Monthly Archives: January 2015
Pickled Herring and Pomegranate Juice
It was a snowy Friday morning. I brought pickled herring and cottage cheese and Susanna brought good crackers and butter and we washed it all down with pomegranate juice—just a little celebratory feast. Not sure what we were celebrating except life and our love for pickled herring and Friday and snow. But that’s enough isn’t it?
Plans for B15T are almost finalized. From Norway’s Atlantic coast to Beijing, almost on the Pacific, by land. Trains, buses and ferries. It’s a long way and I’m a little nervous. But then why would I travel if it were just an ordinary humdrum activity.
I know this has been a day of images, of photography but how about if I sneak in just one travel reference.
Just Outside the Door
A LITTLE BLUE THIS MORNING PERHAPS?The vow, the frequently renewed vow, the pledge to my creative and obsessive soul. I will post to one of my blogs every day; images stories observations comments…every day…every day. And then I do not.
Then there are the images I am supposed to be gathering for my class, noting down somewhere for future stories.
Oh yes, and how I should be taking pictures all of the time of everything for the brilliant shot that occasionally pops up and I have a moment of believing I’m a photographer.
To catch up (obsessive are always needing to catch up), I will post five photos today. I’ve only managed one so far but it’s early.
Uncle Scott and Sara who wonders what in the heck he is talking about…
My good son Scott from San Diego comes to hang in his old stomping grounds every now and then. Now it’s with his mom and brother; back in actual stomping ground days, as I remember, he had more exciting friends.
It is always fun when he comes…and reassuring that he appreciates his mom who slaved over a hot stove cooking all those fine Kraft Mac and Cheese dinners.
We don’t do very much when he comes out. I try to think of the odd task or two like opening the olive oil bottle that has somehow stripped its bottle top gears or changing the unusual light bulb…you know the tough stuff. Eventually he’ll have to clean up the place and cook a three month supply of mush when he comes out but for now it’s not too complicated.
So we ate better-than-average New Mexican food a couple of times, watched Grand Budapest Hotel and I introduced him to Orange is the New Black, Downton Abbey and PBS Mystery. It’s sad how limited San Diegans are in their range of entertainment. I made him drink Earl Grey and eat small cookies during our Sunday evening British blowout. A good time was had by all. I think.
When you just can’t post a single line to any of those blogs you love so much…one day goes by…another…you wonder, ‘are you done with this foolish enterprise?’…still another…yup, one more…this is serious writer’s block or posting block or thinking block.
But suddenly it’s Wednesday, cloudy outside, you had a great sandwich for lunch and you are once again inspired (inspired=to be filled with the urge or ability to do or feel something, especially to do something creative). Or maybe not inspired. Maybe guilt-ridden because you vowed to post something something something anything everything that-thing on a blog every day.
The only way to get over writer’s block is to write, right? I’m writing, soon I’ll post this. I’ll be cured. Thank you great universal word spirit.
My new writing class has started, my California son visited for the weekend, we’ve hired two great new people at work and the last of my old restored family photos are framed.
Would you accept some random golden photos for a few make-up posts? Thank you.
Here’s the drive up to Steven’s on Tramway when the gold descends over the city.
From Paris to work to 24 hour bug to work again to tomorrow when my eldest son Scott will appear from San Diego for a visit with mommy and the bro. I am looking forward to a very nice weekend with talk and eating well and maybe some movies.
Meanwhile I am having a bit of an existential crisis. I keep saying my life henceforth is dedicated to becoming an effective writer—to legitimately label myself a writer. I want desperately to respond to the question of ‘what do you do’ with ‘writer.’
However being a writer implies that whatever I put out there for public consumption would have to be coherent, interesting and full of humor, intelligence or wisdom. Right?
So what to do about my blogs. Sometimes I’m quite proud of the contents of one or the other; other times I’m just putting words to screen because it’s become a habit, a regular part of my day—and I do like to write after all.
I must decide whether to keep this blog, Today X 365, as a sort of daily journal/diary or only ‘go public’ with offerings more cleanly edited and/or topics of broader interest or more vital subjects.
Ah yes, that time-worn question about the meaning of existence. Reduced slightly in my case to the meaning of blogs. Pathetic.
Let me just consider that food I mentioned (Scott will want New Mexican) and movies (seven Oscar nominations to go) and hanging out with my quite wonderful sons this weekend. I cannot be too worthless if I have these two fine, smart, hard-working, kind, interesting men as sons, yes? Good husbands, fathers, sons and, of course, liberal Democrats. I’ve raised liberals, therefore I am.
Weather in Albuquerque. Celebrate.
The Pleasures of a Cold
Home today preventing a cold from becoming a full-blown bronchial episode. Here are the preventative measures. Within an hour of symptoms appearing last night, I took my first dose of EmergenC. Shortly thereafter I had a small wine with lots of mineral water and then topped it off with a prednisone tablet. One more EmergenC this morning, lots of sleep and, voila, 24 hours later I am well.
To make sure I am well tomorrow will be a day off as well. Just to catch up on life. A sick day when you’re not too sick is a little like crossing the international dateline. You’ve lost a day but it hasn’t been actual or too painful.
The thing is I cannot afford to take one more day off until I’m on an actual trip out of town. No wonder I’m taking such good care of myself—usually.
Now an hour or two of political TV which is covering the quick and happy sellout of three million copies of Charlie Hebdo. Don’t know what good it will do in the history of the world—but it feels good nevertheless. Eff you murdering creeps.
Republicans are everywhere…. The weather was briefly cloudy and snowy but now sunlight is projected for the next 4212 days….I just got a bill for $800+ that my insurance was expected to cover…I can’t have a border collie in my apartment.
Oh well. There are lots of books to read and Cheetos and Fritos to eat and pictures to take and warm winter socks to wear. It’s okay.
Ovidia Mathilda Floren Neset
HAPPY BIRTHDAY MOM.
Born: January 12, 1907. 108 years ago. In Baltic, South Dakota. Died: July 27, 2000. Almost 15 years ago. In Northome, Minnesota.
I think about her and miss her every single day. She is frequently in my dreams. Often I’m searching for her and I find her. I fall asleep every night facing a wall where mom and dad and their moms and dads share space and images and stories. It’s nice. Reminds me I am just part of the flow.
Ovidia Mathilda Floren Neset was a wife and mother; a believer in a kind god who intended people to love and care for each other; a naturalist; farmer; animal lover; baker; florist; bird-lover; a loyal caring friend and a very special mom. Wish I could call her and wish her happy birthday.
Mom loved birds and sheep especially. So we have this bird to sing for her. I intended to publish a whole series of mom’s life with her sheep from the time until she was a little girl until shortly before she died. I couldn’t get the files to open so that album will be along in a few days.
For now…I love you mom.