22 March 2012

funny how an old note...

can capture the essence of a person - today would have been my mother's 82nd birthday, and she hated to write letters.

this was written on the back of a fundraiser flyer...

18 March 2012

i've been reading...

"When Chip got back to the shop he found, not unexpectedly, one of his regulars, Ferd, making himself at home in an armchair with a vintage copy of Silver Surfer. 'Dude,' Chip said, slapping hands with him.

'What up, Chip.' Ferd was fifteen, a spotty, furtive, ignored kid...The kind of kid Chip knew pretty well, from having been one himself.

'I've gotta close up today, I got some business to tend to.' Ferd looked stricken. 'But you can hang out here, if you don't let anybody else in.'


'You can do inventory if you feel like it. You remember how to do inventory?'

'Yeah, sure I do.' The kid looked as close as he ever got to happy. You'd think he'd been asked to sweep up piles of gold coins.

...He hadn't been meaning to start a business. He'd just been looking for something to do with his old comic book collection. Then he'd added to it at swap meets, along with Magic cards, Dungeons & Dragons, posters of wizards, space aliens, warriors. He had to admit, he got a kick out of all that stuff. What everybody really wanted was video games, so he sold those too: GoldenEye, Counter-Strike, Warcraft. And he'd ended up with this dandy clubhouse for the town's lost boys.

...Chip's establishment wasn't exactly what theChamber of Commerce had in mind for the space. Still not too many people taking advantage of all the swell retail opportunities. And the ones who'd always dreamed of opening their own flower shop or knitting boutique had smacked their heads into a pretty solid economic wall."

The Year We Left Home Jean Thompson

17 March 2012

Ireland, and its poetry

The Invisible Mender (My First Mother)

I'm sewing on new buttons
to this washed silk shirt.
Mother of pearl,
I chose them carefully.
In the haberdashers on Chepstow Place
I turned a boxful over
one by one,
searching for the backs with flaws:
those blemished green or pink or aubergine,
small birth marks on the creamy shell.

These afternoons are short,
the sunlight buried after three or four,
sap in the cold earth.
The trees are bare.
I'm six days late.
My right breast aches so
when I bend to catch a fallen button
that strays across the floor.
Either way,
there'll be blood on my hands.

Thirty-seven years ago you sat in poor light
and sewed your time away,
then left.
But I'm no good at this:
a peony of blood gathers on my thumb, falls
then widens on the shirt like a tiny, opening mouth.

I think of you like this —
as darkness comes,
as the window that I can't see through
is veiled with mist
which turns to condensation
slipping down tall panes of glass,
a mirror to the rain outside —
and I know that I'll not know
if you still are mending in the failing light,
or if your hands (as small as mine)
lie still now, clasped together, underground.

Sarah Maguire

16 March 2012

happy birthday paolo!

once upon a time, he played with ken and barbie...

he tucked away his dolls but discovered super heroes - his girlfriend is okay with his toy collection (smile) and that is all that matters.

here's a recent interview: toronto comic con 2012.

happy birthday!

love, mom

"Before you can blame an individual for their choices, you have to make sure they have the same choices as everyone else."

Bix , the fanatic cook.