Category Archives: Thoughts

A backyard brawl, you say?

Sort of. In one corner, the stuff my yard is currently made of: dead leaves, stones, withered remains of plants, trash from upstairs upstairs neighbor….

*Disclaimer: This is not actually my yard because it is too dark for picture-taking right now. But please imagine this, only five times more depressing, minus the green, add walls on all sides, and take away the sun.

The challenger: backyard of my dreams. Although equally matched in size and amount of sunlight, the challenger’s whimsical and dream-like qualities (not to mention its cute birdie details) just might win over the crowd! Try to envision the dark wood mulch, strategically placed stepping-stones, a hopeful bottle of bubbles and hula-hoop in the corner, some free/remarkably cheap and refurbished furniture, shade plants, and (dare I dream) a climbing vine?!

Yes. You heard it here first. This will be the fight of the century. Who shall reign victorious? Stay tuned…probably way tuned because of work and school…to find out!

In the mean time, here are a few accents I hope to incorporate into my dreamy outdoor space…

Bird chimes

Stepping stones and foliage

And some sort of delicate yet awesome chairs with cushions/a table to match.

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Cookbook Dreams…

I don’t know if you know this about me (whomever you happen to be, I have yet to find out), but I am infatuated with all that is domestic. I love Martha Stewart. She manages to put things together in what seems like one effortless swoop, and voila, perfection. It is safe to say that Williams-Sonoma is one of my favorite places to peruse for inspiration. Things there tend to be a little too expensive for me to justify buying (did I mention that I don’t actually cook; I just like the idea of it), but every once in a while I find something cute and worthy of my hard earned money.

For instance, one time I bought this awesome sandwich cutter. Look at how fantastic sandwiches can be when you cut them with Williams-Sonoma products…

ps-The bread shaped sandwich holder was included!

So I’ve been really starting to think about cooking. For real. I’m not getting all of my daily vitamins and minerals from cereal and applesauce, even though I love them. And taking a daily vitamin is not something I will ever in my life remember to do. Thus, I am forced to begin to make things for myself. In order to do this, there are two things I’m going to need:

1) A wooden spoon. Everything is so much more appealing when stirred with a wooden spoon.

2) This cookbook:

When I get this cookbook, I imagine my life will go something like this…

….I will walk the ten blocks to Reading Terminal and purchase ingredients, then walk ten blocks back. Then I will be hungry and make food…

Great right? I think it sounds marvelous. Also, I’m on the lookout for a cute bike with the possibility of a basket attached. Should I find said bike, I will be replacing the walking with biking. Even better.

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A Sunday kind of love.

Etta James said it best when she proclaimed that she was looking for “a love to last past Saturday night.” On Sunday, February 21, I discovered that I had been staring my Sunday kind of love right in the face for so long now:  my best friends, Ashley and Michelle.  Etta never said that Sunday loves had to be of the romantic type. Week after week, these beautiful women make my life. They hold my hand through the tough times, listen to endless complaints, don’t care when I’m beating a dead horse, and, most importantly, they laugh with me. Last night was no exception. What I thought was supposed to be a simple dinner turned out to be a surprise love fest. They spent the day grocery shopping and planning a beautiful evening for me equipped with a pumpernickel bread bowl, spinach dip, amazing cheese, a beautiful salad, perfectly cooked spaghetti, dinosaur gummies, fireballs, candy buttons, pixie sticks, and lovely yellow tulips. It was a feast. I felt so special, so loved, so happy.

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Update:

There was no magic.  I did not wake up next to an impeccably dressed/ruggedly handsome/beautiful bone structured man with animal magnetism…hehe.  No.  Instead, I woke up to my lovely kitties, which is enough (for now).  At least with them I don’t have to worry about whether I have any residual mascara smeared under my eyes.

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Tomorrow…

I’m hoping to magically wake up next to this….sigh.

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Everyone needs a little beauty in their life…

I

Among twenty snowy mountains,

The only moving thing

Was the eye of the blackbird.

II

I was of three minds,

Like a tree

In which there are three blackbirds.

III

The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds.

It was a small part of the pantomime.

IV

A man and a woman

Are one.

A man and a woman and a blackbird

Are one.

V

I do not know which to prefer,

The beauty of inflections

Or the beauty of innuendos,

The blackbird whistling

Or just after.

VI

Icicles filled the long window

With barbaric glass.

The shadow of the blackbird

Crossed it, to and fro.

The mood

Traced in the shadow

An indecipherable cause.

VII

O thin men of Haddam,

Why do you imagine golden birds?

Do you not see how the blackbird

Walks around the feet

Of the women about you?

VIII

I know noble accents

And lucid, inescapable rhythms;

But I know, too,

That the blackbird is involved

In what I know.

IX

When the blackbird flew out of sight,

It marked the edge

Of one of many circles.

X

At the sight of blackbirds

Flying in a green light,

Even the bawds of euphony

Would cry out sharply.

XI

He rode over Connecticut

In a glass coach.

Once, a fear pierced him,

In that he mistook

The shadow of his equipage

For blackbirds.

XII

The river is moving.

The blackbird must be flying.

XIII

It was evening all afternoon.

It was snowing

And it was going to snow.

The blackbird sat

In the cedar-limbs.


—Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird, by Wallace Stevens

I adore Wallace Stevens.  Not only did he possess a mind that most poets can only envy, but he was absolutely adorable.  He worked at an insurance company and wrote beautiful poems on the side.  While he gained fame during his life, those he worked with were not the poetry reading type, apparently.  When he died, fans swarmed his office looking for scraps of writing or unpublished poetry, and his office mates said, “Wally was a poet?”  !

I love the cubist view of this poem.  The way it translates an artistic movement into words is heartbreakingly beautiful.  Another, longer yet equally breathtaking work by Wallace Stevens is Sunday Morning.  Please, take the time to read this more than once.  Maybe we could discuss it?

I hope that you appreciate the genius that Wallace Stevens was/is.

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I love elephants.

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