even*cleveland: nora

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local color

Some photos from my walk yesterday in Central Park.

Little known fact: bloggers have to meet a set quota of shoe self-portraits per annum. Also cute animal images. It's the rules.

P. tagged me to share the tenth photo in my first folder of images. Here it is.

This is the result of an at-home photo session last February. I needed a bio shot for a project and was trying to take one with the self-timer. Nora loves getting her photo taken, and kept sticking her nose at the camera, so finally I yelled at her to get lost. My dulcet tones always inspire her affection, and she hit me with a big kiss just as the shutter went. I never managed to get a workable shot.

Now, I tag LPC.

the best welcome home

One happy dog. I was glad to see her, too.

cold days in cleveland

I was sad over the holidays that we didn't get real snow - it flurried on Christmas day, but barely - so I made some of my own. I finally took my snowflakes down this week, and real ones have arrived, right on cue.

I'm ordering a pair of these, going through soup recipes, and taking my cues from the dog:

Time to hunker down.

big boxes

Nora got a new, extra-fluffy bed in the mail this week. She knew immediately that whatever was in that box for her. As soon as she let me unpack it, she tried to drag the massive thing across the house in her teeth, full of the joy of new possession.

They've been pretty much inseparable ever since.

What sort of diary should I like mine to be? Something loose-knit and yet not slovenly, so elastic that it will embrace anything, solemn, slight or beautiful, that comes into my mind. I should like it to resemble some deep old desk or capacious hold-all, in which one flings a mass of odds and ends without looking them through. I should like to come back, after a year or two, and find that the collection had sorted itself and refined itself and coalesced, as such deposits so mysteriously do, into a mould, transparent enough to reflect the light of our life, and yet steady, tranquil compounds with the aloofness of a work of art. The main requisite, I think, on reading my old volumes, is not to play the part of a censor, but to write as the mood comes or of anything whatever; since I was curious to find how I went for things put in haphazard, and found the significance to lie where I never saw it at the time.

V. Woolf

Don't be amazed if you see my eyes always wandering. In fact, this is my way of reading, and it is only in this way that reading proves fruitful for me. If a book truly interests me, I cannot follow it for more than a few lines before my mind, having seized on a thought that the text suggests to it, or a feeling, or a question, or an image, goes off on a tangent and springs from thought to thought, from image to image, in an itinerary of reasonings and fantasies that I feel the need to pursue to the end, moving away from the book until I have lost sight of it. The stimulus of reading is indispensable to me, and of meaty reading, even if, of every book, I manage to read no more than a few pages. But those few pages already enclose for me whole universes, which I can never exhaust.

Italo Calvino

Why didn't she try collecting something? It didn't matter what. She would find it gave an interest to life, and there was no end to the little curiosities one could easily pick up.

Henry James

local color

self portrait, with dog

the best welcome home

cold days in cleveland

big boxes

contact

elsewhere

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