Friday, 20 November 2009
An article I wrote when I was 15
I know this is crazy, but I was searching my name on google to see if my blog would show up--and guess what? I found an article I wrote when I was fifteen! I wrote this article for my local newspaper in Chiang Mai, Thailand. You can find the original article at http://www.chiangmainews.com/ecmn/viewfa.php?id=522
The VIntage Packaging They Offer
Here is the vintage packaging for the buttons that they offer for free on the site. I'm so in love with these buttons. All I can think about is my package of button-making materials arriving at my Campus P.O. Box. Yum.
Candy Buttons
I found this great new idea for favors to hand out to the guests at the wedding. Candy buttons with vintage wrapping! Since my new wedding colors are going to be either blue and orange or...blue and yellow (with sunflowers as my main new flower) I thought that, in keeping with the vintage farm theme, chocolate candy buttons would be a perfect addition to the mix.
Check out this site:
http://www.bakeitpretty.com/blog/?p=82#more-82
It has the coolest pictures, with step-by-step directions, on how to make these cool candy buttons in your kitchen. I love the two colors they use.
I ordered all the materials to make these buttons for less than $13 on their site : bakeitpretty.com
I can't wait to try it and update this blog with examples of my candy...also, not only is this the coolest candy ever--but they also provide vintage labels to put on the bags of buttons.
This is definately one of my new favorite sites.
Thursday, 19 November 2009
Pictures of Stonewall Farms in N.H.
Here are the promised pictures of the farm. The function room fits about 150 people. You can either rent the place out for $2500 or they have another option for $2000 that includes just the function room. Stonewall farm is in Keene, N.H. and is an actual working farm. (I'm not entirely sure what that means...but I assume they have animals and....ummm....crops?)
So, after writing group the other day, Eleanor and Rachel had the brilliant idea that I should write about the joys and woes of wedding planning, since I have a unique spin on the concept. Here is the catch--as of right now, I am not engaged. Chris and I have been dating for about two years now and we are planning on getting married June 5th, 2010. I have already booked the place. It is a beautiful farm in New Hampshire. They even offer a horse and buggy, as well as hay rides for guests (it's an extra $250 for the hay rides and a whopping $500 for the horse and buggy). I have relinquished all of my regular student duties (aka homework and projects) in order to search wedding blogs until I have carpal tunnel and bugged-out eyes. As of yet, I have come up with some great ideas for my "farm" style wedding. Originally, I planned to have a beachy blue, tan, and white wedding despite the fact that it is (1) not at the beach and (2) at a farm!? But now, since I have recently come to my aesthetic senses, I have decided that the colors for my wedding will be (drum roll please) blue and orange! Random, I know, but it is in keeping with the fact that neither Chris and I are very formal people and we wanted to have a kind of playful wedding--one that even incorporates Chris' favorite food, which, believe-it-or-not means that we will have hot wings. I am going to try not to partake of these, seeing that I always find a way to get food on my dress and I don't think the photographer will appreciate the inevitability of a huge red blob of hot sauce on my ahem....bosom?
Wednesday, 4 November 2009
Writing
Here I am thinking about how I should be writing. I've picked up several books at the library after realizing that having any type of sickness propels me into a creative/depressed mood where I might....just might...actually write something worthwhile. Meanwhile, I'm also trying to find an ending to a piece titled "Highlights of my Father" that is the second non-fiction work I've ever loved . Its hard to love your own work. I pinch it, preen it, decorate it, and then ask other people to comment on it--hoping that they will exclaim over it.
Here goes, I've got to write something today.
Here goes, I've got to write something today.
Saturday, 18 July 2009
That was how it happened (fictional excerpt)
That was how it happened—at the playground. It was the gritty sand, the dark flutter of the swing in the background and I mean, the thing is, I don’t have to explain it because I know you can feel how it would be, that you know intuitively how you’d be afraid. It happens to every girl sometime, right?
The breeze floated into the hollows of the deepest corners of me, my arm-pits, the space between my toes, the concave of my ear—I was like a cathedral housing stained glass and ancient doorways, my body full of spaces, of immense ceilings and intricate gothic archways, so that I suddenly, too late, wasn’t sure if I was capable of opening this sacred place. There was a holy moment when I marveled at myself and knew that I hadn’t known how beautiful I was, but it was a short moment, ten seconds maybe that I had before I knew it was too late, like standing on the edge of a road about to cross, wondering if you can race the car that’s coming directly at the place you will run to, feeling the fleeting moment where your existence is intertwined with critical choice.
By then he was confident, sure of himself, and I knew I would not say no when I saw his face. Then when he stepped in, quietly, I suddenly knew he was not solemn enough, I could see it in the shine of his eyes, and I couldn’t stay there with him in my mind. I felt myself leave him there mentally, dreamily find a hazy purgatory where I could only think of the color of my father’s eyes. He did not know he was alone. I could not understand what I had done.
It was cold and I remember thinking about how difficult it would be to wash the sand out of my hair, how the shower would later contain dotted reminders of my impurity, swirling matrices of sand falling down the drain. I thought: T.S. Eliot “These fragments I have shored against my ruin.” Then I thought about the rise of my stomach close to my face and how strange it was to see myself from that angle looking down, how I seemed to belong to someone else—like a wrist watch, like a model airplane. I could not claim myself, I was not this girl. I was not afraid.
Afterwards I told him I wanted to fly on the spinning wheel and he pushed me laughing, with such gentleness that at first the shock of his touch on my arm when I was going around was like the softness of my father’s when he held me or embraced me—like when I was learning to dive and he put his hands on the small of my back to usher me into the pool headlong without fear. My father taught me to look at my belly-button, to concentrate on its shape and I would just slip in like a dolphin. That was how it was as I spun there, I thought I was a dolphin, I imagined that I was free and fast and shiny and strong and gone.
The breeze floated into the hollows of the deepest corners of me, my arm-pits, the space between my toes, the concave of my ear—I was like a cathedral housing stained glass and ancient doorways, my body full of spaces, of immense ceilings and intricate gothic archways, so that I suddenly, too late, wasn’t sure if I was capable of opening this sacred place. There was a holy moment when I marveled at myself and knew that I hadn’t known how beautiful I was, but it was a short moment, ten seconds maybe that I had before I knew it was too late, like standing on the edge of a road about to cross, wondering if you can race the car that’s coming directly at the place you will run to, feeling the fleeting moment where your existence is intertwined with critical choice.
By then he was confident, sure of himself, and I knew I would not say no when I saw his face. Then when he stepped in, quietly, I suddenly knew he was not solemn enough, I could see it in the shine of his eyes, and I couldn’t stay there with him in my mind. I felt myself leave him there mentally, dreamily find a hazy purgatory where I could only think of the color of my father’s eyes. He did not know he was alone. I could not understand what I had done.
It was cold and I remember thinking about how difficult it would be to wash the sand out of my hair, how the shower would later contain dotted reminders of my impurity, swirling matrices of sand falling down the drain. I thought: T.S. Eliot “These fragments I have shored against my ruin.” Then I thought about the rise of my stomach close to my face and how strange it was to see myself from that angle looking down, how I seemed to belong to someone else—like a wrist watch, like a model airplane. I could not claim myself, I was not this girl. I was not afraid.
Afterwards I told him I wanted to fly on the spinning wheel and he pushed me laughing, with such gentleness that at first the shock of his touch on my arm when I was going around was like the softness of my father’s when he held me or embraced me—like when I was learning to dive and he put his hands on the small of my back to usher me into the pool headlong without fear. My father taught me to look at my belly-button, to concentrate on its shape and I would just slip in like a dolphin. That was how it was as I spun there, I thought I was a dolphin, I imagined that I was free and fast and shiny and strong and gone.
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