I am loving my break from work. And New Year's Eve is tomorrow. So happy. 2011 is going to be shiny.

It's that time of year again . . .

It never ceases to amaze me.

From The New York Sun., 1897

We take pleasure in answering thus prominently the communication below, expressing at the same time our great gratification that its faithful author is numbered among the friends of The Sun:

"Dear Editor--I am eight years old.
"Some of my little friends say there is no Santa Claus.
"Papa says, 'If you see it in The Sun, it's so.'
"Please tell me the truth, is there a Santa Claus?

Virginia O'Hanlon
115 W. 95th Street

Virginia, your little friends are wrong. They have been affected by the scepticism of a sceptical age. They do not believe except they see. They think that nothing can be which is not comprehensible by their little minds. All minds, Virginia, whether they be men's or children's are little. In this great universe of ours man is a mere insect, an ant, in his intellect, as compared with the boundless world about him, as measured by the intelligence capable of grasping the whole of truth and knowledge.

Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy. Alas! how dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus! It would be as dreary as if there were no Virginias. There would be no child-like faith then, no poetry, no romance to make tolerable this existence. We should have no enjoyment, except in sense and sight. The eternal light with which childhood fills the world would be extinguished.

Not believe in Santa Claus! You might as well not believe in fairies! You might get your papa to hire men to watch in all the chimneys on Christmas eve to catch Santa Claus, but even if you did not see Santa Claus coming down, what would that prove? Nobody sees Santa Claus, but that is no sign that there is no Santa Claus. The most real things in the world are those that neither children nor men can see. Did you ever see fairies dancing on the lawn? Of course not, but that's no proof that they are not there. Nobody can conceive or imagine all the wonders there are unseen and unseeable in the world.

You tear apart the baby's rattle and see what makes the noise inside, but there is a veil covering the unseen world which not the strongest man, nor even the united strength of all the strongest men that ever lived, could tear apart. Only faith, fancy, poetry, love, romance, can push aside that curtain and view and picture the supernal beauty and glory beyond. Is it all real? Ah, Virginia, in all this world there is nothing else real and abiding.

No Santa Claus! Thank God! he lives, and he lives forever. A thousand years from now, Virginia, nay, ten times ten thousand years from now, he will continue to make glad the heart of childhood.

Sneak Peek!

Get a sneak peek at a new painting I started on my sick day (didn't finish it because I figured that breathing paint and paint thinner will not help bronchitis like symptoms) here at my art blog.

It is going to be called 'Anna, the Apple Farmer's Wife.' I can't wait to write her story.

Arnika

Arnica might take out the throws that I threw in my head
Bruno, your wife shakes her bedclothes as she makes up the bed

I’m tired of life; I’m tired of waiting for someone
I’m tired of prices; I’m tired of waiting for something

I have a right to know what’s in store; to know what should be said
Could I have it all, could I have you for a night in the warmth of your bed?

I’m tired of life; I’m tired of waiting for someone
I’m tired of prices; I’m tired of waiting for something
I’m tired of life; I’m tired of life.

Oh be patient with me; for the night weighs on my chest with a terrible storm
Though we may disagree on how things should be done on how crisis is born
Don’t consider it done wait until Leviathan lovingly creeps in your sill
For he waits in the dark, brooding magically; mustering paperback feelings

No I’m not afraid of death or strife or injury, accidents, they are my friends…

Sufjan Stevens

More of these days:

The Grey and the Water


Grey, grey, silver, grey.
Around glimmer ghosts of the sun.
It’s only found in raindrops these days,
These grey-silver days.
But I do not hate the grey.
I love its tempestuous flips
From woolen to silk,
Silk to woolen to winking charcoal.
Everywhere is where the water is:
My shoes, my hair, my eyes.
These watery, raining days.
But I do not hate the water.
I love its shape-shifting ways
From fog to rain,
Rain to fog to sugary snow.


The grey and the water have baskets.
They carry awareness to my door.
When they knock on my red door,
I open it and they come rushing, dancing in.
They borrow my breath (only for a moment)
And return it with more reason to breathe.
They are frames for colors who long to be made
Eternal in the minds and eyes of the dreaming.
They are the lovers of leaves and pavement,
Bringing the jewels of the sky to the Earth.
Splashing, saturating, intensifying,
Washing, nourishing, covering.
I will never hate the grey and the water
But rather sing to them with my mind
And love them with my eyes.


(These are the days we are having and I am in love with them, so this is a song of my mind to them.)

Beautiful.

http://charleskeiger.blogspot.com/

I like his work.

Lovely: http://tecpetajaphoto.com/blog/

You can't lose as a photographer when you are getting the chance to shoot weddings in France and Italy and with people like Matt Kearney and Nathan Followill. The pictures are just lovely.

"As a matter of fact,observant Jews did not paint at all--in the way that I am painting. So strong words are being written and spoken about me, myths are being generated: I am a traitor, an apostate, a self-hater, an inflicter of shame upon my family, my friends, my people; also, I am a mocker of ideas sacred to Christians, a blasphemous manipulator of modes and forms revered by Gentiles for two thousand years.

Well, I am none of these things. And yet, in all honesty, I confess that my accusers are not altogether wrong: I am indeed, in some way, all of these things.

The fact is that gossip, rumors,myth-making, and news stories are not appropriate vehicles for the communication of nuances of truth, those subtle tonalities that are often the truly crucial elements in a causal chain."

Chaim Potok, My Name is Asher Lev

Here's that guy again . . .

Listen.

. . . is thankful.

It's funny how facebook effects how I want to title everything. I have the urge to make a third person statement about what I'm thinking/writing just like when I'm writing out a facebook status. While many people consider this practice to lead to serious narcissism, I think it helps me realize who I am in space and in relation to those around me.

On thanksgiving day I wrote this:


And thankful I am. I am loved. I have the ability to love. I have experienced and continue to experience grace every moment. I have an ever expanding family (which will include my new sister in law in June)that returns my love. I am able to see. And not just to see the 'beautiful', but that which is real and that which makes the beautiful valuable. I can hear the voices of my friends and loved ones. I can hear and delight in music. I breathe in air every moment and keep breathing. I have an income while so many do not (an even more exceptional fact when one notes that I am getting paid to illustrate). I have a somewhat reliable green vehicle. I have space to paint in. I have a community of friends in a city that I love. I have moonlight and stars. I have early mornings on the way to work watching the birds move South through the freshly colored sky. I have been given laughter. And tears. And delight that cannot be contained by a human body. I have abundant life.

Plea to the Snow Gods:

Please, please, let there fall a massive amount of snow on Sunday night to postpone my return to work. Please.

I spent an afternoon here

Castle St. Jorge in Lisbon

This is where I ate several lunches in Lisbon, Portugal

Hotel Borges Residence Chiado Lisbon Exterior View 4 in Lisbon

Right there, where the yellow umbrellas are. They make a mean tostas queso (grilled cheese).


Brasileira Cafe in Lisbon

Whirling

It must be nice to whirl that much.

Seven Swans

My friend recorded this on his iphone, which obviously worked better than my camera.

I saw Sufjan Stevens last Saturday. My friend and I drove down through the colorful hills of Tennessee to Atlanta to see him. We wondered around the city until time for the show and made our way across town to the Tabernacle, a GIGANTIC old church converted into a music venue (much like our Ryman, except more humongous). You can read about the venue here.

We finally got inside after being confused by where to park, one way streets, and having a 'profession camera' in my purse that had to be returned to the car. The walls are painted in wonderful designs and patterns in the entrance of the theatre and in the actual concert hall as well.




We listened to DM Stith open the show and then anxiously waited for the winged man himself. If you anything about my musical tastes, you know that I love Seven Swans (both the song and the album). And as the musicians (and the dancers) came out onto the stage, we saw Sufjan wearing white wings and we heard the beginning of Seven Swans and our excitement became infinitely more great. He pulled off the loud and dance worthy along with the melodic, soft and intimate songs, all with equal energy (and costume changes). He even played the half-hour long 'Impossible Soul' which was delightful. The show was amazing. Beautiful music playing in front of interesting and fantastical graphics on the large screen made for a lovely sense-ational experience.


'Seven Swans'


'I Walked'


'Enchanting Ghost'



'Vesuvius'


'Concerning the UFO Sighting Near Highland, Illinois'

Here is the setlist:

Seven Swans
Age of Adz
Too Much
Heirloom
I Walked
Futile Devices
Vesuvius
Now That I'm Older
Get Real Get Right
Enchanting Ghost
Impossible Soul
Chicago

Encore:
Concerning the UFO Sighting Near Highland, Illinois
Casimir Pulaski Day
Jacksonville

Here is a video I took of Casimir Pulaski Day. It is wiggly and recorded on a very old camera and can't even quite focus on anything, and you can hear me singing way too much, but all in all it is a good video of the experience.

"Heirloom" -Sufjan Stevens from All Delighted People EP

When your heirloom’s wilted brown
When the devil’s pushing down
When your mourning has a sound
And you hesitate to laugh
How quickly will your joy pass
How quickly will your joy pass

And when you walk inside I feel the door
I’ll never let it push your arms no more
And when your legs give out just lie right down
And I will kiss you till your breath is found
And when you walk inside I feel the door
I’ll never let it push your arms no more

So do you think I came to fight?
And do I always think I’m right?
Oh no I never meant to be a pest to anyone this time
Oh no I only meant to be a friend to everyone this time

You can listen to it here:
http://sufjanstevens.bandcamp.com/track/heirloom

And thus commences my favorite couple of months . . .

. . . November and December (October is a close 3rd and January is 4th and April 5th). Everything about these months makes me so happy. What's not to love about (paid) time off work with family and friends? It's like all year we've been crafting a lovely bottle of happiness; adding in little memories here and there and saving ideas and stories for the times when we are all together. It has been ripening all year long and now's the time when we open it up, share it with everyone around us, and become quite drunk with it. And that's a very good thing.

This is also when we'll see the South at its finest: food and singing everywhere. There will be late morning breakfasts and even later midnight coffee runs in the dancing snow. Our 2nd annual Christmas Ball/Advent Adventure is coming up, which is the ultimate in the "food and singing (and dancing) in the South" department, in my opinion. We'll be meeting up to work out the invitations, menu, etc., for said Ball in the next couple of weeks which thrills me. This year will be extra sweet because I have embraced the land I live in and it has forgiven me seeing only the bad in it for so many years. It has not only forgiven me, but it has loved me back. It is strange, and it is deep-fried, but it has a wild magic about it that shines through at just the right moments, like last night.

Last night a group of rather silly, and rather wonderful, girls got together in the middle of nowhere (Hartsville) to celebrate Halloween and Reformation Day all at once (being Presbyterian makes at least noting Reformation Day a must). We had delicious German food and wore our Halloween costumes (I was Elizabeth I). I love these ladies. And the stars out there were perfect. I've never seen so many at once and I thought my brain might explode from trying to take it all in. I had to shut my sunroof on my car, Penelope, on the way home so that I'd look at the road, that's how distracted I was!

Anyways, I'll be hauling all four thousand boxes of holiday decorations down from the attic in the next couple weeks. I would do it this weekend, but I am going to Atlanta on Saturday to see the city and to see Sufjan Stevens with my dear friend, Josh-u-wa-wa (he bought tickets for my birthday back in August). What a way to start off my favorite time of year! And next week is my dearest B's 26th birthday which will be amazing! We are going to a corn maze (one of those things I've always wanted to do). Sometimes life is so rich that you have to step back from it to take a breath before you dive back into it.

And, when my favorite time of year is over, I'll be so busy looking forward to my best friend's wedding in April and my brother's wedding in June that I won't even notice the holidays are over because these holidays will be even better.

Starner Endeavors

My brother and I, we make things. You can find them here (and sometimes for sale) at:

http://starnerendeavors.blogspot.com/

Guess who just bought tickets to U2's surprise Nashville show?

Me. That's who. I get to relive the experience that I had last October of seeing them in Atlanta, except this time it will be even better. I bought General Admission ticket, which were sold out last time 'round, in the subscriber's presale. I get to be among a vast sea of people waiting to get in the doors for hours! I get to sing at the top of my lungs within eye shot of my favorite band ever, with some of my favorite people ever, including my baby brother Luke and his new wife Chelsey (they are getting married a month before the show)! Also, I plan on climbing onto that stage and dancing with Bono during With or Without You.

And the best part about the new location? It is in Vanderbilt's Stadium. It will hold the fewest number of people of any venue on the 360 tour. This is delightful.

I love this.

Autumn

How good is life?


Good is a gross understatement of the richness I am experiencing of late. Colors are brighter (and there are more of them). The air is more refreshing. Storms are more exhilarating. Coffee is more effective and necessary (mostly because sleep time is being bit-by-bit replaced with the time with friends that comes with the season). The sky feels more velvety. That velvet is sprinkled with more diamonds (up above the world, so high). Art is more sustaining. Fires are more welcome and warming. Films speak more life. The clouds are filled with more visions of things loosed from their Earth-weights. Cinnamon tastes more like perfection. Music stirs my being more.
My heart is wide awake. It is roaming the patchwork-tree covered hills looking for beauty and being surprised by seeing it in places I may have never looked before. Pleasantly, pleasantly surprised.

Lamentations 3:1-41

3:1 I am the man who has seen affliction
under the rod of his wrath;
2 he has driven and brought me
into darkness without any light;
3 surely against me he turns his hand
again and again the whole day long.

4 He has made my flesh and my skin waste away;
he has broken my bones;
5 he has besieged and enveloped me
with bitterness and tribulation;
6 he has made me dwell in darkness
like the dead of long ago.

7 He has walled me about so that I cannot escape;
he has made my chains heavy;
8 though I call and cry for help,
he shuts out my prayer;
9 he has blocked my ways with blocks of stones;
he has made my paths crooked.

10 He is a bear lying in wait for me,
a lion in hiding;
11 he turned aside my steps and tore me to pieces;
he has made me desolate;
12 he bent his bow and set me
as a target for his arrow.

13 He drove into my kidneys
the arrows of his quiver;
14 I have become the laughingstock of all peoples,
the object of their taunts all day long.
15 He has filled me with bitterness;
he has sated me with wormwood.

16 He has made my teeth grind on gravel,
and made me cower in ashes;
17 my soul is bereft of peace;
I have forgotten what happiness [1] is;
18 so I say, “My endurance has perished;
so has my hope from the Lord.”

19 Remember my affliction and my wanderings,
the wormwood and the gall!
20 My soul continually remembers it
and is bowed down within me.
21 But this I call to mind,
and therefore I have hope:

22 The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases; [2]
his mercies never come to an end;
23 they are new every morning;
great is your faithfulness.
24 “The Lord is my portion,” says my soul,
“therefore I will hope in him.”

25 The Lord is good to those who wait for him,
to the soul who seeks him.
26 It is good that one should wait quietly
for the salvation of the Lord.
27 It is good for a man that he bear
the yoke in his youth.

28 Let him sit alone in silence
when it is laid on him;
29 let him put his mouth in the dust—
there may yet be hope;
30 let him give his cheek to the one who strikes,
and let him be filled with insults.

31 For the Lord will not
cast off forever,
32 but, though he cause grief, he will have compassion
according to the abundance of his steadfast love;
33 for he does not willingly afflict
or grieve the children of men.

34 To crush underfoot
all the prisoners of the earth,
35 to deny a man justice
in the presence of the Most High,
36 to subvert a man in his lawsuit,
the Lord does not approve.

37 Who has spoken and it came to pass,
unless the Lord has commanded it?
38 Is it not from the mouth of the Most High
that good and bad come?
39 Why should a living man complain,
a man, about the punishment of his sins?

40 Let us test and examine our ways,
and return to the Lord!
41 Let us lift up our hearts and hands
to God in heaven:


A passage I will never tire of. Ever.

The inside of my heart

looks something like this.

New Paintings

You can find some new paintings on my art blog here.

A Beautiful Soul:

http://www.joshuajames.tv/

I am grateful to my brother for introducing us. I think I may have a crush on him.

A Letter to North American Churches

http://www.makotofujimura.com/writings/a-letter-to-north-american-churches/

Thou Lovely Source of True Delight

1. Thou lovely source of true delight
Whom I unseen adore
Unveil Thy beauties to my sight
That I might love Thee more,
Oh that I might love Thee more.

2. Thy glory o’er creation shines
But in Thy sacred Word
I read in fairer, brighter lines
My bleeding, dying Lord,
See my bleeding, dying Lord

3. ’Tis here, whene’er my comforts droop
And sin and sorrow rise
Thy love with cheering beams of hope
My fainting heart supplies,
My fainting heart’s supplied

4. But ah! Too soon the pleasing scene
Is clouded o’er with pain
My gloomy fears rise dark between
And I again complain,
Oh and I again complain

5. Jesus, my Lord, my life, my light
Oh come with blissful ray
Break radiant through the shades of night
And chase my fears away,
Won’t You chase my fears away

6. Then shall my soul with rapture trace
The wonders of Thy love
But the full glories of Thy face
Are only known above,
They are only known above

©1998 Kevin Twit Music.
Words: Anne Steele

I am going to hear Makoto Fujimura speak about art and faith tonight. My brother is having coffee with him right now. Lucky.

This is becoming a series . . .

I love Autumn. I love poetry. I love Wallace Stevens. I love this particular poem especially.


Behold:

Contrary Theses (II)

by Wallace Stevens

One chemical afternoon in mid-autumn,
When the grand mechanics of earth and sky were near;
Even the leaves of the locust were yellow then,

He walked with his year-old boy on his shoulder.
The sun shone and the dog barked and the baby slept.
The leaves, even of the locust, the green locust.

He wanted and looked for a final refuge,
From the bombastic intimations of winter
And the martyrs a la mode. He walked toward

An abstract, of which the sun, the dog, the boy
Were contours. Cold was chilling the wide-moving swans.
The leaves were falling like notes from a piano.

The abstract was suddenly there and gone again.
The negroes were playing football in the park.
The abstract that he saw, like the locust-leaves, plainly:

The premiss from which all things were conclusions,
The noble, Alexandrine verve. The flies
And the bees still sought the chrysanthemums’ odor.

To Autumn by William Blake

O Autumn, laden with fruit, and stain'd
With the blood of the grape, pass not, but sit
Beneath my shady roof; there thou may'st rest,
And tune thy jolly voice to my fresh pipe,
And all the daughters of the year shall dance!
Sing now the lusty song of fruits and flowers.

'The narrow bud opens her beauties to
The sun, and love runs in her thrilling veins;
Blossoms hang round the brows of Morning, and
Flourish down the bright cheek of modest Eve,
Till clust'ring Summer breaks forth into singing,
And feather'd clouds strew flowers round her head.

'The spirits of the air live in the smells
Of fruit; and Joy, with pinions light, roves round
The gardens, or sits singing in the trees.'
Thus sang the jolly Autumn as he sat,
Then rose, girded himself, and o'er the bleak
Hills fled from our sight; but left his golden load.



Mmmm.

Much ado

Lots posted over at my 'official' art blog. I beseech your society at: meiskastarner.blogspot.com

Fall is here. She came in my open window and whispered in my ear last night while I was sleeping so I woke up and looked out the window and there she was, all smiles, winking at the moon. These will be the most wonderful days of my life so far, that's what she said. And I believe it.

A place I frequent regularly . . .

Bongo Java. A wonderful coffee shop across from Belmont University (where both of my brothers are students). Go there and get the iced mochahantas. That's right, delicious.

These are a couple of old sketches from my many hours spent there meeting up with friends, waiting for siblings, and just existing.

Notes to a man with wings and a banjo:

Guess what Sufjan?

A) My sister has black hair and small hands too.

B) I'll see you in Atlanta in November.

C) Seven Swans is one of the most beautiful pieces of art I've ever experienced.

My mom is sick. I cut off all my hair.

Le Monocle de Mon Oncle (Overdue dose of Stevens)

Wallace Stevens


“Mother of heaven, regina of the clouds,
O sceptre of the sun, crown of the moon,
There is not nothing, no, no, never nothing,
Like the clashed edges of two words that kill.”
And so I mocked her in magnificent measure.
Or was it that I mocked myself alone?
I wish that I might be a thinking stone.
The sea of spuming thought foists up again
The radiant bubble that she was. And then
A deep up-pouring from some saltier well
Within me, bursts its watery syllable.

II
A red bird flies across the golden floor.
It is a red bird that seeks out his choir
Among the choirs of wind and wet and wing.
A torrent will fall from him when he finds.
Shall I uncrumple this much-crumpled thing?
I am a man of fortune greeting heirs;
For it has come that thus I greet the spring.
These choirs of welcome choir for me farewell.
No spring can follow past meridian.
Yet you persist with anecdotal bliss
To make believe a starry connaissance.

III
Is it for nothing, then, that old Chinese
Sat tittivating by their mountain pools
Or in the Yangtse studied out their beards?
I shall not play the flat historic scale.
You know how Utamaro’s beauties sought
The end of love in their all-speaking braids.
You know the mountainous coiffures of Bath.
Alas! Have all the barbers lived in vain
That not one curl in nature has survived?
Why, without pity on these studious ghosts,
Do you come dripping in your hair from sleep?

IV
This luscious and impeccable fruit of life
Falls, it appears, of its own weight to earth.
When you were Eve, its acrid juice was sweet,
Untasted, in its heavenly, orchard air.
An apple serves as well as any skull
To be the book in which to read a round,
And is as excellent, in that it is composed
Of what, like skulls, comes rotting back to ground.
But it excels in this, that as the fruit
Of love, it is a book too mad to read
Before one merely reads to pass the time.

V
In the high west there burns a furious star.
It is for fiery boys that star was set
And for sweet-smelling virgins close to them.
The measure of the intensity of love
Is measure, also, of the verve of earth.
For me, the firefly’s quick, electric stroke
Ticks tediously the time of one more year.
And you? Remember how the crickets came
Out of their mother grass, like little kin,
In the pale nights, when your first imagery
Found inklings of your bond to all that dust.

VI
If men at forty will be painting lakes
The ephemeral blues must merge for them in one,
The basic slate, the universal hue.
There is a substance in us that prevails.
But in our amours amorists discern
Such fluctuations that their scrivening
Is breathless to attend each quirky turn.
When amorists grow bald, then amours shrink
Into the compass and curriculum
Of introspective exiles, lecturing.
It is a theme for Hyacinth alone.

VII
The mules that angels ride come slowly down
The blazing passes, from beyond the sun.
Descensions of their tinkling bells arrive.
These muleteers are dainty of their way.
Meantime, centurions guffaw and beat
Their shrilling tankards on the table-boards.
This parable, in sense, amounts to this:
The honey of heaven may or may not come,
But that of earth both comes and goes at once.
Suppose these couriers brought amid their train
A damsel heightened by eternal bloom.

VIII
Like a dull scholar, I behold, in love,
An ancient aspect touching a new mind.
It comes, it blooms, it bears its fruit and dies.
This trivial trope reveals a way of truth.
Our bloom is gone. We are the fruit thereof.
Two golden gourds distended on our vines,
Into the autumn weather, splashed with frost,
Distorted by hale fatness, turned grotesque.
We hang like warty squashes, streaked and rayed,
The laughing sky will see the two of us
Washed into rinds by rotting winter rains.

IX
In verses wild with motion, full of din,
Loudened by cries, by clashes, quick and sure
As the deadly thought of men accomplishing
Their curious fates in war, come, celebrate
The faith of forty, ward of Cupido.
Most venerable heart, the lustiest conceit
Is not too lusty for your broadening.
I quiz all sounds, all thoughts, all everything
For the music and manner of the paladins
To make oblation fit. Where shall I find
Bravura adequate to this great hymn?

X
The fops of fancy in their poems leave
Memorabilia of the mystic spouts,
Spontaneously watering their gritty soils.
I am a yeoman, as such fellows go.
I know no magic trees, no balmy boughs,
No silver-ruddy, gold-vermilion fruits.
But, after all, I know a tree that bears
A semblance to the thing I have in mind.
It stands gigantic, with a certain tip
To which all birds come sometime in their time.
But when they go that tip still tips the tree.

XI
If sex were all, then every trembling hand
Could make us squeak, like dolls, the wished-for words.
But note the unconscionable treachery of fate,
That makes us weep, laugh, grunt and groan, and shout
Doleful heroics, pinching gestures forth
From madness or delight, without regard
To that first, foremost law. Anguishing hour!
Last night, we sat beside a pool of pink,
Clippered with lilies scudding the bright chromes,
Keen to the point of starlight, while a frog
Boomed from his very belly odious chords.

XII
A blue pigeon it is, that circles the blue sky,
On sidelong wing, around and round and round.
A white pigeon it is, that flutters to the ground,
Grown tired of flight. Like a dark rabbi, I
Observed, when young, the nature of mankind,
In lordly study. Every day, I found
Man proved a gobbet in my mincing world.
Like a rose rabbi, later, I pursued,
And still pursue, the origin and course
Of love, but until now I never knew
That fluttering things have so distinct a shade.

This is how I'd like to live my life

"All right. Let's make an agreement: A) We'll get an early start tomorrow morning and try to enjoy each others' company here in this beautiful place. B) We'll stop feeling sorry for ourselves. It's not very attractive. C) We'll make our plans for the future. Can we agree to that? "
-Patricia (Anjelica Huston) in The Darjeeling Limited

Every time I hear that line in the film, I smile. A lot. And I also join in with agreeing to do just that.

My Blogomania Continues

I've started a blog to document my findings about my family history and such. Here it be!

www.historyofmeandmine.blogspot.com

Not much happening there yet, but I have lots and lots of info to update it with!

Amelia Jane Murray (1800-1896)

What lovely images.

A bithday present

My brother, Gabriel, brought me a rather lovely old copy of Emily Dickinson's poems for my 24th birthday last week. One of my big senior English projects in college for American Lit I was to do extensive research on her and her poetry, write a paper, and then take over a session of discussion/class time (all of this was bestowed upon me because the last couple of weeks of the class were going to be on Hawthorne, and Dr. Harris decided I already knew enough about him). Anyways, I love her and I loved doing the project.

Here's a poem that I love every time I read it. It's how I feel in the Fall (even though it says 'Summer').


XX

I TASTE a liquor never brewed,
From tankards scooped in pearl;
Not all the vats upon the Rhine
Yield such an alcohol!

Inebriate of air am I, 5
And debauchee of dew,
Reeling, through endless summer days,
From inns of molten blue.

When landlords turn the drunken bee
Out of the foxglove’s door, 10
When butterflies renounce their drams,
I shall but drink the more!

Till seraphs swing their snowy hats,
And saints to windows run,
To see the little tippler 15
Leaning against the sun!

Sigh No More

Serve God, love me, and mend
This is not the end
Lived unbruised we are friends
And I'm sorry
I'm sorry

Sigh no more, no more
One foot in sea, one on shore
My heart was never pure
And you know me
And you know me

And man is a giddy thing
Oh man is a giddy thing
Oh man is a giddy thing
Oh man is a giddy thing

Love that will not betray you, dismay or enslave you,
It will set you free
Be more like the man you were made to be.
There is a design,
An alignment of the cry
Of my heart to see,
The beauty of love as it was made to be

*Mumford & Sons

What a great song, from a great album, by a great band. One of the rare times I've bought an album, with no notions of what it's like, and absolutely loved it the first time through. I had never heard of them at the time. I bought it based on their name, their album art, and the fact that their songs had names like, "Sigh No More" and "Thistles and Weeds." These reasons have proved to be good ones.

Amazingly enough, the people/person who broke into my car last week forgot to push eject on the cd player and left this album in my car, but they took the empty case (they left Frank Sinatra on purpose though, for some strange reason). Theirs is the music of the soul in transit from deep sadness to a golden opportunity to live - it isn't sad, but it isn't downright optimistic either. It is perfectly real life and honest. And beautiful. It is the moment when you've been crying for what seems like forever and just there at what is almost the end of the despair is the quavering breath and realization of "I'm getting ready to move on with my life now," as scary and exciting as that thought is. Thrilling. Terrifying. Wonderful.

Happy Birthday Sloshua!

Today is Sir Joshua Reynolds' birthday. I hope he isn't too upset about the whole "Pre-Raphaelites hating you' thing.

As much as I want to take up an offense for the P.R.B., I love his portraits of women. But I think it's my love of 18th Century decadence more than anything.

300th post, apparently.

I thought this was funny:

My brother, Gabriel Max Starner, is celebrating his 22nd birthday with a ball of epic proportions this Saturday. I am cleaning and sewing and cutting out silhouettes until that time.

Excited.

Let me rant because someone has once again said I must be envious because I have green eyes . . .

I was getting gas in my GREEN car, Penelope, and I went inside to pay. At the register, the sun was beaming straight into my eyes. The older lady at the register responded to my "Good morning" with a static "You have green eyes, envy much?" I honestly didn't know what to say to that so I just laughed. Of course I envy, but I'm convinced that you can find that in any eyes.

My father has the most beautiful eyes in the history of man. They are a ring of glowing reddish-brown bursting from around the iris and that is surrounded by a band of a very rich green. And they twinkle, they absolutely sparkle. My mother has those wonderful stormy grey-blue eyes that my youngest brother was lucky enough to inherit. He was the only one that got them (and he's the only one that's about to get married. Coincidence? I think not). My older sister has brown eyes, my other younger brother has greenish-blue, and I got the green. Not the bursting brown and green of my father, not the hint of stormy blue of my mother, just the green. These eyes have served me well, being just what I wanted and working most of the time, but mostly people make the comment about 'envy'. Why is green synonymous with envy? My eyes have seen their share of envy, but they have also seen love, sleepiness, wonder, want, sadness, excitement, kindness, disappointment and delight. Mine have seen what theirs have seen.

Of course, I've only ever wanted green eyes. Green is my favorite color. Green speaks to me of the color of the blood flowing through the veins of life itself!!! Green equals life and wonder, not uncontrollable wanting (most of the time {The wanting comes in way-ay-aves}). Need proof that green eyes are about life? Check out this Sugarloaf song from the 70's:

Greeen Eyed Lady, lovely lady
Strolling slowly towards the sun

Green eyed lady ocean lady
Soothing every wave that comes

Green eyed lady, passion's lady
dressed in love she lives for life to be

Green eyed lady feels like I never see
Setting suns and lonely lovers free

Green eyed lady, windswept lady
moves the night the waves the sand

Green eyed lady ocean lady
child of nature, friend of man

Green eyed lady passions lady
dressed in love she lives for life to be

Green eyed lady feels like I never see
Setting sons and lonely lovers free


So here's what I've decided: They (green-less eyed people) must be superimposing their envy onto green eyes. They really want green eyes (at least it's nice to think so). Not to mention that they could be jealous that there is a Coldplay song about green eyes called, "Green Eyes." Observe:

"Honey you are a rock
Upon which I stand
And I come here to talk
I hope you understand

That green eyes, yeah the spotlight, shines upon you
And how could, anybody, deny you

I came here with a load
And it feels so much lighter, now I’ve met you
And honey you should know, that I could never go on without you

Green eyes

Honey you are the sea
Upon which I float
And I came here to talk
I think you should know

That green eyes, you’re the one that I wanted to find
And anyone who, tried to deny you must be out of their mind

Cause I came here with a load
And it feels so much lighter, since I met you
Honey you should know, that I could never go on without you"

Does it sound like the person he's written about is so consumed with envy that that must be their defining trait? No it does not. At all.

AND! The girl in The Decemberists' song, "Grace Cathedral Hill" has green eyes. Observe once more:

"Sweet on a green-eyed girl, all fiery
Irish clip and curl, all brine and piss and vinegar.
I paid twenty-five cents to light a little white candle."

Ok, so maybe she's a little surly, but it doesn't say she's over-ridden with envy. Maybe she's just lively.

Ha ha.

I did some casual google-ing and found these interesting tidbits about green eyes to make me feel better:


Green eyes are the product of low to moderate amounts of melanin and probably represent the interaction of multiple variants within the OCA2 and other genes. Green eyes are most common in Northern and Central Europe. They can also be found in parts of Southern Europe, South Asia, West Asia, and North Africa. In Iceland, 89% of women and 87% of men have either blue or green eye color. A study of Icelandic and Dutch adults found green eyes to be much more prevalent in women than in men. Among European Americans, green eyes are most common among those of Celtic and Germanic ancestry, about 16%.

From Wikipedia, which we all know is infallible. But then, my ancestors are almost entirely from Ireland, England and Wales (more to come on the ancestor front later, I have so much good info now, thanks to technology).

And this from "The Folk Lore of Women" :


{"Green eyes are often mentioned in classic literature, and they found special favour with early French poets, who were extremely fond of speaking of them under the title of yeux vers--a taste which seems to have been generally prevalent on the Continent. The Spaniards considered this colour of the eye an emblem of beauty, and as such there is an amusing allusion to it in "Don Quixote":--"But now I think of it, Sancho, thy description of her beauty was a little absurd in that particular of comparing her eyes to pearls. Sure, such eyes are more like those of a whiting, or a sea-bream, than those of a fair lady; and in my opinion Dulcinea's eyes are rather like two verdant emeralds, veiled in with two celestial arches, which signify her eyebrows. Therefore, Sancho, you must take your pearls from her eyes, and apply them to her teeth, for I verily believe you mistake the one for the other!" And we may quote the subjoined well-known lines in praise of green eyes, which show, like many others of the same kind, in that high esteem they were formerly held:--

"Ay ojuelos verdes,
Ay los mis ojuelos,
Ay hagan los cielos,
Qui de mi te acuerdos."

Then, again, Villa Real, a Portuguese, wrote a treatise for the purpose of setting forth the estimation in which he regarded them; and Dante, it may be remembered, speaks of Beatrice's eyes as emeralds--

"Spare not thy vision, we have stationed thee
Before the emeralds, whence love erewhile
Hath drawn his weapons on thee"--

"emeralds," of course, here meaning the eyes of Beatrice.

In our own country we find no lack of allusions to green eyes, and in the "Two Noble Kinsmen " AEmilia, in her address to Diana, says: "Oh, vouchsafe with that thy rare green eye, which never yet beheld things maculate!" On the other hand, Shakespeare speaks of jealousy as "a green-eyed monster," and we know that the phrase has been frequently used in an uncomplimentary manner. But this is the exception, for what more pleasing, or graceful, instance of their being in repute as an object of beauty can be quoted than that given by Frances Collins, who tells us that her husband in writing to a certain lady always spoke of her eyes as sea-green:--

"So stir the fire and pour the wine,
And let those sea-green eyes divine,
Pour their love-madness into mine."

And at another time he wrote these lines:--

"Cupid plucked his brightest plume,
To paint my mistress in her bloom;
Caught her eyes, the soft sea-green,
At a summer noontide seen."

Longfellow in his "Spanish Student" (act ii. sc. 3) has painted with exquisite effect this phase of beauty in the following passage, where Victorian inquires: "How is that young and green-eyed Gaditana that you both wot of?" To which Don Carlos sympathetically adds, "Ay, soft, emerald eyes!" After a while, Victorian resumes her praises, remarking:--

"You are much to blame for letting her go back.
A pretty girl, and in her tender eyes
Just that soft shade of green we sometimes see
In evening skies."

But perhaps one of the highest tributes of honour to green as the colour of the eye is that given by Drummond of Hawthornden, who could not write too eulogistically of his green-eyed maiden--

"When nature now had wonderfully wrought
All Auristella's parts, except her eyes;
To make those twins two lamps in beauty's skies,
The counsel of her starry synod sought.
Mars and Apollo first did her advise,
To wrap in colour black those comets bright,
That love him so might soberly disguise,
And unperceived wound at every sight.
Chaste Phoebe spake for purest azure dies,
But Jove and Venus, green about the light,
To frame thought best, as bringing most delight,
That to pined hearts hope might for ay arise.
Nature, all said, a paradise of green
There placed, to make all love which have them seen."

And Mr. Swinburne in his "Félise" gives a beautiful picture of the chameleon-like iris--

"O lips that mine have grown into,
Like April's kissing May;
O fervid eyelids, letting through
Those eyes the greenest of things blue,
The bluest of things grey." }"


At least there were a couple of things linked to Pre-Raphaelites in there (Dante, Swinburne).

These poets have given me an ego boost (ha ha). I'll have to coast on that high until I meet some other lady in a check-out line who feels the need to say something about my obvious problem with envy. Thanks for listening to (reading) my rant, even if it was completely pointless. It was fun to look things up about green eyes, you all should look up references to your respective eye colors.

I wrote a poem at work today. I suppose I'll share it with you.

There was a picture of loveliness,
All glistening copper,
Printed on your ice cream cone wrapper.

You liked the print, the swirls and sighs,
They caught the blues in your eyes
And swept them away.

But once you had taken the sweet, eaten the cone,
You noticed a tear in the print,
Blurred by a bit of melted sweetness.

Spoiled was your day,
Though quite thoroughly paved with good intentions.
And you threw it away.

You had meant to keep it forever.

What is going on?

Where are all these strange comments with strange characters coming from? It's getting kinda old.

Other news:

My "real" job is going well, InDesign being both the bane of my existence and means of fund-age. Digital illustration and graphic design are sustaining me (at least physically). I'm not quite starving, but I'm still an artist (not sure how that will work out). Painting/selling paintings and doing murals in my "free" time. Sewing up a storm (working out the details of some new story-centered costume-sculptures).

Looking at a house in Nashville, which is more exciting than anything that has happened to me in this last bit of my life. The house is in a great area downtown and was built in 1915. I can't wait to have my OWN place. My parents have always been pretty good about letting us have people over and such, but a place of one's own! That sounds heavenly. Books and food and friends and discussion and art and etc, etc, etc,.
And the kitchen is already painted green.

So many dear friends are getting married/engaged. The excitement is contagious and lavender in color. Lavender.

I bought a real laundry basket-the wicker kind with a canvas lining. I love it.

I have an itch to travel (as usual). Wanderlust. I am currently seeking a remedy to this situation. I'm thinking Scotland (again). Or maybe I'll just start driving and see where I end up.

I took my brothers to see Imogen Heap at the Ryman last Saturday. It was their (very) early birthday present and it was a successful surprise. They didn't know what we were doing till we were at the Ryman and then they didn't know who we were seeing until she came out on stage early to get some of her sound things in line for the show. What an amazing artist she is. And I'm quite sure that she understands my hair since hers is crazy too(which would be a first). She has the ability to speak feeling and to describe moments in abstracted but completely accurate ways.

Still thinking of grad school. Also thinking of seminary. Also thinking of becoming a professional bum. Or a nun. I guess a Presbyterian would make a bad nun, really, so nix that one.

I am making Coconut Jasmine Rice tonight. Y-um.

"How Jane Austen can write!...She is a miniaturist, but never two-dimensional....All Jane Austen characters are ready for an extended life, for a life which the scheme of her books seldom requires them to lead, and that is why they lead their actual lives so satisfactorily."

E.M. Forester





I love to see an author I love praising another author I love. It's like feeling somehow responsible for two of your close friends falling in love with each other.

Anecdote of the Jar

I placed a jar in Tennessee,
And round it was, upon a hill.
It made the slovenly wilderness
Surround that hill.

The wilderness rose up to it,
And sprawled around, no longer wild.
The jar was round upon the ground
And tall and of a port in air.

It took dominion every where.
The jar was gray and bare.
It did not give of bird or bush,
Like nothing else in Tennessee.

Wallace Stevens


As Spring takes over Tennessee, I recall this poem and smile. Modernity often looks so wrong here.

This has to be my family tree . . .

I think I seriously have all of these people related to me. Maybe not the Confederate soldier, but pretty much everyone else. And I like it.

A few friends I've been spending time with lately at the Frist Center . . .

Rossetti



Edward Burne-Jones



Edward Burne-Jones



John Everett Millais



William Holman Hunt

My New Art Blog

I've been trying to work out a way to have a website for my artwork, but for now it will be here:

The Thistle and the Fallen Leaf

It isn't all together yet, but it's getting there.


For now you may delight in the amazing-ness of Imogen Heap's new song "First Train Home"




Bodies disengaged our mouths are fleshing over.
As hiss and echo gain
Irises retreating
Two ovals of white.
The urge to feel your face
And blood rushing to paint my handprint
A Frisbee one by one
You're vinyl on laminent
Desperate for some kind of contact.

First train home I´ve got to get on it
First train home I´ve got to get on it
First train home I´ve got to get on it
To Catch to catch catch catch catch.
First train home I´ve got to get on it
First train home I´ve got to get on it
First train home I´ve got to get on it
First Train home

Temporal deadzone
Where clocks are barely breathing
Yet no one cares to notice
For all their yamming on
I clam up to hold it together.
I want to play, don´t, waveforms in the hideaway
I want to get on with getting on with things
I want to run in fields, paint the kitchen,
And love someone
And I can´t do any of that here can I?

First train home I´ve got to get on it
First train home I´ve got to get on it
First train home I´ve got to get on it
First train home.


So what?
You´ve had one too many.
So what?
I´m not that much fun to be with
So what?
You´ve got a silly hat on
So what?
I didn´t want to come here anyway.

What matters you doesn´t matter matter to me.
What matters to me doesn´t matter matter to you.
What matters to you doesn´t matter matter to them.
What matters to them doesn´t change anything.

Got to get on it first train home.
Got to get on it first train home

First train home I´ve got to get on it
(I´ve got to get on it)
To catch to catch catch-catch catch.
(First train home)
First train home I´ve got to get on it
First train home.
(First train home)

To go to go to go
Get get get get
Out out out out
Now now now now

Somewhere I once was . . .

Lisbon (Lisboa), Portugal. I want to go back.

Dyriads? Tree-maids?

New doodlings for a painting