I had three opinions to go on when we decided to see "Burn After Reading" – The New Yorker critic said it turned him off; my brother said it turned him off, too; Julie – my trusty movie pal – liked it (she saw it with her other movie pal, Nina, who also liked the film.). Since it was a toss-up, we had to try to break the tie. Sorry, friends: we agree with all the reviewers, sort of.
The acting was enjoyable to watch because the actors were obviously having so much fun – especially John Malkovich (as the CIA Man) and Brad Pitt (as The Doofus). The plot was ridiculous; but on the other hand, John felt it wasn't greatly exaggerated as far as the attitude that he guesses prevails at Langley – though he still swears he's never worked for The Company. We can all agree that the F Word was overused, but I believe it's overused in the halls of government too, so that may well be pure accuracy. (My Bro thought its over-usage indicated a lack of creative dialogue on the part of the screenwriters.)
In sum, we sit on the fence e'en yet: it was not "Fargo" (though black, like that film); neither was it funny, like "O Brother" or "Raising Arizona" – I guess I'd say it was neither here nor there, since it has not stayed with me since I left the theatre, as good films will do.
Tuesday, 30 September 2008
Friday, 26 September 2008
Men In Trees
"They're all lumberjacks / and they're OK" -- or so we hope. At 7:30 AM today, a truckful of guys showed up at our front door with power tools and piton boots and ropes, and with cheery grins. And now they are swinging from branch to branch like our squirrel friends, lopping off limbs like crazy (not their own limbs, I hope; just the ones that might fall on our roof or deck in a winter storm).
The Bossman looks to be a well seasoned guy; his apprentices are of the "hairy-legged youth" variety (our neighbor Peter's appellation for the many young worker-bees we see up here in our woodland territory). They do the climbing, the Boss does the directing, apparently.
I'm fondly reminded of Teri's Yorktown Heights/Bard days, as she swung herself through a prestigious education doing just this sort of work.
It's been truly spectacular Indian Summer weather here in these hills; very warm at midday, very cold at midnight -- with clear, sparkling skies at both ends of the timeframe -- deep blue sunshine days, jewelled starry nights. But we know that winter will come eventually, so the tree work was a priority. Old-timers here tell us that if we get so much as a light dusting of snow (which Souffle would scoffingly call "a little frost") those oak limbs come tumbling down like well struck bowling pins -- and woe to them as might be standing beneath.
In addition to this task, we've also had the wood stove flue cleaned out; John has cut to size and stacked enough seasoned wood to keep us warm all winter (and our trusty gardener has stacked it all away under cover); we've well tested the central heating (it warms the entire house from back to front, in 15 minutes, on a cool morning); and we're about to purchase a generator, ahead of the inevitable power outages we anticipate as soon as a little electrical storm hoves into view.
However, we are told we can count on Indian Summer glory remaining with us for most of October; and we anticipate our full roster of happy guests during that month to come: Teri comes first; then our friends Glenn and Norma Stuck from Trinity/Santa Barbara; the following week, my sibs come for a few days at Merrybrook Lodge and a good visit with us. I believe that will be that, for the season – nobody is anxious to be here after Halloween, when we're promised the very much needed rainstorms (from my mouth to God's ear, I pray). We are greatly, seriously in need of a lot of water from the skies, this year, to allay the drought that has plagued our water systems up here for two years now.
The Bossman looks to be a well seasoned guy; his apprentices are of the "hairy-legged youth" variety (our neighbor Peter's appellation for the many young worker-bees we see up here in our woodland territory). They do the climbing, the Boss does the directing, apparently.
I'm fondly reminded of Teri's Yorktown Heights/Bard days, as she swung herself through a prestigious education doing just this sort of work.
It's been truly spectacular Indian Summer weather here in these hills; very warm at midday, very cold at midnight -- with clear, sparkling skies at both ends of the timeframe -- deep blue sunshine days, jewelled starry nights. But we know that winter will come eventually, so the tree work was a priority. Old-timers here tell us that if we get so much as a light dusting of snow (which Souffle would scoffingly call "a little frost") those oak limbs come tumbling down like well struck bowling pins -- and woe to them as might be standing beneath.
In addition to this task, we've also had the wood stove flue cleaned out; John has cut to size and stacked enough seasoned wood to keep us warm all winter (and our trusty gardener has stacked it all away under cover); we've well tested the central heating (it warms the entire house from back to front, in 15 minutes, on a cool morning); and we're about to purchase a generator, ahead of the inevitable power outages we anticipate as soon as a little electrical storm hoves into view.
However, we are told we can count on Indian Summer glory remaining with us for most of October; and we anticipate our full roster of happy guests during that month to come: Teri comes first; then our friends Glenn and Norma Stuck from Trinity/Santa Barbara; the following week, my sibs come for a few days at Merrybrook Lodge and a good visit with us. I believe that will be that, for the season – nobody is anxious to be here after Halloween, when we're promised the very much needed rainstorms (from my mouth to God's ear, I pray). We are greatly, seriously in need of a lot of water from the skies, this year, to allay the drought that has plagued our water systems up here for two years now.
Saturday, 20 September 2008
Weekend Guests: or "The Night of the Living Bugs"
This is a tale of pleasure and horror, a comedy/tragedy if you will: it will warm and cheer your heart, chill your bones, and hopefully give you the giggles.
Nina Israel, Julie's best friend, had been invited by us to come away from Las Vegas (the depths) to Boulder Creek (the heights) for a visit with Julie in relatively peaceful, quiet, bucolic simplicity. The girls arrived before supper time yesterday; we had a little wine and some hors d'oeuvres in the Parental Suite; a wonderful shrimp/chicken/vegetable stir-fry dinner provided by John; and a bit of an evening chat over homemade lemon/lavender-sugar cookies and Sleepytime Tea.
Being suitably soporific by then, we began to prepare to go to beddy-bye.
Things began to go rapidly downhill, however, at this point. First, we got out the Aerobed and pump for same – only to discover that the Nicad batteries in the pump had died. John read the instructions aloud: "if the batteries need to be recharged, connect the device to an electrical recharger and leave plugged in for 12 hours." Oh dear. We thought about an all-night poker tournament, but that did not appeal. We considered Charades; nah.
The resourceful girls then created a bedroll on the newly-cleaned carpet in the guest-suite-to-be, for Nina; and Julie settled on the leather sofa in the parlor. Goodnight, all; sleep well!
HAH! No sooner had we turned out all the lights, than the night was pierced by a shrill and horrible sound: a regular Pavarotti of a cricket had invaded our Parental Suite. (John, who falls asleep as soon as head hits pillow, was snoring away -- but that distracting noise was overcome by Luciano's piercing falsetto.) I turned on the bedside lamp and said "Whatinhell is that??" John turned over and said, "What? I don't hear anything," and soon was singing the baritone part of the aria again.
I sneaked out to see if the girls in the upper section of the building could hear anything: They, by this time, were up again and huddled on Nina's floor pallet, whispering away happily (as all PJ-Party girls do once they think their parents are asleep). "Did you hear it?' I squeaked. "Aw, Mom, it's just a cricket," Julie responded. "Why, we've killed a fly and a spider in this room already, in the last 15 minutes!"
"Well, my dears, this makes Three, then," I retorted. "Since you are such brave slayers of bugs, come get your third prey!"
So, armed with a can of hair spray (Nina) and a glass cup (Julie) we stalked back into the big bedroom, turned on all the lights including the floodlights in the high ceiling, and made John get up to help.
But it was our Fearless Fem Duo that prevailed, that night. They spotted this little teeny pale-green cricket in a corner; Nina blasted it with several shots of SuperHold Suave HairGloss (which stunned the critter, as well it might) -- and then as Julie approached with glass cup in hand (to catch-and-release, I suppose) Nina delivered the coup-de-grace by slamming the hairspray can down hard on the victim. "Step back, Julie," she muttered soulfully: "he just committed suicide, because no one appreciated his singing."
At this point, my Big Brave Dog stumbled over with a handful of Kleenex, mopped up the remains of the crime, and dumped the evidence in the wastebasket.
"If I hear any singing coming from that trash-can, I'm going to kill someone!" I shouted. But the evil deed was fully accomplished, well and truly.
..... There may have been more sibilant sounds out in the guest-suite – because I imagine this mild interruption didn't stop the late-night exchange of confidences; if so, I heard nothing more, until 8:30 AM this morning.
Thanks be to God and my Girls!
Nina Israel, Julie's best friend, had been invited by us to come away from Las Vegas (the depths) to Boulder Creek (the heights) for a visit with Julie in relatively peaceful, quiet, bucolic simplicity. The girls arrived before supper time yesterday; we had a little wine and some hors d'oeuvres in the Parental Suite; a wonderful shrimp/chicken/vegetable stir-fry dinner provided by John; and a bit of an evening chat over homemade lemon/lavender-sugar cookies and Sleepytime Tea.
Being suitably soporific by then, we began to prepare to go to beddy-bye.
Things began to go rapidly downhill, however, at this point. First, we got out the Aerobed and pump for same – only to discover that the Nicad batteries in the pump had died. John read the instructions aloud: "if the batteries need to be recharged, connect the device to an electrical recharger and leave plugged in for 12 hours." Oh dear. We thought about an all-night poker tournament, but that did not appeal. We considered Charades; nah.
The resourceful girls then created a bedroll on the newly-cleaned carpet in the guest-suite-to-be, for Nina; and Julie settled on the leather sofa in the parlor. Goodnight, all; sleep well!
HAH! No sooner had we turned out all the lights, than the night was pierced by a shrill and horrible sound: a regular Pavarotti of a cricket had invaded our Parental Suite. (John, who falls asleep as soon as head hits pillow, was snoring away -- but that distracting noise was overcome by Luciano's piercing falsetto.) I turned on the bedside lamp and said "Whatinhell is that??" John turned over and said, "What? I don't hear anything," and soon was singing the baritone part of the aria again.
I sneaked out to see if the girls in the upper section of the building could hear anything: They, by this time, were up again and huddled on Nina's floor pallet, whispering away happily (as all PJ-Party girls do once they think their parents are asleep). "Did you hear it?' I squeaked. "Aw, Mom, it's just a cricket," Julie responded. "Why, we've killed a fly and a spider in this room already, in the last 15 minutes!"
"Well, my dears, this makes Three, then," I retorted. "Since you are such brave slayers of bugs, come get your third prey!"
So, armed with a can of hair spray (Nina) and a glass cup (Julie) we stalked back into the big bedroom, turned on all the lights including the floodlights in the high ceiling, and made John get up to help.
But it was our Fearless Fem Duo that prevailed, that night. They spotted this little teeny pale-green cricket in a corner; Nina blasted it with several shots of SuperHold Suave HairGloss (which stunned the critter, as well it might) -- and then as Julie approached with glass cup in hand (to catch-and-release, I suppose) Nina delivered the coup-de-grace by slamming the hairspray can down hard on the victim. "Step back, Julie," she muttered soulfully: "he just committed suicide, because no one appreciated his singing."
At this point, my Big Brave Dog stumbled over with a handful of Kleenex, mopped up the remains of the crime, and dumped the evidence in the wastebasket.
"If I hear any singing coming from that trash-can, I'm going to kill someone!" I shouted. But the evil deed was fully accomplished, well and truly.
..... There may have been more sibilant sounds out in the guest-suite – because I imagine this mild interruption didn't stop the late-night exchange of confidences; if so, I heard nothing more, until 8:30 AM this morning.
Thanks be to God and my Girls!
Monday, 15 September 2008
Open Doghouse 2
As sunset approached on Sunday afternoon (it comes to us early, up in this mountain valley), we celebrated the completion and occupation of John's "Studio" -- aka, for some of us, "The Doghouse". We set up a festal table on his desk, with the Kente-cloth runner our Ghana friends gave us; some candles (including Maria's Lampatka); a silver salver with a little blessed water from Lourdes that a St. Mark's friend gave me many years ago (it doesn't lose potency over time, I believe); an Asperges Bundle -- of rosemary and lavender branches; and of course an Agape of small hors d'oeuvres and sparkling Vouvray wine. In silent prayer, we blessed the interior of the Studio; and then I read a lovely blessing prayer (which I'll print and frame for him to put on one of the walls -- along with Leenie's gift of the "Attenti al cane" plaque she sent from Italy). This is the prayer:
"Bless this Studio, bless the walls / Nothing but blessing here befalls / Bless the candle that stands by itself / Bless the books on every shelf / Bless the chair-back that rests the tired head / Bless the windows: bless this shed! / All who enter here, let them know /Nothing but blessing, before they go / Those who go from here, let them bear / The blessing of hope, where else they fare / Bless the lintel, and every wall / Nothing but good this place befall."
"Bless this Studio, bless the walls / Nothing but blessing here befalls / Bless the candle that stands by itself / Bless the books on every shelf / Bless the chair-back that rests the tired head / Bless the windows: bless this shed! / All who enter here, let them know /Nothing but blessing, before they go / Those who go from here, let them bear / The blessing of hope, where else they fare / Bless the lintel, and every wall / Nothing but good this place befall."
Saturday, 13 September 2008
Julie Francesca WoodyAllen
I skipped writing on September 11 -- it’s still a very sad day for me, as for many -- and went down to see “Vicky Cristina Barcelona” with Julie. That was as depressing as watching the endless replay on TV of 9/11/01.
Poor Woody Allen, who knows nothin’ about love (as the song goes) made a valiant attempt to philosophize about the relationship between “It” and Art -- and came up on the shallow end of the pool. But as Julie said: it’s not the film, it’s the going to it with a buddy, that makes the day....
Poor Woody Allen, who knows nothin’ about love (as the song goes) made a valiant attempt to philosophize about the relationship between “It” and Art -- and came up on the shallow end of the pool. But as Julie said: it’s not the film, it’s the going to it with a buddy, that makes the day....
Wednesday, 10 September 2008
Open Doghouse!
Mark The Builder just presented the bill (aaauuuggghh!) and announced that the erstwhile shed is now completely ready for occupancy as The Studio (or so its soon to be occupant thinks it's called). Pictures of the completed work will be on Kodak's site soon, and on Sunday, September 14, we are going to have a private Open House to inaugurate it (pictures of that will also follow soon). This weekend John will be moving his office appurtenances out there, with the help of our trusty gardener Aurelio and perhaps a buddy of his, to drag things down stairs and around corners.
This milestone will engender the next big effort inside the cottage itself, and this one is mine to do -- with everything out of the Guest Suite except our trusty old leather sofa and one small wooden two-drawer file cabinet, I shall begin with a relatively empty canvas.
As you who have been following this blog-site faithfully will recall, this old bedroom/bath area of the original cottage is to become a combination of a Sanctuary/Retreat for both myself and our pilgrim guests. It's really a one-person-at-a-time space; the bedroom area is long and narrow (approximately 8 feet wide, 16 feet long); and the very small bath beyond it is even narrower and shorter in length. I am both excited and challenged by the task of creating a place of comfort, beauty and peace in this space.
This milestone will engender the next big effort inside the cottage itself, and this one is mine to do -- with everything out of the Guest Suite except our trusty old leather sofa and one small wooden two-drawer file cabinet, I shall begin with a relatively empty canvas.
As you who have been following this blog-site faithfully will recall, this old bedroom/bath area of the original cottage is to become a combination of a Sanctuary/Retreat for both myself and our pilgrim guests. It's really a one-person-at-a-time space; the bedroom area is long and narrow (approximately 8 feet wide, 16 feet long); and the very small bath beyond it is even narrower and shorter in length. I am both excited and challenged by the task of creating a place of comfort, beauty and peace in this space.
Monday, 8 September 2008
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