I was looking up School House Rock videos and I discovered these jems. Jazzy Spies. I think this was before my time. I love the colors, patterns, concepts, and action in each of these videos (they have them for numbers 1-10). I guess what I'm trying to say is I love everything about them.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Thursday, September 9, 2010
I'll Find Something to Put Here.
I love the work I do at work (in the Kitchen). I wouldn't be there if I didn't like it. I'm not really a "foodie" or aspiring chef or anything like that- but I'm passionate about the camp I work at and it's ministry and purpose. The other day I explained this to a dear friend as we were lobbing juicy, disgusting bags of trash into a dumpster at camp. If I did this at any of my past places of work, I wouldn't have lasted long (generally, I didn't). At camp, I'm (90%) immune to trash juice, crazy people, and the general intensity of the job. In edition, Christ is my strength- but that's a whole different edition. I don't think that I can give God's goodness any justice in writing right now- just put that in your pocket. In my life, God has been good by changing my heart and reinforcing me with patience and perseverance in all situations.
So, I love what I do. I already said that.
I recently got commissioned to paint a piece for the youth group I just started volunteering with. In fact, when I was in the middle of my "interview," the high school pastor suddenly changed the subject from whatever we had been talking about, saying (and I paraphrase, for I seldom remember a quote), "say, you don't happen to be artistic, do you?"
For one of the first times in my life I answered this question without hesitation: "Yes."
From that point, it was history. I started getting too many ideas (as usual) and emailing my friend who works with the youth group every hour on the hour with some kind of commentary about the project. Poor guy.
I've probably put in 10 hours, and I'm nowhere near being finished. But honestly, I'm happy as a clam. Like, really happy. The only time I feel like this happens to me is when I'm inspired to create. There have been so many instances in my life where I've had a project idea or an opportunity to beautify something. These have been the times when my brain goes crazy (in a good way) and I feel a strong sense of purpose in what I'm doing.
God created me and everything else. As I was painting the other day I realized in my creativity, God's attribute of creativity is bleeding into everything I do. It's kind of like I'm Alex Mack and that chemical (whatever it was) is pumping through my veins and gives me some kind of silly side-effect like powers (okay, stupid analogy). And if his creativity (which I see all around me) is a million times more concentrated and, well, creative- how can I not be excited to do what I do best? It's from God, and it is God.
So, I love what I do. I already said that.
I recently got commissioned to paint a piece for the youth group I just started volunteering with. In fact, when I was in the middle of my "interview," the high school pastor suddenly changed the subject from whatever we had been talking about, saying (and I paraphrase, for I seldom remember a quote), "say, you don't happen to be artistic, do you?"
For one of the first times in my life I answered this question without hesitation: "Yes."
From that point, it was history. I started getting too many ideas (as usual) and emailing my friend who works with the youth group every hour on the hour with some kind of commentary about the project. Poor guy.
I've probably put in 10 hours, and I'm nowhere near being finished. But honestly, I'm happy as a clam. Like, really happy. The only time I feel like this happens to me is when I'm inspired to create. There have been so many instances in my life where I've had a project idea or an opportunity to beautify something. These have been the times when my brain goes crazy (in a good way) and I feel a strong sense of purpose in what I'm doing.
God created me and everything else. As I was painting the other day I realized in my creativity, God's attribute of creativity is bleeding into everything I do. It's kind of like I'm Alex Mack and that chemical (whatever it was) is pumping through my veins and gives me some kind of silly side-effect like powers (okay, stupid analogy). And if his creativity (which I see all around me) is a million times more concentrated and, well, creative- how can I not be excited to do what I do best? It's from God, and it is God.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Book Cover.
I made a cloth cover for my honking big ESV Study Bible. I figure it's a good way to get in to my arting and crafting post camp. My project for fall is a stop-motion film, so I figured I'd start small.
Side note: I'm so excited to have a new computer. I've been without for about five months and it's been totally fine. But man, nothing beats a new laptop that has Photobooth. Small victories.
Sunday, May 23, 2010
5-500.
So, Five to Five Hundred, the project that my buddy started up is off the ground and on a blog. Here be the link: http://fivefivehundred.wordpress.com/. I'm proud to say that I've posted a story every week, save one. That week was crazy. It's really challenging and enjoyable to write with constraints, I say. If you're interested in joining us, feel free to do so!
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Five to Five Hundred.
For the past few years, I've written a lot of disjointed, scattered beginnings to stories, smatterings of songs accompanied by a guitar or banjo, and shoots of tales that I recall from my own life, and hope to someday connect into some sort of non-fiction piece, specifically about Christian spirituality. I'm a very easily distracted person though, and as soon as I have an idea and start to run with it, I slow from a sprint to a jog, a jog to a stagger, and a stagger to a nap on the concrete.
My friend Brad just started a writing group with a few friends and I where he basically gives us five random words from the dictionary on a Sunday and we have to turn them into five hundred words by Wednesday. I have a long way to go with my writing, but this project is great because I enjoy working with a bit of structure and some sort of constraint. Five words helped me to regain my focus and finish a project this last week- although, five hundred words only got me to the introduction of the story. I may write another completely unrelated piece this week, but I'm also considering taking the five new words Brad sends and using them to write the next five hundred words of the story. You'll see next week. Here's what I wrote last week:
I still know little about Charlie Dobbs except from where he came. I met Charlie when I worked as a concierge at an old upscale apartment complex in Back Bay. I was saving up for law school while juggling another job, hoisting myself paycheck by paycheck out of debt only to lower myself back into a newly established pit of loans for Boston University. My despondence towards work seldom afforded me any interest in conversing with my co-workers until the afternoon my boss walked Charlie over to the counter and said in his short banal manner, “Taylor, this is Charlie Dobbs. He’s training with you today. Get acquainted.”
I eyeballed my new co-worker with interest. Charlie was tall and wrinkly with slightly serpentine features. I imagine he looked pretty dapper as a young man, but time had altered him; he was a foreboding and weathered presence. “Hi, Charlie,” I said, “How’s it going?”
“Oh, alright. Can’t complain. It was a nice day today.” The sound of his voice was warm, esculent, and diplomatic. Perhaps it was just that he sounded like someone from an old movie, say in the fifties. There was an infinitesimal trace of old-time novelty that made me feel like he had a lot of wisdom under his belt. I have a theory that if people my age talked like that we’d all sound older and wiser by default.
“Where are you from, Charlie?”
“Here.”
“Boston?”
He grunted and nodded his head. “But I spent most of my life in New York City.”
“If you don’t mind me asking, what brings you to this job? In all due respect, shouldn’t you be retired?” I asked bluntly.
“Well, I most certainly was.”
“Yeah? So you’re coming back out of retirement?”
“I suppose I am.” He shot me a big, picture-perfect smile.
“What did you do?”
“I had a few business ventures.” He waved his hand nonchalantly, as if these words didn’t mean millions and millions of dollars.
“Sorry if this feels like twenty questions. You’re more interesting than most of my co-workers.”
“You can still have a few more questions, son. I don’t mind.”
“Well, I look at you and I see someone I’d expect to see on a golf course or a retirement neighborhood. No offense. What are you doing here, training to be a concierge?”
Charlie looked out the window, eyes flickering as they followed passing cars on the street. “I woke up on Monday and I was tired of being in these shoes. After seventy-two years, I was finally tired of it all. I’d rather be a social pariah than what I am today. I decided to return to where I used to be, for I would rather be the concierge I was at twenty than the weary monster I am now.”
He turned his head away and began to weep as a child would over a broken toy. As he sat, crooked and weeping, I feared the life that I should lead.
Okay, so that was that. Go back up to the top of this post, click on the link that says "Brad" and go to his blog. Read the "Writing Experiment 2" (or any) post. If he is Jonathan Saffran Foer, I am Stephanie Meyers (as writers go). Well done, Brad.
My friend Brad just started a writing group with a few friends and I where he basically gives us five random words from the dictionary on a Sunday and we have to turn them into five hundred words by Wednesday. I have a long way to go with my writing, but this project is great because I enjoy working with a bit of structure and some sort of constraint. Five words helped me to regain my focus and finish a project this last week- although, five hundred words only got me to the introduction of the story. I may write another completely unrelated piece this week, but I'm also considering taking the five new words Brad sends and using them to write the next five hundred words of the story. You'll see next week. Here's what I wrote last week:
I still know little about Charlie Dobbs except from where he came. I met Charlie when I worked as a concierge at an old upscale apartment complex in Back Bay. I was saving up for law school while juggling another job, hoisting myself paycheck by paycheck out of debt only to lower myself back into a newly established pit of loans for Boston University. My despondence towards work seldom afforded me any interest in conversing with my co-workers until the afternoon my boss walked Charlie over to the counter and said in his short banal manner, “Taylor, this is Charlie Dobbs. He’s training with you today. Get acquainted.”
I eyeballed my new co-worker with interest. Charlie was tall and wrinkly with slightly serpentine features. I imagine he looked pretty dapper as a young man, but time had altered him; he was a foreboding and weathered presence. “Hi, Charlie,” I said, “How’s it going?”
“Oh, alright. Can’t complain. It was a nice day today.” The sound of his voice was warm, esculent, and diplomatic. Perhaps it was just that he sounded like someone from an old movie, say in the fifties. There was an infinitesimal trace of old-time novelty that made me feel like he had a lot of wisdom under his belt. I have a theory that if people my age talked like that we’d all sound older and wiser by default.
“Where are you from, Charlie?”
“Here.”
“Boston?”
He grunted and nodded his head. “But I spent most of my life in New York City.”
“If you don’t mind me asking, what brings you to this job? In all due respect, shouldn’t you be retired?” I asked bluntly.
“Well, I most certainly was.”
“Yeah? So you’re coming back out of retirement?”
“I suppose I am.” He shot me a big, picture-perfect smile.
“What did you do?”
“I had a few business ventures.” He waved his hand nonchalantly, as if these words didn’t mean millions and millions of dollars.
“Sorry if this feels like twenty questions. You’re more interesting than most of my co-workers.”
“You can still have a few more questions, son. I don’t mind.”
“Well, I look at you and I see someone I’d expect to see on a golf course or a retirement neighborhood. No offense. What are you doing here, training to be a concierge?”
Charlie looked out the window, eyes flickering as they followed passing cars on the street. “I woke up on Monday and I was tired of being in these shoes. After seventy-two years, I was finally tired of it all. I’d rather be a social pariah than what I am today. I decided to return to where I used to be, for I would rather be the concierge I was at twenty than the weary monster I am now.”
He turned his head away and began to weep as a child would over a broken toy. As he sat, crooked and weeping, I feared the life that I should lead.
Okay, so that was that. Go back up to the top of this post, click on the link that says "Brad" and go to his blog. Read the "Writing Experiment 2" (or any) post. If he is Jonathan Saffran Foer, I am Stephanie Meyers (as writers go). Well done, Brad.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Oh Hey, I Knitted Something for My Head.
This definitely is nowhere near perfect, but I'm so proud of it because I followed and finished my first knitting pattern ever. I got the pattern for FREE from Brooklyn Mercantile after purchasing a ball of yarn (and needles, but if I had already owned them I would have only had to buy the yarn).
Along the way, I found out that I was purling wrong... that was fun to realize. It made sense though- my knitting has always had a strange slant to it. I sat in BM for nearly two hours with one of the ladies who literally eyeballed my every stitch to make sure I was doing things right. It was incredibly kind and helpful of her.
I chose to adorn the ear warmer/headband with a matching brooch and earring I inherited from Mom Hennessy through Grandma Larsen. A lot of Brooklyn-ites are sporting the big knit flowers on their headbands, but that's just not really my thing. Maybe sometimes, but not this time.
In sum, this venture (in my book) was a full success. So was my trip to 30 Rock tonight when I got to see J-Lo on SNL. Irrelevant but equally awesome.
Along the way, I found out that I was purling wrong... that was fun to realize. It made sense though- my knitting has always had a strange slant to it. I sat in BM for nearly two hours with one of the ladies who literally eyeballed my every stitch to make sure I was doing things right. It was incredibly kind and helpful of her.
I chose to adorn the ear warmer/headband with a matching brooch and earring I inherited from Mom Hennessy through Grandma Larsen. A lot of Brooklyn-ites are sporting the big knit flowers on their headbands, but that's just not really my thing. Maybe sometimes, but not this time.
In sum, this venture (in my book) was a full success. So was my trip to 30 Rock tonight when I got to see J-Lo on SNL. Irrelevant but equally awesome.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Olive You to Love Me.
Over the past week and a half or so I have really started to question who I am and why I do the things that I do. The things that I choose to do with my time started innocently and became mineralized and attached to my being. I wonder sometimes why my dad consistently wakes up at six am, goes golfing on Thursdays, and hates George Clooney with a passion. The fact of the matter is, he has had years and years of life to fall into his preferences and the routine he's accustomed to.
I too, am a creature of habit. I drink coffee every morning (I've switched to decaf), default to Paul Simon "Graceland" when I don't know what else to listen to, and obsess over Valentine's Day. Yeah, you heard me.
By all accounts, it doesn't make sense.
I'm not dating. I'm not looking to date. I'm not bitter (anymore) about past circumstances and experiences that have callused my poor little heart. I have to also add that the callusing isn't just because of others- I've just as often hurt myself because of fear or uncertainty. YIKES. What a mess I am. But I LOVE Valentine's Day, my friends.
I'm not as attached to the idea of romance as I am to the concept of LOVE. Love, Love, Love.
Last Valentine's Day I drew Valentines for my friends that were heart-shaped and either had a robot, David Bowie, a tea cup, or Thoreau's cabin at Walden Pond. Each one had a cheesily-wonderful phrase that tied (however distantly) to Valentine's Day. For example, the Bowie cards said, "Oh! You Pretty Things! Happy Valentine's Day." Cheesy, fun, something I gave to as many friends as I could to let them know that I cared. So, I guess that's what attracts me to Valentine's Day. To paraphrase what was said in the excessively-cast-highly-acclaimed-mainstream-holiday-film "Love Actually"- Christmas is the time to tell people that you love them. So is Valentine's Day, and it's much more straightforward because of all the cupid dyecuts on bulletin boards and cheap milk chocolate candy boxes on the shelves of drugstores. Even my cold un-romantic heart can't deny that I have love for people. All kinds of people.
Back to Valentine cards. This year I took on a new feat: carving linoleum to make a stamp. I had a little too much fun with this. And took a few too many nicks out of my fingers.
If you want one, I can send you one. Just email me your address.
I too, am a creature of habit. I drink coffee every morning (I've switched to decaf), default to Paul Simon "Graceland" when I don't know what else to listen to, and obsess over Valentine's Day. Yeah, you heard me.
By all accounts, it doesn't make sense.
I'm not dating. I'm not looking to date. I'm not bitter (anymore) about past circumstances and experiences that have callused my poor little heart. I have to also add that the callusing isn't just because of others- I've just as often hurt myself because of fear or uncertainty. YIKES. What a mess I am. But I LOVE Valentine's Day, my friends.
I'm not as attached to the idea of romance as I am to the concept of LOVE. Love, Love, Love.
Last Valentine's Day I drew Valentines for my friends that were heart-shaped and either had a robot, David Bowie, a tea cup, or Thoreau's cabin at Walden Pond. Each one had a cheesily-wonderful phrase that tied (however distantly) to Valentine's Day. For example, the Bowie cards said, "Oh! You Pretty Things! Happy Valentine's Day." Cheesy, fun, something I gave to as many friends as I could to let them know that I cared. So, I guess that's what attracts me to Valentine's Day. To paraphrase what was said in the excessively-cast-highly-acclaimed-mainstream-holiday-film "Love Actually"- Christmas is the time to tell people that you love them. So is Valentine's Day, and it's much more straightforward because of all the cupid dyecuts on bulletin boards and cheap milk chocolate candy boxes on the shelves of drugstores. Even my cold un-romantic heart can't deny that I have love for people. All kinds of people.
Back to Valentine cards. This year I took on a new feat: carving linoleum to make a stamp. I had a little too much fun with this. And took a few too many nicks out of my fingers.
If you want one, I can send you one. Just email me your address.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
