Tangledally

Beautiful Borlottis

2011-08-10T21:13:00.001-04:00

I saw these at the Sweet Potato (our lovely neighbourhood organic shop) today and, despite not really knowing what they are, I had to get some because they are so pretty.

The lable said they were Romano beans, but after a little googling I found out that in fact they are Borlotti Beans.

I had a some help from Little Miss M in getting them prepared. It was a beautiful day, so we went out on to the balcony.

She arranged all of the empty pods in a row before discarding them. Then when the bowl was full of pretty pink speckled beans, she delighted in running her fingers through them.

It made for a fun afternoon activity, and we enjoyed the fruits of our labours (simmered with garlic and fresh sage) with a lovely BBQ this evening.

Hope you are enjoying some special summer moments yourselves.

Instagram

2011-07-26T22:41:00.004-04:00

I am in love with Instagram, a photo sharing app on my iPhone, and I have been having so much fun with it, both in sharing my own photos, and watching the photostreams of the people that I am following.

If you fancy, you can have a little peek at what I've been up to on it by checking out my new Instagram badge (courtesy of BadgePlz)

Fun Archive - Stunt Family

2011-07-14T16:48:00.006-04:00

During my footage research today I uncovered this amazing little video of a stunt family. How that mother can throw knives at her adorable little girls I don't know, but it's a pretty amazing performance!

(From the Prelinger Archives)

Shame about the Rain

2011-04-26T13:34:00.004-04:00

A damn shame how it was pouring rain outside and she was stuck in just looking at her wellington boots.

She couldn't move, was completely immobile, frozen. Her body was scrunched up in a corner of the living room. Soft carpet beneath her toes, cool wall behind her back, touching each shoulder blade. Her knees were drawn up to her chest and in her right hand she clutched a tissue. Beside her, on the grey, fluffy carpet lay the phone, off the hook.

Her cheeks were mottled, damp.

A damn shame. She loved the rain.

Loved walking out in it, holding out her hands, feeling the drops slip between fingers.
Loved the split-splatting of boots against pavement, the schluck-luck under her soles when she crossed the muddy grass.

But tonight she stayed in, pressing her shoulderblades into the corner of the room and her toes into the carpet, as if the whole room would collapse if she wasn't there to keep it up.

Blinking, she replaced the receiver and the drone of the dial-tone ceased with a click.

It was dark outside now, and through the open window she could hear the sound of wet traffic. The room was dark too, she had not turned on the light.

Inside her chest it felt as though an injured bird perched, wobbly, unsure.

Still the phone lay beside her, quiet and dark, nothing more to offer.

The streetlamps outside the window threw patches of orange light into parts of the room. One small diagonal lay over part of her left foot. She examined it, feeling small, but somehow more connected.

She took in a deep breath and leaned forward a little. The room did not collapse.

The 9th Glenn Gould Prize

2011-04-01T19:38:00.001-04:00

I had an exciting time this morning at the announcement of the 9th Glenn Gould Prize.

There was a delightful performance of Beethoven's Spring sonata by students Emma (11) and Tony (12).

Shortly afterwards, they introduced the jury members, which included Atom Egoyan, Gary Graffman, and (a highlight for me because I'm an enormous fan) Stephen Fry.

Then the recipient was announced - Leonard Cohen. Everyone applauded enthusiastically and I don't think I was alone in glancing around the room half-expecting to see the man himself!

Alas he did not appear (deliberations concluded only last night) but he did send a message to be read.

There will be an official award event at a later date.

You can read more about it all here

And here's Mr. Fry!!

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Little Bookworm in the Making

2011-03-12T15:22:00.001-05:00

Little M is crazy about books already. Watching her reminds me of this beautiful E Nesbit dedication from 'Five Children and It':

My Lamb, you are so very small,
You have not learned to read at all.
Yet never a printed book withstands
The urgence of your dimpled hands.
So, though this book is for yourself,
Let mother keep it on the shelf
Till you can read. O days that Pass,
That day will come too soon, alas!

Music Monday

2011-03-07T14:15:00.001-05:00

From the brilliant Out of Season

Typetrigger

2011-03-04T20:25:00.006-05:00

I just found out about this lovely little site called Typetrigger.

It sets a new writing prompt every six hours and you can write about it in 300 words or less.

From the website:

Four times a day,

we help you

get the words out.

Write in any genre in

300 words or less.

Hit publish.

Read. Be Read.

Write. Now.

Fun!

Something Very Lovely

2011-03-01T20:30:00.001-05:00

For those interested in learning about connecting with the world through writing, or in a sweet story about a girl called Lorrie, please check out How to Write Your Way Home, a free e-book from the marvellous Fiona Robyn.

You can download it here:

http://www.fionarobyn.com/Howtowriteyourwayhome.pdf

Fiona Robyn blogs at:

http://www.plantingwords.com/

Fiona Robyn is on a mission to help people connect with the world through writing. She is a novelist , a blogger, a creativity coachand a Buddhist. She writes a weekly inspirational newsletter & runs e-courses. She started writingsmall stones in '05, launched a handful of stonesin '08, & started a river of stones with her fiancéKaspa in '11. She is very fond of earl grey tea and homemade cake, her cats Fatty and Silver, & the lovely Malvern hills (which she can gaze at from her home office window).

Is It Too Late to Join the Facebook Party?

2011-02-28T10:27:00.006-05:00

Yesterday I had a nice visit with a new friend. At some point in the conversation, she made a reference to Facebook.

"Oh, I'm not on Facebook" I mentioned (perhaps, forgive me, with the tiniest bit of smugness) I'm not sure why I needed to inform her of this, but I'm noticing that it is a somewhat irritating habit I've got myself into, where I feel the need to tell everyone that I didn't do it, I never gave in, I am not involved.

"Oh really, why?" she asked, with genuine interest.

Now normally when this conversation comes up, I find that people react in one of two ways: they either shrug their shoulders in an "each to his own" or "oh, she's one of those" type of way, or they say something like "lucky you" or "smart choice" or something along those lines, as if to commend me.

The difference with this particular conversation yesterday afternoon, was that someone was genuinely interested in knowing why I had made the decision to not join. Which made me think about it more as I waffled a few lame answers.

I think that it's become easier for me to just say "oh it's not for me" in a detestably lofty sort of way, and not give it much more consideration. Occasionally I think - am I missing out on something? - but I often find that it's at these times I run into conversations with people who tell me that no, I'm not really missing out, it's not all that great, and anyway, who wants to be stalked by all the people that they once went to primary school with?

My initial reluctance to join was based on the fact that I was very distrustful of putting anything of myself on the internet. I still breathe a sigh of relief that it wasn't around in the days that I was going to university, because lord knows there would be far too many embarrassing photos of myself floating around (as it happens, there may still be a few, but not being on Facebook, I wouldn't know). At the beginning, I didn't know many people that had joined - it started out with a couple of work colleagues who confessed that they were completely obsessed by it. I found that frightening too.

Today, mostly everyone I know is on it, my husband, good friends from University (who will have some of those embarrassing photos, but hopefully not scanners), even my Mum.

Over the past couple of years, I've become a bit more comfortable with being online. I have been on Twitter for nearly two years, and I interact with people on the internet as a blogger, and I find both of these things enjoyable.

When I occasionally peer over my husbands shoulder, into the realm of Facebook I see an intriguing world of updates, invitations to events, and discussions popping up over a shared link. All of these things appeal to me.

I've heard a lot of negative things about Facebook, and how it can be a pain, a time-hog, a source of friction, but far fewer positive things. It seems to be more commonly regarded as a "guilty pleasure". So it was interesting to hear the other side of the coin yesterday. I liked that my friend considered Facebook as a way to spread positive thinking, to provoke interesting discussions, to connect with people. Those are things that I enjoy about being on twitter and to some extent by being a blogger too.

So it really got me thinking, do I really have a good reason not to be on Facebook anymore?

Wordle

2011-02-16T20:17:00.001-05:00

Isn't this pretty? Tangledally as a Wordle

Five Senses Exercise

2011-02-15T19:48:00.006-05:00

Hear: Soft tones of Talk Talk's Laughing Stock on the stereo, quiet hum from the computer fan, muffled guitar sounds from the rehearsal happening upstairs, soft static over the quiet baby monitor.

Smell: Faint traces of dinner (Aubergine Parmigiana) and Chanel perfume.

Taste: Rooibos tea and a hint of dark chocolate lingering on the palate.

Touch: Smooth keyboard keys, soft lambswool blanket, cool leather sofa.

See: Living room in soft light, amplifier tubes glowing, toys lined up waiting for tomorrow.

Is it bad...

2011-02-11T09:40:00.003-05:00

...if my laptop looks like this right now:

I'm in the midst of a minor computer crisis as I attempt to repair a broken power jack. I finally worked out how to take the thing apart (which is very very tricky, much harder than dismantling a desk top computer) and got the old part off, which was very stubbornly clinging on to the motherboard for dear life. (Yes I know many of you have switched off now at the extent of my geekery) Then I found out that the part I've got to replace it does not match the original.

So, unfortunately my poor little computer is sitting in bits until I get this all sorted out.

Tiny Inspector

2011-02-03T18:39:00.002-05:00

A small index finger inches along the carpet

and stops to point at a speck of something left behind.

A Canadian Groundhog Day

2011-02-02T12:52:00.005-05:00

It's been five years today since I was officially sworn in as a Canadian citizen.

Snow is falling steadily outside, but I'm keeping bundled up.

Here's some Canadian music for you:

Words

2011-01-28T13:03:00.007-05:00

I went through something very strange a little while ago. I had a falling out with words.

Words, which have, for as long as I can remember, been my trusted and comfortable companions.

You see, it occurred to me, and I'm not quite sure why it hadn't done before, that words can be horribly deceitful things. People can use them willy nilly without meaning any of them. We can be surrounded with words, deceiving others or even ourselves without even knowing it.

And for some reason, I decided that I was very cross with them for that, and that perhaps I didn't trust them any more, and that perhaps I needed less of them around for a while. I decided it was time to stop listening to words and to start listening to actions, if you get what I mean. It's all very well to say something, but is what you are saying reflected in action, or are you saying one thing and doing something completely different?

Anyway, all of this sort of made my head spin and ache and I felt a little lost, because I've always been a bookworm and I've always loved words.

Words have always been sort of magical to me: the discovery of a new word, unfurling it's meaning, feeling it curl around your mouth and slip away from your tongue, seeing words assembled into interesting sentences, the vision that leaps out from a particularly well crafted scene.

But silly me - it isn't words that are the deceitful things, and it isn't even that they are all that reliable or trustworthy - they are just words after all.

Their power lies in how you or I choose to use them.

So I feel a lot better now, and am looking forward to cuddling up with some good words again. I won't forget to keep an eye on myself though, to make sure that what I'm doing isn't so far removed from what I'm saying.

Photograph of Jesus

2010-11-24T21:42:00.004-05:00

My work as a visual researcher always turns up new and fascinating requests. I can be immersed in Marine life footage for weeks on end, and then suddenly be transported to 1960s crackpot inventions. Luckily, I haven't been asked to find a photograph of Jesus...yet.

Here's A fantastic short by Laurie Hill which was produced as part of the Getty Images Short and sweet film challenge.

Music Monday

2010-10-04T08:00:00.001-04:00

A bit of music to start the week off. He's one of my favourites...

Something to strive for?

2010-10-01T20:00:00.000-04:00

"Sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast"

Lewis Carroll (from Alice in Wonderland)

Untitled

2010-09-17T07:00:00.002-04:00

She poked out a soft pink tongue

And tried to taste the sunlight

EK 2010

Just sneaking back in here

2010-09-15T23:08:00.007-04:00

I'm tip-toeing back into the world of my blog today. Like a lot of my wardrobe, it hasn't fit or felt quite right in some time. Things need to be dusted off and furniture needs to be rearranged. There's also a lot that should probably be put in big black bin-bags.

If you happen to pop in over the next little while, please excuse the mess, I will try to sort things out and settle back in quickly.

In the interim, here's a small thing:

Lather, Rinse Repeat

Every day she washed away pieces of him.

(Lather, rinse, repeat.)

If I keep this up

She thought,

There'll be nothing left by Christmas.

EK 2010

Little M

2010-06-11T09:00:00.002-04:00

Sorry for the silence here, I can only say that it has been quite an eventful couple of months!

I want to let you know that my heart has been stolen by a little bundle with ten tiny fingers and ten tiny toes. Our sweet baby girl was born one month ago on 11th May at 7:40am, weighing 8lbs 5oz.

I had a wonderful birth experience with my husband at my side and an amazing midwife attending.

It's hard to believe what an impact this tiny person has had on our lives. She is bringing us so much joy (and quite a lack of sleep too, but she makes up for this by being utterly adorable)

Happy one-month-Birthday Little M, can't wait to share many more milestones with you.

109 boxes, 750 words

2010-03-24T16:41:00.009-04:00

I haven't been around much lately, that's because we've been dealing with lots of these:

109 of them to be precise.

Yes, the mister and I have moved into a bigger space in preparation of the little one's arrival. We're gradually wading through the last of the boxes, getting things in shape in our lovely new space, but it has been a busy time.

I would like to share this link with you for something I discovered recently, 750 Words, which is currently my favourite website.

Since the move, my journals and notebooks have been slotted away in different boxes and bags, and despite the fact that I know exactly where my new journal is, I had stopped writing in the mornings. Discovering 750 words was exactly the change that I needed.

The inspiration of the site comes from the idea of Morning Pages from The Artist's Way in which you are supposed to write three pages of stream-of-conscious writing in order to clear your head for the day.

I love the way the site looks and works, it has a lovely layout, and it keeps a word tally in the bottom right of your screen as you type.

After writing your words (you can write more or less than 750 - it's up to you), you are rewarded with a great statistics page that gives you a breakdown of your writing session - I really loved that part!

Well, I hope you all are well and enjoying some of the warmth of spring, wherever you are.

Thanks always for stopping in to see me here, it means a lot to me.

The sun is shining brightly here today and I am feeling very happy.

Blogsplash: Thaw by Fiona Robyn

2010-03-01T09:45:00.005-05:00

Ruth's diary is the new novel by Fiona Robyn, called Thaw. She has decided to blog the novel in its entirety over the next few months, so you can read it for free.

Ruth's first entry is below, and you can continue reading tomorrow here.

These hands are ninety-three years old. They belong to Charlotte Marie Bradley Miller. She was so frail that her grand-daughter had to carry her onto the set to take this photo. It’s a close-up. Her emaciated arms emerge from the top corners of the photo and the background is black, maybe velvet, as if we’re being protected from seeing the strings. One wrist rests on the other, and her fingers hang loose, close together, a pair of folded wings. And you can see her insides.

The bones of her knuckles bulge out of the skin, which sags like plastic that has melted in the sun and is dripping off her, wrinkling and folding. Her veins look as though they’re stuck to the outside of her hands. They’re a colour that’s difficult to describe: blue, but also silver, green; her blood runs through them, close to the surface. The book says she died shortly after they took this picture. Did she even get to see it? Maybe it was the last beautiful thing she left in the world.

I’m trying to decide whether or not I want to carry on living. I’m giving myself three months of this journal to decide. You might think that sounds melodramatic, but I don’t think I’m alone in wondering whether it’s all worth it. I’ve seen the look in people’s eyes. Stiff suits travelling to work, morning after morning, on the cramped and humid tube. Tarted-up girls and gangs of boys reeking of aftershave, reeling on the pavements on a Friday night, trying to mop up the dreariness of their week with one desperate, fake-happy night. I’ve heard the weary grief in my dad’s voice.

So where do I start with all this? What do you want to know about me? I’m Ruth White, thirty-two years old, going on a hundred. I live alone with no boyfriend and no cat in a tiny flat in central London. In fact, I had a non-relationship with a man at work, Dan, for seven years. I’m sitting in my bedroom-cum-living room right now, looking up every so often at the thin rain slanting across a flat grey sky. I work in a city hospital lab as a microbiologist. My dad is an accountant and lives with his sensible second wife Julie, in a sensible second home. Mother finished dying when I was fourteen, three years after her first diagnosis. What else? What else is there?

Charlotte Marie Bradley Miller. I looked at her hands for twelve minutes. It was odd describing what I was seeing in words. Usually the picture just sits inside my head and I swish it around like tasting wine. I have huge books all over my flat; books you have to take in both hands to lift. I’ve had the photo habit for years. Mother bought me my first book, black and white landscapes by Ansel Adams. When she got really ill, I used to take it to bed with me and look at it for hours, concentrating on the huge trees, the still water, the never-ending skies. I suppose it helped me think about something other than what was happening. I learned to focus on one photo at a time rather than flicking from scene to scene in search of something to hold me. If I concentrate, then everything stands still. Although I use them to escape the world, I also think they bring me closer to it. I’ve still got that book. When I take it out, I handle the pages as though they might flake into dust.

Mother used to write a journal. When I was small, I sat by her bed in the early mornings on a hard chair and looked at her face as her pen spat out sentences in short bursts. I imagined what she might have been writing about; princesses dressed in star-patterned silk, talking horses, adventures with pirates. More likely she was writing about what she was going to cook for dinner and how irritating Dad’s snoring was.

I’ve always wanted to write my own journal, and this is my chance. Maybe my last chance. The idea is that every night for three months, I’ll take one of these heavy sheets of pure white paper, rough under my fingertips, and fill it up on both sides. If my suicide note is nearly a hundred pages long, then no-one can accuse me of not thinking it through. No-one can say; ‘It makes no sense; she was a polite, cheerful girl, had everything to live for’, before adding that I did keep myself to myself. It’ll all be here. I’m using a silver fountain pen with purple ink. A bit flamboyant for me, I know. I need these idiosyncratic rituals; they hold things in place. Like the way I make tea, squeezing the tea-bag three times, the exact amount of milk, seven stirs. My writing is small and neat; I’m striping the paper. I’m near the bottom of the page now. Only ninety-one more days to go before I’m allowed to make my decision. That’s it for today. It’s begun.

Continue reading tomorrow here...

Untitled

2010-02-23T12:00:00.009-05:00

Snow fell softly on us

As we climbed the hill,

And emerged over the brow,

Revealing a red cardinal on every fence post.

EK 2010

Photo used with permission.

To purchase a framed or unframed print of this photo visit
www.imagekind.com/Winter-Color_art?IMID=61829eec-3d7f-4466-a3fd-d51efcac7e41