Never pet a burning dog.
A good trip is one you can walk away from. A great trip is one where you can reboard a plane.
Tips? Think what we’d pay eating out. Well, even if it was self-service …
You never know what we'll churn up in cleaning a stall
Never pet a burning dog.
A good trip is one you can walk away from. A great trip is one where you can reboard a plane.
Tips? Think what we’d pay eating out. Well, even if it was self-service …
Yup, there are 52 in a deck, plus one to six Jokers, at least if you’re looking at what’s considered a standard commercial deck. There are, however, other traditional, and often older, suites to consider. Today we’ll put those off for another time and stick to the French-suited cards that are almost universally found in English-speaking countries. Got that?
To continue:
No matter how large or small a community, there’s something about having a place we know as downtown that makes a difference. It’s like a center of gravity.
Forget the big banks, jewelry stores, or medical offices that are empty at night.
Here are some elements to consider.
Is she daring us? To what? Her self-portraits from her intense, brief life burn with some secret hunger. Do her images contain clues for answers? How I wish she could speak or at least listen.
In contrast, she leaves us baffled by her short career, ended when she leaped to her death from an open window at age 22.
She can be seen as fascinated with death itself. A few images, such as those with her arms wrapped in bandages or holding a knife, may be from a suicide attempt that’s mentioned in passing.
Her images are infused with a gothic premonition of death – the Romantic obsession with tragic, youthful demise, and lost opportunity. To speak of an eroticism of death is eerily heightened by knowing of her suicide to come – the images of her holding a knife or extending her bandaged forearms or climbing (sometimes naked) through Victorian gravestones become eerily chilling, leaving the viewer with a morbid fascination.
Her shots appear to surface from the birth of photography itself, an homage enhanced by black-and-white – often scratchy – prints.
And then there’s the matter of her family – both of her parents and her brother were artists, each in a different medium.
Consider the sense of self-entombment in her photographic legacy.
As I delved into the images her family had released (there’s criticism they’re withholding much more), I pondered alternative directions my What’s Left novel could have gone. These photos, to me, could have been by Cassia’s father if he hadn’t taken up the Tibetan Buddhism and then been granted the support he received from his wife’s family.
In contrast, I encounter her after three of my novels followed a hippie-era photographer, and the newest tale picked up on his legacy nearly a half-century later. This time, it’s told by his daughter, Cassia, who’s trying to uncover his essence after he vanished in a Himalayan mountains avalanche when she’s eleven. Her biggest evidence as an investigator stems from his cache of photographic negatives. The way we do with Woodman.
Cassia’s research paradoxically forces her to reconstruct her mother’s side of the family in depth and all of the reasons her father found refuge among its members.
His, I’ll presume, are professionally competent and moving increasingly into color as the technology advances. Woodman’s work turns inward; his ranges outward, through the changing times around him. His death comes unexpectedly, in a period of blissful encounters, among the monks and mountains who expand his vision.
So I return to the darkness of her vision and the imagined brightness of his. Both, in their own ways, tragic.
The Pine Tree State has long inspired painters and other visual artists, most of them attracted from elsewhere.
Here’s a sampling:
Snoring.
Aversion to shopping.
Fire-building skills.
Sense of direction.
Love of the outdoors.
Immersion in single projects from start to finish.
Closing doors, turning off lights.
Trapping and transporting squirrels.
A readiness to catch bugs and crush them with my fingers on a daughter’s behalf.
Informal racing out on the open waters was already a longstanding tradition when the Maine Lobster Boat Racing Association formed and launched its first races in 1964.
Fishing is a dangerous occupation, one luring a gnarly but dedicated gang into its ranks. It’s said they have salt water in their veins, or as I’ve heard them say of themselves, they’re either crazy or dumb – or both.
It should be no surprise, then, that here in Maine, lobstermen come together on summer weekends to race their boats. They have a pick of at least one every weekend.
Yup, race. Lobster boats don’t exactly look sleek or graceful – they’re built to work in all kinds of weather and take a beating. But they also have powerful engines. I had no idea just how powerful.
Besides, guys being guys, lobstermen have long boasted about their beloved boats – many are named after sweethearts and children, after all. Comparing theirs against their peers’ meant putting their words to the test.
All of that has led to a circuit of races starting in Boothbay and ending in Portland, with ten or so other sites along the way.
With that in mind, here are ten more bits to consider.
Some realities and trends I find disturbing, as gleaned from Harper’s Index over the past few years:
Geographically, Maine is the biggest state in New England – almost as large as the other five combined. That still ranks it 39th in size in the USA.
We’re also famed for some very dry humorists and fresh-from-the-sea lobsters the way Vermont’s stuck with maple syrup and a red leaves identity.
Beyond that, here are some other things that are unique to the place.
The first year I witnessed the gardener in our household sprout and then transplant a dozen or so varieties of tomatoes, I was perplexed. Foolish me, I thought tomatoes were pretty interchangeable. Not so by the end of summer, when I had discovered how much each variety had its own identity. Some ripened earlier than others, a major consideration in our short growing season. Some were firmer while others were juicier. Each variety matured in its own size and shape. Trying to describe the range of flavors could soon sound like a wine tasting commentary. So far, we’ve had nothing that has delivered a hint of slightly warm asphalt, which seemed to be a plus for one wine critic. We’ll save you our own take.
Also important to us is disease and blight resistance. New England can be a difficult region for tomato growers.
Here’s a sampling of what we’ve cultivated, eaten, and even dried, canned, or bagged frozen.
And we haven’t even touched on some fine “black” tomatoes.