On Holiday -- as well as general -- IQ...

 
I am reminded all the time that 
I'm really not that smart . . .

I'm reading this book, for instance, that I picked up at the bookstore because it looked charming and had spent a big chunk of its life on the bestseller list.  Which means it was popular, right?   Lots of people have read it?

But I feel a bit like I have finagled an invitation to an esoteric dinner party for bookish geniuses where I have somehow managed to BS my way through the appetizers, but can't avoid the panicked feeling that there is still the main course to come. By dessert I will be hanging by my fingernails.

The bouncer is eying me suspiciously, and I am but a single recondite allusion from being asked to leave.
I feel my grasp of abstruse German philosophy is suddenly inadequate, even though until now I had not necessarily considered myself to be lacking in that particular area.  I may need a dictionary just to write this review.

It's still enormously enjoyable, of course, but sort of in the way that your first time swimming in the deep-end is -- that reckless yet heady moment where you yell "Look Mom!" while flailing your limbs and simultaneously hoping you can keep your chin above the water long enough for her to put down her magazine.  You don't want to get too far from the wall.

Hannah was telling me the other day that a doctor recently asked her when she first realized she was smarter than her teachers, and she immediately replied, "First grade."  

"Really?!" I asked.  I was impressed.  Those kinds of thoughts had not occurred to me until at least 7th grade, which only goes to show that I am usually not the smartest person in the room, even in my own house.  

(I am not tooting my own horn; for the record, I have encountered a few truly questionable teachers over the years, in classes where roughly 1/2 the students had the intellectual upper hand over the instructor.)

Would I recommend the book?  Absolutely!

Especially if you are smarter than I am.  And I once had an adorable 5 year old boy look straight at me and deadpan:  "You're not the smartest Susan I know."  (He was so cute, I couldn't even hold it against him.)

So I must not be too far above average.

Witness the fact, for instance, 
that it is now December 15 
and my packages are not yet mailed . . .

AGAIN. No one of even average intelligence -- including Miss Gibson, my 10th grade Social Studies teacher -- would make that kind of mistake year after year.

My own mother explained to me recently (looking up from her magazine -- she was busy relaxing)  that if one finishes one's Christmas preparations in October, one is able to just sit back and enjoy the wonders of the holiday season.  A revolutionary philosophical idea that I had not previously considered, or had at least failed to grasp. Obviously.

Remember this picture?  It was taken after my Christmas post office pilgrimage last year (yes, that's the receipt -- I have A LOT to mail) . . .

But hold on . . . I think that was on December 18! 

Hooray!  There's still time to improve! 

I plan to make it there by Saturday the seventeenth, so I may actually be wising up after all . . .

Baby steps, friends.  Baby steps.

  

Let the craziness begin....er, I mean....continue.

 

Now that we're halfway down the slippery slope 

to the Big Day...

 It's easy to get distracted 

from your normal responsible behavior...

Between the weather...

and the noise...

and the never-ending social engagements...

and the freezer stocking...

and the capacity-stretching...

and the toy testing...

and the photo ops...

and the reaching-out-and-touching...

and the search for the perfect gift...

and the figuring out how to pay for it 

once it's found...

and the where to hide it?!

while you're waiting for the big reveal...

I've decided the best plan is probably just 

to loosen up a little...

and enjoy what 

the season has to offer.

Yes, all of it.  

So bring it.   

(you can drop by anytime!)

Happy Mid-December-Monday Madness!



  

Sunday Scribble

   

image by Mostafa Habibi

Technical Difficulties

no bootstraps

but there are no boots

no paddles because

there is not a boat

and this creek continues

its rise around me

anyway, no matter

I can't feel my arms

even if I wanted to take it

I could not hold a hand

what with being buried

and all, I guess

I'll just wait here

-- smh

This poem is a Magpie Tale. I identified with the picture immediately, coming from a family in which 6 generations have struggled with severe depression.  I'm okay now, thank you, but there are those around me who remain in quicksand. Not being able to help is its own kind of helpless feeling.   

At least I understand, which is a place to start.






(now . . . click on the link to share your own take on this image)

The Reward of Art.

 
I love the illustrated quotes of L.K. Hanson. 

It seems to me that having a paying gig that causes you to be always surrounded by wise words is about as lucky as an artist can get.

But I also loved this particular quote -- it just explains so much.

Because the majority of art exists only to feed its maker's soul.  It is never bought, sold, shown, collected, or even appreciated.  It lives in closets, in boxes under beds, on mothers' walls, and in stacks in storage rooms.

But -- hooray for all the bad artists of the world who don't give up!

Art does not need a commercial application.  

Art just needs to exist and it has accomplished a lot.

One of the things I did on my recent break was avail myself of the opportunity to take some of author Natalie Goldberg's advice (previous post) and do some writing exercises.

I got a pen and a notebook (Writing by hand?! I know, right?!) and sat down at night with a prompt and a staring blank page and wrote.  And just like she promised, it was awesome.  Writing with no reason whatsoever, but to feel my thoughts travel to my hand and my hand travel across the page.


Most everything I wrote will never see the light of day, although there are a few ideas I may return to and pursue further.  But I decided to share one little piece with you.

This came from the prompt, 
    

 "I Write Because . . ."
   
 

I write because there are things that need to be said and no one will say them.

I write out of fear that my mouth cannot be trusted, and a hope that my hands can.

I write to relieve the pressure in my head.  I write to release the stream of hot and cold running words that build behind my tongue but cannot be formed by it. 

I write because there is no other choice. 

 

I write because I was there then and I am here now which means there was a journey.

I write because the words pour out of me and only paper can mop them up. 

I write to tell the story, making it up as I go and never worrying about the ending but rather about running out of ink.

I write because if I don't tell it, did it really happen?

I write because I want to dare to exist, even after I am gone.

I write the pictures I cannot draw. 

I write because he did not, but he should have. 

I write to be a voice that cannot be taken back.

I write so there will be no confusion about what I meant or hoped to accomplish.

I write to breathe.  I breathe so I can write.  Words are air and food and light, my beat, the pulse of everything in and around me.  I take it in and chew it a bit and spit it out.  Who would know how I could see forever on my morning run if I did not write?  Who would know the disappointment of my cheeseburger?  The confusion at the intersection of my path with others that lead away from where I stand?  

Someone needs to take it down, put it somewhere where it can't get away no matter how it slips or runs or tries to hide.

I write because even if they criticize or disapprove,  my words can outlast them and when they are erased or deleted, crumpled or thrown away, I can grab a pen and begin again. Words without end.  I write.

Whatever your weekend holds, I hope it brings at least a little of doing something you love merely for the sake of doing it. 

It's not too much to ask.

Happy Friday!

 

A Tiny Tuesday Tidbit.

I know it's hard to tell 
in the winter sometimes . . .

but occasionally I come across 
things that make me smile.

For instance, I looked out my bedroom window the other morning 

and there was a tiny path leading away across my roof:

Not sure who left it or where they were headed, but I knew it couldn't last

so I reached for my camera.  

And sure enough, within a few hours, the trail, 
and the moment, were lost.

This morning of the small snow 

I count the blessings,

the leak in the faucet 

which makes of the sink time, 

the drop of the water on water. 

-- Charles Olson 

That's all today.  Not much.

Just a small thanks for a small gift,

even though the giver never knew 

there was a gift at all . . . 

Sometimes those are the best kind.

Sunday Scribble

 

 


   
Relativity

every face looks

like someone else's, same eyes

same cheekbones, curve of chin

and the words our mothers

once said to us, a surprise

coming from our own mouths

someone should, perhaps

try something new

just a thought, the world is old --

there are so many similar people

walking around now

-- smh

The artwork is Lunch, by George Tooker, 
1964, Columbus Museum of Art, 
and comes to Small Works via Tess at   
Magpie Tales. 

Got something to say about it?  

Follow the link and join the fun!







 

Three Cheers (and a little chocolate) for Friday!

  

 

So now that 
the calendar 
has turned over 
to December . . .

I guess it's no longer fair to begrudge Old Man Winter his fun.
Embrace, embrace, embrace!
Shiver a lot, but embrace it nonetheless.
Okay, swear a little too, but --











One of my first yearly chores  to welcome in The Most Wonderful Time of the Year is creating the cover for our annual Christmas cd, and I'm pleased to report that mission has been accomplished!

We're still waiting for the cds themselves to arrive so we can begin the assembly line, but the part that keeps me awake at night is finished.  (Rest assured I have wasted no time in finding other things to keep me awake at night . . .)


Step 2 of my "Embrace Winter with a Smile" plan  involved turning on the fireplace in my studio while wearing two sweatshirts until I was so warm I almost couldn't stand it.  I was so busy the first few days this week that I forgot I had a fireplace and I was cold and grumpy all day.  Finally Russ came down on Wednesday night and said, "Why is it cold down here!?"

I guess I also cannot begrudge Old Man Winter my own stupidity.  My fireplace will probably be on now until about April.


Step 3 is going to involve baking and eating something old fashioned and winter-ish -- and I mean that in the best possible way -- which I believe will be this:

Susan's Favorite Hot Fudge Pudding Cake 

with a hefty slab of peppermint ice cream on the side! 

This is an old-fashioned pudding cake (there used to be Betty Crocker mixes for such things, and if you remember them you are, like me, OLD. There was a lemon version that I loved.)

I came across the recipe for this chocolate delight about 30 years ago and have been making it ever since -- usually sometime in December, because it gives me another excuse to eat my favorite peppermint ice cream. I like the kind that is actually vanilla ice cream with peppermint candies in it, as opposed to the too-strong but more readily available peppermint flavored ice cream.

In case you'd like to join the warm gooey fun, 

here's the sorta-strange-but-so-easy recipe:

Susan's Favorite Hot Fudge Pudding Cake

1-1/4 cups sugar, divided                                          

1 cup flour                                                              

7 Tbsp. Hershey's Cocoa, divided                            

2 tsp. baking powder                                               

1/4 tsp. salt

1/2 cup milk

1/3 cup butter, melted

1-1/2 tsp. vanilla

1/2 cup packed brown sugar

1-1/4 cups hot water

Heat oven to 350.  Combine 3/4 cup sugar, flour, 3 Tbsp. cocoa, baking powder and salt.  Blend in milk, butter and vanilla; beat until smooth.  Pour batter in 8 or 9" square pan.  In small bowl, combine remaining 1/2 cup sugar, brown sugar, and remaining 4 Tbsp. cocoa.  Mix well.  Sprinkle mixture evenly over batter (mixture will look like sand).  Pour hot water over top; do not stir.  Bake 40 minutes or until center is almost set.  Let stand 15 minutes.  Spoon into dishes, garnish with whipped cream or ice cream (or both!)

Now -- I hope your weekend (and your winter)

is off to a warm and wonderful start . . .

Happy

(hot-fudge-y)

Spoon Licking!