Posted tagged ‘ManicDDaily elephant drawing’

Hot Day–Imagined Beach (with you know what.)

June 2, 2013

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Hot here. I fear some browsers don’t show a whole picture uploaded from iPhone app (which is what I use) so posting smaller file black and white version below. (Sorry for repetition–I get nasty surprises sometimes when I check a post on a regular computer after posting on a mobile device and find that only half the pic is there! The lady elephant in corner would not like to be cut out! Usually if you click on photo or drawing, whole will show.)

Stay cool!

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Demise of the Asian Elephant

March 20, 2011

The above, which I admit is a little bathetic, is a response to terribly sad article by the Associated Press today, “Last Stand of the Asian Elephant,” about the struggle between Asian elephants desperate to maintain habitat (and already decimated in ways that destroy traditional social structures) and local inhabitants.  Both sides are suffering;  the elephants, amazingly crafty at times, wildly angry at others, have wrecked destruction and violent death, but, of course, human beings tend to excel at those sorts of things; an awful situation.

Pack-y-derm (Not)

January 5, 2011

Pack-y-Derm?

A short trip tomorrow.  Very early.  Involves packing.

I hate packing.  It feels like a test.  The strange thing is that I don’t mind doing without, moderate discomfort, making do, but I hate to forget things, not to have thought of things, to have failed in my mission (in other words.)

Oh well.

The King(?)’s Speech

December 26, 2010

The King(?)'s Speech

A lovely film.  (Not a dog and elephant show, but if you’ve seen it, you’ll understand.)

 

Yanks Re-sign Jeter (Hurrah!)

December 4, 2010

Baseball elephants are happy.

Going To No Down Florida, Cold

December 2, 2010

Brrr.....

I wake up in a very chilly bedroom this morning–no heat and a big window always slides open at the top, only closing again through some precarious sill-standing and serious neck-wrenching–with a need to pack for Florida.

Ah.

There are moments when the waterlogged air and smouldering concrete of the Sunshine State really do seem to beckon.  Not to mention the deep blue expanse on hatted head, the warmth on bare arms, the crunch of Bermuda grass under Birks.

Then I read that the temperature at my planned destination (the “Space Coast”) is currently 43 degrees!

That’s not much better than my bedroom!  Where I have down!

Who has down in Florida?  There’s something about even wool in Florida that feels icky.  Sticky.  Thick.  (It’s not exactly sheep country.)

I don’t mean to be hard on Florida but, well, it’s more like fleece country.  (You know, the stuff made out of plastic bottles.)

I’ll stop.  The state is really tremendously beautiful, or would be, if you took away some of the houses and banks. drive-in medical facilities and strip malls, golf courses and SUVs, beach side condos and hotels, and even a couple of bikini shops.   (Maybe not bikini shops.)

It will also be in the upper 60s during the day, maybe even higher.

Ah.

Nanowrimo Eyes (i.e. Sore)

November 7, 2010

Oops!

All computer and more computer makes Jill have very sore eyes.

My nanowrimo collation of words (I don’t think it can be called a novel at this point) has passed the 18,000 mark (about 75 pages) but it is unfortunately what my mother-in-law would call a cold collation (a platter of cold slices–meat, cheese, tomato.)

In other words, there’s not much cooking yet.  (I started out with plenty of potboiling despair, but that was mainly venting in “fiction” and I don’t think I can actually use it.)

Still, there is, at least, a framework for characters and a story that I had never thought about before.  (Granted, anyone reading it may think:  aren’t these exactly like the characters in every single thing you write?  But I’ll reply, genuinely astonished, “really?”)

Although it is a mere framework, I comfort myself with thoughts of Obama’s health care legislation–that, at least, it’s something to hang things on–or from.  (Sorry, I’m a huge Obama fan, as followers know– what I mean is that at least it’s a start and that, sigh, you do what you can.)

Unfortunately, my right eye has now revolted.  (I type this wearing sunglasses.)

What is to be done?

A notebook and pen truly are suitable alternatives to a computer.  Granted, most people (i.e. me) hate typing up their scratchings, but people have used these implements for a very long time, producing wonders.

Agh.

Questions of the Placement of Man (And Woman) In the Grand (or not so grand) Scheme of Things – Tea Party/Here and Now

October 23, 2010

At a kind of center

Dashing across Broadway to the corner of Fulton, late for work, and thinking about my next blog post–an off-shoot of “Lord Help Us!”, about the Tea Party’s doubts in man-made climate change.

One major distinction between Tea Party types and students of science and history is their view of Man’s place (especially the place of American Man) in the whole big scheme of things.

Swing past the thick green posts at the top of the train entrance, the heavy iron scrollwork now muted by a zillion and one paint jobs; to my left, a T-Mobile (I think) store, petals of yellow ad flash in the darkly reflective glass.

Tea Partiers, pattering down the stairs, especially those who identify themselves as Christians (with a capital “C”), believe that Man (particularly American Man) is made in God’s image, the apple (only not the apple) of His eye.  As a result, creation revolves around Man; the Earth is at his disposal.

By American Man, I also mean Woman. I grimace in frustration as I slow for one carrying a baby carriage.  (I usually do offer to help women with carriages but this one is already mid-stairs, and taking up the whole stairs too–no way will I get past her.)

Few serious students of science or history can truly believe this.   Scientists tend to be conscious of the fact that the Universe (and even the Earth) have had a long life span that didn’t include Man in a starring role, and also that it’s possible for Man to write him/herself out of the future script.  Serious historians, for their part, cannot truly believe that all of human history has been one big build-up to Sarah Palin.

I chuckle inside, feeling suddenly energized by snarkiness.  But now I see with absolute certainty, even though just from the corner of my eye, the dull sliding silver of the train.  Still moving, meaning it’s pulling in, but there’s that baby carriage and mother, and now an older lady too, and it’s a narrow entrance, but there are three turnstiles–THREE!–the rectangular lights of the train windows slow–

If all of the Earth is supposed to be FOR man, how can we wreck it, thinks the Tea Party–

I really don’t want to be rude, but oh come on–train doors opening–I jog to the left of the baby carriage, the mother, the older lady in black wool coat, slightly bent, carrying a bag, Christ–got to get around that too–determined not to discombobulate them,veering to the farthest turnstile that I never use–what did someone say the other day?–that that turnstile didn’t work, no, that the closer one didn’t work?  Random notes of random sentences depress the fervor of my Metrocard slide until the green “GO” magically appears and I push the heavy slots (it’s one of those floor to ceiling turnstiles), galloping towards the bright rectangular squares at the end of the dim concrete–

Ohnoohnoohdamn.  On hands, ouch, knees, face burning–I really should never wear a scarf–this purse–did I break anything?  The older bent lady in the black coat alarmed–I try not to think about how my hands sting and what kind of germs are crawling onto them, looking up  around tangle of neck–

The doors are still–open–I scramble upright, lunging stiffly, mumbling apologies to the old lady–oh no, my necklace unclasped, my lucky necklace, about to fling itself–grab it with one hand as I stumble into the white light of the car, the other holding open the door, turning back to those left behind.   The mother with the carriage hasn’t yet gotten through the turnstile, the old lady at the far edge of the platform–

“No no.”  She shakes her head with a smile.  I can’t tell if she’s wise, or heading for a whole different line.

I let go of the door, reclasp my necklace, resettle my scarf, wipe my hands on my pants, then don’t wipe my hands, then–ah–sit down, pretending that no one is looking at me.

Head in the clouds, theories, egocentric snarkiness, leads to–scraped knees, stinging hands, I bend down over my notebook.

Wait–that’s my stop!  Already??!!!

(Isn’t the “here and now” part of what science is all about?)

Hurry hurry hurry out the door.

Yard Work – Colbert In Congress – Draft poem

September 27, 2010

Yard Work is Hard Work

Stephen Colbert, amazingly, made an appearance before the House Judiciary Committee Subcomittee on Immigration last Friday, testifying on issues related to illegal migrant farmworkers in the U.S.  Colbert’s alleged expertise on the issue arose from one day spent with migrant laborers in which he learned that farm work is “hard.”

Colbert’s testimony is fascinating on many levels; a few that especially struck me:  (i) his chutzpah in appearing at all (to highlight the issue with his celebrated bump);  (ii)  his chutzpah in maintaining the Colbert “persona” (the narcissistic, jingoistiic, know-it-all, conservative talk-show host) throughout the testimony, even when it did not seem much appreciated by his audience; and (iii)  his chutzpah in making an oddly sincere and thoughtful contribution to the debate.  It’s all pretty crazy; the aftermath too.

In the meantime, I had an independent, and far more pampered, experience of agricultural “work” this weekend.  (I hesitate to make the comparison to either Colbert or migrant farm workers–my experience was as much in the nature of exercise as work and completely voluntary.)  But, it gave rise to a draft poem.  (Note that the competitiveness at stake is not with Stephen Colbert.)

Raker’s Progress

Yard work is hard work;
raking makes for aching
even for the frequent
grass-comber, but for the grandiloquent,
hell-bent on proving that she
can too do it, that she can more
than do it, certainly
as well as he,
it makes for a sore
next day.

Pauvresse Oblige

September 20, 2010

It sounds paternalistic; it is paternalistic; but the concept of noblesse oblige, or as Sergeant Colon of Terry Prachett’s Discworld calls it – nobblyesse obligay–used to make the wealthy and/or aristocratic feel guilty enough to do the right thing, at least some minor sacrifice which passed as the right thing.

The “right thing” in this paternalistic, but noble, world meant something that was fair-minded,  generous (i.e. not greedy).  This seems to have been a little more clearcut in times before trickle-down economics or of  ‘get as much of it while you can’ economics (the system we seem to have now.)

As Paul Krugman points out in today’s New York Times (“The Angry Rich”), many of the rich in the U.S are hopping mad.  They feel absolutely entitled to  (or perhaps psychotically defensive about) their hundreds of millions and are really really worried about a return to a tax system that was in place a mere ten years ago.   An especially angry billionaire, Steve Schwarzman, has compared President Obama’s proposals to tax the earnings of hedge fund managers as ordinary income to Hitler’s invasion of Poland.   (I’m not completely sure who is more injured by this type of statement–Obama or the people of Poland, whose suffering in World War II seems horribly demeaned by such an idiotic comparison.)

What’s crazier, and sadder, is that so many ordinary Americans are caught up in the defense of the rich and super-rich.  Such Americans, angered by the more visible entitlements of the poor (which in the big scheme of things are pretty paltry–that’s why they are poor). give the rich a free ride.   Many of the working and middle class seem to view the rich as a parallel (if luckier) group to themselves; hard-working folks who deserve to keep absolutely all of what they have.   They don’t seem to ask if the rich are really thousands of times more hard-working or deserving than a poor guy or gal with two low-paying jobs.

The idea has been spread that protecting a billionaire’s billions from a pre-George W. Bush level of tax is somehow incremental to protecting a middle or working class person’s thousands (or hundreds); the fact that it’s the Republicans who are holding tax reductions for the middle class hostage has also been obfuscated.   What’s saddest is that many of the working and middle class do not seem to recognize that by fighting any return to the former tax regime for the rich, they are unknowingly offering to make big sacrifices for them–sacrifices in safety, public services, decent schools, a civil society.

A not so minor sacrifice.

Pauvresse oblige.