Wings Poised

So I’ve done something a little (very) strange for me.  I have a Facebook artist’s page now, Wings Poised. Facebook scary, oooo, but I looked it in the eye and hit its sign up button. Balls.

 

Anyway, you’ll find the following post there, which I’ve adapted here for this blog, and at the end of this post, some photos of said wings. . . .

 

On my sister Facebook page, Wings Poised, created what I hope is a good enough gallery to showcase some of the work I've done with wire, nylon, polyester thread, and acrylic paints. In the past three years, the wings have grown from being fun weird projects for every 31st of October, to an artform, as painstaking yet rewarding as painting on any normal canvas or a wall or with Photoshop. It seemed odd, at first, that I was essentially making my own canvases, but then it became routine--I measure the wire into two pieces of varying length, cut them with wire strippers, bend them into shape, connect them. . . and some time later, have a blank canvas of nylon that is ready for painting.

 

--And then I wore a pair of them on Halloween, and I was warmed by comments. I almost took them off and gave them to a lady and her little girl; that is how much she liked them and that is how much something in me responded to that: Hey, stupid, you should sell these. Or do something with them, anyway. . .

 

So I had this book. It was a kids' book, which I'd had for years and years, a butterfly activity book: coloring pages, connect the dots, that kind of stuff. But it was all about butterflies. The authors of the book belonged to a conservation society. At the back of the book were listed about fifty other societies one could contribute to, or join, and a little bulb went on for me. If the sale of those wings could bring money to a conservation society, then why not see how I might do that. I looked up some stuff, ran across societies that worked with zoos and menageries and things, and they wanted just that sort of item to bring more attention to their cause. And the little bulb got brighter. These aren't just for costuming or decor, they can, if I am skillful enough, become a kind of substitute for collectors. I might save a few of them, if I am lucky and I reach the right people.

 

Good. So, it isn't just glitter and girly fluttery powdery flowery stuff. Yay.

 

When I choose a butterfly or moth, then, I choose amongst the endangered ones because those are the ones conservationists desire to save most. I love to do the rarest ones best of all, and of course the ones with the most interesting colors and patterns. And I am absolutely capable of creating a random one upon request; they take about four days to make. Mostly, they are for wearing, or decor, which means a variety of things that I think of which bring out my inner interior decorator. But they also stand for a fundamental value we all have, I think, that makes us unable to accept that any creature would be hunted, and killed, simply because it was extraordinary.

 

That is why I decided to do Wings Poised.

How To Wage War With A Woman, A Satirical Guide For The Serially Misogynous

This is a flash fiction--a short, short story, or rather, a comedic thing I scribbled quickly after a commercial on the radio made me giggle to myself. Actually, the commercial was a little hard on women, which wasn't funny, however it got me thinking that its sexist implications might be more palatable with my own personal seasonings to improve their icky flavor. Couldn't decide on the title for this "story", too many ideas. For now it's the title of this post. . .

"How To Wage War With A Woman, A Satirical Guide For The Serially Misogynous"

Step One:  Even if, and especially when, you know her exact weight, always assert that she appears 20 to 100lbs heavier, especially if she's wearing a new outfit or--most importantly--she appears to have actually lost weight.

Step Two: Even if, and especially when, you know her exact age, always assert that she appears 10 to 50 years older.

Step Three: If she wears a new hairstyle and/or hair color at the office, make jokes all week with everyone else about transsexuals. If at all possible, each time you encounter her, stare at her chin while you verbally contemplate whether you need to shave later on.

Step Four: If you are male and attracted to said woman--who shall henceforth be referred to as The Target--however, she's clueless, unavailable, or uninterested, make pointed lesbian references in the background whenever she talks with a female friend. Alternatively, if you are female and simply wish to demonstrate your internally justified misogyny, refer to Step Three with an amplified frequency especially if you should see a member of the opposite sex taking interest in The Target.  *Note: Misogyny need not be justified either internally or externally.

Step Five: If, and especially when, The Target appears to be stressed or bothered (undoubtedly by the application of steps One through Four), casually mention that your great grandmother had identical symptoms before her unexpected diagnosis of either schizophrenia or dementia. Either is fine, so long as the condition is mental. Reiterate that everybody in the family was utterly relieved when death finally freed grandma from the insatiable appetite of mental illness.

Step Six: WARNING: This Ultimate Tactic should only be applied at the failure of all aforementioned steps. Hack into her laptop or smartphone and, perhaps via the forward-facing camera lens, acquire images of her undressing. Post these photos to a human trafficking website with an accurate profile of the target, including her phone number so she can be contacted. Email the link to the target's profile to every office employee, specifically the boss. Note #1: Ass photos are best, so the installation of a toilet cam may prove useful. Note #2: Step Six in its entirety is highly unlawful and should only be applied in times of righteous desperation, when the need to declare war is greater than the need to avoid jail time. Note #3: Be aware that the tactic in Note #1 of Step Six may negate the tactic of Step Three.

Final Notes: These rules apply to anyone, male or female, who would chance to wage war with that fairer champion of the sexes, the unapologetic, the territorial, the proud, the nurturing yet wrathful . . . woman. Please do note that these uniform tactics do not automatically spell victory nor are they guaranteed to rid the individual permanently of the target, however there is a 50/50 chance of witnessing a curious psychological event wherein The Target either succumbs to these declarations of war, i.e., completely surrenders in the form of striving to please the terminally displeased, or The Target nurtures a monster within whose roar awakens those in slumber whilst they walk.


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Thanks for visiting. For more playful and provocative discussions do be sure to stop by this blog's sister; she wears glasses and respectable button-down blouses, listens to Chopin and reads Dickens as opposed to this sister's thrift store tank tops, punk matted hair, coffee, and cigarettes.

Opinions Are Not Artillery; Artillery is.

I don't have a lot of websites, don't do a lot of social networking. I just keep my two blogs, own a silent Twitter account, another at Wattpad. I suppose that allows me more time to analyze my news feeds, as they aren't flooded with hundreds or dozens of people's posts, far too many to read and digest and respond to with in-depth, personal responses. One or two will stand out and, from time to time, I'm compelled to respond because the post was awesomely funny, or tragic, or for whatever reason. The reason I'm responding to this one is probably obvious, as I'm a writer and a consumer of books, and it just made me roll my eyes.

So. It is one young lady's opinion, and I quote (nearly), that "people who review other people's books negatively in public are dead to me." Dead to her. Really? So they can't express how they feel about it if they don't like it or if they don't like part of it, or the title or whatever, otherwise they're "dead" to her.

That's like saying someone's dead to you because they're not lovin' it at McDonald's just because you are. They've insulted your delicate sensibilities with their vegetarian ways and you'll never be seen entering any other restaurant with them ever again. "They're dead to me." Seriously? That seems a tad morbid, doesn't it, exiling someone because they voiced an opinion. By that logic everything that I like that you hate is a factor in why you're dead to me and why I'm nearly one of the last people alive walking the planet.

Opinion isn't a privilege of the wealthy. You aren't educated in the craft of opinion then awarded a degree before you can give an opinion. You have a brain, it has thoughts. You have a face and it has a mouth. There's really nothing shocking or improper about it, unless of course an opinion is abusive and becomes relentless in which case it is referred to as bullying.

It seemed in elementary school teachers were always encouraging students to speak their minds, stressing the importance of being one's self, thinking for one's self. If Johnny likes chocolate ice cream and Suzie likes strawberry that is what makes them different; not enemies. Maybe as adults our opinions cease to be cute and indicative of new stages in our development, and instead become walls that we build around ourselves and the things we like because we're so afraid someone'll come along and demolish it with their opinions.

Mission Recover Password: Accomplished.

I haven't visited this blog in a while, as I, well, couldn't get the password right. I've since been posting here, at Wordpress, and here, on Wattpad. I missed this blog. Much has happened in the last year, including crossing the country twice in search of home, starting new adventures and continuing old ones, starting a new novel and even some new wings.

I designed these this past summer for a patient--and friend--of mine in the South, USA. Her room included all of those colors--blue, lavender, white and gold--and she and her mama loved them. They are wearable, but they used the wings as a wall decoration, which I thought was awesome, and I offered them free of charge, of course. They were a late birthday present. They're a replica of the tropical Blue Morpho butterfly, which I posted a photo of on my Wordpress blog.

I've been doing a lot of art lately, which I am not prepared to post photos of now because I was not expecting to be able to access this blog. Getting into it finally was one of those things where you've tried and tried to get into it and it never worked, you waited a year, on a whim tried it again, and suddenly for no apparent reason it just worked.

Classic Movie Review: Lifeboat

   
I’ve been on a classic movie trip lately. I find them absolutely comforting. Lifeboat, produced by Alfred Hitchcock, written by John Steinbeck, is absolutely wonderful and is for good reason required watching for certain college courses in film-making. I’d seen it about a decade ago and got a wild craving to watch it last night. The message hit me from a different angle this time and compelled me to write. Movies from this era are magnificent studies of the human character, the human condition as a whole. This one conveys that even when our empathy lands us in a cruel place, it doesn’t mean we should harden ourselves and withhold this singly human phenomenon--empathy--from peers lest the world go to Hell in a handbasket while we all vacuously watch. The message at first seems dismal, but what I believe we're seeing by the end of this movie is that the will to do good and to be good is indomitable.
   
    In the midst of World War II a group of unlikely castaways are blasted from their freighter ship and collect themselves onto a small lifeboat as it drifts on the wide open sea. Among the brilliant cast is Tallulah Bankhead, a total treasure (even in her I Love Lucy episode she's awesome). She plays the voice of reason as the first fiery debate begins to divide the crew: an enemy German drifts to the boat and needs help. Of course, because they're Americans at war with Germany, most the crew wants to throw the man overboard and let him drown. The Englishman onboard, levelheaded and philosophical, reasons with them that what they propose is murder and this would make villains of them, too; it isn’t God’s way. (I wondered if their humanity would have suffered without this character! I love him and it comes as no surprise that the entire film couldn’t have thrived without him). They must take the German to justice, he says, because he’s a prisoner of war. Thus begins their adventure, a fight for survival to find shelter from the vast unforgiving sea with no supplies to sustain them, no compass, and an enemy in their midst.
   
    Despite the tragedies and casualties that ensue, Tallulah Bankhead is a source of uplifting wry humor as they drift for endless days and nights, hungry and thirsty and mistrustful of the German, ever hopeful that they’ll find their way back to civilization--in their case, to the English-owned territory, Bermuda. It is due to her character that they come to rely upon the enemy’s directions, as she’s the only one who speaks fluent German to communicate with him. She’s a rather strongly defined woman in this role, which likely accounts for the not-so-strong first member of the crew to go overboard--the sad and fragile Mrs. Higley who was on her way to America with her infant. That they tossed her dead infant overboard proves too much and she jumps into the sea--either in an act of cowardice or sorrow--and while the crew is distracted with her sacrifice it’s revealed that the German isn't what he seems. He stows a secret compass from everyone, and while they thought themselves headed towards safety, he actually leads them into enemy territory.
   
    As everyone readjusts, they get to know each other. John Kovak, the only one who never wavers in his suspicion of the German, valiantly strips the writer Connie Porter (played by Bankhead) of her ego. He accuses her of only wanting to popularize herself by writing a novel about the war. She challenges him by showing that she finds his distaste in her career choice ruggedly charming and that she is by no means a stranger to survival. She knows full well by observing people--the way that only a photo-journalist can--that the German is the only one of them who appears--somehow--capable navigating the sea. She knows whether they fear him or not, they’ll need to rely upon him. However, because Kovak’s comments linger with her, Connie quickly grows less concerned with herself and more with the care of others as she realizes that no one comforted poor Mrs. Higley before she died. Of course, she still maintains the attitude that I think only Bankhead could supply a character; she wryly insinuates that poor Mrs. Higley did jettison wearing the mink-fur coat that Connie lent to her. (I have read the report that Tallulah did not wear panties on the set, which, somehow isn't so hard to believe about this elegant lady).
   
    At length one of the American survivors, Gus, suffers a gangrenous leg that needs to be amputated and the enemy happens to be the only person onboard with surgical experience. A storm of mistrust and anger brews over the prospect of the German performing the amputation, and we get to know poor Gus who loves his unfaithful girl back at home more than himself. Again, Bankhead is brilliant here, brilliant. She comforts Gus by lying to him that his girlfriend, a hot dancer, would want him to have the surgery despite that he won't be able to dance with her anymore. Connie only wants to help Gus; she prays afterward that God forgive her the lie. Bankhead’s comedy is ladylike, casual, subtle. She helps us to laugh rather than cry and shocks us by remaining lusty and quick-witted despite the circumstances. Even during the grimmest situation she's a ray of comedy that refocuses us on the human condition, the one that, by varying degrees, each of the crew members contributes to. This is John Steinbeck and Alfred Hitchcock and a superb cast at their finest.
   
    If you haven’t seen it, I cannot reveal the ending of a truly great film like this (find it on Wikipedia if you must) except that its message is timeless and, while seemingly grim, is a positive declaration for the importance of never abandoning hope and never reflecting bad behavior no matter how badly it may have hurt, no matter the scars it might leave behind. Highly recommended.
   
   

Book Review: Until Justice is Done

This book is from 1994, so it's a tad dated shelf-wise. This doesn't detract from its accuracy on the facets of modern crime-solving such as computer stuff (minimally) and good old-fashioned sleuthing and DNA evidence (mostly).

Normally I stay away from suspense thrillers. I can deal with horror--that doesn't frighten me. It's the expedition into the minds of these characters, which are usually murderers and rapists, of course, that I cannot cope with; being a woman, I'd rather not know. But that's just the point of this review. I forced myself to read this book that I gain the insight that all women should, unfortunately, have.

So. I highly recommend this book to all women and to their loved ones, and the ones who care for them. Christine McGuire is spot on with her harried prosecutor, a woman, whom, in the end comes face to face with the rapist/murderer the police have been desperately searching for and she's been seeking to prosecute. She brings brilliant insight into the mind of a psychopath who carefully chooses his victims with disturbing stalking tactics that make you angry, yes, but that's part of her form of enlightenment. McGuire's writing is so convincing it's nearly impossible to believe it isn't based upon a primary or secondary experience. And she's creative; the only thing her killer doesn't do to murder a victim is put poison in her food. The dialogue, the tension, the inevitabilities--it's all portrayed convincingly enough: The protagonist's emotions conflict over the constant barrage of so many rape/homicide cases. Even she does not want to live in this book. Yet she resists exhaustion with conviction.

Every woman should read this or something similar to it. It should become required reading for all school-age girls. Isn't the HPV vaccination required of high school girls? Why not mandatory classes on this kind of knowledge? It seems it's fine for girls to have sex and possibly contract diseases, but it's irrelevant that they learn how to defend themselves in case said sex becomes violent or non-consensual. It almost seems like we have a nation (and perhaps this is on a global scale, as well) that's determined not to have strong female heroes.  

Unexpected Treasure

This was a surprise, a nearly but (thankfully) not forgotten treasure. The sight of it made my heart happy. I adore it and will do all in my power to restore it. (That's real silver and should be much, much shinier). I hope I can remember how to make it sound lovely again. I'm positive they don't make them like this anymore. It's one of those things nobody should take for granted. Somehow it got mixed up with a bunch of other stuff and my mother-in-law wanted to put it on eBay. I said "WTF, NOOOO," and smashed it to my heart like it might save me. A strange thought, surely. . . .