Summer Love - By Nieves!

After last summer's adventure making my own version of Queen Isabela's Hungary Water , I found myself longing for a natural, hand made skin care routine but had no corresponding longing to make one for myself. At best, I'm a reluctant skin-care product purchaser  - I resent the fear-of-aging that companies package in every bottle.

Luckily for me, this summer, I found and fell in love with the skin care line, By Nieves. The ingredients are pure, the scent is gorgeous and most importantly, my mid-40s skin actually looks radiant and feels fantastic.

I use the C-Perfect Skin serum, Face Fix mask and scrub, and the Cloud of Protection spray which is reported to keep you "safe from illness, bad vibes and stinkiness"...


The line is made by by Nieves Rathbun and in addition to all of the natural ingredients, I am sure she adds some sort of beautiful gypsy magic to each some-kind-of-wonderful bottle. Bravo Nieves! and Thank you!

Messages from the Man on the Moon

With the new moon peeking out at us, I thought it would be nice to share this film created by one of my middle school students...interstellar communications from the man in the moon and magical realism in middle school!

Records to Cure a Bad Case of the Januaries

Oooh the cold rainy weather has found this gal with a fretsy case of the Januarys...

Time to get out the portable record player I keep in my closet for such occasions. A thrift store find, its made of cardboard and features illustrations of some hep late 60s/early 70s teens grooving out to their favorite tunes...kind of like this:

Freezing rain means that its time to spread the records out on the living room floor, relish pulling them out of their sleeves and set the needle lightly on the vinyl...

Here's Judy Collins singing Jaques Brel's "La Chansons des Vieux Amants": 

And for the Fretsy Januarys, the cure might be The Januaries singing "Chocolate and Strawberries":

And it wouldn't be complete without playing this gem from the first "big kid" album I received for Christmas, Marie Osmond's This Is the Way That I Feel. 

I'm not sure why Marie is singing "Miss You Nights" while wandering the desert in a white veil, but maybe I'll do the same - who knows? It might cure the Januarys...

Light in the dark, magic winter

In these dark winter times, I relish every opportunity to remind myself that the light is returning. I light candles to illuminate the dark...for me, winter is a time to relish love and light (thanks to Andyblalok for creating this!):

Memories come cascading in during winter...here's a delightful, playful reflection on memory told through light painting (all thanks to mrtigerrr):

 

And of course, Kate Bush captures the magic so brilliantly:

Queen Isabel and her Hungary Water

Ah summer...

For this teacher, it means the appalling luxury of indulging in whimsical artsy-crafty projects for the soul sake of my own enjoyment. Today's adventure is Queen Isabel's Hungary Water. I used to purchase a version of this astringent/body splash from a lovely tea-reading gypsy who has since moved on. Legend has it that a Queen (could be Isabel or perhaps Elizabeth but no-one really knows) Since I am at the bottom of my last bottle, I must try to concoct my own.

First, the harvest. I clipped these various ingredients from my own and my neighbors' gardens (we're all chummy like that): roses, lavender, thyme, spearmint and chamomile. It was a particular delight to harvest lemon balm, a weed that grows in our driveway.

Then I put them all into a jar with some lemon and orange rinds and covered them in vodka. Now the smooshed ingredients sit in the sun for three weeks. Then I'll add some rose water and hopefully end up with a delightful, cooling splash...or it could end up a smelly, moldy mess. Hopefully, the former...

It is a tremendous blessing to have this leisure available for me to play like this.

Belarusian animation: Forest Tales 1/2 (+English subtitles)

This morning brings thick, slushy snow drops falling from the sky...they won't last, but the dog and I like to watch them making their heavy way to the warm ground nonetheless. I woke from a myriad of anxious dreams: meetings not attended, lines not learned for plays that were opening in minutes, materials for projects not gathered, not enough money for the food I needed, technology not working and a deep threat from a fey, artistic and dangerous young man. Of all those, the latter scared me the most, but oddly enough, during the attack, I said, "what do you need from me?" He answered that he needed a massage on the shoulders. So I embraced him, rubbed his shoulders and breathed out his tension. It seemed to help tremendously.


Anxiety and the fretfulness of wanting to stretch are themes that brought me to "Forest Tales" a Belarusian animation (apparently made of sand on a light table) I love the voiceover work and text, the wandering plot and the variety of anxiety monsters. (The piece comes in two installments)

magical lights in the sky

So, can you imagine that so many lanterns floating up into the night sky bearing so many wishes to the heavens would be so beautiful? To be honest, I saw them first in Disney's movie "Tangled" - but the tradition is Asian in nature. The northern Thai people (the Lanna) use them year-round. You light them, let the lanterns inflate and then send them up into the sky. 


The best part is when you have a group of people who send them up at the same time, even better when sent over a body of water (the reflections, the reflections!)


more simple magic...

the land of twitterpatia

So, the truth is that this Fall has been all about falling, diving, soaring into the exquisite land of Twitterpatia. This is a land found on the map of the heart, is usually found in springtime and is inspired by a quote from Disney's Bambi...if you still don't understand, here's the definition from Urban Dictionary:
Twitterpated:
1) to be completely enamored with someone/something.
2) the flighty exciting feeling you get when you think about/see the object of your affection.
3) romantically excited (i.e.: aroused)
4) the ever increasing acceleration of heartbeat and body temperature as a result of being engulfed amidst the exhilaration and joy of being/having a romantic entity in someone's life.


My sweetheart is something of a cowboy and so this little video (by William Tyler and Ben and Amy Marcantel) seems appropriate:

simple magic and something significant

This past weekend was spent in a little WPA cabin nestled in the woods; wrapped in the sound of falling rain and a rushing creek. There was snow on the ground when we arrived and our breath hung in the air - even inside. Several logs in the cast-iron stove sent the cold scurrying. The whole experience was a bit of an adventure for this mostly-city-mouse and brought so many simple, magical moments: glistening raindrops, clearing skies, melting snow-sculptures, strange moths who wouldn't last the day, and the sure knowledge that something significant is manifesting in my life.


This little shadow puppet piece (created by someone named "Caustic Windows") features a boy, a deer and some ice - all accompanied by Debussy's "Syrinx". Wonderful!

The Falling Girl

I happened upon this video about a collaboration between interactive media artist Scott Snibbe and choreographer/filmmaker Annie Loui. These artists created an interactive art installation inspired by Dino Buzzati's surrealist short story, The Falling Girl:


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This led me to another delightful treasure: Miette's Bedtime Story Podcast. Miette chooses short literature, reads it aloud in her own, gorgeous voice and you, the listener, drift into richly worded worlds. In this episode, she reads The Falling Girl:  http://www.miettecast.com/2005/09/24/the-falling-girl/


And, for those of you who'd rather read on your own, here is the text of Dino Buzzati's The Falling Girl 


Marta was nineteen. She looked out over the roof of the skyscraper, and seeing the city below shining in the dusk, she was overcome with dizziness.


The skyscraper was silver, supreme and fortunate in that most beautiful and pure evening, as here and there the wind stirred a few fine filaments of cloud against an absolutely incredible blue background. It was in fact the hour when the city is seized by inspiration and whoever is not blind is swept away by it. From that airy height the girl saw the streets and the masses of buildings writhing in the long spasm of sunset; and at the point where the white of the houses ended, the blue of the sea began. Seen from above, the sea looked as if it were rising. And since the veils of the night were advancing from the east, the city became a sweet abyss burning with pulsating lights. Within it were powerful men, and women who were even more powerful, furs and violins, cars glossy as onyx, the neon signs of nightclubs, the entrance halls of darkened mansions, fountains, diamonds, old silent gardens, parties, desires, affairs, and above all, that consuming sorcery of the evening which provokes dreams of greatness and glory.


Seeing these things, Marta hopelessly leaned out over the railing and let herself go. She felt as if she were hovering in the air, but she was falling. Given the extraordinary height of the skyscraper, the streets and squares down at the bottom were very far away. Who knows how long it would take here to get there. Yet the girl was falling.


At that hour the terraces and balconies of the top floors were filled with rich and elegant people who were having cocktails and making silly conversation. They were scattered in crowds, and their talk muffled the music. Marta passed before them and several people looked out to watch her.


Flights of that kind (mostly by girls, in fact) were not rare in the skyscraper and they constituted an interesting diversion for the tenants; this was also the reason why the price of those apartments was very high.


The sun had not yet completely set and it did its best to illuminate Marta's simple clothing. She wore a modest, inexpensive spring dress bought off the rack. Yet the lyrical light of the sunset exalted it somewhat, making it chic.


From the millionares' balconies, gallant hands were stretched out toward her, offering flowers and cocktails. "Miss, would you like a drink?.......Gentle Butterfly, why not stop a minute with us?"


She laughed, hovering, happy (but meanwhile she was falling): "No, thanks, friends. I can't. I'm in a hurry."


"Where are you headed?" they asked her.


"Ah, don't make me say," Marta answered, waving her hands in a friendly good-bye.


A young man, tall, dark, very distinguished, extended an arm to snatch her. She liked him. And yet Marta quickly defended herself: "How dare you, sir?" and she had time to give him a little tap on the nose.


The beautiful people, then, were interested in her and that filled her with satisfaction. She felt fascinating, stylish. On the flower-filled terraces, amid the bustle of waiters in white and the bursts of exotic songs, there was talk for a few minutes, perhaps less, of the young woman who was passing by (from top to bottom, on a vertical course). Some thought her pretty, others thought her so-so, everyone found her interesting.


"You have your entire life before you," they told her, "why are you in such a hurry? You still have time to rush around and busy yourself. Stop with us for a little while, it's only a modest little party among friends, really, you'll have a good time."


She made an attempt to answer but the force of gravity had already quickly carried her to the floor below, then two, three, four floors below; in fact, exactly as you gaily rush around when you are just nineteen years old.


Of course the distance that separated her from the bottom, that is, from street level, was immense. It is true that she began falling just a little while ago, but the street always seemed very far away.


In the meantime, however, the sun had plunged into the sea; one could see it disappear, transformed into a shimmering reddish mushroom. As a result, it no longer emitted its vivifying rays to light up the girl's dress and make her a seductive comet. It was a good thing that the windows and terraces of the skyscraper were almost all illuminated and the bright reflections completely gilded her as she gradually passed by.


Now Marta no longer saw just groups of carefree people inside the apartments; at times there were even some businesses where the employees, in black or blue aprons, were sitting at desks in long rows. Several of them were young people as old as or older then she, and weary of the day by now, every once in a while they raised their eyes from their duties and from typewriters. In this way they too saw her, and a few ran to the windows. "Where are you going? Why so fast? Who are you?" they shouted to her. One could divine something akin to envy in their words.


"They're waiting for me down there," she answered, "I can't stop. Forgive me." And again she laughed, wavering on her headlong fall, but it wasn't like her previous laughter anymore. The night had craftily fallen and Marta started to feel cold.


Meanwhile, looking downward, she saw a bright halo of lights at the entrance of a building. Here long black cars were stopping (from the great distance they looked as small as ants), and men and women were getting out, anxious to go inside. She seemed to make out the sparkling of jewels in that swarm. Above the entrance flags were flying.


They were obviously giving a large party, exactly the kind that Marta dreamed of ever since she was a child. Heaven help her if she missed it. Down there opportunity was waiting for her, fate, romance, the true inauguration of her life. Would she arrive in time?


She spitefully noticed that another girl was falling about thirty meters above her. She was decidedly prettier than Marta and she wore a rather classy evening gown. For some unknown reason she came down much faster than Marta, so that in a few moments she passed by her and disappeared below, even though Marta was calling her. Without doubt she would get to the party before Marta; perhaps she had a plan all worked out to supplant her.


Then she realized that they weren't alone. Along the sides of the skyscraper many other young women were plunging downward, their faces taut with the excitement of the flight, their hands cheerfully waving as if to say: look at us, here we are, entertain us, is not the world ours?


It was a contest, then. And she only had a shabby little dress while those other girls were dressed smartly like high-fashion models and some even wrapped luxurious mink stoles tightly around their bare shoulders. So self-assured when she began the leap, Marta now felt a tremor growing inside her; perhaps it was just the cold; but it may have been fear too, the fear of having made an error without remedy.


It seemed to be late at night now. The windows were darkened one after another, the echoes of music became more rare, the offices were empty, young men no longer leaned out from the windowsills extending their hands. What time was it? At the entrance to the building down below-which in the meantime had grown larger, and one could now distinguish all the architectural details-the lights were still burning, but the bustle of cars had stopped. Every now and then, in fact, small groups of people came out of the main floor wearily drawing away. Then the lights of the entrance were also turned off.


Marta felt her heart tightening. Alas, she wouldn't reach the ball in time. Glancing upwards, she saw the pinnacle of the skyscraper in all its cruel power. It was almost completely dark. On the top floors a few windows here and there were still lit. And above the top the first glimmer of dawn was spreading.


In a dining recess on the twenty-eighth floor a man about forty years old was having his morning coffee and reading his newspaper while his wife tidied up the room. A clock on the sideboard indicated 8:45. A shadow suddenly passed before the window.


"Alberto!" the wife shouted. "Did you see that? A woman passed by."


"Who was it?" he said without raising his eyes from the newspaper.


"An old woman," the wife answered. "A decrepit old woman. She looked frightened."


"It's always like that," the man muttered. "At these low floors only falling old women pass by. You can see beautiful girls from the hundred-and-fiftieth floor up. Those apartments don't cost so much for nothing."


"At least down here there's the advantage," observed the wife, "that you can hear the thud when they touch the ground."


"This time not even that," he said, shaking his head, after he stood listening for a few minutes. Then he had another sip of coffee.

Stepping out on that beam of love

Years and years ago, a dear friend told me this joke:

 

Two Sillies are standing on the edge of a crevasse. They want to cross to the other side but the crevasse is deep and treacherous and the distance too far to jump. One says to the other, "How are we ever going to get across?"

"No problem, I got me a flashlight!"

"An just how's that gonna help us?"

"Easy. You just shine the flashlight across the crevasse to the other side, and I'll walk across the beam! Then toss me the flashlight, and I'll shine it so you can cross after me!"

After some deep thought the first Sillie says, "Oh no, that won't work. I'll get
halfway across the beam and you'll shut off the flashlight!"

Now, my friend told me this joke in an attempt to lighten my mood. But I, being a philosophic type, interpreted it as a parable about the numinous, luminous nature of love and about trust and faith. I've been musing about that joke lately (and about the numinous, luminous nature of love); my musings led me to this delightful flashlight animation video:

beautiful namesake

Here is Dutch singer, Mathilde Santing singing "Wonderful Life"...a lovely song to accompany reflections on the wonders of magic of my own life on this gorgeous, winter's day...

dream eaters and protectors of sleep

Found this wonderful shadow puppet piece, "Baku" by John Atterbury. Fantastic depiction of the Japanese spiritual creatures who devour our nightmares...


baku (shadow puppets) from John Atterbury on Vimeo.

Shadow Puppetry = perfect for Autumn

Shadow puppetry is utterly perfect for Autumn...for Mathilde, it brings to mind the falling leaves and fading folliage. This video is so utterly wonderful, wonderful, wonderful...perfect for this Fall, perfect for so many fading experiences. Australian artist Stephen Mushin and the Stories from the Ground Collective created this video for the song "I'll Forget You" (by musicians Lior and Sia.) When you check out Stephen's website, you'll find more fantastic projects plus great links to other amazing creatives: http://www.stephenmushin.com/

Melancholy Moon

The moon is hiding under clouds tonight...