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| Isaac Newton notebook 1660s |
Read at Notebook Stories
via Wired
20.8.13
3.8.13
Library on the Beach; Free Book Kiosk in Pittsburgh
I find it so refreshing that even with the e-reader, books, paper, books, paper are still popular and that in France one can borrow a book at the beach.
And in Pittsburgh, after a super dinner in Regent's Square at Alma Pan, a Latin kitchen, I nabbed a book from the kiosk.
The glories of books and in Pittsburgh the Carnegie.
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| Photograph via French blogger © |
And in Pittsburgh, after a super dinner in Regent's Square at Alma Pan, a Latin kitchen, I nabbed a book from the kiosk.
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| Photograph via Pittsburgh Gazette © |
It ain't coal, it's Amerika
The New York Times did a piece about McDowell County, West Virginia's
decline in population and wealth while still wanting to stay proud and bring back the glory days of prosperity from coal mining.
It reminded me that just the other day I was driving up country road 116, a back way to a friend's house, and thought, "This place was once a bustling lake community. What happened to it."
The town is Huntington Lake. Driving up towards the lake is a winding road, with more than one sharp turn. Along the road are large, very large, houses, most of which are decrepit, several nearly falling down, and quite a few up for sale.
At the lakeside itself, you can also find decrepitude, and a sense of the forgotten.
Few of the houses bordering the lake itself are in good condition.
Is this the future of Amerika?
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| Coalwood Mountain (Postcard) |
It reminded me that just the other day I was driving up country road 116, a back way to a friend's house, and thought, "This place was once a bustling lake community. What happened to it."
 |
| Lake Huntington, off Route 116, W52 © Pentamento |
The town is Huntington Lake. Driving up towards the lake is a winding road, with more than one sharp turn. Along the road are large, very large, houses, most of which are decrepit, several nearly falling down, and quite a few up for sale.
At the lakeside itself, you can also find decrepitude, and a sense of the forgotten.
Few of the houses bordering the lake itself are in good condition.
Is this the future of Amerika?
22.7.13
500 miles to Homer
On Wednesday I packed up the car and headed North. It was a page turning day of memories as I haven't been to Williamstown since stock the summer of my twenty birthday and hadn't been to Bennington (Vermont) for five years.
So eager was I to get to New England that I didn't pay much attention to the roads I traveled and wound up on the wrong road. I finally got off in Deposit, New York, a town of 1700. With the assistance of two women in a local breakfast stop, I found myself going in the right direction: Northeast.
Already hours had gone by, and although I should have been in New England I was entering Oneonta, New York. If Deposit is small, Oneonta is big, far bigger than I imagined, and a place I did not want to get lost in. So not quite tired, and not quite hungry, but nearly time for lunch, I stopped at Alfresco's Cafe just before the Oneonta Bridge.
It was a garland of gorgeous flowering plants, and reminded me of a cafe in Sicily. At first I passed it by and then turned around. I stepped inside and asked for and got mussels in wine sauce, and iced water. I sat outside although it was getting terribly hot.
Half an hour later, I was back on the road, satiated and headed to Bennington (Vermont). I had decided, willy-nilly to go to Bennington first because of the Midnight Sale at Bennington Potters. I never made it to the sale.
Bennington is the last town I was in before I came to the Upper Delaware Valley and perhaps it held some unconscious memories.
Different towns or cities in Vermont have a language of their own, and Bennington is White Bread. It is clean, it has what to offer but is tame in comparison to Brattleboro or Burlington. Brattleboro is trendy, Burlington is a monkey puzzle.
I hoped to grab a coffee and a snack in one of my former favourite cafes but it had gone out of business. I swung the car around the corner and made a bee-line to the South Street Cafe.
I hadn't planned to stay in town, and had no idea where I would stay. I pulled out my often out of service cell phone. On the 2nd attempt I found a motel just around the corner. It was clean, everything worked, it was more than I generally want to spend, but it was too hot, and I had travelled too many hours to keep going even the few extra miles to Williamstown, my ultimate destination.
I settled in at the motel, and then went to Madison's Brewery for dinner. The barista at South Street had recommended it as the best of a small lot in town. It was excellent!
Shortly after the birds chirped, and a second cup of coffee at South Street Cafe, I headed south on route 7 to Williamstown, Massachusetts and the Sterling and Francine Clark Art Institute.
The institute (or museum) was showing the works of Winslow Homer and George Inness, two different kinds of painters, but both worth a 500 mile round trip.
I've seen Homer's before, but I hadn't seen a Homer since doing watercolour and it was those paintings I was most eager to see.
What did I learn?
Homer didn't erase. Homer mixed media often. He was not against using graphite with watercolor, watercolor with gouache, and pencil with everything. He often used toned paper, text weave, I believe, and several of the paintings clearly had faded. No mention was made of the fading, and inasmuch as the catalogue was $50.00 I passed it by.
A great many etchings were on view, far more than paintings, and they were excellent and not usually exhibited.
The entire collection was delightful.
Homer's Studio was a destintation I had thought to visit last year, but I am not good on making reservations in advance; too spontaneous I suppose.
The Inness' were small in number, I believe, less than a dozen, but remarkable in their execution.
Where Homer is active, bold, striking down images with gestural strokes, Inness is dreamy, interior, nearly surreal, definitely a spiritual tone.
And if I was thrilled to see the show, I was also excited to be back in New England, and to see how Williamstown had changed. The shops were glittering and the Clark off-campus shop one of the nicest, best stocked I've seen this side of the Atlantic.
These are the things I brought home.
And perhaps with this, my favourite purchase, I'll find my way Northeast, and not just plum North!
I'm already looking forward to another adventure to New England, this time to places I might not get lost going to or coming home from.
So eager was I to get to New England that I didn't pay much attention to the roads I traveled and wound up on the wrong road. I finally got off in Deposit, New York, a town of 1700. With the assistance of two women in a local breakfast stop, I found myself going in the right direction: Northeast.
Already hours had gone by, and although I should have been in New England I was entering Oneonta, New York. If Deposit is small, Oneonta is big, far bigger than I imagined, and a place I did not want to get lost in. So not quite tired, and not quite hungry, but nearly time for lunch, I stopped at Alfresco's Cafe just before the Oneonta Bridge.
It was a garland of gorgeous flowering plants, and reminded me of a cafe in Sicily. At first I passed it by and then turned around. I stepped inside and asked for and got mussels in wine sauce, and iced water. I sat outside although it was getting terribly hot.
Half an hour later, I was back on the road, satiated and headed to Bennington (Vermont). I had decided, willy-nilly to go to Bennington first because of the Midnight Sale at Bennington Potters. I never made it to the sale.
Bennington is the last town I was in before I came to the Upper Delaware Valley and perhaps it held some unconscious memories.
Different towns or cities in Vermont have a language of their own, and Bennington is White Bread. It is clean, it has what to offer but is tame in comparison to Brattleboro or Burlington. Brattleboro is trendy, Burlington is a monkey puzzle.
I hoped to grab a coffee and a snack in one of my former favourite cafes but it had gone out of business. I swung the car around the corner and made a bee-line to the South Street Cafe.
 | |
| South Street Cafe, Bennington, Vermont |
I hadn't planned to stay in town, and had no idea where I would stay. I pulled out my often out of service cell phone. On the 2nd attempt I found a motel just around the corner. It was clean, everything worked, it was more than I generally want to spend, but it was too hot, and I had travelled too many hours to keep going even the few extra miles to Williamstown, my ultimate destination.
I settled in at the motel, and then went to Madison's Brewery for dinner. The barista at South Street had recommended it as the best of a small lot in town. It was excellent!
 |
| Madison Brewery, Bennington, Vermont |
Shortly after the birds chirped, and a second cup of coffee at South Street Cafe, I headed south on route 7 to Williamstown, Massachusetts and the Sterling and Francine Clark Art Institute.
The institute (or museum) was showing the works of Winslow Homer and George Inness, two different kinds of painters, but both worth a 500 mile round trip.
 |
| Undertow, Winslow Homer © Clark Institute |
I've seen Homer's before, but I hadn't seen a Homer since doing watercolour and it was those paintings I was most eager to see.
What did I learn?
Homer didn't erase. Homer mixed media often. He was not against using graphite with watercolor, watercolor with gouache, and pencil with everything. He often used toned paper, text weave, I believe, and several of the paintings clearly had faded. No mention was made of the fading, and inasmuch as the catalogue was $50.00 I passed it by.
 | |
| Winslow Homer © Clark Institute |
The entire collection was delightful.
Homer's Studio was a destintation I had thought to visit last year, but I am not good on making reservations in advance; too spontaneous I suppose.
The Inness' were small in number, I believe, less than a dozen, but remarkable in their execution.
 | |
| Woodland Interior, George Inness © |
And if I was thrilled to see the show, I was also excited to be back in New England, and to see how Williamstown had changed. The shops were glittering and the Clark off-campus shop one of the nicest, best stocked I've seen this side of the Atlantic.
 |
| Lime green pocket journal, roomy collector bag and a magnifier |
And perhaps with this, my favourite purchase, I'll find my way Northeast, and not just plum North!
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| Keychain Compass |
16.7.13
Race in the USA: Trayvon Martin vs. George Zimmerman
Today, Charles Blow, New York Times, wrote a clear article regarding the injustice of the verdict in the trial of George Zimmerman, that declared him not innocent, but not guilty.
Eugene Robinson in the Washington Post wrote a similar article, both men speaking of the travesty of the verdict's injustice and how "the system failed Trayvon Martin."
Both men are black.
I am neither male nor black, brown or a person of colour. I am female, a senior citizen, well educated, both urban and rural. In America, I have lived in New England, the sage strewn roads of New Mexico, the Greenwich Village streets of New York City, the dairy farmland of Pennsylvania, the countryside of Charlotte, North Carolina and presently live in the foothills of the Catskill Mountains.
I too believe that the system failed Mr. Martin, a 17 year old black boy walking, or perhaps even sauntering home to his Dad's house after making a run to a neighbourhood convenience store.
I rarely watch the kind of news that runs full cycle on some issue of the day, but I was riveted to the MSNBC coverage until the verdict came in Saturday night.
I was exhausted from the emotion that came up for me whilst hearing the testimony, watching the trial, listening to the analysis, and finally hearing the verdict. I promised Color of Change I would be alert to any anti-bias against Mr. Martin. I heard none on MSNBC.
But the case of George Zimmerman's innocence, and the death of Tryvan Martin brings up for me my entire growing up in New York City, the short time I lived in Charlotte, and the period I worked in New England.
Race, racial profiling, discrimination of all kinds was in the air, stronger, if not bolder than jasmine, more poignant than honey suckle, or worse than the stench that only the recycle center gets after days of massive rain.
I could, but have decided against, enumerating the countless times I've encounters racial profiling. If you believe that justice has not been served for the dead young man, sign a petition with Color of Change, or the NAACP.
Eugene Robinson in the Washington Post wrote a similar article, both men speaking of the travesty of the verdict's injustice and how "the system failed Trayvon Martin."
Both men are black.
I am neither male nor black, brown or a person of colour. I am female, a senior citizen, well educated, both urban and rural. In America, I have lived in New England, the sage strewn roads of New Mexico, the Greenwich Village streets of New York City, the dairy farmland of Pennsylvania, the countryside of Charlotte, North Carolina and presently live in the foothills of the Catskill Mountains.
I too believe that the system failed Mr. Martin, a 17 year old black boy walking, or perhaps even sauntering home to his Dad's house after making a run to a neighbourhood convenience store.
I rarely watch the kind of news that runs full cycle on some issue of the day, but I was riveted to the MSNBC coverage until the verdict came in Saturday night.
I was exhausted from the emotion that came up for me whilst hearing the testimony, watching the trial, listening to the analysis, and finally hearing the verdict. I promised Color of Change I would be alert to any anti-bias against Mr. Martin. I heard none on MSNBC.
But the case of George Zimmerman's innocence, and the death of Tryvan Martin brings up for me my entire growing up in New York City, the short time I lived in Charlotte, and the period I worked in New England.
Race, racial profiling, discrimination of all kinds was in the air, stronger, if not bolder than jasmine, more poignant than honey suckle, or worse than the stench that only the recycle center gets after days of massive rain.
I could, but have decided against, enumerating the countless times I've encounters racial profiling. If you believe that justice has not been served for the dead young man, sign a petition with Color of Change, or the NAACP.
16.6.13
A writer's library
Oh to have back my library, walls lined with books, one extraordinary comfortable chair, and the sun shining into the tall windows. But, I gave it up for the road and the end of academia.
But Jack London's library
brings me back, crawling on my hands and knees to writing. I'd not quite given it up as I write for the local art alliance, and wrote for more than 5 years for the local newspaper, but I had forsaken my daily writings, glimpses into larger works, noodles of thought, lists, and all in one single journal, often leather bound, and in more recent years in a Moleskine sketchbook. I didn't draw in those journals, but wrote and wrote.
In 1992, I was determined and succeeded in writing 1000 words each day and not answer the phone or receive visitors until the words were planted on the page. I did this after Rebby and I did morning pages and worked our way through the Artists Way, Julia Cameron's singular masterpiece of get it going.
When Rebecca suggested we buy this book on a drive down to Newport (RI) I was aghast and said let's buy one copy and share it. Then when we began it was clear that we needed two copies and I had to run, or rather drive over to Brown's Bookstore (I still had my faculty ID) and buy a second copy.
Perhaps it was just this sabbatical year or serendipity, but in 1992 I did these exercises, took a workshop on Proprioceptive Writing in Portland (ME) and wrote every day.
I followed this workshop with a sojourn to Liberty (ME), a quiet place, and a room with a view, in what was once a wreak of a chicken coop, turned into a masterful 3-level house by a fellow aspiring writer. Each room had floor to ceiling windows and small outdoor porches, all of which captured the light, often dim in Maine.
M, my friend worked 50 miles from Liberty, left early in the morning and arrived back late in the evening, giving me the house all day to write, and write, and go into Belfast for typewriter ribbon (yes that long ago) and buy great food at the local food cooperative. But it was writing I was after and writing I got.
One great cooking adventure was when on a weekend we visited a neighbour friend and gathered together tons of just ripened tomatoes. The two, M and Y had been partners in a herb business and the right pot and lovely dried herbs were waiting for us at home. I did up a marvelous sauce while wringing out Parsifal's Adventures on a slow moving electric typewriter.
...to be continued...
But Jack London's library
 | |||
| London's Library, via the William Brown Project © |
In 1992, I was determined and succeeded in writing 1000 words each day and not answer the phone or receive visitors until the words were planted on the page. I did this after Rebby and I did morning pages and worked our way through the Artists Way, Julia Cameron's singular masterpiece of get it going.
When Rebecca suggested we buy this book on a drive down to Newport (RI) I was aghast and said let's buy one copy and share it. Then when we began it was clear that we needed two copies and I had to run, or rather drive over to Brown's Bookstore (I still had my faculty ID) and buy a second copy.
Perhaps it was just this sabbatical year or serendipity, but in 1992 I did these exercises, took a workshop on Proprioceptive Writing in Portland (ME) and wrote every day.
I followed this workshop with a sojourn to Liberty (ME), a quiet place, and a room with a view, in what was once a wreak of a chicken coop, turned into a masterful 3-level house by a fellow aspiring writer. Each room had floor to ceiling windows and small outdoor porches, all of which captured the light, often dim in Maine.
 |
| Liberty Post Office © Michal Flisiuk |
M, my friend worked 50 miles from Liberty, left early in the morning and arrived back late in the evening, giving me the house all day to write, and write, and go into Belfast for typewriter ribbon (yes that long ago) and buy great food at the local food cooperative. But it was writing I was after and writing I got.
One great cooking adventure was when on a weekend we visited a neighbour friend and gathered together tons of just ripened tomatoes. The two, M and Y had been partners in a herb business and the right pot and lovely dried herbs were waiting for us at home. I did up a marvelous sauce while wringing out Parsifal's Adventures on a slow moving electric typewriter.
...to be continued...
9.6.13
So Painful! Does anyone hear?
It's early morning.
I am not at home but enroute from Scotland, Pa home. I am stalling because I don't really want to get on the highway and face another 225 miles.
I read the paper, instead and read this story.
I find myself distraught. I nearly cry aloud. Does anyone in government hear the pleas of those who want a change in gun control?
Just the other day, out on another highway, I heard only a snippet of yet another massacre in Santa Monica, California. Several dead. Perhaps more. The gunman was not identified. His rage and an automatic weapon palpable.
My father lived in Santa Monica once. He could have been on those streets, a victim of an armed man with no purpose other than to wreck vengeance on his neighbours or strangers.
What does it take for the US to change its notion of John Wayne, the Wild West and the 2nd amendment?
I am not at home but enroute from Scotland, Pa home. I am stalling because I don't really want to get on the highway and face another 225 miles.
I read the paper, instead and read this story.
 |
| Daniel Barden © Washington Post via Barden Family |
I find myself distraught. I nearly cry aloud. Does anyone in government hear the pleas of those who want a change in gun control?
Just the other day, out on another highway, I heard only a snippet of yet another massacre in Santa Monica, California. Several dead. Perhaps more. The gunman was not identified. His rage and an automatic weapon palpable.
My father lived in Santa Monica once. He could have been on those streets, a victim of an armed man with no purpose other than to wreck vengeance on his neighbours or strangers.
What does it take for the US to change its notion of John Wayne, the Wild West and the 2nd amendment?
6.6.13
Itching Amsterdam
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| Bloemgracht, Amsterdam |
Twenty free things to do in Amsterdam so makes me home sick for my life gone by in City I not only loved, but was loved in and gave birth.
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