Friday, August 28, 2009
WTF
'What is it my dear?''Ah, how can we bear it?''Bear what?''This. For so short a time. How can we sleep this time away?''We can be quiet together, and pretend - since it is only the beginning - that we have all the time in the world.''And every day we shall have less. And then none.''Would you rather, therefore, have had nothing at all?''No. This is where I have always been coming to. Since my time began. And when I go away from here, this will be the mid-point, to which everything ran, before, and from which everything will run. But now, my love, we are here, we are now, and those other times are running elsewhere.'"
JUST US SLUTS
Jane, from Gritty Arts Studios and also the AWESOME gal that I took the doll class from to learn how to apply creative paperclay to fabric. Got a bunch of us (I think there will be about 23 of us all together) together to submit as a group to a doll magazine!! Well, D Day is drawing near, and she is getting them ready to submit... and shared with us the dolls as a group!! WOW!! I'm so excited to be part of this!! Thanks so much, Jane
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
DON'T TRY THIS AT HOME
The newest way to make meth is called the Shake n’ Bake or One-pot method and poses a new danger to communities
New on the scene is the easiest and possibly most dangerous way of making meth. Using the one-pot method means that meth cooks can make meth in one sealed container which is generally flipped upside-down to cause the reaction needed to turn several toxic ingredients into meth. This method generally produces meth in smaller quantity, but doesn’t make it any less dangerous.
The chemical reaction going on inside the container (which can be anything from a Coleman fuel can to a soda bottle) causes an extremely high amount of pressure to build up within the container after being shaken; this method can cause a pretty large explosion. In fact, just the other day, a man died from making meth this way.
The biggest danger in relation to this method is the fact that it is fast and portable. So portable in fact, that it is most common to find people using this method to make meth in their car. They generally drive around while the meth is being made to release the fumes and when the process is over, some 40 minutes later, they simply chuck the used container filled with toxic chemical residue out of the window. Aside from the environmental impact this has, it also poses a hazard to children that naturally want to explore and pick up the things they find.
The remnants of the chemicals that remain in the container are generally muddy brown in color. If you suspect someone of making meth using this method please contact authorities as soon as possible. This type of meth lab is really a mobile ticking time bomb. If you come accross a discarded container used in one-pot (shake and bake) meth making do not touch it – contact the police department to discard it, as they will likely need to have a haz-mat team clean up the mess left behind
New on the scene is the easiest and possibly most dangerous way of making meth. Using the one-pot method means that meth cooks can make meth in one sealed container which is generally flipped upside-down to cause the reaction needed to turn several toxic ingredients into meth. This method generally produces meth in smaller quantity, but doesn’t make it any less dangerous.
The chemical reaction going on inside the container (which can be anything from a Coleman fuel can to a soda bottle) causes an extremely high amount of pressure to build up within the container after being shaken; this method can cause a pretty large explosion. In fact, just the other day, a man died from making meth this way.
The biggest danger in relation to this method is the fact that it is fast and portable. So portable in fact, that it is most common to find people using this method to make meth in their car. They generally drive around while the meth is being made to release the fumes and when the process is over, some 40 minutes later, they simply chuck the used container filled with toxic chemical residue out of the window. Aside from the environmental impact this has, it also poses a hazard to children that naturally want to explore and pick up the things they find.
The remnants of the chemicals that remain in the container are generally muddy brown in color. If you suspect someone of making meth using this method please contact authorities as soon as possible. This type of meth lab is really a mobile ticking time bomb. If you come accross a discarded container used in one-pot (shake and bake) meth making do not touch it – contact the police department to discard it, as they will likely need to have a haz-mat team clean up the mess left behind
Thursday, August 20, 2009
TEACHING
The Age of Aquarius and Mimeographed Worksheets
(Scribbling Paradisio by Dore', with a little help from me.)I taught at a traveling writing workshop this summer down in Harmony Grove, Arkansas. School teachers, tired ones, met with us in that sweet but woebegone way public teachers do at the end of the school year. This is when they love their students the most but are cheerfully able to say good-bye for the summer. The workshop was splendid, and you can read about it here and here.We used a book I've had in the workshop arsenal for a few years called The 9 Rights of Every Writer: A Guide for Teachers. It's geared towards educators, but it's a fine fist-in-the-air book about what every writer needs/deserves. These are breathtakingly simple. Every writer has the right to:
reflect
finding personally important topics
go off topic
personalize the writing process
write badly to unearth and clarify meaning
observe other writers at work
assess constructively - and well
experience structural freedom
unearth the power of each writer's voice.This is a powerful book for teachers. You see, most of them are scared to death of students' writing because many teachers don't see themselves as writers. That's an important hurdle during the workshops.As an opening scribbling prompt, my partner-in-workshop-crime Stephanie asked all the teachers to pick one of the rights they wish they'd had as students. Good opener. We all began writing. Kind of.My pen hovered over the page for a bit. It had been a few years (coughcough) since I was a public school student. I tried to summon up something, some writing experience gone awry or pinch-nosed schoolmarm with a bleeding red pen. Nothing.The thing is, I was a public school kid in the Age of Aquarius and Mimeographed Worksheets. With the exception of one senior-year research paper, all I did was fill out purple-inked (you know you can smell them) grammar and punctuation mimeos. They were like a puzzle, really. All you had to do was figure out the pattern.In public school, no one ever tried to teach me how to write. Huh.But the writing happened anyway. I began as Harriet the Spy and became the girl with the contraband poetry books in her locker and a Secret Notebook in her purse. I wrote incessantly, mostly terrible poetry then published in the high school literary magazine, but would never have devalued my late '70s coolness-mystique (good lord) by being on staff. My plan was to be Gloria Steinem and Sylvia Plath. Simultaneously.That morning in Harmony Grove I ended up writing about the freedom students need to scribble outside of standardized testing and five-paragraph nightmares. I wrote about the freedom to be left alone with the words, to develop fearlessness and a casual attitude because everything we write isn't stark reflection of our worth. It's practice. It's play. It's necessary.They're just words. We can always make more.So go write something.
(Scribbling Paradisio by Dore', with a little help from me.)I taught at a traveling writing workshop this summer down in Harmony Grove, Arkansas. School teachers, tired ones, met with us in that sweet but woebegone way public teachers do at the end of the school year. This is when they love their students the most but are cheerfully able to say good-bye for the summer. The workshop was splendid, and you can read about it here and here.We used a book I've had in the workshop arsenal for a few years called The 9 Rights of Every Writer: A Guide for Teachers. It's geared towards educators, but it's a fine fist-in-the-air book about what every writer needs/deserves. These are breathtakingly simple. Every writer has the right to:
reflect
finding personally important topics
go off topic
personalize the writing process
write badly to unearth and clarify meaning
observe other writers at work
assess constructively - and well
experience structural freedom
unearth the power of each writer's voice.This is a powerful book for teachers. You see, most of them are scared to death of students' writing because many teachers don't see themselves as writers. That's an important hurdle during the workshops.As an opening scribbling prompt, my partner-in-workshop-crime Stephanie asked all the teachers to pick one of the rights they wish they'd had as students. Good opener. We all began writing. Kind of.My pen hovered over the page for a bit. It had been a few years (coughcough) since I was a public school student. I tried to summon up something, some writing experience gone awry or pinch-nosed schoolmarm with a bleeding red pen. Nothing.The thing is, I was a public school kid in the Age of Aquarius and Mimeographed Worksheets. With the exception of one senior-year research paper, all I did was fill out purple-inked (you know you can smell them) grammar and punctuation mimeos. They were like a puzzle, really. All you had to do was figure out the pattern.In public school, no one ever tried to teach me how to write. Huh.But the writing happened anyway. I began as Harriet the Spy and became the girl with the contraband poetry books in her locker and a Secret Notebook in her purse. I wrote incessantly, mostly terrible poetry then published in the high school literary magazine, but would never have devalued my late '70s coolness-mystique (good lord) by being on staff. My plan was to be Gloria Steinem and Sylvia Plath. Simultaneously.That morning in Harmony Grove I ended up writing about the freedom students need to scribble outside of standardized testing and five-paragraph nightmares. I wrote about the freedom to be left alone with the words, to develop fearlessness and a casual attitude because everything we write isn't stark reflection of our worth. It's practice. It's play. It's necessary.They're just words. We can always make more.So go write something.
Monday, August 17, 2009
WILD NIGHTS
Wild nights! Wild nights!Were I with thee,Wild nights should beOur luxury!
Futile the windsTo a heart in port,Done with the compass,Done with the chart.
Rowing in Eden!Ah! the sea!Might I but moorTo-night in thee!
Futile the windsTo a heart in port,Done with the compass,Done with the chart.
Rowing in Eden!Ah! the sea!Might I but moorTo-night in thee!
Saturday, August 15, 2009
ONE TO MANY
We've all been there... out at a club, dancing, singing, having a grand 'ol time when some random gets too close and personal. I was just hanging out, minding my own business and having a drink with a few friends when some big broad blind sides me with a heel to the face. Before I know whats going on I'm dripping wet. My straight hair instantly curls upon making contact with the vodka drink that managed to cover my entire person, including my black designer shoes. At this point I'm practically glued to the pleather couch where I was seated, the sticky drink serving as an adhesive between me and the couch. The big broad was sprawled across the floor, her head adjacent to the table corner. She had toppled over our couch after attempting some sort of dance move that required more dexterity then she obviously possessed. She fell from the makeshift stage area that connected two back to back couches. The so called area was apparently slick, as a smart girl would infer by the shiny surface, but she doesn't deserve that much credit. Even as she laid there, not moving, I couldn't help but hate her. Hate her for getting so drunk, hate her for creeping up in my personal space and hate her for ruining my makeup, shoes and night! Even after she was escorted out of the club and my drinks were comped, I hated her. I hated her for the sole reason that she was just another stupid drunk girl who managed to ruin my night after one too many drinks.
Friday, August 14, 2009
A little of this and a litle of that
A little of this and a little of that
Posted on august 15 2009 by elise garcia
I’m at a loss for words lately. Even at home, I feel like I’ve been sort of quiet lately. I have topics rolling around in my head, but I don’t have more than a sentence or two to say about any of them, hence the dreaded bulleted list. Although, I don’t know why people hate bulleted lists – they are organized, concise, and visually appealing…
Our car got keyed yesterday. The one that’s for sale. I use the term “keyed” loosely, because whatever they used wasn’t sharp enough to scratch through the paint, but it was sharp enough to leave big scuff marks all the way down the drivers side. It upsets me enough that we live near people that don’t respect their own property but now they are damaging ours for no good reason and it’s infuriating. Luckily, we were able to buff most of the damage out and we have someone coming to look at the car tonight.
I felt obligated to make a donation to get environmental plates for the Prius. Add that to listening to NPR, using recyclable shopping bags, and voting democrat and I think we’re officially crunchy. Although Mike did throw trash out the widow of the Prius on the highway last week. Oh, don’t act shocked! I’m sure you’ve thrown a straw wrapper or two out the window in your day.
I just finished reading Middlesex by Jeffrey Eugenides (He also wrote The Virgin Suicides – which I love.) and it’s the best book I’ve read in a very long time…and it’s about a hermaphrodite, which strangely intrigues me. I mean, her/his grandparents are siblings and her/his parents are cousins – of course she/he has balls. It’s so well written that I find myself forgetting that it’s fiction. It won a Pulitzer Prize – you should read it.
And finally, pictures from our trip to the Henry Ford Museum. Mike is noticeably absent from the photos because he didn’t shave and looked like a homeless man so he refused to have his picture taken
Posted on august 15 2009 by elise garcia
I’m at a loss for words lately. Even at home, I feel like I’ve been sort of quiet lately. I have topics rolling around in my head, but I don’t have more than a sentence or two to say about any of them, hence the dreaded bulleted list. Although, I don’t know why people hate bulleted lists – they are organized, concise, and visually appealing…
Our car got keyed yesterday. The one that’s for sale. I use the term “keyed” loosely, because whatever they used wasn’t sharp enough to scratch through the paint, but it was sharp enough to leave big scuff marks all the way down the drivers side. It upsets me enough that we live near people that don’t respect their own property but now they are damaging ours for no good reason and it’s infuriating. Luckily, we were able to buff most of the damage out and we have someone coming to look at the car tonight.
I felt obligated to make a donation to get environmental plates for the Prius. Add that to listening to NPR, using recyclable shopping bags, and voting democrat and I think we’re officially crunchy. Although Mike did throw trash out the widow of the Prius on the highway last week. Oh, don’t act shocked! I’m sure you’ve thrown a straw wrapper or two out the window in your day.
I just finished reading Middlesex by Jeffrey Eugenides (He also wrote The Virgin Suicides – which I love.) and it’s the best book I’ve read in a very long time…and it’s about a hermaphrodite, which strangely intrigues me. I mean, her/his grandparents are siblings and her/his parents are cousins – of course she/he has balls. It’s so well written that I find myself forgetting that it’s fiction. It won a Pulitzer Prize – you should read it.
And finally, pictures from our trip to the Henry Ford Museum. Mike is noticeably absent from the photos because he didn’t shave and looked like a homeless man so he refused to have his picture taken
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