder why they can't just use other words, when quiet time at home consists of lengthy discourse on subatomic particles and static electricity. Why Ford can't make any word substitutions when he's so clever to point out that "I don't like to snuggle in the bed like a pack of batteries." Instead, we hear endless "BUTT-HEAD!" and "BOOTY BUTT-HEAD!" and "PENIS HEAD!" in the drone of play combat that orbits around the playscape following a stampede of little feet.
To make matters worse, Chas loves to follow them around the playground, bouncing and roaring, tumbling every now and then as he tries to keep up, but occasionally shouting, "BUTT!!!!" He bends forth with a red face to proclaim the profanity as loudly as possible. It's hard enough trying to get him to say normal words, like "sock" and "help" and "horse," but I get so irate when I catch Ford leaning into Chas' face, to teach him to properly pronounce "BUTT." At the playground, when people hear "BUTT-HEAD" coming from Chas, they turn to me, surprised and amused. At these times, my eyes try rolling back into the nether region of my skull, to a place where fading dreams linger: where my house would always be tidy, where I'd ride horses while the kids napped, and where my boys would grow up perfect.
Posted by Steph at 08:56 PM | Comments (5)
March 24, 2006
DFW Intl. Airport
Into the relentless sunny wind, Chas ran towards the distant airplane as it lifted off the tarmac. "DET! DET!" he shouted, pointing, and Ford translated it for me: JET, JET! HE reached the end of the berm and stopped still, apprehensive, as the jet loomed closer. But the roaring became intense, and Chas turned round and trotted back to me, quietly frowning to the ground, pink cheeks bouncing. I scooped him up and together we tracked the gleaming silver jet as it thundered over us.
Ford is into jet turbine engines. He likes to describe their operation, and tell stories involving turbines. He will pick up a gall off the curb and tell me, "Mom, do you know why this gall is so fast? It's because it's a jet TURBINE-powered gall that shoots through the sky and into your eyeball!" or "I'm so fast because I have two jet turbine engines, spinning like huge atoms, on my sides." He has been into jet turbines for while, but I can't remember what set it off, this fiery interest. These days, he's all about atoms, particles, molecules, jet turbines, and electromagnetic forces. I'm not cut out for this.
Posted by Steph at 05:48 AM | Comments (2)
March 23, 2006
SPT: time :week 3
We left the house on Sunday at noon.
The fog loafed through the canyon without much hurry,
and in our own haste I thought breathlessly about 101,
driving into town just before the tunnel above sausalito,
before hitting the traffic awaiting the Golden Gate bridge,
around 5 o'clock.
I was sad for a while after that, missing the eucalyptus,
thinking of how ridiculous is was that we had to move away from that place,
where Ford was born and where I enjoyed salty air in my lungs
simply because housing was too expensive.
The thought was fleeting, though, because the quality of life is good here.
And I like the smell of juniper about equally.
Around midafternoon we ran into thicker rain, to explain the mounting traffic.
When we arrived in DFW, cars were swimming in feeder lanes,
and flashing lights from towtrucks, fire trucks and squad cars reflected in the flood.
The following day, we spent much of out time in the car.
Why? Because I forgot how big DFW really is. In fact, we lived out of the car,
collecting disposable stuff and growing stinky.
Chas would go to bed later that night exuding that patented
deep-fried Twinky chimichanga funk, still in his day shirt, but too tired from
a fatty dinner to take a simple bath. Which is okay, because we were tired, too.
Damon had two exhausting days of training. A difficult thing for an introvert.
On the way home, I picked up my needles
and a skein of Peruvian kettle-dyed wool.
I smiled as we passed Willie's Bio Diesel truck stop, in the middle of nowhere,
happily having left that muddled maze of people-clutter behind us.
While the kids were awake the ENTIRE trip back to Austin,
Chas occasionally would point to my needles and frown, reminding me to be careful,
by saying, "ow. ow. ow."
Posted by Steph at 04:08 PM | Comments (2)
February 13, 2006
Surreal
I return to the exhibit on impulse, after viewing the installation of Eva Hess' drawings. I know the corridors by heart: the oak floors creak in the east wing, but enough to surprise me every time; I am always arrested in front of the Ernst frottages, three paces north and an immediate left lead to the painting of the pipe, Leger on the diagonal wall across the room. This time, there is something different (after all, things usually change after ten years). An alcove off the Surrealism exhibit with its own security guard outside.
It's like walking into a jazzy vacuum chamber. A dark room, painted blue the color of Chas' eyes, the sky on a full moon. It is a wonder-room filled with tribal masks, katchinas, headdresses and totems. In the center, a sculpture of a human being, with pins radiating from all surfaces. The opposite wall, above my head, hangs a charming sculpture of a man riding a whale, the two of them casting animated shadows on the wall. It is a collection, tribal and oceanic, curious and natural. Things collected by the Surreallists. I stand in this dark room, awestruck, wondering why this feels like home.
In a corner I notice Dominique De Menil's provincial desk, filled with ephemera: keys, marbles, blue butterflies, feathers, coins, seashells, buttons. "For the children who visited her home." It's a Darwinian duplicate of my dad's roll-top desk. I stand in front of the desk for a good five minutes, examining treasure. Wealthy couples circulate in camel coats and leather shoes, fresh out of the box. The men are distinguished and chiselled, the women have long, glossy hair and everyone smells of ambigously scented soaps. They speak softly of travels to Fiji, and smile at certain masks. They feel at home, too.
I exit the museum onto the wide open expanse of green lawn and sunshine. Down the block, behind a rambling old white oak tree, the boys run circles around Damon. As he waves at me from the void between branches, Chas stumbles onto the grass. Ford is laughing, calling me. I take the children into my charge and urge Damon to go see for himself. We are playing gallery tennis, allowing the kids to be kids while we struggle to be grownups.
Posted by Steph at 06:05 AM | Comments (4)
January 20, 2006
Ben & Jerry
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December 29, 2005
Pho
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December 13, 2005
Pictures of Ford That Aren't of the Back of His Head:
He's so miserable in the other room, with his flu. I feel horrible about not being able to comfort him. So while he rests now in his bedroom I thought I'd share a few moments of Ford (over the past couple of months) with Linda, my mother-in-law, who remarked that she's only been able to see the back of his head.
Posted by Steph at 02:35 AM | Comments (2)
December 06, 2005
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November 18, 2005
Week-long Hiatus
Sorry, mom :)
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November 14, 2005
Sunday Tapestry
Santa's elf has set up her workshop upstairs:
...and is ready to open the gimongous $3 bag of vintage fabric:
While Santa snoozes outside:
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November 09, 2005
The Garden: November Specimens
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November 03, 2005
Making Wreaths with Chas
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October 20, 2005
fingerpainting.
the cornstarch recipe is not as pretty as goopy.
Posted by Steph at 09:51 AM | Comments (2)
October 17, 2005
Fearless
It's hard having conversations with other parents at the playground when I have to keep eyes on Chas. He is fearless and out of control. Ford and Chas are so different at the playground. Chas' proprioception keeps surprising me; he always seems to correct himself when he starts losing balance; just when I think I have to step in and save him, he saves himself. Mostly. And he has more self-confidence in his physical ability than Ford did at his age.
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October 09, 2005
Heels down, boys!
Posted by Steph at 06:19 AM | Comments (0)
October 01, 2005
Fall, cont'd.
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September 28, 2005
Chas enjoys nesting. He would remove this Plumeria if he could, that he might better fit into this pot. Other vessels are emptied and sat in: boxes of Matchbox cars, sit-atop dumptruck buckets, frisbees, booster seats, magazines, wrapping paper, board game boxes...
I am returning to painting and using Ford's art supplies when he isn't looking. Thinking of Hamilton Pool, where we immersed on Sunday when it was 107 degrees outside.
Posted by Steph at 04:28 PM | Comments (0)
August 04, 2005
...
Not only have I re-acclimated myself to the heat, but I have re-acclimated myself to applying gobs and gobs of sunscreen every half-hour.
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July 19, 2005
Self Portrait Tuesday
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July 13, 2005
Self Portrait Tuesday
Evidence that we, too, play dress-up; although, as I painted Ford's fingernails today (as per his explicit request, in the color orange no less) I realized he quite often cross-dresses. I think that's way cool. I'm down with the whole cross-dressing thing. I hope he never gets fussy about trying to look conventional. This orange scarf here? It makes a great,long head of hair when Ford pretends he's Violet (Incredible). He'll chase around the house, in pursuit of...Dash? muttering and repeating sharply, "I said shut UP!"
Posted by Steph at 11:39 AM | Comments (1)
June 29, 2005
Self Portrait Tuesday
The June heat in Austin makes everyone cranky midday.
Posted by Steph at 12:49 AM | Comments (2)