Liz's Gowanus

Gowanus in black and white, by Liz Schnore, worth the visit.

High Line

Luckily the High Line was no tightrope, so I didn't fall off. Favorite part, the way the plantings often appear ungardened, weed-like, self-sown. That is fine gardening that hardly seems gardened at all. The Chelsea Waterplayground at 23rd and the West Side Highway is a great end destination if you're walking the line with young ones. Why do not we have such immodest fountains in Brooklyn? Are we too bashful?

The elevated park will not be open on the evening of July 4th. Could have been a great idea. Or not. Definitely would be hard on the plants.

Pier 101

Governors Island Site-Specific Installation

Parts, abandoned by all but artists and their appreciators, and other areas, vacated and off limits to the public, seem to be making a great nesting ground. This nest was guarded by a large gull until it sized us up as dangerous, and possibly stupid. I had no idea I'd find its nest there on the ground.

Governor's Island would make a great bird sanctuary. I imagine it's already providing refuge for many.

Dumbo Rainbow

Coop

Collage by a group of 4-5 year old BK girls. Low maintenance fees! Plenty of black, fertile soil. Hats off to Ms. Amy.

dream house

By Russell. Yesterday I learned the term haecceity, which can be read as "thisness," synonymous with quiddity or less so hypokeimenon, which implies an ideal form from which the actual generates. A term from medieval philosophy, haecceity was revived by Gilles Deleuze and Felix Guattari. There's a publication called the Haecceity Papers dedicated to architectural issues. This one, Volume 4 Issue 1, sounds especially interesting to me at the moment. Here, the blurb:

Architecture addresses social structures which are a product of subjective structure; while a "common-sense", psychological interpretation might be that social structures are necessary to keep individual instincts under control, a more psychoanalytical consideration suggests that in fact social institutions and structures are created by the structure of the subject. Hence, for example, rather than the judicial system being in place to help us keep our violent urges under control, it is a product of obsessional structure and creates the illusion that all of us are animalistic creatures who would lose control were it not for the system.

The Western subject seems to have a need for an historical view, a plot-line as it were, a notion of the subject as having been caused. A perspective makes things bearable - we need to have a comfortable sense of inside versus outside. Yet, as we know from psychoanalysis, it is not that simple. We are divided, not complete, subjects and certainly not subjects with an inside and an outside. Perhaps good architecture should remind us of this, but gently, not without an element of surprise or even a degree of uncanniness, and when we are ready for it - like a good analyst. The essays collected in this volume explore the issue of psychoanalysis and architecture from varying and differing angles, attempting to shed light on the relation of the unconscious to the built environment, and vice-a-versa.

The power of a space is quiet, I've noticed recently the slight sensation that when I enter a certain room or space, part of me becomes it, as if instantly intermixed with the qualities that arrangement of form offers, whether it's a bright, refined area or a crowded, dark one, an appealing, navigable system or one that speaks of abrupt departures. Like the school as it looked yesterday, with all the student work removed from the bulletin boards, which made me feel a little mournful. During the school year the teachers and their students build small societies with goals and rewards and challenges to grow towards, and then, at the end, the power structure simply unravels, the rope dropped. It takes some getting used to for some, for others, it's a joy ride.

Brooklyn in a Dream

We were driving all over the periphery of the borough, over too fast highways, magnetically clinging to the angular dynamism of bridge steel, looking for an indeterminate destination. We find it, a housing project that resembles a quad at an old University, but where the Gothic heaviness is sweetened with the comeliness of a patchwork of Tudor chocolate/vanilla details. A visual playground, the building speaks of the fattening of essence that derives when all occurrences are viewed as diamond-solid learning experiences of particular personal worth, and also the feeling of discovering one's unique sensibility as receiving the supernal gift. And other things.

I'm told we won't be staying in that building, but a shorter one across from it, white, with wider windows and fewer stories. I press the buzzer. Before going in, I notice the tree in the court, which seems to blow to the left with bonsai lyricism. Its flowers are brown papery wheels or spirals, as numerous as galaxies, cascading in clusters that build like the movement of a passion. Up close, I see it has fruits, and taste them. They are tender, granular, sweet and nutty, coated with crumb, they are nut ball cookies. Very fortifying.

True Value Hardware

The key maker's work bench stands hidden behind a partition, as if they were trying to hide it, but they can't mask the sound. Waiting my turn, I watch the man at the works load the master key in the slot to the left and the blank into the one at the right, check alignment, pull levers, I hear speed scream as the saw carves topography in the brass, slivered curls and grinder's dust shooting down to the pile of menaced metal collecting in the cavity below the machine.

I wonder if it was like that when the cosmos spawned me, was there a master key and furious, abrasive wheel?

It doesn't matter, it can stay secret. But here's the sad part, even though I come into this moment with a specific relation of grooves, I still try to make myself as if I myself made and make the terrain, as if I create myself, as if in my grandiosity I can improve on the work of the key maker. Even as the assault of the saw that cut my form from the virgin metal still tears through me, and I sense I owe my being as much to irritation as to attraction, and I realize with fear, or irritation, or stimulation, or ecstatsy, the saw's not finished yet.

Good Ideas

Thankfully replacing these five-year-old bulbs was not the daymare I thought it would be. They'd been so reliable I began to think they'd never wear out. The elegance of halogen bulbs is that, unlike in other bulbs where the tungsten filament wears out through evaporation, the halogen gas in the bulb binds with the evaporated tungsten from the filament and redeposits it on the filament. Too clever! Srsly!

My father loves to tell the story of Thomas Edison's invention process, how he'd sit on a chair with a marble in his hand, basically falling asleep, but never soundly, because as soon as he did he'd drop the marble and wake himself up. I wonder how he learned to mine that insane/profound zone between sleep and awake for the answers he was looking for. Apparently dropping a marble is very different from losing one.

Peace Train

K, a neighbor I talk to every year and a half or so, wound up standing in front of me on the F platform, so we talked about the Middle School where both our daughters attend, the Willie Mae Rock Camp that I keep hearing great things about, and an unfortunate grade 6 science teacher. On the train, his hand gripped the steel pole, a pink swath blocking the metal, a finger bearing a silver peace ring. He is active with a group called The Peace Alliance which I gather aims to create a U. S. Department of Peace.

K told me about work done in a prison in Washington State where some sort of alternative to violent conflict was introduced. They expected the program might reduce the rates of assaults within the group participating somewhat, but no one was expecting that it would reduce them to zero. As he told me the story my heart liquified there on the subway and I began to wonder about what sort of program it was exactly, but I have no answers yet. I think it would be amazing to get a handle on the nuts and bolts of something so powerful. I guess that's what a Department of Peace might do.

Blow It!

Another From Sybil Colby

I plucked this from the pile of rotting music I can't get rid of. In the Masked Ball, the heroine Amelia falls for her husband's boss, the governor Riccardo. Guess what happens to their love? Hint, it's an opera.

My little one keeps quoting this line to me which she picked up somewhere: "Hey, who turned on the dark?" I really should know where she's getting her lines, she's only 4. So, who did? Maybe soon the sun will be able to take its mask off and tell me.

On Saturday I asked my son what he wanted for breakfast and he said "Romantic Comedy." I'll take some Romantic Comedy for breakfast tomorrow too, with some sun.

Nettles and Milk

A sympathetic apple saw fit to share this video with me yesterday, seeing my fascination with Nettles hasn't yet diminished. It was my first exposure to Salad Fingers, who seems to hail from the same long shadows which have issued such bat-winged things as Eraser Head, Edward Scissor Hands, Tales of the Gimli Hospital, and The Kingdom.

My father brought up Milarepa (the nettles eater) yesterday during ritual father's day well wishing. Here I am a fan, and I had no idea he was as well, in particular of Milarepa's abundant songs, for which some compare him to St. Francis. The apple falls close to the tree.

Tasteless Father's Day Post

The King Oyster mushrooms that I broiled for the paternal breakfast turned out to be inedible. And may this Father's day be un-Oedipal.

[In case you pity my husband please know he was satisfied with the omelet.]

If not the sun

the pinapple also rises.

bubbles, spilled milk, thrown stones

I printed out this post on secrecy this morning, and then accidently gave it a bath in milk. Later I came across this on a similar theme and thought they made good Saturday morning book ends for the unnameable. I haven't had a chance to spill anything on the second post yet. But back to secrecy, maybe you've also noticed somewhere along the line that it's a fine thing when one can begin to have a relationship with something that can't be pinned down like a willing husband.

I've come across many models of the slippery stuff we call mind lately, sky, ocean, mirror, lake and moon, and most recently wax, which I appreciate very much because it calls the body, long abused and regulated to the category of the corruptible on account of its tendency to decay and perceived imperfection, into the mix of being. What is psyche without soma? Unlike the mind, the body doesn't lie, which makes it both dangerous and redeeming.

And every body, a sacrificial victim. In a book I found on the street lately I read a legend that presents an explanation for mortality. According to the story, the first woman created asked her maker "How is it? Will we always live, will there be no end to it?" So he picked up a buffalo chip and he told the woman, "I will take this buffalo chip and throw it into the river. If it floats, when the people die, in four days they will become alive again, they will die for only four days. But if it sinks, there will be an end to them. So saying, he flung the buffalo chip into the river - and it floated. But the woman picked up a stone and said "No, I will throw this stone in the river; if it floats we will always live; if it sinks people must die, that they may always be sorry for each other." The woman threw the stone into the river and it disappeared. "There," said Old Man, "you have chosen. There will be an end to them." p.128, Heart of the Land, Jack Welch, "The Far Away People."

Some Chimera

Top image, a sprinkler at the Underhill Playground, where many altruistic fathers helped my daughter scale the jungle gyms while I gabbed with my friends, parents of a newborn boy they just adopted. The tiger-snake courtesy of Boschette.

I think this question is pertinent: Does the mermaid parade go on rain or shine? Do mermaids need umbrellas? In case of a deluge, are the tails useful? How do they pee?

Around Prospect Heights

Borrowed my daughter's scooter last Saturday to get to Prospect Heights for a morning among meditators. I passed through Prospect Park around 8:30 and couldn't believe my eyes there were so many happy, bounding dogs, it seemed like a canine utopia. I was a little jealous. It reminded me of Go Dog Go, a children's book which ends with all the dogs attending a party held in an enormous tree complete with balloons, extreme party hats, and many other tricks. Do you like my hat? Yes, I do! I do like that hat!

Perhaps one will be able to buy this book of great genius (P.D. Eastman is one of my favorite geniuses) at the new bookstore which opened June 16 on Vanderbilt. I believe it's called something like UN NA ME AB LE Books, (Used & New.) Mazel Tov! The store will be a nice addition to the Summer Streets scene on Vanderbilt, wherein the street will continue to be closed to traffic on Sundays from 1-5 throughout June. (What about July?) I hope young Francis and his parents will enjoy the proximity of this fussgängerzone.

Mermaids Need You

If you've ever wanted to be a mermaid's valet, or a mermaid for that matter, read on. Thanks to Katie and Jesse for the word.

The Coney Island Mermaid Parade is looking for volunteers!

Would you like to march in the parade as a banner holder or marshal? Or serve as a standing marshal and watch the entire parade go by? We need you!

We’re also looking for volunteers to work with registration and merchandise. And we need a hearty crew to set-up the parade bright and early and pack it in at the end of the day.

Concerned about feeling alone in the Mermaid Parade crowd? Bring a friend! We’ll do our best to place you together (or as far apart as possible if desired).

It takes over 150 volunteers to keep the parade afloat. We need you! To volunteer please email MermaidParadeVolunteer@yahoo.com and we’ll send you a registration form.

Thanks!

What: Coney Island Mermaid Parade
When: Saturday, June 20, 2009
Where: Volunteer Check-In will be at 21st St & Surf Ave
Volunteer Coordinator: Katie McMahan
Assistant Volunteer Coordinator: Jesse Davis
Contact: MermaidParadeVolunteer@yahoo.com

About the Mermaid Parade:
A completely original creation of Coney Island USA, the Mermaid Parade is the nation's largest art parade and one of New York City's greatest summer events. The Mermaid Parade celebrates the sand, the sea, the salt air and the beginning of summer, as well as the history and mythology of Coney Island, Coney Island pride, and artistic self-expression. The Parade is characterized by participants dressed in hand-made costumes as Mermaids, Neptunes, various sea creatures, the occasional wandering lighthouse, Coney Island post card or amusement ride, as well as antique cars, marching bands, drill teams, and the odd yacht pulled on flatbed.

About Coney Island USA:
Coney Island USA is a 501(c)(3) not-for-profit corporation based in the amusement park area of the Coney Island neighborhood of Brooklyn New York. In existence since 1983, Coney Island USA has developed and produces a number of different programs including some of New York City's best loved summer programming, such as the Mermaid Parade and the Coney Island Circus Sideshow. Coney Island USA also operates the Coney Island Museum and produces Ask the Experts, Burlesque at the Beach, the Coney Island Tattoo and Motorcycle Festival, Creepshow at the Freakshow, and the Coney Island Sideshow School. Coney Island USA also produces the Coney Island Saturday Night Film Series and the Coney Island Film Festival in association with indiefilmpage.com

For more information:
To register to VOLUNTEER:
email MermaidParadeVolunteer@yahoo.com
Mermaid Parade website:
http://www.coneyisland.com/mermaid.shtml
Mermaid Parade Volunteer Facebook page:
http://www.facebook.com/pages/Brooklyn-NY/Coney-Island-Mermaid-Parade/105503853135
To register to MARCH in the Parade:
https://commerce.pair.com/alhadeff/coney/mermaidreg_2009.html
Coney Island USA:
http://www.coneyisland.com/

Thanks to Karla Harscheid for the photo.

bottoms up

My son's new predilection, scouring tree pits and parkland for bottlecaps, in this case overlaps with my enthusiasm for anchors. Because I need one. I enjoy the fact that in this image the rope winds around the central line like the snakes on the staff of Asclepius.

I recently came across this passage from Marcus Aurelius floating at the top of a blog and was once again struck by the power of the depth of his wisdom. It stills my mind. I read it like medicine. Especially the line where he regards the wholeness of the daemon.

“Of human life the time is a point, and the substance is in a flux, and the perception dull, and the composition of the whole body subject to putrefaction, and the soul a whirl, and fortune hard to divine, and fame a thing devoid of judgement. And, to say all in a word, everything which belongs to the body is a stream, and what belongs to the soul is a dream and vapour, and life is a warfare and a stranger’s sojourn, and after-fame is oblivion. What then is that which is able to conduct a man? One thing and only one, philosophy. But this consists in keeping the daemon within a man free from violence and unharmed, superior to pains and pleasures, doing nothing without purpose, nor yet falsely and with hypocrisy, not feeling the need of another man’s doing or not doing anything; and besides, accepting all that happens, and all that is allotted, as coming from thence, wherever it is, from whence he himself came; and, finally, waiting for death with a cheerful mind, as being nothing else than a dissolution of the elements of which every living being is compounded. But if there is no harm to the elements themselves in each continually changing into another, why should a man have any apprehension about the change and dissolution of all the elements? For it is according to nature, and nothing is evil which is according to nature. “

I never know where the staff will turn up, but am so glad when it turns my head.

Cortelyou Assault on Minimalism, etc.

A Wish for the Oppressed

Perhaps for some the recession has led to fruitful solutions and opportunities that would never have emerged in times of prosperity. I hope so. A person appears to my mind who is afflicted in these times with failed self-efficacy that leads to paralysis and depression. Perhaps this portrait represents someone you know.

The subject of this portrait is people who have managed to avoid the abuse of their internalized shame-source voices with their financially successful endeavors until recently. Because of the harshness of those latent voices, they feel effects of the economic downturn are their personal failures because of the resonances of the subtle but never silent inner tyrants ever displeased with what this individual does. In these times, the voices roar with negativity, which lead individuals to desperate measures, lashing out at spouses, friends, children and strangers, either verbally, physically or attitudinally in a fashion typical of someone in the great pain of self disapproval.

For a person in this situation, I hope now becomes a time of allowing those internalized voices to appear for what they are, merely negative films over reality that tyrannize and oppress the individual. I hope that in this state of economically derived paralysis she or he finds the stillness necessary to observe the internal critics, strong but unconscious forces intermixed with the personality, until they become discrete, particular, subjective energies viewed fully in the light of day, where they can and will ripen to nothingness. In the mirror of the mind, let the demons appear and hide no longer, to show that they are made of the same clouds and smoke as everything else, and let the dreamer know herself as the clear, unspeakably perfect lens in which all things appear and disappear.

Linden on Prospect Park Southwest

The Linden trees now flowering hide their constellations of blossoms under petticoats of leaves, so one might seem like a pervert kneeling below their boughs trying to catch the picturesque view of the shrouded milky ways which seems to hum with songs out of hearing. Perhaps the sheltering leaves have helped preserve the flowers in favor of attracting the bees and their expertise, who will get woozy on premium nectar. But they did little to hide me, there on my knees, again.

sub rosa

Bibliomancy with The Complete Works of Lao Tzu led to the discovery of Section 31 of the Hua Hu Ching, a passage that will lead to greatly increased buoyancy as I face a day of long overdue cleaning.

"...the subtle cosmic body comes and goes nowhere, yet is always everywhere. Although it is called the subtle cosmic body, its reality cannot be put into words. To be aware of being with the Universal One is like watching the reflection of the moon on the surface of a still lake. Actually, the moon is not in the lake, yet people speak of it so. If, by chance, clouds appear and cover the moon, people say it had departed from the lake, yet it has actually gone nowhere.

The relationship between the universal soul and the individual soul is just like the relationship between the moon and the lake. Spiritual security is always present, but the clouds of the minds create the phenomena of apparent separation. The true nature of the universe is always self-existent, never failing to respond to an individual's straight and direct awareness. If an individual is aware enough, he realizes that the Universal One does not only come at the time of awareness. When one's mind is disturbed or confused, the Universal One seems to disappear, yet one's true nature had not departed. One creates the darkness which covers the light that is always available to freely support one's soul.

It is the double vision of the mind which led people to create mischief, agony, misery and tragedy. The source of all suffering is an individual's stubborn adherence to the establishment of self which separated him from his universal nature. It is not the Universal Way that chooses to be with one person and not another.

There are no images which should be held onto and no blessing which should be sought. There is no single virtue on which one should focus, nor any special names one should revere. Thus, when one attains universal awareness he can directly rejoin his true nature, which is the subtle cosmic body of the Universal One.*"

This passage reminds me of Jacob Boehme assertion, radical for his day, that we were not created and abandoned. Heaven is here.

*p.136, The Complete Works of Lao Tzu, Translation and Elucidation by Hua-Ching Ni. Strikethroughs mine, after my initial posting I added them as I was uncomfortable with certain associations I had with terms like "Universal Way," which winds up sounding slightly facistic. I guess that's what happens when the finite tries to get its mouth around the infinite. I suppose an interest in truth often requires a complete freefall.

Roses and Water

I've been imagining that water has a story to tell me but my ears are too dull to hear it. I'd like to know what's on its mind. What's on the mind of a substance that can divide itself into such small, separate particles which can crystallize with so much eloquence or alternately join into one body so vast its weight must press the earth's crust into ever shifting configurations of trenches and crests. What's to be said about this element which inflates all creatures with the tensions necessary for embodiment? Is there anyone who isn't "born of water?" Certainly there are those who've hidden this information from their awareness.

Twice in two days I came across the line "they go down to the sea in ships," which sounded like very odd language to me when I paid attention. The first time I simply marveled at the words wondering what was at the root of their strangeness (you don't go to sea in ships, you get in them when you get there, was what I was thinking.) I sat down on the train next to a man reading a book open to a chapter entitled "They go down to the Sea in Ships," and then saw that the page mentioned psalm 107:23. I never found out what the book was. Then for some reason it pleased my daughter's teacher to preach this idea to me as I was leaving her class yesterday: "A boat can take you anywhere you want to go." Hmm, anywhere? That's very accommodating.

Above is the rose water I've been making with the abundant petals of the Rapa Rose bush so huge it hits the front of our house like a wave spraying a storm of pink foam. Does pink also have a story to tell? Let me hear it. In the meantime, I'll tell you a little story. I found out that if you make tea from fresh rose petals by steeping them in boiling water for a few minutes, the liquid will be a light rust color. Add a few drops of lemon juice and it turns a shade like the one above. Do it if you can, maybe like me you will feel blessed and elated by the strange revelations, and in the turning of the pink, a joy as abundant as if the mixture had precipitated gold.

Oyster Restoration Lecture Tonight

Thursday June 11th, 6:00: Oyster Study at a Unique Site in Upper New York Harbor

Bart Chezar collaborates with NY/NJ Baykeeper, the Urban Assembly New York Harbor School and others to study this potential reef-restoration site.

Where: The Hudson River Park Trust's Pier 84 Classroom
Directions to Pier 84 (Midtown West): Subway A,C,E at 42nd St. Bus M42, M50. Cross at either West 43rd or West 44th Street. If you are driving there is parking just below pier 84.

RSVP to k.moshersmith@gmail.com

Electrophorus electricus

No matter how much you rub a balloon in your hair while wearing a polyester pantsuit and dragging your feet through a shag rug, you will never generate the zap of these most steampunk of creatures, Electophorus electricus. When I tried to capture the frankensteinian characteristics of this eel in its tank at the New York Aquarium (ever notice that odd seam that runs down both its sides?) it turned away from me as if pained by one with such pathetic electrical conductivy. It's true, fish, I am no super conductor like you, with 4/5 of your body packed with electroplaques that generate a charge which can course through your body at a rate of 1,000 meters per second.

The 1937 Time Magazine article from which I learned this includes comments from Dr. Coates, one time resident scientist at the Aquarium, pictured on the display below the Coney Island eel's tank. The writer mentions that Dr. Coates snorted. That is, he snorted when asked if he thought the energy of eels would ever be harnessed for use as a commercial power source. He must have had quite a sense for the creatures based on the stunts he coordinated exploiting the eel's voltage for the amusement of eager audiences.

The article describes the eel as "a wormish monster...as thick as a man's thigh." Did someone say man's thigh? The hadron device (... das star maker!) below looks like it must be considerably thicker than a man's thigh, but still bearing some of the strange tension and faint creasing molded into the eels turgid form, and adding to it the sinuous curls of an octopus' tentacles swirling to yin-yang counterpoints. Perhaps we should view the stunt in which an eel lit a 2,000,000 "candlepower" beacon in Radio City as a gateway stunt for things like the super colliders some fear will wreak havoc with reality as we know it. Do we really want to find out what happened at the time of the Big Bang, first hand? I can leave it alone. There's no need to act like a Nimrod and scratch the firmament with a gimlet.



Image from The Long Now Foundation

Saturday Still Life

It's refreshing to know that you could always keep flour in your desk drawer if you needed to. For extra freshness, you could also put that drawer in your driveway. And when it gets hot out, you can let your eyes ski down slopes of dry goods. This is what I learned on Saturday.

Fledgling

By the time this ladybug had emerged from her pupa, nearly colorless, it's possible that both her parents had perished. She is fostered by the sun which ripens her color and develops her singular pattern of spots. Inflated by the liquids in her body, supported by the upward thrusting things under her feet, she will soon initiate her talent with air, a product of work completed long ago, her jewel and inheritance. Maybe when she does, all like things will smile in some way.

Ok, insert Rilke quote here, and Voila!

Pennant tatters

The Key Food parking lot pennants, torn by the wind, evoke, among other things, prayer flags, battered pride, and the morning after the party. Happy Monday!

Wednesday on Saturday

Wednesday was beautiful, I saw these. And I read this and this.

dividuals

Recently I came across the word 'dividual,' thought it had been invented but found it in the Oxford compact, finding that it meant an entity which can be divided and retain its being, as opposed to an individual, which looses its essence if divided. In this one distinction I've found plenty of flint to consider, but right now the image I'm considering is water, which can be separated into drops of any numeration and still remain itself. Maybe others might relate something like the Holy Spirit to it, and others see in it Dzogchen, the natural state of primordial, all encompassing awareness, or to split hairs, Rigpa.

The story of Buddhist-Taoist deity Guanyin and the origin of her thousand arms certainly brings the word dividual to life. The story can be viewed as the way in which her compassion and devotion made her into a monster, if such a quantity of appendages and heads resonates as something terrible. She is alternately called Guanyin or Avalokitesvara, the name of her male counterpart.

Guanyin and the Thousand Arms

One Buddhist legend presents Guan Yin as vowing to never rest until she had freed all sentient beings from samsara, reincarnation. Despite strenuous effort, she realized that still many unhappy beings were yet to be saved. After struggling to comprehend the needs of so many, her head split into eleven pieces. Amitabha Buddha, seeing her plight, gave her eleven heads with which to hear the cries of the suffering. Upon hearing these cries and comprehending them, Avalokitesvara attempted to reach out to all those who needed aid, but found that her two arms shattered into pieces. Once more, Amitabha came to her aid and appointed her a thousand arms with which to aid the many. Many Himalayan versions of the tale include eight arms with which Avalokitesvara skillfully upholds the Dharma, each possessing its own particular implement, while more Chinese-specific versions give varying accounts of this number.

Head split into eleven pieces! I know many can relate to what that might feel like.

Homework

Nora's favorite animal is a snake, which she's drawn here wriggling under a tree that seems to dance under a highlighter sun. So that's what highlighters are for!

Mushroom Nation

Surprised myself by purchasing a half pound of Hen of the Woods mushrooms for a small fortune last Saturday (would post price but I have blocked it out) at the Madura Farms stand at the Cortelyou Farmer's market, swept away by the breadth of friendly myco-farmer Dan's knowledge of the medicinal value of the Mitakes. Someday it would be great to go visit his farm in Goshen, but most likely I wouldn't be allowed into the fan ventilated dark rooms where these beauties grow on piles of sterilized wheat straw.

The slightly intimidating clumps of the Hen of the Woods (top) break easily into sections reminiscent of broccoli florets, and sauteed in olive oil, basil, garlic, shallots, white wine and a bit of butter, then served over whole wheat pasta, nearly inspired tears of joy. How can it be that I haven't had that kind of good in so long? Oh yeah, I know, it's because I'm cheap.

For future adventures maybe I'll buy the slightly less expensive yellow and grey oyster mushrooms, although it's hard to pay for that which I've collected for free near my father's house in Virginia. Years ago I found white ones growing in a crag on a cliff and breaded them. My step mother's mother was there, and being a sweet, polite woman she graciously accepted her serving, and then, being a cautious, sensible woman, headed outside to chuck it in the grass. I don't blame her, how would she know I know my oysters?