Tord Boontje Bouquet Midsummer Knockoff Bare Bulb Ceiling Light DIY

I acquired a nice fabric drumshade years ago when rehabbing Tootie Pie's hot pink chandelier, and then I acquired a nice glass orb finial, and that was hot glued to a plexiglass cut out that acted as a diffuser. That was sort of wired to what's called a lamp harp - the thing that goes around the bulb to attach the shade. 

Before, some spots bare bulb still
visible

After a time, I got a little dull of my beige silk shade and thought it needed more bling that just that crystal ball on its chrome plinth on a sea of frosted plastic. I ended up not using enough finesse, and I had to scrap the whole shade. Now that Tootie Pie is grown and away, plenty of time to plump up its replacement with more cutting from plastic milk containers. Two to three years ago, this was the progress. 

I have joined all the stems looped onto one string, now, rather than the 2 or 3 I built upon batch by batch. And the stems that have not yet been hung are arranged in their singular beauty before being amassed. And finally, in situ. 

Arranged like a necklace

Now, bulb not shining through anywhere

Some new editions, since last dump

The beauty of this design is impressive! There is no bad angle. I'm not sure how many more stems this old, possibly original to the house electric fixture can take. I am sure there is a more artful way to arrange the stems, but for not, they're kind of hanging where they lay. The process is basically create a pattern of a stem in Sharpie, then cut it out using regular household scissors. When it's cut out, wipe off the Sharpie from the plastic and fingers using alcohol. That's it. Maybe it's time to start freshening up the basement situation, which is horrible. For now, with hot glue and a plan, it's me signing off.

My Favorite Figure Skating Routines

I can't believe I haven't spoken about skating yet in this blog. My love of skating came from my mother, Jean, who was a competitive roller skater. She knew John Carroll, of Michelle Kwan coaching fame, and we would watch it together throughout my life. We had rivalries, particularly the 1994 pairs competition where she preferred Gordeeyeva and Grinkov, and I liked Mishkutenok and Dmitriev, and much later, her pushing Shoma Uno, whose name she never mastered, and my rooting for Yuzuru Hanyu. 

We agreed far more than we disagreed. We weren't unique in our love of skating in the 1990s, and Michelle Kwan has to be the name most identified from this era. Her performances of Lyra Angelica are marvelous, and she got a bummer skating order in the 98 Olympics, but at Nationals, she went near last and just wowed, especially given that she was injured. She always brought the drama, but performing that triple lutz at the end, the one that hurt the most, was just extraordinary. 

Another of her performances that stays with me, with the "OH!" and "Wow!" by Dick Button and Peggy Fleming at the end, is Salome. Oh, wow, indeed. Mom and I loved Lu Chen, who she edged out here, but this was phenomenal. And, the end of Tosca, never will there be another straight line sequence like it. By this time, she had been beaten at the Olympics twice by up-and-comers, and she kept on keeping on. 

After trying, and failing, to gold at the Olympics, her "Fields of Gold" exhibition performance brings me to tears every time. Class, style and emotion. She deserved an Olympic gold but was poised and dignified in defeat.

I will talk about Rudy Galindo later, and he was half of an amazing pair that I had such hopes for, but tragedy had a say in things for him. But another bright spot of America's weak pairs program were the Curruthers. Adopted siblings from different biological parents, they were wonderful people and their joy in the 1984 Olympics, from her especially, led my 14 year old self to feel they were robbed. I still feel this way; the Soviets had an error and were dreary, and anti-Russian sentiment aside, Kitty and Peter won the night. She just could not contain her love in the final spin and hugs her brother, inspiring endearment. "We did what WE wanted to do". They did, indeed, and should have won, period.

To prove I don't hate Russians, my love for Mishkutenok and Dmitriev cannot be overstated. They had drama and flair. In the 1992 Olympics, she wore her old costume out of superstition. They were unchallenged that year and she had definite nerves and made mistakes, but the final third is pure artistry. Two years later, they were perfect, but she was still scared after a fall on the lift in practice; her legendary coach Tamara Moskvina had to hypnotize her. He seemingly collapsed in relief at the end of the short program. No shade to Gordeeyeva and Grinkov, but Natalia was a lot heavier than Ekaterina, and M&D's performance was more engaging. The rivalry was billed as perfection versus passion, and the perfection was not delivered; Sergei Grinkov messed up two jumps and spun one more rotation in their side-by-side spin. Natalia and Artur were passionate for sure, this time in matching costumes, and she was perfect. He rips his costume at the end to show his red heart. Of course, Sergei died not long after, and Dmitriev came back with another partner, and still the drama, this time with the death spiral, and Katiya was there applauding him as he won his second Olympic gold medal. The pairs event in 94 was disappointing for another of my favorites, Brasseur and Eisler; this little lady was made of iron. They were world champions the year before and sentimental favorites, and their performance was better received than G&G's. Since G&G were favored by my mother (I think she just loved Katiya, and who didn't?) and others with inside skating knowledge, I guess they know something I don't. M&D came back in 94 because Natalia wanted to skate cleanly, and she did and D&D didn't. I'm still bitter. 

Let's talk about Shoma. My mother could only call him the little Japanese guy. He was singing at the end of this dramatic version of Nessum Dorma. The commentator was complementing his speed when she had to interrupt with "Oh! Amazing!". He was. In his last appearance at the world championship, which he won on the three previous occasions, he had a quiet but powerful short program to Clair de Lune which I knew Mom was appreciating from heaven.

Another bookend career examination, this time of my favorite, Yuzuru Hanyu, positively bursting with ambition from the outset of his Romeo + Juliet program in the 2012 World's. There are so many fantastic moments here that previewed his greatness to come. His fierce yell after dramatically holding an A-Frame spin lives rent free in my head. Even his fall in the footwork calls to mind a young, fallible Romeo. Tracy Wilson's commentary previews their relationship as coach and student, as she marvels at his deep knee bend and his fantastic recovery after the fall. 

So many highlights when speaking of Yuzuru, and obviously his performance of Seimei at his second Olympics was mesmerizing and strong, again, he was injured and yet hung on to the jumps like a master. He rocked the Phantom of the Opera and PRINCE! He is a legend.

Paul. Paul Wylie was always a favorite because he had a regal carriage and interesting choreography. Before the 1992 Olympics, I had a friend watch his flawed but beautiful program at Nationals. He never really succeeded because he was studying at Harvard while a competitive skater, but I always loved him, and the fact that he was a babe didn't hurt. And then, after always being an also-ran, he delivered a beautiful short program in Albertville. He was in third place, and if his reputation was of a strong competitor, he should have been even higher. Then, he had his moment. That beauty of a program that I loved, flaws and all, so much, was delivered to the French crowd who ATE IT UP. He ended up with the silver medal, and it was an amazing story. 

Overall most masterful performance, from a technical and artistic standpoint, skating to Phillip Glass, is Nathan Chen. This performance, with no spectators other than the already COVID tested fellow athletes and coaches, was beautiful and powerful. His costume this year was a completely color-free version of his classic Polovtsian Dances Prince Igor and his skate was sublime.

But my favorite performance, emotional category, altogether what skating is about, is Rudy's. Man, that kid had no luck if he didn't have bad luck. A promising pairs skater, with Kristi Yamaguchi, she ditched him to focus on singles. Rudy Galindo had grace and carriage and was a dependable partner in their adorable pair, but struggled as a single act. He almost gave up. No one was paying any attention. And then they announce that Nationals would be in San Jose, his hometown, and so he thought, "one more try". Boy, were we in for a treat. Again, his short was masterful, but his reputation had him lower than he deserved. And then he took to the ice for his long, to Swan Lake, and the crowd was evidently behind him from the start. What a show, what a triumph!. He felt welcomed and at home, even waving to a friend during his program - talk about command. It is worth watching in full, with a bit of context (he is walking in his trailer park community: a true underdog): 

Rudy Galindo, 1996 National Championship

This is what skating is. Years of hard work and struggle in obscurity, and then sharing your success with others, moving people with the beauty of your craft. Dick Button nearly loses it after his first jumping pass, and is completely captivated by the end, when Rudy touches his heart in his final spin. He went on to win the World bronze medal, and was as adored there as he was in San Jose, making a sweet swan song to a man with potential finally realized. Funny how he shares his name with Rudy Ruettiger, the kid with a dream to play for Notre Dame. The glory of your day in the sun, crowds cheering and weeping with joy. A dream.

70 Up A Very Fitting End

 I just finished the 7 Up! series. What a ride! It is LIFE, and life is a ride. It is meant to be enjoyed.

There's a lot to learn from this particular episode, 70 Up, because the participants are as old and as wise as we'll ever get to see them. Peter sings a song that had a line I want to highlight, "You just keep on chasing, no matter how far, something that was there all along". That reminds me of what I said about Neil, Peter's childhood mate, regarding his butterfly story; I said, "To realize after decades that you had it right when you were wee is part of the beauty of aging." 

Neil seems content, as he has since 56, when he started "taking positive action". That's a relief, because he may have had serious problems, but he was always philosophical and balanced. Peter, too, references depression, the same thing that altered Neil's life. What a shame that these two childhood friends had to suffer in solitude, when we now know that, as Neil so eloquently puts it, it's not something you chose, it's something you are. 

I knew that Nick died, but, seeing him in 70 Up was shocking. He was very much a man facing a very real mortality. Having been such a delightful child and a thoughtful, intelligent, beautiful man, he now appeared gaunt and colorless, but, even having suffered a stroke, he retained his acumen and exquisiteness. I am so glad that he made it into 70 Up, despite dying at age 65. "In my life, there's always been another episode of this coming up, so I'll miss it." Then the film cuts to what he said in 56 Up, about a time-lapse of a flower blossoming and then dying. He says, "Well, seeing that with a person is also amazing, because we don't see that. We're so busy seeing the day-to-day life of a person, that we don't see the big picture of how they change over time."

The point of the series, repeated over the 63 years it ran, was to prove the Jesuit maxim "give me a child of 7, and I will give you the man". The participants disagree about whether that's true or not, but this could never be settled, and it doesn't matter. They start to get emotional as the interviews come to a close. And I, too, choked up. It was an honor to see these people grow and change, and yet remain the same characters we met at 7. Jackie breaks down, twice, saying "thank you" at the end. No, Jackie, thank you, and all the others for showing us what it is to have a human life. Cheers!

I'm Crying Already - 70 Up! "Bows Out"

The Up! series is my obsession. I could not have, being born in 1968, followed this since the beginning, but fortuitously I found it on youtube after 49 Up! was filmed. I looked forward to 56 Up! and 63 Up! since then, and now, a mere 5 days away from the finale: 70 Up!

For the uninitiated, briefly, a British start-up television station made a documentary about 7 year-olds in 1964. Not notable, until someone decided 7 years later to check in on the now 14 year-olds, and so on, every 7 years, until today. The posh children grew up to be ho-hum adults, but the other children have had roller coaster lives. My favorites are/were Neil, Lynn, Paul, Symon and Nick. Unfortunately, I have to use "were" for Lynn and Nick, as they both passed away. Originally designed to showcase the British class system, the series has everything that life doles out to everyone: bright eyed innocence, surly teens, anxious young adults, love, marriage, children, affairs, divorce, single parenthood, illness, homelessness, itineracy, redundancy (unemployment), education and career, immigration, cancel culture, mental health issues, death and on and on. Truly special. 

From upper left across: 1st: Paul, Nick, Lynn 2nd: Andrew, Neil
Symon 3rd: Jackie, Bruce, Sue 4th: Peter, Suzy, and Tony

My favorite moments were when Jackie told off director Michael Apted for his earlier sexism (which, I think was mitigated by the addition of Paul's wife, Sue, and Symon's wife, Vienneta - they are sharp!), Nick looking dreamy back on the farm at 21, the way Apted introduced Jackie's 2 youngest sons, Paul talking about not wanting to eat greens (c'MON, that boy is adorable and he grew into an adorable old man. "No, sir" and "what's university?" - the kid had comedic timing), Lynn and Nick facing their mortality with brave stoicism, Symon stating in 28 Up! that he "had a couple of kids" (um, that would be FIVE) and altruistic Bruce becoming a husband and a father after a long wait. I even loved Suzy's dog, who stole the 7 Plus 7 installment when he caught a rabbit. But, the true drama was Neil. That man had the world living on the edge along with him. He dealt with homelessness and mental illness, but persevered and maintained his eloquence throughout. (When discussing the public toilets he fought for in his ward, he says "I can assure you, no more fierce battle has been fought either on the playing field or indeed on the battlefields of England to save what may appear to be a comparatively insignificant local amenity") His story about the butterfly KILLS ME. The way it is edited to show his young, idealized self unselfconsciously dancing is unadulterated poetry. To realize after decades that you had it right when you were wee is part of the beauty of aging.

Nick's story, too, moved me. As someone who was forced to leave her home and family of her youth, I could relate to him having to leave his boyhood farm to pursue his unfulfilled dream in a foreign land. He, most of all, seemed to understand the power of the series and what it represented to people. In 63 Up!, he spoke of his dire prognosis, and will appear in 70 Up! after his premature death after informing Apted's producer, Claire Lewis, that he'd like to film his coda. And that was the impetus for 70 Up!, even though Apted, too, had passed away before Nick. Nick passed just hours after this interview; he loved and honored this project until the the very end. Like Neil, Nick was thoughtful and deep, and, did I mention, hot?

Lynn was the first to die, and she knew that she suffered a life-threatening condition for the last 2 installments before her death. Always matter-of-fact, her nearly losing her composure, and then telling Apted "You'd better cut it or I'm going to cry" while moving out of frame is hard to witness. She worked in education and helped the most needy. Her big heart was always on display. She never minced words. She was a force of good and made the world a better place.

So, inevitably, we will be focusing on the losses in 70 Up!, but hopefully with a love of life and living that has been central to the series. As Nick said, "It's not an accurate picture of me, but it is an accurate picture of someone", and that universality will have us, I'm certain, crying tears of joy when the curtain falls on the "Bayeux Tapestry" of documentaries.

REJECT NYCE PPO! A Letter of Opposition

A chance to avoid state health legislation and to cost-shift benefits is being forced on city workers. New York City, with its history of mismanagement and corruption, will now administer health care? There is a huge learning curve involved, necessitating more bureaucrats. What is the plan for risk mitigations, claim management, compliance, medication formularies, stop-loss coverage, analyzing data and trend examination? Will the government be able to handle claim denial calls? This is another Medicare Advantage debacle, a back-door attempt at serving more indignity to those who worked low-paying government jobs in return for a promise. Given the lack of any details, the chance that this will be handled well is dubious. The new plan only promises one year of no changes, and the same people who green-lighted the new system are in charge of future changes. There is little to nothing that we gain from this proposal, but so much to lose. We do not know so much of the proposed plan, and that is likely intentional. We, the rank-and-file members, were never even consulted.

For these reasons, I would much rather the city serve proof that self-funding the health benefits will actually work before they tackle something as important as the three-quarters of a million affected municipal workers health . In the meantime, perhaps offer a self-funded plan with optional enrollment, and keep the fully-insured plan alone.

My 9/11 Story

I have been living in New York City since the late 90s. From Michigan, I got a job in Long Island, but lived in Astoria, Queens. After a very brief stint in Long Island, I got hired by what was then called Smith Barney. Their offices were, and still are, although now part of Citigroup, at 250 West Street, also known as the West Side Highway, in Tribeca, Manhattan. From my office, I could see the World Trade Center. I avoided the Trade Center, and I would sometimes wonder, if they were attacked again, like they were in 1993, were they close enough to hit me? I knew they were a quarter of a mile tall, and didn't know the distance from 250 West, but I knew that they would be attacked again. The terrorists who tried in '93 said so. 

After I left Smith Barney, I moved even closer to the Trade Center when I worked for a dot-com internet consulting group. Being a start-up, they moved 3 times during my tenure of around 2 years: I forgot the location of the initial headquarters, then we moved to John Street, and finally to the Woolworth Building. All of these locations were in the Financial District, downtown Manhattan. Although I never set foot in the towers, I did go into 4 World Trade, because there was a Borders bookstore, and also 7 World Trade, when Smith Barney merged with Salomon Brothers, who had office space there. The sadly defunct Century 21 store was directly across the street from the Trade Center, and discount shopping runs in my DNA, so you know I spent many hours there. Although I lived in Astoria, the towers were my backyard. I would frequent the Tuesday farmers' market that ran just outside the towers. It was magic: Pennsylvanian Dutch selling apples and pies in the shadow of these two megaliths wearing their bonnets and long gowns covered with aprons. Such an anachronism. 

I tried to find a picture of the greenmarket at WTC
from ANY OTHER DAY. I could not. This is 5 WTC
on 9/11 with the farmers' market. They all got out.

The Woolworth Building in 
happier times

Another view of the Woolworth
Building

So, the morning of 9/11 in New York, as I'm sure you've heard, was a stunner. My boyfriend was free-lancing at Salomon Smith Barney, working at the 250 West Street building, and was in process to be hired as a full-time staff member. He was scheduled to head to the Human Resource department to sign the paperwork, at 7 World Trade. As luck would have it, the night before, he saw an interoffice envelope addressed to the Human Resources department on his boss's desk, so he just put the forms inside. This is how my boyfriend was saved. He was once an auxiliary police officer in the Bronx, and if he was closer, he might have mobilized. I was getting ready to go to my office. I was now working uptown at 7th Avenue and 57th Street. Just before I left, I heard the report of a plane hitting the Trade Center on the radio. Like most people, I assumed it was accidental. My boyfriend called at that moment, and I didn't let him speak. I told him to turn around and come back home. He did. I went out to vote: it was primary day. On the way down Astoria Boulevard, I knew that at the intersection of 21st Street, there was a clear view of the towers. When I saw it, I knew it wasn't an accident. I knew there were many, many casualties. I felt helpless and afraid. On autopilot now, I went to the voting precinct and voted. What else could I do?

When I was inside, a woman came in screaming that both towers were on fire. I said, no, I just saw them and it was just the one. Of course, when I went back up Astoria Boulevard, the truth was evident. She was right. Both towers were now struck. Panicked, I wondered if I should just call in. But, my boss was suspect of anyone calling out, and I didn't need him telling me that we worked miles from the Trade Center and there was no reason I couldn't make it. So I boarded the N train, the same train I took all the way to Church Street/Fulton Street when I used to work in the Financial Center. The train seemed to be fine, until we got to 36th Avenue, where it paused for what seemed like eternity. Mind you, the N train in Astoria is elevated, and we all could see the burning towers. I thought to myself, this is your sign to get off and go back, so I stood to exit, and at that moment, the doors chimed and closed. I rode it to 57th and 7th, with my final look at the standing towers at Queensboro Plaza. 

In some ways, it was good that I made it to work, because cell phones were not working, so I couldn't contact anyone since I left my apartment. I got ahold of my mother and explained to her that I was not close. Then...

It was my co-worker who told me what I had feared for so many years, but I was still shocked when she said it. Absolute disbelief. One of the towers collapsed. We all left together. Now, we needed to know where to go. The subway was no longer running, and my boss lived on the east side of Manhattan at 97th Street. He told us to come to his place. We walked through the park, and I remember hearing planes and being again panicked. It was most likely fighter jets, which became common place after this. We saw long lines at pay phones and ATMs, and all along the way, people were listening to radio reports in large groups. When we made it to his apartment, we could see the people crossing the Triboro Bridge on foot. We also finally saw what everyone else in the world had already seen: the images of the planes hitting and the towers collapsing. I felt sick.

Eventually, my boyfriend, who, believe it or not, drove to Tribeca daily, picked me and anyone else who lived in Queens up. We drove everyone home and were back to Astoria by nightfall. We saw on tv that there were bombs going off someplace in the Middle East, and we decided we didn't feel safe in the city. We went to his parents' home in northern Westchester, crossing the Whitestone Bridge where we saw the smoldering remains. His parents had cats, to which I am allergic, despite having a cat at the time myself. I couldn't breathe, and I went to the ER for a nebulizer. I still get calls from agencies representing 9/11 survivors with lung problems as a result. 

The next day I woke up and immediately hoped it was all a bad dream. Alas, it wasn't. We headed back to Queens, resolved to not let the terrorists win. In the weeks that followed, my boyfriend would patronize businesses downtown, smelling the horrible stench of death, sometimes ordering an entire ham from a deli, to keep those people afloat financially. Everyone did what they could.

The thing that stays with me about that day is my paralysis. I didn't know what to do. But, some people knew exactly what to do: the firefighters. When most of us stood around helpless, they bounded into action and ran towards the danger. 

Two years later, almost to the day, I stood in a classroom in Queens on the first day of school, again not really knowing what to do. I knew the parents and the kids looked to me like I knew what I was doing, but I didn't. I had joined the Teaching Fellows, and was in front of a 7th grade homeroom, teaching them math and technology. This was how I gave back to the city that, like a family member, I muttered bad things about, but truly loved. My new coworker, a 5th grade teacher named Diane Fairben, who taught my students on 9/11, had a view of the towers from her classroom and knew that her son was down there. She watched in horror with these kids, not on a television, but from a window. Her only child, an EMT worker, died that day. His name was Keith.

To him, and all the other heroes of that day, thank you will never be enough. I am only now, 24+ years later, committing my story to the public. A friend from the Midwest who worked for Aon visited a few weeks afterward and wanted to visit the site, so I went on a cold and rainy day to see the wreckage. I ran a 5k to commemorate a firefighter and passed the pile. Aside from those two occasions, I have not been back to the site. I cannot imagine the pain and suffering of so many parents, husbands and wives, and children of the victims. I feel for them and for all who suffer, whether from war or natural disaster, or plain poverty and bad situations. I hope that my service as a teacher to disadvantaged students made a difference. I think it did. Many of my students went on to success. I played a part in that.

We need to realize, as Americans, that we are blessed. We have a good life. We have our ups and downs, but overall, we are privileged to live in a great society. I have been blessed. Thank you for listening to a traumatic event from my perspective, and know that I count myself as fortunate. Do what you can to help. 

I'll leave you with this: when I grew up, there were very few children's programs. Saturday morning cartoons, Sunday night Disney movies, and PBS were about it. Once a year, the major stations would play "The Sound of Music", "Heidi" and "The Wizard of Oz. The programs on PBS were "Sesame Street", "Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood", "The Electric Company" and "Zoom". At a certain point, I knew I was too old for that stuff, but, like a guilty pleasure, I continued to watch. If my schoolmates knew I was still watching Mr. Rogers, I would be the laughing stock of the 5th grade. But he was kind. He was teaching us what we were learning in Catechism: love your brother. And, like a modern prophet, he said, "Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping." This is what Jesus was trying to say, what Allah was trying to say, what Buddha and all the prophets were teaching. God doesn't care if you eat meat on Friday or pork or cows. God doesn't want us kneeling and then standing in a particular direction. That's missing the point. God wants us to treat each other as you'd like to be treated; it's that simple. If 9/11 taught me anything, it's that there are good people in the world. More good people than misguided people. Let's all try harder to be those good people.

A Lifetime of Good-Byes

I have often wondered what would have happened if my family remained in Rhode Island when I turned 11, instead of moving to Cleveland. I imagine our happy family staying so, surrounded by my friends and family. I moved away from the Midwest as soon as I was able, and I have spent the rest of my life saying good-byes. Hard to not blame Cleveland for that.

I have stayed in New York for two reasons. One, I can't go while my divorce goes on and on. And, two, and most importantly, because it is home for my daughter. Oh, I guess three reasons: I hate moving. And I hate good-byes. Okay, four reasons... 

I said my farewells to my mother for the last time over 3 years ago now. I witnessed her final breath, and it was a privilege and honor to have known and loved her. I wish I had told and shown her this love more strongly when I had the chance. 

Me and my beautiful mom. I miss you, Jean.

It is now time for another: Tootie Pie. My heart aches to think of my life without her, although it is natural and to be expected. I love her ferociously and have structured my world around her. Now, what? 

Of course, I am happy that she is starting her own adventure, but I can be proud and sad at the same time, it seems. Motherhood is a complicated emotion, that's for sure.

Tootie Pie, you are and will always remain my greatest achievement. I am certain that you know this. I hope you see yourself with the love that I do. I think you do, but don't you ever let anyone make you doubt that you are capable, strong, self-reliant, kind, smart, beautiful and empathetic. Don't make the same mistakes that I did of letting your kindness blind you to self-absorbed others. Always put yourself first. Remember that you are my whole world, and I live and die for you. We will always share the same sky; I am always with you. This is not good-bye, but see-you-later.

I love you so dearly that it hurts, and I am excited for what the future holds for you. Whatever it is, you will kill it, girlie! As my Gramps said, "Go out and GET IT!" I know you will. Rock on...

Peace

Identifying My Native Land and My Tootie Pie

I saw the paintings, and they called to me. Once, I was passing right by it, and from the corner of my eye, I knew. It was Tootie Pie. It is a masterpiece.

I bought it! But, of course. It captures HER, in all her glory! Kiliko, her classmate, is the artist.

Then, again, although earlier, I spotted what I knew was New England. The painting, below, is of Schoodic, Maine.  

I have not been to Schoodic (is there a more Maine sounding name?), but something about the coloration of the rocks and the light told me, this is home. I was born outside of Boston, and call Rhode Island home. The artist is Marsden Hartley.

I have always been envious of visual artists. I used to use the program guides from the Ice Capades to draw Dorothy Hamill, and the result could be posted on badfanart.com. Once, somehow, I was able to capture the likeness of Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, but this was accidental. Both of these works are (fortunately) lost to time. The ability of these artists to portray such specificity is amazing. 

It was certainly the pink sequins that
inspired me to imitate, but crayons and
magic markers fail to convey their sheen.
Plus, her arms looked mutant on my
version. I did her dirty.

My Irish Initial

I have been obsessed with Medieval art since I knew there was such a thing. It may be the gold halos, it may be the slightly off-kilter proportions of the people, but it has always attracted me. It is funny, that my name, Kelleher, is so similar to Kells, as in the Book of Kells. Well, interestingly, the letter K is not native to Ireland. My name is an Anglicized version of the Celtic (pronounced Kell-tic) Ó Céileachair. And, no, there is not an apostrophe, but an acute accent. It means descendent of Céileachair. A céilí is a social gathering, but Céileachair means lover of a social gathering. So, somewhere in my ancestry, someone loved a party.

Now, technically, the Book of Kells is not Medieval, but Dark Ages, but I feel the imagery is in the same vein. It is also a misnomer, especially in Ireland, to call it the Dark Ages, because, once the Visigoths conquered the Roman Empire, neither one touched this distant western corner of Europe, and the arts flourished in Ireland during this time. It is ironic that an illuminated manuscript came from the Dark Ages, innit? I saw this when in Dublin, and even though I was only allowed to view one page, like all visitors, it was so detailed that I could have stared at it forever. Since I first laid eyes on it, in 1988 and again in 1995, Trinity College in Dublin has since scanned the pages. Many of the pages feature intricate Celtic designs incorporating knotwork and animals, and even images of the big names of the Bible, which is what the Book of Kells is. I wanted to find my initials, but sadly, there was no such thing as the letter K in circa 800 Ireland. So, my first initial will have to suffice, and, boy, does it! Just look at it:

So, what you are looking at is the first word, in Latin, of the Book of Matthew, "Liber". The L is curved, I cut off the bottom of the letter I, a large "B", and within the B, the ER (the image is large, so click on it to see all five letters). The first book of Matthew is "The Book of Generations", or "Liber generationis". Funnily enough, when I was younger, I sat down to read the New Testament, and read page after page of this first book. I gave up who knows how many generations into it and never returned to it. I expected more. I am not religious, but I do consider myself Christian, as in, aiming to be like Christ. But, c'mon, Matthew! Try to hook your audience, man.

But enough about the story; the beauty and intricacies of this single word is just breath-taking. Scholars say that Matthew was depicted with wings, and you can see that the faceless person in the left-most side clearly has beautiful gold tipped wings. Another two blokes here are both clutching books, which were cherished. Most of the animals look like snakes, but didn't St. Patrick both bring Christianity to Ireland AND drive out the snakes? But, they're perhaps not snakes. Are these dogs, specifically hounds or Great Danes? At first glance, I thought frogs, but frogs don't have tails, and these creatures do.

 

And this. I still say they're snakes, but the creatures end with either bird claws or fish tails for the purple bodies, or with a sort of lion's tail in the case of the yellow animals. No matter what they are, they are mesmerizing:

A close up of the ends of the tails:

Absolutely certain this
is a lion's tail

Fish tail?

But, wait, these are lions! Argh!

This is one page, one WORD for goodness sake, of a masterpiece. Somehow, they turned the dry genealogy of Jesus into an absolute, gobsmacking chef d'oeuvre, those unknown Irish monks did. Also, these monk-authors had a sense of fantasy and humor. Maybe these are snakes, but they've given them different animals' tails. It is a work of whimsy. I'm not certain Irish monks circa 800 had ever seen a lion, so there is definitely artistic license being taken. I challenge you to find your initial in this treasure and do your own deep dive into it. Or, pick an animal, and search it within the Book of Kells. No matter where you end up, you will be the richer for it.

Another drawing of Matthew, this time
with a dead eye

Since the drawing to the left is showing the man
with the wrong hand holding the book, apparently
to avoid the same mistake, deformed hand hidden
on right

No discussion of the Book of Kells without
a mention of a man who is playing his
harp snake with his two left hands

Another sensational L! What will you find?

Partial Unveiling Fish Chandelier

Well, it's missing a bulb and I still need to string 4 1/2 fish strands, but it looks good. Because it has 6 bulbs, it is not casting fish shadows, alas. 

It's custom and bespoke and delicate. No two fish are the same, and there are non-fish surprises such as a wave bead that ties the color scheme together and a glass bubble. There is a massive deep green fish. They all sparkle with Aurora Borealis (it's a bead thing). I wanted to make a blue whale gathering up the fish into a readily edible mass like I witnessed in Juneau, but never did. I don't have the right colors any longer and I like it without predators. 

I put the longer strands in the middle, the medium ones in between and the shorter ones along the outside for a graduated appearance that mimics the bulb stems. I want to learn how to make a circle with beads to create one octopus, but so far all I managed is one transparent star fish. This is the perfect task to beat the heat and humidity. A bit more fish making and I'll need another project. Alas, all of our ceilings are covered and I need to move onto another medium but light fixtures are my favorite. Oh, and after I finish with the fish, I need to strand my plastic flowers because this chandelier is CONVERTIBLE! The flowers should cover the space better than the fish because they are larger. 

Rhode Island

Hey, fun-loving New Englanders. Here's a ride that you
alone power. None of that new-fangled electricity here, nosiree.
Work up a sweat to try to get this giant metal cage
ALL THE WAY AROUND! Maybe even induce
a heart attack, if you're lucky.

Candy colored Lincoln Park. I have no photos, but the pictures live strong in my mind of the glorious tack that was a 1970s family style New England amusement park. Mom would pack a lunch that I would dance through with anticipation in the parking lot. I was tall enough that my father took me on the Comet coaster and it's not an experience I'll soon forget: if not for my father's karate chop to my waist on that first hill, I was falling forward onto the tracks. Clack, clack, clack! Good times. My sister would invariably get sick on fried clams. Many rides I wouldn't consider tackling because I was certain my parents wouldn't go for it, but those cages that could, in theory, swing 360 degrees sure looked dangerous. I always felt bad for the people in the Monster ride ("Monster Ride") who would emerge on the second floor. The humans pinned against the circle ("The Round Up") had nope written all over it.

CHiPs for the tykes

Basically the same ride, but
not motorcycles, storks

Who could focus on sandwiches

when all this awaited?

I couldn't understand my mother's
aversion to this. I think I know
now. Back problems, anyone?

But what I did ride I'll always remember. Storks, motorcycles, boats, cars with horns and steering wheels that did nothing, some sort of garish barrel, rocket ships, cars, and the flimsiest ferris wheel this side of a carnie. I got into one of those bucket seated multi-armed deals ("The Scrambler") with my little sisters and misjudged the centipedal force to crush my baby sis. No one cared about safety or intestinal health back then. No padding on "The Whip". Very few seatbelts - just a bar to grip. No one seemed to have planned anything besides my mother's lunch: we'd see families strapped with massive plushies that would take the entire backseat on the ride home. Ugly, cheap, HUGE eyesores that they already regretted winning for $100 in today's equivalent. 

 

Burlap in use

I know this reveals my age, but times were different. By today's standard, I'm amazed that Lincoln Park didn't have a class action lawsuit daily. Nothing preventing the kiddos from bailing out of the boat ride into the brown water. Most rides just encouraged you to hold on as their risk-avoidance mechanism. We "rode" the big slide by climbing stairs and, get this, using half of a burlap bag as protection from the searing heat and friction burns. It is a wonder as many of us survived to adulthood, truth be told. Far scarier than "The Monster" ride, was a total lack of safety. But, it was fun.

You couldn't say you weren't
warned

Clinging to life

That "safety belt" I'm
quite sure does NOTHING

This is incredibly girly, but many of those arcade games had dolls made out of nylon stockings and outfitted like Mae West in a riot of pastels and pouf. I'd dream of these visions of femininity all night as I could still feel my body sliding down "the big slide". 

Yes, this is what a 9-year old girl dreams of in 1977.
She was the epitome of femininity in my eyes.

Nostalgia is a powerful thing. I have lost touch with that young, wild girl who was brimming with excitement. The world seemed so magical. It was magical.

clams!

Clams, 

clams,

You certainly had options to eat
a few clams

Cigs were encouraged. Leisure
suit optional.

My father drove me out of Rhode Island in an Oldmobile Cutlass Supreme in 1979. I just drove my own self out of Rhode Island and I couldn't believe I'd do the same horrible thing to myself. It is magic. Every corner has the cutest pre-Revolutionary homes with their diamond lead glass windows. I found the homes in Providence I remember thinking even back then, special. I visited Federal Hill finally and felt the presence of Guy Alba cutting hair until close to 100 years old. I grew up in a magical place and it's still breath-taking. Rhode Island gives you a sense of discovery. Maybe it's because I didn't actually have an itinerary and my co-pilot was Tootie Pie, but I am counting the days until Rhode Island is mine again.