Red TIn Roofs

May in the North Carolina Mountains

BARNS!

More photos to follow of barns or silos, and anything rusty, or with a tin roof. yep, my metal obsession beckons, even on vacation...

Old Metal

                                                                                                  

I was surprised to realize that I like old metal. Old as in parts and pieces, trains, farm equipment, wire trays, spokes, lawn furniture, and the feel of tin and heavy iron especially. Grates, bolts, radiators, latches, hinges, chicken wire, hydrants, gas meters, manhole covers, one way signs. It's a tactile thing, it puts me in touch with my rarer masculine side. I also like shiny metal, bronze, silver, aluminum, and the platinum of my feminine side.  I harbor a couple of chipped aqua electric fans, wrought iron ornaments, and numerous topiary frames. Perhaps it is the aging and mottling that i appreciate, the strength of stuff well-made in a previous time of hard work and acceptance. Perhaps the item I fondle in a thrift sale calls to me of a simpler reason to exist, before modems and chips and monitors. Perhaps I just like giving new purpose to unusual pieces, no longer useful or in working order. Maybe the favor will be returned one day. 

Indian diaspora addiction

The rhythms, colors, scents of India entice me, tho' I have never been there except through the vehicle of the written word. Initially I admit to the lure of crisp white clothing in British Colonial movie sets, cotton, sheer and cool, a distant game of cricket, and the lilt of English accents, a la Passage to India and Gandhi. And doesn't the word "memsahib" hold your breath? Conversely, I have an affinity for rickety trains packed with humanity, belching steam or smoke, slicing the far horizon. All these elementary, but immature attractions led me past V.S Naipaul to a 20th century India. Amulyah Malladi's "A Breath of Fresh Air" set in Bhopal first intrigued, then her "Song of the Cuckoo Bird" set in an ashram, and "Serving Crazy with Curry," an American rendition. These were followed by "Stealing the Ambassador" by Sameer Parekh and the prose of Rohinton Mistry's "A Fine Balance," "Bitter Sweets," "the Corner Shop" by Roopa Farooki, and then others. Arranged marriages grew predictably center-stage, and I bottomed out with Monica Pradhan's Hindi-Bindi Club. The title alone should have sent me running scared, but I tendered a look inside her world and relished her liberal use of Indian terms. So began a love affair with the whole plethora of diaspora writers, expounding Indian ways and traditions while trying to survive and acclimate in a modern and/or western culture. Here I don't claim expansive knowledge, only affection.

While I have not journeyed into Bollywood mania, Monsoon Wedding was a pinnacle to my addiction as I laughed at the embrace of rain. And the Darjeeling Limited gave me that unforgettable rickety train ride with 3 lost brothers. I have only just now gasped at the stark and startling Slumdog Millionaire, replete with memorable faces. For once I agree with The Academy's Best Picture citation.

Now that they have my attention, after the first flush of infatuation, I desire a maturing glimpse, depth and insight, honesty. Perhaps I prefer memoir, or less eye-catching fiction. I have now basked in Indu Sundaresan, who brings a fresh taste to this question of ethnicity, an honesty, ripe and overdue. Incomparably, Pulitzer Prize winner, Jumpa Lahiri's "Interpreter of Maladies" paints the tale of India for me. http://www.bookreporter.com/reviews/039592720X.asp

But I have been ignoring the plaintive call of R.K. Narayan, whom I must soon embrace, out of respect and refusing further ignorance of his greatness. Where this leads can only be revealed after this nod to a genre that has gripped my interest wholly, appreciatively.

a bench of albums

Dandelions

experimenting with Smilebox, it was easily posted to my blog. in general the program works for a quick emailing of fotos in a greeting card format, for fun and for free. I had a little encouragement here from 2 errant sisters, midnight pranksters. click Play, let it load, and then enjoy my deconstructed art in this short card; it's called "dandelions"...

Make a Smilebox postcard

livros, libros, livres, libri

Isn't the word "books" just too boring? How can an attractive obsession, the thirst for literature, tactile pages clothed in hardstock or perhaps leather, have such poor linguistic coverage?  Surely our dictionaries comprise great descriptions for books, but where is a common-usage noun? A simple thesaurus.com gives me "journal, novel, lore, prose, tract, treatise, all less than sufficient. Is it our language deficiency? We can break neatly into Classics, Themes, Letters, Plays, Dramas, Fiction, but none suffice for a nice hefty volume or an epic trilogy. BIBLIOTRALOUS, book-loving. Now there is a word that matters, that stands up and jumps at you, oozing interest.  I would gladly settle for the universality of romance language root-words,  libros or libri, rather than the harsh germanic bucher! Even in a desperate moment, "brochure" could be ever so fine, if spoken with a proper first syllable English accent!