Life is so fluid that one can only hope to capture the living moment, to capture it alive and fresh … without destroying that moment.
Anais Nin
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Tags: Quoting
I am not a fan of Formula One racing, the mind numbing sound of high powered automobiles traveling on winding, swirling, looping tracks of asphalt and concrete. I’m afraid I land on quite the opposite end of the spectrum, the kill joy who watches in horror as I contemplate environmental degradation through the excessive use of fuel and rubber and who knows what else to make it all happen.
I am, however, fond of stories, in particular of those who have found precisely their intended métier, as the French would say, without equivocation or second thoughts. The often brave men and women who hear distinctly the voice of God, Buddha, Allah, or perhaps a brilliant collection of cosmic dust, depending upon their persuasion, to move this way, along this path, despite the din of voices screaming otherwise.
Ayrton Senna was such a man, brilliant, charming, handsome, and a great knower of speed on macadam. He found his passion early, behind the wheel of a go-kart, and would hone his skill over years and continents, through awful politics, pettiness, and ill conceived and implemented rules to dominate the sport, and win, win, win.
He was a gentle man, a patriotic Brazilian, close to God and his family, and an absolute pleasure to watch, behind the wheel, moving in ways I can hardly fathom, or speaking about that which mattered to him.
What great testament too, to the fine direction of the filmmakers to create such a touching portrait and have this naysayer on the edge of her seat with fascination and anticipation. My soul was cracked. Very well done, indeed.
Thank you, Bert, for the recommendation.
Tags: Movies
When twilight drops her curtain down
And pins it with a star
Remember that you have a friend
Though she may wander far.
Lucy Maud Montgomery
Hello dear readers,
How are you? Wrapped up, warm and wonderful, I hope. I am cold, despite a multitude of layers and a hat on my head. And busy, writing, revising my novel, spending days in a flurry of words and fleeting thoughts. It’s been rather lovely and satisfying, though all consuming, too.
The workers are done, the last out on Friday, and the quiet’s been blissful. No more banging or wondering when someone will arrive. No new dust being scattered by labor either, though plenty of the old dust is still getting kicked around. I’m thinking we’ll have one of those furnace cleaners come after the new year, and then we will paint the basement, too, so very, very many gallons.
I’ve still not hung the pictures in the bathroom, nor decorated our house for the holidays, save two candles and a festive plaid cloth on the dining room table. To be honest, I don’t really miss it. I’m just so happy for quiet and grateful to get things done, that it doesn’t seem to matter.
In the evenings, after my mind is spent, and I’ve made some sort of soup for dinner, last night was possibly the best fish chowder, and the night before minestrone, I settle in on the sofa, knit, and watch movies. It’s about all my little brain wants or can handle. The hubster plays the piano (he’s learning music from Amelie), types away on his very old Commodore-64 in his new man-cave, or sits with me, a cat on his lap and mine.
It’s a wonderful life, sometimes busy and hectic, but mostly exactly what we want, and always good, lovely, and fine.
It’s not what you look at that matters, it’s what you see.
Henry David Thoreau
Tags: Portland
I believe in all that is luxe
and cities kitted out in their holiday best.
I believe
in luminous goodness
concealed in darkness,
in the impossible made true,
in old friends,
in pride whipping the sky,
and quiet roars
wrapped in moonlight.
I believe
in this home away from home,
made carefully by hand,
a place worthy of reflecting,
and spying what is ahead
the unexpected curves
and sights unseen
shared with love.
I believe in the power of music
to rock
and love
then and now
in utero,
life, and death.
I believe
the truth
is out there
and in here
and that great light
follows
those who share it
by sea,
land, and air.
Come with me
to the place we all share
be yourself,
and stay.
Art has to move you and design does not, unless it’s a good design for a bus.
David Hockney
This is what my life looks like sometimes, with bi-focals. The yellow I’m working on is a cowl for me, now finished and cozy, but in need of a hat and some matching hand warmers, no fingers, so I can take pictures and be touchy-feely. I’m on the hunt for just the right patterns.
I have also learned after making three cowls in a week, it is hard to watch television or a movie without the click click of needles in my hands. I feel sooo still.
p.s. My cats look huge!
C-O-L-A cola.
What is neon?
Burnside!
Holman’s, I do not dare.
Unseen smut.
Brrr…it’s cold. Portland cold, anyway, with frozen birdbaths and hoary frosted crispy lawns that look pretty in the morning light. Slippery, too, though, so please mind your step.
I took these with Lori last night, a blogger’s delight photo shoot with our respective families in tow. We were all happily full of pasta and tiramisu, but never of the company. It’s fun when we are together, sharing salt shakers with a cool young person (oh my dear, what to call you?) and also laughing at how much we require. To my slight worry and surely to my Dad’s delight, I fully embraced the sodium!
As for the group, we chatted, laughed, and planned our futures, lamenting undone work of all varieties and broken Jesus candles while cheering exciting vacations and getaways. It’s marvelous to have friends.
So, I guess the pall over my mood has fully lifted. Life is good, gentle readers, indeed.
Tags: Portland
I’ve been in a jumble the whole of the week. For a myriad of reasons, I suppose, mostly of the construction variety. The unpredictability of well meaning skilled laborers tinkering and toiling in the basement. The crashing booming banging of progress and regression, two fluffy cats and two haggard humans hoping for a sweet and peaceful end.
Then there is my own mind and its tricky machinations. Why do I feel sad and disjointed when, in November, in the wet rubber boot city that is Portland, Oregon, we are lavished with a spell of straight off the Colorado plains weather? Crisp cold foggy mornings turning to radiant sunglass afternoons followed by flamingo sunsets. It’s an early gift of Christmas, yet my fickle mind refuses to soften, no matter how I wield the hammer. Oh chemistry of my circuitry, you do vex me.
These photos chronicle last Friday. We walked, sat, sipped, and prattled all around the town, a visually stunning day with the best mate a girl could ever ask for. I love YOU, Gregory Spencer Cooper, heart and soul.
Astonishing what dazzling light
and lively conversation can do for a mediocre meal.
Truly.
Mossy sunlight, you are Portland.
I’ve said it before and will say it again, Saint John’s Bridge, you are my best loved. Beautiful verdigris soaring above the murk of the Willamette, into dreams and the sky. Wrap me in a shroud and toss my spent body from yours. I shall not fall to the water, but rise to the heavens, with your spires as my wings.
Forever
awed
by
the beauty
of the
everyday.
This is where we live, each and every one of us.
Ah, just there, I felt it soften.
…
Happiest of Birthdays to my Grandma.
Hugs and profound love…
Tags: Portland
Hi
Welcome to Under a Red Roof.
I’m Colleen Sohn, writer, poet, dreamer.
I like to take pictures.
I’m a bit silly, love yoga, eating, and good stories, because bad ones are a bummer.
Thanks for stopping by…
My Novel
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