Alphabet Game the Golden Way

Flickr. I am addicted to Flickr. I have spent hours looking through the images. If at first glance you think it is a place for strangers to post pictures of the family reunion, think again. The artistic interpretation of life, humans, the earth, and everydayness is amazing here. It is a thrill to see each different perspective on may of the same things.

Some of my favorite Flickrers (yes, I made that word up):

romance – I read about this guy on the web. He and his girlfriend met on Flickr, she lived across the ocean, they began forming pictures of themselves together before they ever met, then finally met. Their pics are here. Wonderful stuff.

home – this gal has taken lots of pictures of the town and the area that I live in – but given them such a mystic sense. I love each one.

beauty – this guy is a professional photographer from the Netherlands – he has an appreciation for women, that is apparent. Beautiful stuff.

petalthrow – amazing collages

Solitaire Miles – artist and musician

I’m sure I am a bit prejudiced – but the babies here are exceptionally adorable

A powerful piece By Daniel Beaty

Click to Watch
*As a boy, I shared a game with my father-
Played it every morning till I was three.
He would knock knock on my door,
And I’ld pretend to be asleep till he got right next tot he bed.
Then I would get up and jump into his arms.
“Good morning, Papa.”
And my Papa, he would tell me that he loved me.
We shared a game,
Knock knock,
Until that day when the knock never came,
And my Mama takes me on a ride past cornfields
on this never-ending highway
Till we reach a place of high rusty gates.
A confused little boy,
I enter the building carried in my Mama’s arms.
Knock knock.
We reach a room of windows and brown faces.
Behind one of the window sis my father.
I jump out of my Mama’s arms and run joyously twards my Papa’s,
Only to be confronted by this window.
I knock knock trying to break through the glass,
Trying to get my father.
I knock knock as my Mama pulls me away
Before my Papa even says a word.
And for years, he has never said a word.
And so, 25 years later, I write these words.
For the little boy in me who still awaits his Papa’s knock.
“Papa, come home, ‘cause I miss you.
I miss you waking me up in the morning and telling me you love me.
Papa, come home, ‘cause there’s things I don’t know,
And I thought maybe you could teach me
How to shave,
How to dribble a ball,
How to talk to a lady,
How to walk like a man.
Papa, come home, ‘cause I decided awhile back
I want to be just like you, but I’m forgetting who you are.”
And 25 years later, a little boy cries.
And so I write these words to try to heal
And try to father myself.
And I dream up a father
Who says the words my father did not.

“Dear son, I’m sorry I never came home.
For every lesson I failed to teach, hear these words:
‘Shave in one direction and with strong deliberate strokes
To avoid irritation.
Dribble the page with the brilliance of your ballpoint pen.
Walk like a God, and your Goddess will come to you.
No longer will I be there to knock on your door,
So you must learn to knock for yourself.
Knock knock down doors of recism and poverty that I could not
Knock knock….” to read the rest click

Earhart. As in Amelia Earhart. To me, one of the most fascinating characters of history. I have been captured with her story, accomplishments, and ambitions since I was a small child. I share her passion for flight.

“The stars seemed near enough to touch and never before have I seen so many. I always believed the lure of flying is the lure of beauty, but I was sure of it that night.” – She said it beautifully, perfectly.

Read about her here or here and last but not least at Amelia’s Wikipedia page .

I can’t wait to see the movie about her with Hilary Swank starring as Amelia…. I might even pay full price to watch it on the big screen.

Duesenberg. I do so very much want one of these. I think it would be perfect for my cross country Route 66 trip that I have planned with my daughter. I like the 1928 model, pictured here. Black is the perfect color.

You can read about them here. They also remind me of the era of de lempicka, a beautiful Polish artist from the Art Deco era...... both are exquisiteness.

Cinnamon Peeler’s Wife by Michael Ondaatje . My favorite poem. I have never grown tired of reading it, despite the fact that it is painted on my bedroom wall, and has been for years. A quiet sensuality.

If I were a cinnamon peeler
I would ride your bed
and leave the yellow bark dust
on your pillow.

Your breasts and shoulders would reek
you could never walk through markets
without the profession of my fingers
floating over you. The blind would
stumble certain of whom they approached
though you might bathe
under rain gutters, monsoon.

Here on the upper thigh
at this smooth pasture
neighbor to your hair
or the crease
that cuts your back. This ankle.
You will be known among strangers
as the cinnamon peeler’s wife.

I could hardly glance at you
before marriage
never touch you
—your keen nosed mother, your rough brothers.
I buried my hands
in saffron, disguised them
over smoking tar,
helped the honey gatherers…

When we swam once
I touched you in water
and our bodies remained free,
you could hold me and be blind of smell.
You climbed the bank and said
this is how you touch other women
the grasscutter’s wife,
the lime burner’s daughter.

And you searched your arms
for the missing perfume.
and knew
what good is it
to be the lime burner’s daughter
left with no trace
as if not spoken to in an act of love
as if wounded without the pleasure of scar.

You touched
your belly to my hands
in the dry air and said
I am the cinnamon
peeler’s wife. Smell me.

bed. My yummiest escape. A haven from the world outside. This morning, I gave mine her weekly dressing. I spritzed her down in a light perfume, dressed her in a warm orange, accented her with some silks from China, and beaded pillows from India, then fluffed her up, threw myself across her, and told her how much I loved her huge, open arms.

She has been the keeper of my secrets, dryer of my tears, and container of many giggles. No matter how poor I am, I always make sure my bed is exquisite.

You should too. Everyone needs an enchanting place to land at the end of the day.

(the picture above is the next bed I am buying!)

Rolf Armstrong, one of my favorite artists. I have tons of Armstrong sheet music from the 1920s that I spent way too much money for ages ago – but, regret nonetheless.

A pinup artist, but also illustrator for magazines of that era. Beautiful work with gifted whimsy.

his Wikipedia entry

the American Art Archives page for Rolf

some more random info and photos of him

Jason, in Greek mythology, son of Aeson. When Pelias usurped the throne of Iolcus and killed (or imprisoned) Aeson and most of his descendants, Jason was smuggled off to the centaur Chiron, who reared him secretly on Mt. Pelion. Later Pelias promised Jason his rightful kingdom if he would bring the Golden Fleece to Boeotia. Jason assembled Greece’s bravest heroes and together they sailed in the Argo in quest of the fleece. On their journey the Argonauts were seduced by beautiful women, attacked by warriors, buffeted by storms, and challenged by monstrous creatures. Finally the blind prophet Phineus told them how to make their way safely to Colchis, where the Golden Fleece was kept. When they arrived there, King Aeëtes demanded that before Jason take the fleece he yoke together two fire-breathing bulls, plow the field of Ares, and sow it with dragon’s teeth obtained from Cadmus. Aeëtes’ daughter Medea fell in love with Jason and gave him magical protection that allowed him to complete the tasks. In return Jason swore an oath of fidelity and promised to take her with him to Greece. When Aeëtes still refused to relinquish the fleece, Medea revealed its hiding place and drugged the guardian dragon. The Argonauts then fled Colchis with the fleece, pursued by Aeëtes. But Medea killed and cut to pieces his son Absyrtus, scattering the parts of his body in the sea. Aeëtes stopped to retrieve them. In another version, Absyrtus led the pursuit and, when Medea tricked him into an ambush, was killed by Jason.

Jason and Medea stopped to be purified of the murder by Circe at Aeaea, and there they were married. When they returned to Iolcus they found that Pelias had continued his tyrannical rule. Medea persuaded Pelias that he could be rejuvenated by having pieces of his body boiled in a magical brew. She then convinced his daughters that they should perform the task of cutting up their father. Pelias was thus murdered by his innocent daughters. Jason seized the city, but he and Medea were expelled by Acastus, the son of Pelias.

They sailed on to Orchomenses in Boeotia, where they hung the fleece in a temple. Then they went to Corinth. There Medea had rights to the throne, and Jason reigned for many years. But he forgot his oath and tried to divorce Medea so that he could marry Creusa, daughter of King Creon. In revenge, Medea, by magic and trickery, burned to death both the father and daughter. Because Jason had broken his oath, the gods caused him to wander homeless for many years. As an old man he returned to Corinth, where, resting in the shadow of the Argo, he was killed when the prow toppled over on him. The story of Jason and Medea appears frequently in literature, most notably in Euripides.

I don’t do God.

Quite simply, the best browser around. If you’re one of the unenlightened, still stuck using the awful Internet Explorer, go here to improve your life. Not only will Firefox let you surf the web more safely, it’ll also make your coffee in the morning, babysit your kids and take out the trash.

One of Firefox’s selling points (do free programs have selling points?) is the number of extensions available to enhance and improve it. There are thousands of them, from gizmos that let you tweet from your address bar, to add-ons to manage your passwords.

Here are some extensions I use -

Favicon Picker.
Fission.
FoxClocks.
NoScript.
Personal Menu.
Smart Bookmarks Bar.
Tab Mix Plus.

Firefox. You won’t regret it.