It's all lighter from here - the sun is coming back!
May you all find many happy memories, and the new year be full of light, warmth, love, and laughter!
Wednesday, December 21, 2016
Saturday, December 10, 2016
The art in my life
Over at Cat Rotator's Quarterly, Alma posed the question: "Does modern culture have room for Rubens and Rembrandt, for Van Eyche
and Velazquez, for Caravaggio and Bernini, for Drürer and Holbein?"
Well, generally my opinion of what the idiots in NYC, DC, and LA try to feed us as "modern culture" is soul-dead excrement with a Marxist core they can't articulate for the same reason fish don't think about water, and teenagers don't notice whining.
However, if we talk about modern culture as what those of us out here in reality are living and creating every day, there's plenty of room for it. There's also plenty of room for smaller, less well-known artists to make their living. Now that there's enough wealth in the society that it pretty much takes active self-harm and mental dysfunction to live as badly off as the patrons of the old dead dutch guys who knew how to paint, any of us can be a partial patron to an artists instead of them being tied to one merchant family or king. (Seriously: we have vaccines, entire closets full of clothes, ice in the summer, heat in the winter, exotic foods prepared for us year round, and replaced hordes of servants with the stove, microwave, dishwasher, laundry machines, and vacuum cleaner.)
Also, with the advent of prints, artists can paint once, and then sell that painting to hundreds, or even tens of thousands, of people. This means that art has disseminated all over the place, if we're willing to get it.
Around our house, for example, we just hung a James C Christensen print, and I still have to get the wire on the back of the frame to hang a commissioned Ken Nelson original. (A friend got it for me for my birthday. They're awesome. So is Ken!) I have a print of a Keith Greba watercolor in the office, and we have yet to hang a James Humble that we picked up at Libertycon.
There's still more art that we haven't framed yet - a few treasured pieces that Peter brought from South Africa, from an artist he knew there. (He had to leave most of his art when he emigrated. A painful parting, not unlike cutting off a limb to escape a trap.) There's even more art yet in a few "coffee table" books, because I can't afford the prints, much less the originals: Bev Doolittle, Stephen Lyman, and a collected works of Frederick Remington.
There are also smaller spots around the house that are getting prints and works by artists I've come to know and like as people, as well as artists, including Melissa Gay and Sam Flegal...
But coming back to the original question: yes, I will get a Monet or two. I have a spot in the spare bedroom in mind.
Well, generally my opinion of what the idiots in NYC, DC, and LA try to feed us as "modern culture" is soul-dead excrement with a Marxist core they can't articulate for the same reason fish don't think about water, and teenagers don't notice whining.
However, if we talk about modern culture as what those of us out here in reality are living and creating every day, there's plenty of room for it. There's also plenty of room for smaller, less well-known artists to make their living. Now that there's enough wealth in the society that it pretty much takes active self-harm and mental dysfunction to live as badly off as the patrons of the old dead dutch guys who knew how to paint, any of us can be a partial patron to an artists instead of them being tied to one merchant family or king. (Seriously: we have vaccines, entire closets full of clothes, ice in the summer, heat in the winter, exotic foods prepared for us year round, and replaced hordes of servants with the stove, microwave, dishwasher, laundry machines, and vacuum cleaner.)
Also, with the advent of prints, artists can paint once, and then sell that painting to hundreds, or even tens of thousands, of people. This means that art has disseminated all over the place, if we're willing to get it.
Around our house, for example, we just hung a James C Christensen print, and I still have to get the wire on the back of the frame to hang a commissioned Ken Nelson original. (A friend got it for me for my birthday. They're awesome. So is Ken!) I have a print of a Keith Greba watercolor in the office, and we have yet to hang a James Humble that we picked up at Libertycon.
There's still more art that we haven't framed yet - a few treasured pieces that Peter brought from South Africa, from an artist he knew there. (He had to leave most of his art when he emigrated. A painful parting, not unlike cutting off a limb to escape a trap.) There's even more art yet in a few "coffee table" books, because I can't afford the prints, much less the originals: Bev Doolittle, Stephen Lyman, and a collected works of Frederick Remington.
There are also smaller spots around the house that are getting prints and works by artists I've come to know and like as people, as well as artists, including Melissa Gay and Sam Flegal...
But coming back to the original question: yes, I will get a Monet or two. I have a spot in the spare bedroom in mind.
Friday, December 9, 2016
Cats and cream
I rarely have milk in the house, as half and half has far less lactose for more deliciousness. Even so, the cats have wheedled and miaou'ed us into getting it up to twice a day.
But Peter got a gallon of milk to make a proper British Christmas pudding and custard. (True to British food stereotypes, this is a custard that doesn't set. Rather defeats the point of custard, to my way of thinking. I love my man, and he loves his food flavoured with nostalgia, but I'm afraid we don't see eye to eye on what tastes like fruitcake drowned in custard gone wrong and runny to me.)
So we have a good part of a gallon of milk left over, and while some of it can go into tea, it's a lot less expensive than half and half, and can be doled out to the warm furry felines as a substitute. Easy, right?
...Kili likes it more than half and half. Ashbutt is just plain enthusiastic about any hint of food ever, but Kili has gone from knowing when to demand her due, to importuning us every time we turn on the tea kettle. I can't even make my first cuppa (black, two pieces of ice) without a faint desperate squeak and paws tapping my thigh.
*sigh*
But Peter got a gallon of milk to make a proper British Christmas pudding and custard. (True to British food stereotypes, this is a custard that doesn't set. Rather defeats the point of custard, to my way of thinking. I love my man, and he loves his food flavoured with nostalgia, but I'm afraid we don't see eye to eye on what tastes like fruitcake drowned in custard gone wrong and runny to me.)
So we have a good part of a gallon of milk left over, and while some of it can go into tea, it's a lot less expensive than half and half, and can be doled out to the warm furry felines as a substitute. Easy, right?
...Kili likes it more than half and half. Ashbutt is just plain enthusiastic about any hint of food ever, but Kili has gone from knowing when to demand her due, to importuning us every time we turn on the tea kettle. I can't even make my first cuppa (black, two pieces of ice) without a faint desperate squeak and paws tapping my thigh.
*sigh*
Wednesday, December 7, 2016
Bliss
Yesterday, in a fit of determination, my husband cleared a low mound of "stuff" that had been piled against a wall since it first came off the moving truck. Of course, said "stuff" did include the toolbox, so I had to track it down this morning for the utility knife and duct tape.
(Given nobody ever sees the metal legs of the bed frame, I have been constructing ugly and effective toe-savers: lengths of foam pipe insulation, with the utility knife providing cutouts where stringers come out one side, secured with a length of duct tape. I'm sure there's an expensive solution somewhere, but when I rammed a foot into one while making the bed today, it was annoying instead of followed by hopping, clutching the injured appendage, and making lots of whimpery noises. It'll do.)
After the wall was clear, I brought out a fine art print that I've had for going on fifteen years, and the studfinder, and we hung it on the wall. Hanging art is not exactly a giant undertaking, but once I had it up, I felt ridiculously pleased, as though I'd passed a mental milestone for "I live here" right up there with the bookshelves being unpacked.
Tonight, I tested out the fireplace with a firelog. The dampers do work, as does the firescreen (If I can keep a kitten from batting at the metal pull handles and biting the mesh.) Soon, I will acquire firewood so I can have bigger, better fires - but between books, art, and fire, this house is feeling like a truly relaxing home.
Life is good.
(Given nobody ever sees the metal legs of the bed frame, I have been constructing ugly and effective toe-savers: lengths of foam pipe insulation, with the utility knife providing cutouts where stringers come out one side, secured with a length of duct tape. I'm sure there's an expensive solution somewhere, but when I rammed a foot into one while making the bed today, it was annoying instead of followed by hopping, clutching the injured appendage, and making lots of whimpery noises. It'll do.)
After the wall was clear, I brought out a fine art print that I've had for going on fifteen years, and the studfinder, and we hung it on the wall. Hanging art is not exactly a giant undertaking, but once I had it up, I felt ridiculously pleased, as though I'd passed a mental milestone for "I live here" right up there with the bookshelves being unpacked.
Tonight, I tested out the fireplace with a firelog. The dampers do work, as does the firescreen (If I can keep a kitten from batting at the metal pull handles and biting the mesh.) Soon, I will acquire firewood so I can have bigger, better fires - but between books, art, and fire, this house is feeling like a truly relaxing home.
Life is good.
Monday, December 5, 2016
What a long, strange trip it's been.
Peter has Maxwell 5, Stoke the Flames Higher, released to the wilds of the internet today. It's been so long living with the book hanging over our heads, well over a year after he thought he could finish it, that it's still taking time to process the idea of the book being done, gone, out to readers.
(Okay, I still have promotion to do, although I got the newsletter out this morning. But that post-publication checklist is rapidly dwindling, especially with turning print and audio over to Castalia house.)
Now for that strange post-piece period in an artist's household, when Peter looks around and sees things that have been ignored for months under the fog of ill health and press of plot: the boxes in the living room that he plunked there when we moved in, back in February, and has been grumbling that he'll get to when he has time, and don't move them, wife, because you won't put them in the right heap in the garage. (The garage still has to be unpacked, too.)
Meanwhile, I wake up, take a deep breath, and look around, too, at the things that I've let slide: the pile of laundry I've been stealing clean clothes out of instead of folding, the floors that need swept, the pile of mail that wasn't urgent to deal with... And that diet and exercise thing. Blargh.
Some households make new year's resolutions, and base their spurts of activity annually. Some have the "when the kids are back in school." Ours, apparently, has "Once the book is done."
I feel better knowing I'm not alone, and other author spouses confirm this is normal, and the weirdness shall soon pass. Or, to quote one, "Yeah, two weeks. After about two weeks, he starts getting really distracted plotting, and then starts sneaking off to write instead of doing the chores..."
(Okay, I still have promotion to do, although I got the newsletter out this morning. But that post-publication checklist is rapidly dwindling, especially with turning print and audio over to Castalia house.)
Now for that strange post-piece period in an artist's household, when Peter looks around and sees things that have been ignored for months under the fog of ill health and press of plot: the boxes in the living room that he plunked there when we moved in, back in February, and has been grumbling that he'll get to when he has time, and don't move them, wife, because you won't put them in the right heap in the garage. (The garage still has to be unpacked, too.)
Meanwhile, I wake up, take a deep breath, and look around, too, at the things that I've let slide: the pile of laundry I've been stealing clean clothes out of instead of folding, the floors that need swept, the pile of mail that wasn't urgent to deal with... And that diet and exercise thing. Blargh.
Some households make new year's resolutions, and base their spurts of activity annually. Some have the "when the kids are back in school." Ours, apparently, has "Once the book is done."
I feel better knowing I'm not alone, and other author spouses confirm this is normal, and the weirdness shall soon pass. Or, to quote one, "Yeah, two weeks. After about two weeks, he starts getting really distracted plotting, and then starts sneaking off to write instead of doing the chores..."
Thursday, November 24, 2016
Wednesday, November 16, 2016
Right of Way
I learned to fly before I learned to drive. This means the first right-of-way laws pounded into my head at the helm of a motorized vehicle are based on naval shipping and physics. It is also enforced by nature - in aviation, most collisions are deadly to one, if not both parties. I understand that on the road, with its lack of falling, airbags, crumple zones, and often lower speeds of impact, accidents are usually far less deadly (though the total number of drivers per year means a smaller percentage of deadly accidents results in far, far higher numbers of deaths, every year.)
As on the sea, in the air, the biggest and least maneuverable thing wins. This means that hot air balloons, having no ability to steer, win over everything else. The equivalent on the road is: the broke-down car with its flashers on or road flares wins, no matter what you're driving. Also, trains win EVERY TIME. Because if it can't get out of the way, it WON'T. And, no, that combine isn't going to pull over to let your happy butt past. It CAN'T. So sit back and enjoy the farm road at 7 miles an hour, because you're on a farm road, and this is a known hazard here.
Second, the jumbo jet always wins over the small airplane. Because massive airliners take miles to turn, while small airplanes can get out of the way faster. Also, no Cessna is ever going to win an argument with a 747. While this may not be enshrined into road law, there are two practical aspects: the first is that nobody has ever yet won an argument with a semi, a dump truck, a school bus, or G-d forbid, a concrete mixing truck. They're going to take longer to get up to speed, and longer to stop, and massively more amounts of room, in the case of semis, to make a 90 degree turn. So prudent drivers will give them room to do so, not wanting to end up as a bumper decoration.
Most especially, the difference in stopping distance between a car and a bicycle... look, I commuted by bicycle. It wasn't because I was a happy eco-warrior, it's because I was spending all my money on flight lessons and college tuition. (Cars are expensive!) And from that experience, I hate bike lanes. I don't think cars and bikes should be on the same roads at all. I adore bike trails that segregate bikes from everything but pedestrians. I hate "bike paths" that consist of taking a chunk out of the road that put bicyclists and drivers into conflict every turn lane, and MOST especially bike paths on city streets that put the bicyclist in the arc of every parked car door being opened.
As every motorcyclist and bicyclist learns, many to their scars and sorrow, cars and trucks have big blind spots, bigger stopping distances, even more mass than that to launch you down the road, and worst of all, they don't expect to see anything but cars, so even if their eyeballs register your presence, their brain will often fail to see you in time to avoid being hit.
And if you think it's bad as a bicyclist, honey, don't wear dark clothes in the night and jaywalk. Don't wear light clothes at night and jaywalk. In fact, stay out of the road, and as far off on the shoulder as you can, if you must be there. As millions of deer, moose, and elk can attest every year, not to mention coyotes, dogs, armadillos, skunks, and other furry critters, if you're moving at a walking pace in a busy road, you're roadkill. Even if you're protesting and your cause is righteous, well, whose to say the deer didn't think his cause was righteous, too?
And you poor darlings, at some point when you think you're brightly lit because you have the flashlight app on in your cell phone, walk over into the glare of parked headlights, and point it at the driver. Can he see it? Only from so close it's too late to avoid. Little glowstick necklaces and bracelets? Those are for ravers, not traffic. (Except when trick-or-treating, in which case, I'm going to be creeping along at three miles an hour and frantically looking for any sign of movement shorter than the bumper, and those help. But at normal traffic speeds, no.)
The second is that the car with the least insurance wins. I've driven flashy things, shiny and brand new, and observed other drivers let their asshole flag fly a lot more often than if I'm driving a beater that I can identify from any angle in the parking lot by its unique wrinkles and dents. Just like the guys with the fight scars on their knuckles and the level dead stare get a lot fewer men shoving them aside at the bar than dorks do, the beater car says it's a very bad idea to try to cut in at the last second of a merge by aiming at my front quarter panel and revving your engine while making eye contact and lifting your middle finger. Don't pick fights you can't win, eh?
Third, the ones with clearance win over the ones without clearance. This is all throughout road law, with its stop signs, traffic lights, yield signs, etc. Know it, follow it, avoid getting t-boned because somebody else expected you to follow the law.
Speaking of road law, it's not uniform. After almost a year in Texas, Peter and I got into a debate yesterday over whether a car was following traffic laws or not. Turns out, he's totally legal in Texas, but not in Alaska, and while arguably legal in Tennessee, he's also breaking the law in Louisiana. (Hazard light use, for those wondering.)
Yeah, that one surprised me, too. Pro tip: if you move to a new state, pick up their copy of the DMV booklet and read all the way through. It's the little things that get you, and that's not just whether you're required to have a front license plate or not - it's also whether or not the traffic around you is expecting you to do that thing you "always" do, or if they have different "of course" expectations here.
Fourth: emergencies have right of way over everything else. If you're really enjoying some Tocatta And Fugue in D Minor, or anything else with lots of high notes and bass, take the time to check your rear view mirror for flashing red lights more frequently. Because Ambulances, Fire Trucks, and Police running with their lights on have right of way.
And, you'd think this'd be obvious, but any vehicle out of control has the right of way. If the wind is roaring across the Palmer flats hard enough to pick a semi up and drop it four feet over in my lane, I'm not going to pass him. Because I don't want to be next to him if a gust does that again! If the side of the semi in front of you disappears in dust and haze with a loud bang or two and exploding chunks of tires are flying higher than your vehicle, GET OUT OF THE WAY.
Similarly, if you _think_ a vehicle is shortly to be out of control, you can argue that you were legally right, but physics will win. So if you see a car with a tire that's wobbling very badly in and out, a truck with a load that looks about to depart the pickup bed, a semi on a downhill with one brake locked up and leaving a thick trail of smoke, or a perfectly sound vehicle that's weaving across all lanes... now is the time not to argue. It may be the time to call 911 so a nice officer with flashing lights can help fix the hazard before it becomes an emergency, but it's also time to just let that one have Right of Way.
Last but never least, if you encounter angry people who look like they're going to swarm your vehicle and injure or kill you - drop it into low gear, add gas, and drive on. People intent on hurting you do not have right of way, okay? Call the cops when you're at least several miles down the road, somewhere safe, where their angry friends who also wanted to injure or kill you even before you escaped can't wing you with a bullet. That's a situation where the only way to survive is not to be there, so Move On, because Your Life Matters.
Stay safe out there.
As on the sea, in the air, the biggest and least maneuverable thing wins. This means that hot air balloons, having no ability to steer, win over everything else. The equivalent on the road is: the broke-down car with its flashers on or road flares wins, no matter what you're driving. Also, trains win EVERY TIME. Because if it can't get out of the way, it WON'T. And, no, that combine isn't going to pull over to let your happy butt past. It CAN'T. So sit back and enjoy the farm road at 7 miles an hour, because you're on a farm road, and this is a known hazard here.
Second, the jumbo jet always wins over the small airplane. Because massive airliners take miles to turn, while small airplanes can get out of the way faster. Also, no Cessna is ever going to win an argument with a 747. While this may not be enshrined into road law, there are two practical aspects: the first is that nobody has ever yet won an argument with a semi, a dump truck, a school bus, or G-d forbid, a concrete mixing truck. They're going to take longer to get up to speed, and longer to stop, and massively more amounts of room, in the case of semis, to make a 90 degree turn. So prudent drivers will give them room to do so, not wanting to end up as a bumper decoration.
Most especially, the difference in stopping distance between a car and a bicycle... look, I commuted by bicycle. It wasn't because I was a happy eco-warrior, it's because I was spending all my money on flight lessons and college tuition. (Cars are expensive!) And from that experience, I hate bike lanes. I don't think cars and bikes should be on the same roads at all. I adore bike trails that segregate bikes from everything but pedestrians. I hate "bike paths" that consist of taking a chunk out of the road that put bicyclists and drivers into conflict every turn lane, and MOST especially bike paths on city streets that put the bicyclist in the arc of every parked car door being opened.
As every motorcyclist and bicyclist learns, many to their scars and sorrow, cars and trucks have big blind spots, bigger stopping distances, even more mass than that to launch you down the road, and worst of all, they don't expect to see anything but cars, so even if their eyeballs register your presence, their brain will often fail to see you in time to avoid being hit.
And if you think it's bad as a bicyclist, honey, don't wear dark clothes in the night and jaywalk. Don't wear light clothes at night and jaywalk. In fact, stay out of the road, and as far off on the shoulder as you can, if you must be there. As millions of deer, moose, and elk can attest every year, not to mention coyotes, dogs, armadillos, skunks, and other furry critters, if you're moving at a walking pace in a busy road, you're roadkill. Even if you're protesting and your cause is righteous, well, whose to say the deer didn't think his cause was righteous, too?
And you poor darlings, at some point when you think you're brightly lit because you have the flashlight app on in your cell phone, walk over into the glare of parked headlights, and point it at the driver. Can he see it? Only from so close it's too late to avoid. Little glowstick necklaces and bracelets? Those are for ravers, not traffic. (Except when trick-or-treating, in which case, I'm going to be creeping along at three miles an hour and frantically looking for any sign of movement shorter than the bumper, and those help. But at normal traffic speeds, no.)
The second is that the car with the least insurance wins. I've driven flashy things, shiny and brand new, and observed other drivers let their asshole flag fly a lot more often than if I'm driving a beater that I can identify from any angle in the parking lot by its unique wrinkles and dents. Just like the guys with the fight scars on their knuckles and the level dead stare get a lot fewer men shoving them aside at the bar than dorks do, the beater car says it's a very bad idea to try to cut in at the last second of a merge by aiming at my front quarter panel and revving your engine while making eye contact and lifting your middle finger. Don't pick fights you can't win, eh?
Third, the ones with clearance win over the ones without clearance. This is all throughout road law, with its stop signs, traffic lights, yield signs, etc. Know it, follow it, avoid getting t-boned because somebody else expected you to follow the law.
Speaking of road law, it's not uniform. After almost a year in Texas, Peter and I got into a debate yesterday over whether a car was following traffic laws or not. Turns out, he's totally legal in Texas, but not in Alaska, and while arguably legal in Tennessee, he's also breaking the law in Louisiana. (Hazard light use, for those wondering.)
Yeah, that one surprised me, too. Pro tip: if you move to a new state, pick up their copy of the DMV booklet and read all the way through. It's the little things that get you, and that's not just whether you're required to have a front license plate or not - it's also whether or not the traffic around you is expecting you to do that thing you "always" do, or if they have different "of course" expectations here.
Fourth: emergencies have right of way over everything else. If you're really enjoying some Tocatta And Fugue in D Minor, or anything else with lots of high notes and bass, take the time to check your rear view mirror for flashing red lights more frequently. Because Ambulances, Fire Trucks, and Police running with their lights on have right of way.
And, you'd think this'd be obvious, but any vehicle out of control has the right of way. If the wind is roaring across the Palmer flats hard enough to pick a semi up and drop it four feet over in my lane, I'm not going to pass him. Because I don't want to be next to him if a gust does that again! If the side of the semi in front of you disappears in dust and haze with a loud bang or two and exploding chunks of tires are flying higher than your vehicle, GET OUT OF THE WAY.
Similarly, if you _think_ a vehicle is shortly to be out of control, you can argue that you were legally right, but physics will win. So if you see a car with a tire that's wobbling very badly in and out, a truck with a load that looks about to depart the pickup bed, a semi on a downhill with one brake locked up and leaving a thick trail of smoke, or a perfectly sound vehicle that's weaving across all lanes... now is the time not to argue. It may be the time to call 911 so a nice officer with flashing lights can help fix the hazard before it becomes an emergency, but it's also time to just let that one have Right of Way.
Last but never least, if you encounter angry people who look like they're going to swarm your vehicle and injure or kill you - drop it into low gear, add gas, and drive on. People intent on hurting you do not have right of way, okay? Call the cops when you're at least several miles down the road, somewhere safe, where their angry friends who also wanted to injure or kill you even before you escaped can't wing you with a bullet. That's a situation where the only way to survive is not to be there, so Move On, because Your Life Matters.
Stay safe out there.
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And Peter is feeling well enough to write again. Not just “I’m physically capable of putting fingers to keyboard”, but “I am trying to hold a battle in space that’s four light-hours wide in my head, and make sure there are no inconsistencies as each ship gets the information and acts upon it, and the other ships see those actions in turn…”
And I now have a hangar for my plane: came open yesterday.
I’m going to take an hour lunch (swing shift) to pop over to a friend’s house, where we’re having a group Thanksgiving dinner. And for the friends around us, I am truly grateful.
All in all, it’s a good year. Terrifying, traumatic, expensive, frazzling, but a good year. We have always lived in interesting times, and I’ll take my blessings where I can get ’em. You take care of you and yours, and have a happy Thanksgiving, too.