Monica's last tension-ridden entry has staged my recollection of those old black and white suspense films I have always loved...especially the pre-1947 psychological thrillers. There's nothing better than a quiet evening... Picture this: Home alone, 9:00 pm movie begins... 10:00 pm waiting to see if the psychotic, serial killer is yet to strike again... 10:02 pm the scene is swallowed up in a seriously-darkened street--staged with the character portrait of a mindless sad sack; a gallery of wealthy, eyelash batting women in a facade of famously-worn, black dresses and mounded hair; a room filled with a colossal variety of vintage collectibles. 10:15 pm Reality Check: I look around and see that I'm sitting on the tip of grannie's ol', musty-smelling chair, engaged in the climax of the movie as... (dramatic music playing in the background intensifies the silhouette of the man holding the knife--could he come through the TV screen?!) 10:15 pm ...the film intensifies --the pelting rain hovers over a hunched figure as he makes his way down Inkwell Alley. His over-sized trench disguises his feeble frame... and suddenly, the moment I've been waiting for ...he sees her; he watches as she opens her vintage purse only to find... (click on the The Drama Button.) 10:17 pm Oh dear! Vertigo sets in...startled... 10:17 1/2 pm PHONE RINGS: Yes, Grannie, I have fed the fish. Yes, Grannie, the door is locked... Yes Grannie...what? I can't hear you... Grannie? Are you there.... click Grannie? HELLO?! Vertigo sets in...AGAIN... 10:19 pm LIGHTS GO OUT. KNOCK AT DOOR. Vertigo sets in...AGAIN... 10:20 pm russle, russle...making way to door. PEEK... OH, it's the pizza man!
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Monday, June 22, 2009
Black and White
Inward reflection is one of the most daunting propositions; the thing you'll find could be dark, a manifestation of your evil side; it could be pathological, a harbinger of depression, psychotic manipulation or a ravenous narcissism; or it could simply be something nebulous, an unexplainable blur waiting in the chaotic networking of your brain, sitting on an untapped nerve ending that has yet to be provoked...and once it is, Lord knows what will happen, what you'll become.
This my friends is why I haven 't blogged in a few day or written in my book, developed my characters. It has been a struggle to write the simple restaurant overview that my editor needs me to pen for the August issue. It's days like these that I wish I were smart enough to be a mathematician or a biologist. I was chatting with a co-worker today whose husband works at a nuclear plant--his specialty is foam. Yes foam. Supposedly whatever you want to know about foam, just ask this guy. "He could write about foam all day long,"she laughed. He knows it intimately, its properties, its likes and dislikes, its uses, its importance, its role in an ever evolving technological whirlpool.
Sometimes I think the black and white nature of science--of everything from number to foam--is what makes working with it easier than working with a blank canvas or a loosely developed novel. You don't fret for hours on end about whether a certain word, color, sentence or design concept will evoke a certain feeling in enough people. You just get the facts down and you delight not in the subjective details but in the fact that it's right.
I just noticed that I'm wearing solely black and white today. A subliminal cry for direction, clarity, organization, relief from the chaotic networking in my brain.
image courtesy of http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2160/2034196282_c516b9d2a6.jpg
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Food for Thought!
I thought about what Monica wrote in her blog, "The Plum" and realized...I have SIO! OH No, not SIO...To put it simply, today many experience a little bit of SIO or "simple information overload". A common cold it is not. Busy schedules, working your heart out, reading, family, problems, bills, twittering, blogging, facebooking, phones ringing, people talking, horns a honking, music playing...ongoing--almost as a cow chewing its' cud. In essence, the mind/brain gets weary.
The 21st century is a busy place, and as George Jetson once said, '...get me off this thing!' >>>>So--although we can't necessarily jump off this "information highway,", we can say SIO (pronounced seee-ow) or "see you" which means, take a break - go to your room and b r e a th! In the quiet. Take a deep breath and --Just b r e a t h. ;)
No One Is Going To Die On The Operating Table!
Don't be afraid! They used to tell us in college - 'Don't be afraid to take chances, no-one is going to die on the operating table. 'So in my free time... 'what free time?', I love to dabble with acrylics, oils, cut paper, collage, mixed media as well as adding found objects, textiles and experimenting with layout and typography. I have most fun adding buttons!!!
Yes, you heard it...BUTTONS! I love buttons! They come in so many sizes, shapes and colors. I'll show you a few pieces I have completed in my future bloggings, but for now, let me tell you a lil' bit about my experimentation at left.
It is 'Experimentation' Impressionism, acrylic on board. I remember.... My mind was filled with all the rules of art, trying to find the right one that would work... RULES, RULES, RULES. Where do I start??? Do I dare touch the canvas? Do I dare make the first stroke? Then I thought - 'wait! I can do this!'
Just one dab...one little dab. ----UMMM, should I use red? I like red...but red is so aggressive.
'What if it takes over?' -----OK, OK, how bout' yellow? Yes, yellow. That seems to work just fine. Delicate, swift brush strokes and unusual visual angles dancing in the light. Yellow is doing the trick.
But what about contrast? OH DEAR! A complementary color--hmmm, that could work. Well, here goes nothing - bring on the violets.
Now if I'm really careful, I can dab just enough to give a softened, impressionistic feel to the painting. Trickery, I tell ya, trickery!
The real question is how to do that when we have vibrant color shouting off the page... oh, I know, I'll mix and dab and experiment with light
--and suddenly, it happened, a softened effect. This could work! Quick, give me some green!
A challenge, but nonetheless fun!
So give it a try--you can do it! After all, I haven't lost my "patience" yet. ;)
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Groundhog Day
It's groundhog day! I popped out of my hole and saw my shadow. "WHAT!? - you say?"
Oh, it means that I met someone today who has inspired me with their artwork. It was then that I took a good long look at myself and decided that maybe it was time... yes, time to bring out some of my work-to photograph some of my pieces and post them.
A talented, fellow artist, Olga Zalogina has some of her artwork there as well. So take a look at hers as well.
I hope you enjoy!
Friday, June 12, 2009
Stubbed Toes, etc.
If you recall from our very first blog post here in Inkwell Alley, a stubbed toe qualifies as a dramatic occurence--one that elicits "Oh My Goshes!" and "What?! What the hecks?"--in the lives of me and sbass. In other words, it takes very little to get us riled up. Last night, sbass stubbed her toe during her somnambulistic adventures throughout her house--a house, might I add, that features a staircase with no railing; an accident waiting to happen, especially if you’re sbass. I digress....
Anyway, based on my recent traumatic experience with acrylic nails, I am writing today to champion the very real danger of abused nails, to justify their placement in the dramatic occurrence category…Let me give you a little background; it might be unrelated, but I’m going for dramatic effect.
First: I am not a girly girl: I barely wore make-up on my wedding day; I never apply it as part of my morning routine (although I will use concealer on blemishes); I’ve never had my hair dyed or styled (I’m finally growing my bangs out after 23 years and just that decision alone liberates me, makes me feel like I’m walkin’ on the wild side), and I have never, up until two months ago, had anything done to my nails. To be quite honest, nothing has changed much since that day my mom took me to the beauty salon to have my hair done for a wedding that I served in as flower girl (It was a black/white, avant garde wedding…I’ll have to post a picture…). Even at 7-years of age I was more concerned about being late for T-ball practice.
I held back tears as the beautician curled my hair, fat lock falling upon fat lock. I looked like a pig, especially with the way I was scrunching up my face.
“You have gorgeous hair, Monica,” she said as she worked.
My mother beamed while I just continued to scowl. I didn’t want to be gorgeous because I didn’t want to attract attention. I just wanted a simple, maintenance free life of running around outside on the ball field, in the yard, the honeysuckle-infested woods, around the neighborhood with the other street urchins.
We got home just in time for me to change for T-ball practice. I ran upstairs, grabbed a brush and vigorously pulled it through my hair until was as straight as I could get it. I put on my cap and sauntered up to the dinner table as if I hadn’t done a thing. “You combed out your hair didn’t you?” my mom asked. I sheepishly nodded; she couldn’t even get mad.
Now fast forward to two months ago, when my husband Robert was driving me to my “surprise destination” for Valentine’s Day.
“Are we going sky diving?”
“No.”
“Romantic hot air balloon ride?”
“No.”
“Ballet performance?”
“Hell no.”
We pull up to the mall and go inside.
“I can buy a really nice outfit for work?”
“No.”
“Lingerie?”
“No.”
And then he stops in front of the place. A nail salon crawling with females of all ages running around with foam between their toes. Asian women in surgical masks were hunched over at tables and recliners.
“Oh no you don’t. You know I don’t want this! What are you doing?!”
“Come on,” he grabbed me by the wrist and got right in my face. “Every girl who has ever had this says how relaxing it is. It will feel great. You’ll look really pretty with it. Just trust me on this one.”
“No one touches my feet, let alone with fungal infested dremels.”
“You’ll get a manicure, not a pedicure.”
“That’s not as bad—but I still just want my natural plain nails.”
I mindlessly let him lead me inside.
“She’d like to get a French manicure,” Robert said.
I nervously looked around.
“See honey,” Robert pointing to a bunch of tools that were floating in jars of blue, foamy liquid. “They keep everything clean. They also nuke them in that microwave thing.”
So I got the nails. And after two weeks, I’d had it. I couldn’t type, grip my tennis racquet properly or open soda cans. I was eating dinner at my parents’ house and abruptly proclaimed that I was leaving for the nearest salon to have “those things professionally removed.”
“Right now?” my mom asked.
“Yes, they’ll be open. It shouldn’t be a problem.”
I left my half-eaten steak and all the rest of my food that my dad had made, and fled the premises. They had to come off—NOW.
I rushed into the empty salon in a tizzy and the three Asian workers looked at me as if I was an escape convict trying to find a hiding place. One walked up to the front desk.
“Wha woul you like?”
“Can you take these nails off?”
“Off?”
“Yes, off. I don’t want them anymore.”
“Okay, sit right here.”
The guy pulled out some pliers and some thin, flat edged metal thing.
“Is this going to hurt??”
He looked up at me, nervously smiled and shrugged.
“Oh my God.”
“We can soak them first; tha might help.”
“Okay…”
I sat with my fingers dipped in a bowl of cold solution for 20 minutes—only to have the guy come back and tell me that he had me soak my hands in regular alcohol instead of nail remover solution. I’m dead serious. So I sat for 15 more minutes with my fingers in a different bowl.
The next 30 minutes were agony as he tried to pry the acrylic nails off, sliding a thin piece of plastic between the fake and the real and pushing down towards my cuticle.
“Ouch!”
“Ooops. I sorry.” The guy had accidentally shoved that thin piece of plastic way under my real nail.
Pardon my French, but after all was done, my nails looked like pure hell—heavily trimmed, thin, and caked with dust-like residue. And one didn’t look quite right—and continued to not look quite right to this day.
“Fungus! Oh my God I have fungus! Robert! I am going to kill you!!!”
I noticed that the yellowish, white circle was expanding further and further to the top of the nail on my left index finger.
Fortunately, when I went to the dermatologist the other day, I found out that it wasn’t fungus but simply separation from the nail from the nail bed, the process of which started when that guy at the nail salon shoved the plastic under my real nail. Although, my derm still wants to monitor because it could lead to the dreaded Fungus.
The bottom line:
-Don’t get acrylic nails
-Don’t cause any trauma to the nail; eg, stub your toe
-Toe stubbing IS a big deal
As I wave my hand, Grendel finger and all, Tata for now…
Anyway, based on my recent traumatic experience with acrylic nails, I am writing today to champion the very real danger of abused nails, to justify their placement in the dramatic occurrence category…Let me give you a little background; it might be unrelated, but I’m going for dramatic effect.
First: I am not a girly girl: I barely wore make-up on my wedding day; I never apply it as part of my morning routine (although I will use concealer on blemishes); I’ve never had my hair dyed or styled (I’m finally growing my bangs out after 23 years and just that decision alone liberates me, makes me feel like I’m walkin’ on the wild side), and I have never, up until two months ago, had anything done to my nails. To be quite honest, nothing has changed much since that day my mom took me to the beauty salon to have my hair done for a wedding that I served in as flower girl (It was a black/white, avant garde wedding…I’ll have to post a picture…). Even at 7-years of age I was more concerned about being late for T-ball practice.
I held back tears as the beautician curled my hair, fat lock falling upon fat lock. I looked like a pig, especially with the way I was scrunching up my face.
“You have gorgeous hair, Monica,” she said as she worked.
My mother beamed while I just continued to scowl. I didn’t want to be gorgeous because I didn’t want to attract attention. I just wanted a simple, maintenance free life of running around outside on the ball field, in the yard, the honeysuckle-infested woods, around the neighborhood with the other street urchins.
We got home just in time for me to change for T-ball practice. I ran upstairs, grabbed a brush and vigorously pulled it through my hair until was as straight as I could get it. I put on my cap and sauntered up to the dinner table as if I hadn’t done a thing. “You combed out your hair didn’t you?” my mom asked. I sheepishly nodded; she couldn’t even get mad.
Now fast forward to two months ago, when my husband Robert was driving me to my “surprise destination” for Valentine’s Day.
“Are we going sky diving?”
“No.”
“Romantic hot air balloon ride?”
“No.”
“Ballet performance?”
“Hell no.”
We pull up to the mall and go inside.
“I can buy a really nice outfit for work?”
“No.”
“Lingerie?”
“No.”
And then he stops in front of the place. A nail salon crawling with females of all ages running around with foam between their toes. Asian women in surgical masks were hunched over at tables and recliners.
“Oh no you don’t. You know I don’t want this! What are you doing?!”
“Come on,” he grabbed me by the wrist and got right in my face. “Every girl who has ever had this says how relaxing it is. It will feel great. You’ll look really pretty with it. Just trust me on this one.”
“No one touches my feet, let alone with fungal infested dremels.”
“You’ll get a manicure, not a pedicure.”
“That’s not as bad—but I still just want my natural plain nails.”
I mindlessly let him lead me inside.
“She’d like to get a French manicure,” Robert said.
I nervously looked around.
“See honey,” Robert pointing to a bunch of tools that were floating in jars of blue, foamy liquid. “They keep everything clean. They also nuke them in that microwave thing.”
So I got the nails. And after two weeks, I’d had it. I couldn’t type, grip my tennis racquet properly or open soda cans. I was eating dinner at my parents’ house and abruptly proclaimed that I was leaving for the nearest salon to have “those things professionally removed.”
“Right now?” my mom asked.
“Yes, they’ll be open. It shouldn’t be a problem.”
I left my half-eaten steak and all the rest of my food that my dad had made, and fled the premises. They had to come off—NOW.
I rushed into the empty salon in a tizzy and the three Asian workers looked at me as if I was an escape convict trying to find a hiding place. One walked up to the front desk.
“Wha woul you like?”
“Can you take these nails off?”
“Off?”
“Yes, off. I don’t want them anymore.”
“Okay, sit right here.”
The guy pulled out some pliers and some thin, flat edged metal thing.
“Is this going to hurt??”
He looked up at me, nervously smiled and shrugged.
“Oh my God.”
“We can soak them first; tha might help.”
“Okay…”
I sat with my fingers dipped in a bowl of cold solution for 20 minutes—only to have the guy come back and tell me that he had me soak my hands in regular alcohol instead of nail remover solution. I’m dead serious. So I sat for 15 more minutes with my fingers in a different bowl.
The next 30 minutes were agony as he tried to pry the acrylic nails off, sliding a thin piece of plastic between the fake and the real and pushing down towards my cuticle.
“Ouch!”
“Ooops. I sorry.” The guy had accidentally shoved that thin piece of plastic way under my real nail.
Pardon my French, but after all was done, my nails looked like pure hell—heavily trimmed, thin, and caked with dust-like residue. And one didn’t look quite right—and continued to not look quite right to this day.
“Fungus! Oh my God I have fungus! Robert! I am going to kill you!!!”
I noticed that the yellowish, white circle was expanding further and further to the top of the nail on my left index finger.
Fortunately, when I went to the dermatologist the other day, I found out that it wasn’t fungus but simply separation from the nail from the nail bed, the process of which started when that guy at the nail salon shoved the plastic under my real nail. Although, my derm still wants to monitor because it could lead to the dreaded Fungus.
The bottom line:
-Don’t get acrylic nails
-Don’t cause any trauma to the nail; eg, stub your toe
-Toe stubbing IS a big deal
As I wave my hand, Grendel finger and all, Tata for now…
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Another Ink-thought!
2:00 am - Had an ink`ling it was time to get up to write down what was pouring out of my head.
2:10 am - MMMMmmm - coffee to start the day ;)
2:15 am - Thought of mom - who passed away Jan 28th 09' of lung cancer. Going to dedicate Inkwell Alley~Etsy to Charlotte Ann Ferguson who taught me INK! Meaning tk.
2:20 am - Checked on my cherished pets, shishu lucy and maltese sissy. Both of whom are inK-redibly smelly today. Note to self - Bath time and, er, call their beauty girl. PRONTO!~
2:25 am - Finally sat down, noticed husband is now gone! Oh my, his back is troublink' him again.
walk, walk, walk, walk...stairs...walk, walk, walk
2:26 am - Checked to make sure he's doing OK. "Husband, you OK?" He says - meditating - trying to subdue the pain. In other words, scoot, scram and skedaddle!
again, walk, walk, walk...stairs...walk, walk
silence
bump @#@!
2:33 am - who put that there? At least it wasn't a toe I stubbed (speaking of which, note to self -remind monica to tell the crowd why you shouldn't do acrylic nails.)
2:33 1/2 am - note to self again! Remind monica not to get too gorey. It may not be a murder mystery, but we don't want Freddie Kruger thinking we stole the show.
2:40 am - planning an ink`link for our giveaway.
2:41 am - updating name to sbassdesign-ink' on twitter
2:50 am - check on auction --- maybe they'll be more shoes, or vintage someth-ink'
2:51 am - remind monica to put together our list of the many famous idioms/phrases that are misrepresented in the office. ,,,a watched clock never boils,,, Oh, you'll see how the 21st century has caused many a character phrase to become evicted from their home.
mindless rambling:
I luv the gecco - especially when he's asked to wear a suit. Did you see that ad?
2:65 am - Internet tells me its not responding and to restart... GREAT - did I save?
2:68 am - Realize that I'm in a different time zone.
reboot.
3:20 am - Must put clothes up on ebay. NOT< Maybe tomorrow (er, today) - or Saturday.
Random Thought.
Design~ink Word of the Day: Bersërkr - translation, "bear’s skin".
This was the bear skin clothing Viking warriors wore into battle... also wore decorated helmets made of metal and chain mail covered by a large cloth. The berserkers fought with battle axes, swords, and spears. The most famous weapon would be their deadly throwing axe, with great skill. Their morale was extremely high, greatly intimidating their enemies. Reference: http://encyclopedia.thefreedictionary.com/Berserker
Sheeesh, next time you hear someone telling you, "e' went berserk", you'll know to duck from those flying axes.
2:10 am - MMMMmmm - coffee to start the day ;)
2:15 am - Thought of mom - who passed away Jan 28th 09' of lung cancer. Going to dedicate Inkwell Alley~Etsy to Charlotte Ann Ferguson who taught me INK! Meaning tk.
2:20 am - Checked on my cherished pets, shishu lucy and maltese sissy. Both of whom are inK-redibly smelly today. Note to self - Bath time and, er, call their beauty girl. PRONTO!~
2:25 am - Finally sat down, noticed husband is now gone! Oh my, his back is troublink' him again.
walk, walk, walk, walk...stairs...walk, walk, walk
2:26 am - Checked to make sure he's doing OK. "Husband, you OK?" He says - meditating - trying to subdue the pain. In other words, scoot, scram and skedaddle!
again, walk, walk, walk...stairs...walk, walk
silence
bump @#@!
2:33 am - who put that there? At least it wasn't a toe I stubbed (speaking of which, note to self -remind monica to tell the crowd why you shouldn't do acrylic nails.)
2:33 1/2 am - note to self again! Remind monica not to get too gorey. It may not be a murder mystery, but we don't want Freddie Kruger thinking we stole the show.
2:40 am - planning an ink`link for our giveaway.
2:41 am - updating name to sbassdesign-ink' on twitter
2:50 am - check on auction --- maybe they'll be more shoes, or vintage someth-ink'
2:51 am - remind monica to put together our list of the many famous idioms/phrases that are misrepresented in the office. ,,,a watched clock never boils,,, Oh, you'll see how the 21st century has caused many a character phrase to become evicted from their home.
mindless rambling:
I luv the gecco - especially when he's asked to wear a suit. Did you see that ad?
2:65 am - Internet tells me its not responding and to restart... GREAT - did I save?
2:68 am - Realize that I'm in a different time zone.
reboot.
3:20 am - Must put clothes up on ebay. NOT< Maybe tomorrow (er, today) - or Saturday.
Random Thought.
Design~ink Word of the Day: Bersërkr - translation, "bear’s skin".
This was the bear skin clothing Viking warriors wore into battle... also wore decorated helmets made of metal and chain mail covered by a large cloth. The berserkers fought with battle axes, swords, and spears. The most famous weapon would be their deadly throwing axe, with great skill. Their morale was extremely high, greatly intimidating their enemies. Reference: http://encyclopedia.thefreedictionary.com/Berserker
Sheeesh, next time you hear someone telling you, "e' went berserk", you'll know to duck from those flying axes.
3:50 am - Already? Father time is gettin' carried away.
3:51 am - husband snores.
marketing~researching~studying~reading~digging~twittering
5:06 am - Oh my, I better sleep, almost time to get up.
husband still snoring...
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