Wednesday, April 30, 2008

If at first you don't succeed, quit

and cut your losses, or be a fool and keep on trying. Try try again.

It took 5 tries and lots of wasted eggs, lemon juice and oil, but I
finally made homemade mayonnaisee.

I used to do it all the time, and I don't remember it being this hard!!!!

Several times it was coming out nearly perfect and then "broke" as
they say in the mayonnaise jargon.

So, why would I waste all that time and all those ingredients trying
to make mayonnaise? Because I am allergic to the kind you buy in the
store. I am allergic to soy and can't find any without it, and I
wanted to make deviled eggs and potato salad, and to be able to
occasionally. Picnics, family gatherings, etc.

I've been trying for months, off and on, and today I tried and failed.
Was about to give up forever, not understanding why it wasn't
working, when I found another recipe, not the one I'd used first that
had failed me, that said, "follow these directions perfectly and
measure perfectly or it won't work." I did; it didn't. But this was
an "easy" recipe and voila, mayonnaise!

And deviled eggs. And now I am making potato salad! YAY.

All fattening foods, but I won't be making a habit of it--too many
dirty dishes, too much wasted time!

Good thing I am flexible enough to pat my own back, 'cause prolly no
one else cares, LOL!

Red: Tulip

Red: Tulip, by Mary Stebbins Taitt. Ortonized, spherical Orton effect.

Self portrait with Owl and Pine Branch

This is a crop from a new sketch. You can see it at IMAGIK. It's in my first ever Moleskine sketchbook for a moleskine exchange group I was invited to join. (Dunno why they invited me, but I am happy they did!)

I am working this afternoon.

I never did write about the job I am doing. I am doing PHOTOSHOP work
for a classmate who is working on a children's book! And getting paid
to do it. Interesting work.

Tuesday, April 29, 2008

Clementines on a large plate

This is my second most recent painting--I've been too busy to post
lately. It was the last one I did in my Thursday water color class.
It is a very amateurish copy of a lovely painting I found in a water
color magazine. Unfortunately, it wasn't my magazine and I did not
get down the name of the artist who did it. Mine doesn't do the
original justice, but for a beginner, it isn't too bad.

Two new books read:

I've been so busy I haven't had time to report on my reading.
A little while ago, I finished Winter Holiday, by Arthur Ransome. It's a children's novel, and it's wonderful. I loved it. It revisits characters from Swallows and Amazons, Nancy Blackett and her sister, Peggy, and John, Susan, Titty and Roger of the Swallow, and introduces two new characters, Dick and Dorothea. Unlike Swallows and Amazons, it is not about sailing, because the lake is frozen, though they do manage to ice sail and sailing does enter their vocabulary. But the kids manage to have all kinds of adventures, so much so that the reader wishes she could join them!! While the story starts out feeling a bit random, it steadily builds to an exciting climax. It's also educational, as many of Arthur Ransome's books are. The reader learns (or has an opportunity to learn) the semaphor alphabet and how to build and ice-sailboat. If you enjoy children's literature the way I do, or have any children ages 6-11 or so, this is a tremendously worthwhile and fun book.
Yesterday, I also finished The Simple Secret to Better Painting by Greg Albert. It is subtitled, "How to immediately improve your art with this one rule of composition." The book is interesting and a worthwhile and informative read. Its premise is that in art, "no two intervals should be the same." The author applies the principle to not just obvious things like intervals between trees or fruit, but also to the size of items, their general placement on the page, the use of color, tone and value, visual weight and energy, rule of thirds etc. He has little helpful sayings like "Mostly, some and a bit." However, he had the annoying habit of contradicting himself which I found confusing, upsetting, and off-putting. But there was enough good information in this book that I will 1)probably read it again, 2)study it to some extent and 3)keep it around as a reference. * * * My poetry teacher at the Scarab Club, Dawn McDuffie, asked us last night what we were reading. (I am reading a number of other books, including Herman Melville's Moby Dick and Sonja Lyubomirsky's The Hows of Happiness and Barbara Kingsolver's Animal, Vegetable, Miracle and others.) She wanted to know how our reading was affecting our poetry. She had just written a "War and Peace poem" that was quite nice. I didn't mention how my books were affecting my poetry; I wasn't sure they were. Poetry books usually have an effect on my poetry, even if only to make me want to write, to jump-start my process. But I will comment very briefly on how these two books might affect my poetry. 1)Winter Holiday is full of fun and adventure. It also constantly references and alludes to other famous books. Those are three qualities that could contribute to a good poem. (Or a good story). While not all poems are fun in the classic sense, poems should be fun to read in some way. And well written poems are an adventure to read. They can also contain adventure in the subject matter. Making the poem an adventure to read requires careful attention to details of language, syntax and poetic devices. And alluding to other work is also a good poetic device (or can be). 2)The Simple Secret to Better Painting is, according to author Greg Albert, that "No two intervals should be the same." Poetry thrives on repetition of sound (rhyme, alliteration), stanza length, rhythm patterns and so on. But a poem that repeats without variation is numbing and boring. It might be interesting, as a poet, to revisit this book and look at the various suggestions for painting to see how they might apply to poetry--just as an exercise in curiosity.

Sunday, April 27, 2008

Along the Black River

Yesterday, BB and I rode our motorcycles for over an hour north to the
Canadian border and then a little West to the Black River and strolled
for several hours along the river bank taking pictures of wildflowers
and enjoying the spring sun. Then more than an hour back. It was
very windy and the bikes shook like mad on the highway. AK! The walk
was peaceful, but the ride stressful!

Friday, April 25, 2008

Flower photo Friday: Our garden this morning!

I hope you aren't sick of flowers!  I'm just SO EXCITED and HAPPY and
PLEASED that spring is finally here and we have flowers and the woods
has flowers YAY!  And there are MORE, this is NOT all of them by any
means, and these are all in our YARD!  WAHOO!  Whoopee!  Tra  La!
YEBA!

This post did not post, so I am trying again.  Now it will probably show up twice.  But it's been a long time.

Lenten Rose Originals

This is the original shot for the Lenten Rose Picture posted to Imagik
and Photique and a shot showing how the tend to face downward. I
didn't like the original because it was a little dark and I thought
there was too much out-of-focus fence in the picture, relative to the
amount of flower.

Wednesday, April 23, 2008

working today

I am working today, and not at home on a novel or painting. I prolly will not be able to do much blogging or emailing. I'm a touch worried about it, but I don't have time to explain, so maybe I will write about it later. Wish me luck.

Saturday, April 19, 2008

fractal obsession, Blurpel on Oxidizer

I just downloaded and learned to use (sort of) a new fractal program,
Oxidizer. It's free for Macs like Apophysis is free for PCs. This is
my first fractal flame using Oxidizer. :-D

Hot Air Balloon III

Hot Air Balloon III, by Mary Stebbins Taitt. "Fractal"-typpe abstract
created from scratch on Photoshop and Picasa.

Stalactites and Stalagmites Fractal

Trying to learn fractals. I'm working with Apophysis, a free program
you can get online. The top picture is one I fooled around with on
Photoshop. The second picture is the one I fooled around with, which
I had previously fooled with on Picasa. The third picture is the
almost original fractal. It was actually a sandwich of two fractals
generated on Apophysis. Never seems to be able to leave well enough
alone.

Friday, April 18, 2008

Fractal Friday: "The Optic Nerve"

Fractal art. With Apophysis.

playing with fractals still

OK, I actually have other things to do but couldn't resist playing a
little more. These all look astronomical to me.

Friday Fractals: My first fractals

Andree got me started making fractals. These are my first. To see what I saw that made me try it, go to Andree's page. (Reminds me of galaxies.) I did this with Apophysis, a free open source program. The link is on Andree's page.

Sprung! (Finally Flowers!)

YAY! We finally have flowers and Spring! YAY! These are all in our yard.

Wednesday, April 16, 2008

hiding

BB

Skins, Strings and Glue

When I was a small child, my mother and grandmother would make farina or cream of wheat for me and set it out to skin up good before I ate it. I loved those skins. I also wanted my pudding dished out early to skin up. And I loved the skins on sausages.

But I hated strings! They used to have string beans that had a string in them--those strings would make me gag--I had to carefully remove each one. And celery--forget celery! Ugh. GAK!

Strings on mozzarella however, that was different. I loved lasagna, pizza and just plain mozzarella. Mmm, those strings were good.

And I loved gluey stuff. Big gobs of fish-eye tapioca. Mmm.

So it is no surprise that today I love spring rolls, with their soft stretchy gluey skins, I made some for lunch again today, mmmmm, with healthful salad inside. (I'm talking raw spring rolls, not fried ones.)

Monday, April 14, 2008

Latest Italian Window picture, with detail



Here is the latest version of my latest Italian Window picture, with a detail. I missed an in between version. I am not happy with it, though. (Nor is it done, it needs shadows added.) This picture is quite large. I forget the exact dimensions. It also didn't photograph well and looks a little washed out. Click images to view larger.

Sunday, April 13, 2008

silly

A Little silliness is good for the soul. Biker Buddy, Piano Boy and
Soccer Girl immersed in silliness. For Thursday Challenge.

Saturday, April 12, 2008

from my old blog

Synesthesia of Trash and a question about nonfiction and Fiction

  • Mood: tired, frustrated, curious

A Synesthesia of Trash

 

Friday, March 04, 2005; 3:37:16 PM Sunshine on snow and I'm inside wishing to be outside but glued to my chair.  I came up for tools.  To take apart my computer.  Which isn't working.  Won't get on-line.

 

I am thinking about creative nonfiction.  What is it that makes it creative and how do you separate that from fiction?  How creative can you get and still be truthful?  That is, still be NONfiction? And when is fiction true and when is it false?

 

A Synesthesia of trash:  (How do you spell that, anyway?)  When I was a child and played the clarinet, my notes came out in colors.  I loved the colors, brilliant saturated primary colors and rainbow blends.  When I was older, I lost the synesthesia somehow, a terrible loss—the colors were gone!!!  But I've rediscovered them in trash as I lay the recycling down on the floor for Keith to take to the garage.  The real trash is dark brownish, a bruised plum color:  unwanted junk mail.  The things I hate to part with are bright turquoise, brilliant chartreuse.  One piece I lay gently sideways is red.  Scarlet, really.  It's something I want to do and can't afford:  a writer's conference.  I want Keith to see it, but when he gathers up the recycling, he folds it all together like an accordion, the colors dulling to grey and blending to nothing as he slides them into the red bin and pulls down the garage door.  Somewhere in the darkness, the red writer's conference flyer begins to blink on and off like a beacon, lighting a flickering sliver under the garage door.  But only I can see it.  Keith is unaware of my loss.  For him, synesthesia revolves around big machines; locomotives, massive generators.  Huge electrical circuits.  Those black and dirty things are shine bright for him, while in the dark garage, a small coal of desire fades.

 

Like I said, where is the line between fiction and nonfiction, and what is truth?

 

Mary 3:52 PM

Friday, April 11, 2008

fragile

Fragile, for Photo Friday, by Mary Taitt

Oops, The Night that Nothing Happened, again

Oops, I emailed/posted this too soon, just spent a couple more hours working on it. If you like poetry, you may want to read this one. If you don't care, and have already read the other one, skip it. The story is the same, I worked on the language, which is part of what poetry is. (Also worked on the formatting so I hope it comes out better!)

The Night that Nothing Happened

Jean proposed the idea. Easy to imagine as we drove across Nebraska,
flat all day, sunny. Laughing, counting hawks, taking turns at the fur-covered wheel.
The plan? We'd save money, lodge free by sleeping at a jail. Simple.
She'd read about it somewhere. We'd brag about it later. We'd tell tales

to our grandchildren. We'd do it on the way back, too. We drove on, told stories
to each other. In our log, we recorded the towns we passed: Oshkosh, Bridgeport,
Scott's Bluff, signs saying next gas 70 miles. Next gas 85 miles. Took pictures
of weathered rock formations, pronghorn antelopes leaping over sagebrush.

Sang with the wind whistling at the open windows: I've been working on the railroad
and Swing Low Sweet Chariot. In Wyoming—a day west of Iowa City, a day east
of Pocatello—we decided to stop. It wasn't Cheyenne or Laramie, but a tiny town
120 miles to the next gas. A hamburger at Mabel's Diner, a bowl of chili. Then

it was time to test the idea. At the jail-house door, we fidgeted,
each trying to slip behind the other. Which of us spoke first
when the Sheriff asked what we wanted? We looked back at our car,
forgetting the bravado of earlier talk.

But one of us asked. Probably she did. The Sheriff cocked his head,
puzzled. Looked us over. We were twenty,
slender, had curves. Our breasts pressed
suddenly on the insides of our T-shirts. Big

and soft. We were alone with the Sheriff. He loomed, particularly male,
large and strong. No chaperon, no witness. I looked at the door,
took a step back. Jean took a step forward.
He said, "I will have to lock you in

for the night." We nodded. Two cells, two beds. One big key.
We went in; the doors clanked shut. He sat at his desk. We sat on our cots
and looked at him. Later, he approached our cells, keys jingling. Said
he was leaving. Turned off the light

and left us alone. Shadows of iron bars divided the floor.
Stripes of setting sun, neon lights from Main Street, a sliver of moon
sinking. Perhaps Jean was actually calm. She talked, spoke
as if we were still in the car. Still free. Maybe I spoke too, pretending

to be having fun. But even if I spoke, even if I smiled, I huddled
scared in a dark, close space, smaller than a jail, tighter than a narrow cell.
The stripes shifted; the segmented sky darkened. The moon intersected
each bar, pressed and stretched dim shadows on the floor. I watched

bats flicker across a sky splashed with more stars than I'd ever seen.
Tried to pick out the dipper among them, looked in vain for Orion. Lay awake
and listened to the catch of my own quiet breath. Don't let me have to stay
here again, I whispered to the stars, long after Jean's breathing slowed.

Not ever. In the morning, the sheriff returned
and unlocked the cells. The outer door opened to an expanse
of Wyoming sunshine. At Mabel's, we bought bacon, eggs, home fries
and coffee for a dollar. Ate outside on picnic tables, quiet in the morning chill.


Mary Stebbins
for Jean Kilquist

The Night that Nothing Happened

There is something really messed up with the formatting.  Supposed to be 4-line stanzas--looks fine on the original.


The Night that Nothing Happened

 
Jean proposed the idea.  Easy to imagine as we drove across
Nebraska,
flat all day, laughing, counting hawks, taking turns at the fur-covered wheel.
The plan?  We'd save money, lodge free by sleeping at a jail.  Simple. 

She'd read about it somewhere.  We'd brag about it later.  We'd tell stories


to our grandchildren.  We'd do it on the way back, too.  We drove on, told stories

to each other.  In our log, we recorded the towns we passed: Oshkosh, Bridgeport,

Scott's Bluff, signs saying next gas 70 miles.  Next gas 85 miles.   Took pictures
of weathered rock formations, pronghorn antelopes leaping over sagebrush.


Sang into the wind rushing into open windows:  I've been working on the railroad

and Swing Low Sweet Chariot.  In Wyoming—a day west of Iowa City, a day east of Pocatello

we decided to stop.  It wasn't Cheyenne or Laramie, but a tiny town 120 miles to the next gas.
A hamburger at Mabel's diner, a bowl of chili.  Then it was time


to test the idea.  At the jail door, we fidgeted,
each trying to slip behind the other.  Which of us spoke first
when the Sheriff asked what we wanted?  We looked back at our car,
forgetting the bravado of earlier talk.


But one of us asked.  Probably her.  The Sheriff cocked his head,
puzzled.  Looked us over.  We were twenty,
slender, had curves.  Our breasts pressed
suddenly on the insides of our T-shirts.  Big


and soft.  We were alone with the Sheriff.  He suddenly seemed particularly
male, large, strong.  No chaperone, no witness.  I looked at the door,
took a step back.  Jean took a step forward.
He said, "I will have to lock you in


for the night."  We nodded.  Two cells, two beds.  One big key.
We went in; the door clanked shut.  He sat at his desk.  We sat on our cots

and looked at him.  Later, he approached our cells, keys jingling.  Said
he was leaving.  Turned off the light


and left us alone.  Shadows of bars divided the floor.
Stripes of setting sun, neon lights from
Main Street, the moon.

Perhaps Jean was actually calm.  She talked, spoke
as if we were still in the car.  Still free.  Maybe I spoke too, pretending
to be having fun.  But if I spoke, even if I smiled,


I huddled in a dark, close space, smaller than a jail, tighter than a narrow cell.
Lay watching the shifting stripes and segmented sky.  Awake.  Not wanting
to stay there again.  Not ever.  In the morning, the sheriff returned and unlocked the cells.
The outer door opened to an expanse of
Wyoming sunshine.  At Mabel's,
we bought bacon, eggs, home fries and coffee for a dollar.  Ate outside on picnic tables,
quiet in the morning chill.

 


Mary Stebbins

For Jean Kilquist


At Ellen Bass Workshop
080411; 050316c; 050315,
3-12-05 1b (not part of poem)

Process in process

3 new miniatures

Brand new miniatures, 2 with neocolor water pastels and water paint,
one is supposed to be a Zen brush painting but looks more like early
American.

Italian Foritifications, Poppy Blossom, Cherry Blossom

"Zen" Robin and Cherry Blossoms

I attempted two more Zen brush paintings in celebration of spring.