... What if you fly?

From a poem by Erin Hanson,
 Reverie (The Poetic Underground #1) 

“There is freedom waiting for you,
On the breezes of the sky,
And you ask "What if I fall?"
Oh but my darling,
What if you fly?”  

"Losing"

One Art

The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.

–Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident
the art of losing’s not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

                                       ~ Elizabeth Bishop

The Majestic Plastic Bag & Jabberwocky

The Majestic Plastic Bag - narrated by Jeremy Irons

 

Found the above great mockumentary via Content in a Cottage, a favorite blog—a varied feast of imagery, quotes, and vintage fonts.

This got me thinking:

The Trash Bags That Wish They Could
These poor defenseless critters also suffer a great deal here, very often impeded from getting to the little known Unchartered Southern Atlantic Patch by dastardly dumps, risky rivers, treacherous trees and other perfidious plastic predators.

I do not know if they are homing in on that one or would rather head over to the Great North Atlantic Garbage Patch.

For more information on Plastic Paradise Patches, go to the 5Gyres site and blog.

Reading of gyres, these words of Jabberwocky comes to mind.

’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
 Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;

I can imagine the Plastic Bag gyring and gimbling in the wabes, chortling amongst its beamish polymerous companions.

Whatever it may mean of my mental, er, faculties, this was the only poem I ever memorized from beginning to end.
So here, from Lewis Carrol to you... down memory lane...

Jabberwocky

’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
 Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
 All mimsy were the borogoves,
 And the mome raths outgrabe.

“Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
 The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
 Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
 The frumious Bandersnatch!”

 He took his vorpal sword in hand:
 Long time the manxome foe he sought—
 So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
 And stood awhile in thought.

 And as in uffish thought he stood,
 The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
 Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
 And burbled as it came!

 One, two! One, two! and through and through
 The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
 He left it dead, and with its head
 He went galumphing back.

“And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
 Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
 O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!”
 He chortled in his joy.

’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
 Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
 All mimsy were the borogoves,
 And the mome raths outgrabe.

from Through the Looking-Glass, and What Alice Found There (1872)

That time comin' round... and Rosehill Cottage

Warning!: Looooonng post! (with lotsa images!)

Already at the beginning of October the shops' Christmas decorations have been going up... a bit freaky, as just the other day was the beginning of the year!!!

Another sign of that time comin' round is the Christmas movies starting to be shown on tv.

One that I saw again a few weeks ago was The Holiday. I fell in love all over again with Iris's cottage! The next day, stopping quickly by a store on the way to wherever and looking through the sale table, I found the dvd of the film! Very inexpensive, which makes the joy even better!

Then, with the pleasures of googling and actually finding things as we can do nowadays, I found many references and, joy, joy,joy: images!

First the sad: The cottage wasn't a real one, but a life-sized prop at the location in Shere, England, complete with fake snow in June. (How do they get the vapor clouds from the mouths that we read as cold, cold, cold? digital effects?). The interiors were sets built in a studio in... LA., I believe. (writing this from memory as waiting for hair-coloring-goop to work its charm)

Oh, so that's why the cottage was so much larger on the inside than the out!!!

I realized that the interiors were sets when I started perceiving the Old Lady in The Shoe effect (how can you fit those "so many children" in the shoe without it being MUCH larger inside than out? I never saw it as such a huge boot as in the drawing below! Even so...)

Drawing of There was an Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe by Kronheim, c.1875

                          There was an old woman who lived in a shoe.
                          She had so many children, she didn't know what to do;
                          She gave them some broth without any bread;
                          Then whipped them all soundly and put them to bed.

The earliest printed version in Joseph Ritson's Gammer Gurton's Garland in 1794 has the coarser last line:

                          She whipp'd all their bums, and sent them to bed.

from Wikipedia

(They were were so much more direct in 1794, no?)

But I did think that the cottage, by any other name, was still a Rose ... -hill cottage — that is, a real cottage.
I found that it all being a fake is sort of freeing. Now I can imagine my own little Rosehill Cottage, build it in my brain, and all will fit marvelously inside.

I also found out that the producer of the movie, Nancy Meyers, has made many of the movies that I watch over and over, many for the storyline, but all certainly for the "backgrounds": the houses! Something's Gotta Give and It's Complicated are just two of these.

"... the production team was led Jon Hutman - but Beth Rubino, so wonderful on the set of SGG, was absent for The Holiday.  And just as with Something's Gotta Give, Nancy Meyers' personal interior designer has photos of "The Holiday" houses on his web site, but he is not mentioned in the film credits." — Côte de Texas, The Holiday Houses. Meyer's "personal decorator" is James Radin, James Radin Interior Design.

The Holiday's story and acting is in my "ok" range... Cameron Diaz a bit over at times. It is an enjoyable movie, in the light&cute style. The imagery is lovely... Jude Law's blue eyes (grey? turquoise??... does it matter, as long as we can look?) are always a nice holiday touch. The LA house is also beautiful, but it doesn't warm my cockles as the cottage does.

I believe this movie is based on one I saw many years ago about house swapping. That one was between a Colonial home in perhaps New England?, and a cottage in Ireland? The two women were also trying to forget problems... I think one a love affair, and the other the death of her child in the pool (???... of the Colonial?). As I can't remember the actresses or the movie's name, I can't find any references of it. And "house swap movie" and its variations only come up with The Holiday. So far.

The best definition images I found were from the site OutNow.ch - "Bilder zu The Holiday (2006)". I've posted them below, but they aren't as large as the ones directly on the site [my image hosting sites automatically cut down the size : (  ]
Click on the images to see the larger ones, with all the amazing detail that went into making these sets.

Iris's Rosehill Cottage

*all imagines from OutNow.Ch unless otherwise noted
 (I don't know who the original photographer is)

I want one, I want one, I waaant one! Pleeease!

"Rosehill Cottage 'The Holiday' film set; Shere, Surrey, England (via pg tips2)"
via Sinopse

Snuggly Living Room

Fireplaces all over!

I just love this little library/study that was made of
this little mudroom-type lean-to, with its "home-made" shelves.

 The Mysterious Bathroom
No skylights or windows on the exterior roof!

Rare back view by Paul Orford at Panoramio

Links to more information and sources:
 • Hooked on Houses - "The Holiday": A Tale of Two Houses
 • Movie Real Estate - Movie Real Estate: The Holiday
 • Côte de Texas - Holiday Houses
 • Silver Screen Surroundings  various posts
 • A day in the Life of a Dracofly - "The Holiday" Country Cottage

For more exterior images:
 • The Shere "The Holiday" Film Set  by pg tips2

Other Meyer films:
 • Architectural Digest - Something's Gotta Give
... and many more sites & images on the web...

The Holiday (2006)
Director: Nancy Meyers
Production designer: Jon Hutman

some Christmas candy
(don't forget to click)

 I want one, I want one, I waaant one! 

Frisky Poles

I read recently — I believe from Philip Sedwick — that the cosmos not helping with cyberstuff. Well,  I certainly haven't been desirous of blogging, facebooking... etc... for a while now. Thus the abscence of posts, I believe. The non-virtual world's call is stronger right now.

As here my pongáio, let me put this on a shelf:

It's so unkind of science

To go and interfere!

What if the poles should frisk about

And stand upon their heads!

I hope I'm ready for the worst,

Whatever prank betides!

                                       — Emily Dickinson

Rather up-to-date, considering the magnetic poles' movement with the Chilean earthquake.

"POEMINHA. Curto, mas...profundo!"

From my cousin, by email:

Affonso Romano de Sant'Anna

A implosão da mentira

É um presidente que mente, mente
de corpo e alma, completamente.
E mente de maneira tão pungente
que a gente acha que ele mente sinceramente.
Mas que mente, sobretudo, impunemente...
E mente tão nacionalmente,
que acha que mentindo história afora
vai nos enganar eternamente.

Enxaqueca ("Migraine")

Enxada quebrando a cabeça.
Enxada quebrando a cabeça.
Enxada quebrando a cabeça.
Enxada quebrando a cabeça.

— © 2007 K. S. (that's me!)

Note: a "visual poem"; gets lost in translation, but the meaning is
"A hoe breaking open my head".

All who suffer from migraines can get the gist.

"Amor Bandeira"

I wrote this inspired by a friend in love, thinking of her love/r,
so far away yet so close:

O amor que contagia,

que dá bandeira... bandeiras

coloridas,

transparentes,

na luz que brilha sempre

neste momento sem tempo,

sempre sol sempre

em dia de chuva.

— © 2007 K. S. (that's me!)

Note: will try to translate someday!

Nothing to Do?

From the summer I spent with Aunt Terry and Uncle John in Connecticutt, when I was thirteen.

Nothing to Do
--- by Shel Silverstein

Nothing to do?
Nothing to do?
Put some mustard in your shoe,
Fill your pockets full of soot,
Drive a nail into your foot,
Put some sugar in your hair,
Place your toys upon the stair,
Smear some jelly on the latch,
Eat some mud and strike a match,
Draw a picture on the wall,
Roll some marbles down the hall,
Pour some ink in daddy's cap ---
Now go upstairs...
... and take a nap.

--- Cole, William. Beastly Boys and Ghastly Girls, 1964

From this book, a treasure, from Aunt's library.

Tubby... ... ...

My sister gifted me with a little book, A. A. Milne's When We Were Very Young, of 1924, the 1961 edition — lovely!
The delicous illustrations, or "decorations" as is written on the cover, are by Ernest H. Shepard.

In it I found a poem with a very present day subject, even though nearly 100 years old, concerning a little bear who later on become famous as Winnie-the-Pooh.



Teddy Bear

A bear, however hard he tries,
Grows tubby without exercise.
Our Teddy Bear is short and fat
Which is not to be wondered at;
He gets what exercise he can
By falling off the ottoman,
But generaly seems to lack
The energy to clamber back.

Now tubbiness is just the thing
Which gets a fellow wondering;
And Teddy worried lots about
The fact that he was rather stout.
He thought: "If only I were thin!
But how does anyone begin?"
He thought: "It really isn't fair
To grudge me exercise and air."

For many weeks he pressed in vain
His nose agaisnt the window-pane.
And envied those who walked about
Reducing their unwanted stout.
None of the people he could see
"Is quite" (he said) "as fat as me!"
Then, with a still more moving sigh,
"I mean" (he said) "as fat as I!"

Now Teddy, as was only right,
Slept in the ottoman at night,
And with him crowded in as well
More animals than I can tell;
Not only these, but books and things,
Such as a kind relation brings—
Old tales of "Once upon a time,"
And history retold in rhyme.

One night it happened that he took
A peep at an old picture-book,
Wherein he came across by chance
The picture of the King of France
(A stoutish man) and, down below,
These words: "King Louis So and So,
Nicknamed 'The Handsome' " There he sat,
And (think of it!) the man was fat!

Our bear rejoiced like anything
To read about this famous King,
Nicknamed "The Handsome." There he sat,
And certainly the man was fat.
Nicknamed "The Handsome." Not a doubt
The man was definetly stout.
Why then, a bear (for all his tub)
Might yet be named "The Handsome Cub!"

"Might yet be named." Or did he mean
That years ago he "might have been"?
For now he felt a slight misgiving:
"Is Louis So and So still living?
Fashions in beauty have a way
Of altering from day to day.
Is 'Handsome Louis' with us yet?
Unfortunately I forget."

Next morning (nose to window-pane)
The doubt occured to him again.
One question hammered in his head:
"Is he alive or dead?"
Thus, nose to pane, he pondered; but
The lattice window, loosely shut,
Swung open. With one startled "Oh!"
Our Teddy disappeared below.

There happened to be passing by
A plump man with a twinkling eye,
Who, seeing Teddy in the street,
Raised him politely to his feet,
And murmured kindly in his ear
Soft words of comfort and of cheer:
"Well, well!" "Allow me!" "Not at all."
"Tut-tut!" "A very nasty fall."

Our Teddy answered not a word;
It's doubtful if he even heard.
Our bear could only look and look:
The stout man from the picture-book!
That "handsome" King—could this be he,
This man of adiposity?
"Impossible," he thought. "But still,
No harm in asking. Yes I will!"

"Are you, " he said, "by any chance
His majesty the King of France?"
The other answered, "I am that,"
Bowed stiffly, and removed his hat;
Then said, "Excuse me" with an air,
"But is it Mr. Eduard Bear?"
And Teddy, bending very low,
Replied politely, "Even so!"

They stood beaneath the window there,
The King and Mr. Edward Bear,
And, handsome, if a trifle fat,
Talked carelessly of this and that ...
Then said His Majesty, "Well, well,
I must get on," and rang the bell.
"Your bear, I think," he smiled. "Good-day!"
And turned, and went upon his way.

A bear, however hard he tries,
Grows tubby without exercise.
Our Teddy Bear is short and fat,
Which is not to be wondered at.
But do you think it worries him
To know that he is far from slim?
No, just the other way about—
He's proud of being short and stout.

Wearing the Collar

                I live with a lady and four cats
                and some days we all get
                along.

                some days I have trouble with
                one of the
                cats.

                other days I have trouble with
                two of the
                cats.

                other days,
                three.

                some days I have trouble with
                all four of the
                cats

                and the
                lady:

                tens eyes looking at me
                as if I was a dog.

— Charles Bukowski, American, b.1920

Oops!

A limerick for my cat-loving friends

from: Smithsoniam Magazine

Friendship

Oath of Friendship

Shang ya!
I want to be your friend
For ever and ever without a break or decay.
When the hills are all flat
And the rivers run dry,
When it lightens and thunders in winter,
When it rains and snows in summer,
When Heaven and Earth mingle —
Not till then will I part from you.

— Anonymous, China, 1st century B.C.

Solo for a Saturday Night Guitar

for Day

Solo for a Saturday Night Guitar

Time was. Time is. Time shall be.
Man invented time to be used.
Love was. Love is. Love shall be.
Yet no man never invented love
Nor is love to be used like time.
A clock wears numbers one to twelve
And you look and read its face
And tell the time pre-cise-ly ex-act-ly.
Yet who reads the face of love?
Who tells love numbers pre-cise-ly ex-act-ly?
Holding love in a tight hold for keeps,
Fastening love down and saying
"It's here now and here for always."
You don't do this off-hand, careless-like.
Love costs. Love is not so easy
Nor is the shimmering of star dust
Nor the smooth flow of new blossoms
or the drag of a heavy hungering for someone.
       Love is a white horse you ride
       or wheels and hammers leaving you lonely
       or a rock in the moonlight for rest
       or a sea where phantom ships cross always
       or a tall shadow always whispering
       or a circle of spray and prisms ---
       maybe a rainbow around your shoulders
               Heavy heavy is love to carry
               and light as one rose petal.
               light as a bubble, a blossom,
               a remembering bar of music
               or a finger or a wisp of hair
               never forgotten.

                           Carl Sandburg,
                           American, 1878-1967

Hello!

… And delight in being here on earth * For one more moment * here on earth * to celabrate our tiny, tiny my-ness. — Czeslaw Milosz

Started a blog! This is it: my first post!
Hurray! Hurrah!

I managed to get all the steps done. Hurray for me, as I'm rather cyber-challenged!
Tried first at weblogger. There though, lots of things don't work.... may be my computer? I don't know!
So gave up there and came here to Blogger.

I've been following some blogs since around the middle of last year, when I finally figured out what they were! : ))))

Inspired by some new blogging-friends, here I am.
A blog to celebrate my part of  "our tiny, tiny my-ness".

my-ness

My parents, my husband, my brother, my sister.
I am listening in a cafeteria at breakfast.
The women's voices rustle, fulfill themselves
In a ritual no doubt necessary.
I glance sidelong at their moving lips
And delight in being here on earth
For one more moment, with them, here on earth,
To celebrate our tiny, tiny my-ness.

            Czeslaw Milosz,
            Polish, b. 1912