Loving Art

I love paintings...

Introducing an eight-year old, Autumn De Forest (and what a romantic name):




Reading about her, at first I was reluctant to call her a "prodigy". Then I looked at her artwork.
Here are three of my favorites, painted at age 7:


'Garden'


'Dusk'


'Serenade'


Let's say I no longer argue about the use of 'prodigy'. May you have a long and intensely creative life, Autumn, for the world is more joyous for your creations.

You can see the rest of her art here.

Curiosity Soaked The Cat

Chinook, quickly nicknamed « Chouchou », loves the bathroom sink. He’s in there excitedly every morning as I prep for work, and I often let a tiny stream of water flow out for his entertainment. He plays “trying to catch the water”. When his ears are good and soaked, he leaves the sink and sits right beside, and I can wash my face. His nose is about seven inches from mine and he looks on with tremendous interest.
I can actually hear him think:
“My human takes her turn playing in the water. That’s fair. Let’s study HER method...”
Let's note that his interest in water has already lead him to slip in a full bath tub not once but twice (and he didn't like it ONE bit!). A very curious kitten, this scallawag.

Not much sun...

but the Lothlorien is all around us...

Clarification

You don't need a parachute to go skydiving. You only need a parachute if you want to go skydiving twice.

Fall

Fall has cometh. Dark skies, intermittent rain. The leaves are turning and I should not go anywhere without my camera, because every once in a while, on an anonymous corner, a tree will stand out in an explosion of gold or red, so bright, so perfect that it seemed to have been planted by elves overnight.

Every morning, before I get up, I get a ten-minute cuddling session from Chinook. He shows up in full purr when my alarm clock rings, so I press snooze and we settled down for some serious petting, kissing, purring, curled up in my neck like the little baby he still is. It starts a day well.

My feelings got hurt recently, and as usual when that happens, I’m longing for affection from the rest of my circle. Virtual hugs are welcome. I wouldn’t even mind a burro kiss or two.

By the way, I found a cure for insomnia. Recently I would wake up around 4 or 5 am and be unable to go back to sleep. So I decided to take advantage of that and go running at those early hours, to start the day well. I laid out my clothes and prepared my Ipod.

I’ve been sleeping like a baby ever since! LOL!

(Photo credits unknown)

Douce France, cher pays de mon enfance...

I was in training yesterday. It was a one-day class called: “International Etiquette”. It included lunch in an uppity restaurant as part of the training.

We basically learned the minimum of good manners, with attention to North-American etiquette versus European. We learned how to eat with an Ambassador and not commit some gross blunder.
Having grown in Europe, where good manners are very important, and with parents for whom they were mandatory, I can’t say that I learn a lot of NEW things, but it was a solid review of stuff I had not seen, nor really practiced, in a long time.

The reason I was taking this training, in case you wonder, is because we often receive VIPs, at work, Canadian but occasionally Russian, Japanese, Chinese, American or European... Mastering good manners helps feeling confident with completely different cultures.

The teacher was a dumpy and unglamorous French-Canadian older woman, much to my surprise. But she had traveled a lot and she knew her stuff. She stated, matter-of-factly, that in France, and elsewhere in Europe, you WILL be scrutinized, evaluated, judged and catalogued on the sole basis of your manners.

I was the first time I heard somebody stating the essential reason I will not live in France again.

The French are so uppity about manners and good breeding. Yet put them in the streets, or in a crowd. Do you think they will good-naturedly and orderly line-up while waiting for something, like North American do? No, they will press and push in chaos, each man for himself to try and get first.
Will they be courteous and mindful of others in places like airplanes? No, they will tend to be rude and selfish and totally self-centered.
Will they avoid littering, out of respect for others? Just go to France...

So I am sorry but good manners extend beyond a dining table and a way to shake hands. And the French don’t have it. So I will not live in a society where I will be judged, and harshly so, on these superficial criteria instead of on what really matters, the person I really am.

And this, folks, is why I although I miss France like crazy sometimes, I will not go back to live there. And am I passing a judgement on the French? You bet! And does it matter? Not one iota, thankfully!

A Real Man

A real man is a woman's best friend. He will
never stand her up and never let her down.
He will reassure her when she feels insecure
and comfort her after a bad day.

He will inspire her to do things she never
thought she could do; to live without fear
and forget regret. He will enable her to
express her deepest emotions and give in to
her most intimate desires. He will make sure
she always feels as though she's the most
beautiful woman in the room and will enable
her to be the most confident, sexy,
seductive, and invincible.

No wait... sorry... I'm thinking of wine.

It's wine that does all that.......Never mind.

And we could be heroes, just for one day...

Today was a very exciting day. Today we received the visit, at the office, of two men I'm more in awe of, and star-struck about than I would be of Brad Pitt and Bono visiting. Everybody is in awe of them so a lot of people wanted to grab a word, especially the ladies because these two are absolute eye candy. They are treated like EIP as in EXTREMELY Important Personalities. Yet they remain completely simple and down to earth and approachable. And that's not the least of the things I admire about them. They're in their thirties, they have physical courage, impossibly bright minds and a scope of skills and experiences that defy the imagination. They impress THE HELL out of me.

Because I will not reveal where I work on this blog, I cannot reveal their identities. I could probably put up a picture of them and nobody would know who they are. Only people in that specific field do. But of the hundreds of people at the office, and even though they are shepherded and marched and timed to the minute, I did get a chance to shake their hands and say a few words, and they remembered me from last year, when I had met them for the first time.

So I'm floating on a cloud.

I'm usually never star-struck by anybody, even celebrities. I don't do hero worship. In fact, that's how I met them in the first place. While everybody was treating them like sacred china, I just went and talked to them as to the normal people that they are.

But they sure made my day.

Blue

What's on my fridge

- Art by Karl Larsson, because I love his work.
- A hand written note from my brother last time he was here for Christmas, telling me there's turkey in the fridge.
- A postcard from Marie, picture of Cape Town, in my country-in-law.
- Pretty magnets.
- Pictures of my departed cats, so it feels they're still around with us.

- And of course, an old painting I like from my son.

Monsieur Chinook, caught in the act of killing the bed...

The Truth About the French

Read a good one yesterday...

Why do French people eat snails?

Because they don't like fast-food.

Back To School!

Today, for the first time in his academic life, my son will step into a classroom that’s geared up for HIS needs, with teatchers who are specialized in his way to see the world. How huge is that? HUGE.
My son has fiercely hated school from the first time he ever stepped into a classroom. Will he still hate it as much in specialized education? Time will tell. I’m very eager to see what kind of a difference it will make.

In the meantime:
I dreamed of blood.
My friend Linda is seeing turtles.
My friend J will wear a top hat today.
The suffocating heatwave is on ‘till Saturday.
Today is September 1st.
On every square inch of floor in my house, there’s a cat stretched out complaining: ”Boy, it’s hot!” Even Chinook The Terrible is slowing down on ambush attacks. It is simply too hot to fight.

Have a good one everybody!

Thought of the day

"To err is human, to purr is feline." Robert Byrne

Maaaa, he's done it again!

Wow. When I take a picture of Rockport's Front Beach, it looks like this:



When my brother takes a picture of Rockport's Front Beach, it looks like this:


(See it bigger by clicking on it). Copyright Vincent Mounier 2010

And this, my dears, is the difference between an amateur and a Photographer.

My family

This is my family. How do we know it's my family? Easy. Four people have a book in their hands.

In my family, we read. And when we're not reading, we take pictures of each other taking pictures.




Lots of books. Lots of pictures.

Then we blog about it.

A Fix of Ocean

Contrary to appearances, I am alive and kicking... just came back from a few days by the ocean in New England. Will blog more soon...

A Happy Birthday!

Today, one of my dearest friends turns 42. So I printed 8 copies of this sign:



And I taped them in all the windows, windshield and rear window of his van. Nice and bright where everywhere could see them. All day.

I hope he appreciates how much I care about his safety... I'm just one of those very caring persons.

It's a blueberry kind of day

A friend has generously given me two huge bowls of the most delicious blueberries on earth. Loukhi has confirmed they were good. Oh where is my sister-in-law? She would do all kinds of scrumptious miracles with those. Me... well, I just eat them. C'est délicieux et nutritif, moi personnellement je trouve. (Last sentence is a wink to my brother)





Meanwhile, Chinook is still very busy being cute.

The business of being cute

On doing nothing

Aaah... vacations... farniente... I leisurely sip my coffee... then all I have to do is feed the cats, change their water, do the dishes from yesterday, clean the litter boxes, take a shower, clean the guinea pig's cage, take the garbage out, change the sheets on my bed and take more pictures of Chinook for this blog 'cause he's really cute and vacuum... that's all.

He's clearly having a hard time adapting.

This is Chinook

Still fits in one hand. Purrs a lot. Must stick his face AGAINST mine at night to go to sleep. Do you know how TICKLISH whiskers are in your nose or your mouth? Highly popular with the humans. Not so much with the cats yet.

He doesn't replace Pasha. He only carries on where Pasha left.

What happened

I sat on my bed, with my new hobby, boxes of beads spread out around me... Pasha was on the fringe, itching to jump into the whole thing. Eventually, he hunted down a piece of discarded string, played with it, then started eating it.
I said: ‘Hey, hey, hey! Oh no you don’t eat that!”
I removed the string from his paws and mouth and dropped it in my waste basket.

I suppose the minute my back was turned, he went and helped himself to the string directly from the waste basket. It never even occurred to me that he could do that.

He ate it. It ravaged his intestines, knotting and slicing them. It killed him.

The vet said they see TONS of cats dying from having eaten string, each year. I had no idea. Cat owners, be warned.

Pasha, you have no idea how much you are missed, the awful emptiness you are leaving behind.

Pasha

Pasha couldn't be saved. He died this morning.

Nowhere out of the woods

We took him home. He moves very, very slowly. He's indifferent to the other cats. He has not started eating or drinking yet, though we hope being back home will stimulate his appetite. We have 4 to 6 pills to give him a day, that's going to be hellish. (You know... cats and pills...)

So fingers crossed. I'd say at this stage, there's a 50-50 % chance he gets better or he deteriorates beyond help. We're going to pamper him with all the love in the world. The rest is out of our hands.

What do I do now?

« We know what he DOESN’T have, says the vet after blood tests, glycolic test, x-rays etc and hundreds of dollars. But we don’t know what he has.”
Great.

Pasha has been at the clinic for two days and will spend another night. He’s had an IV the whole time. He seems better and more awake... but he still throws up and still doesn’t eat.

If tomorrow is more of the same... what do we do? If we take him home and he doesn’t eat, he’ll weaken until he dies. But we can’t leave him at the clinic, in a cage, with a needle up his paw for days on end either...

So at this stage, I don’t know what to do.

Worrying

Shortly after Luritja died, a year ago, I lost my heart for my blog. Here I am, a year later, finally inspired again.

But yesterday, Pasha acted very sick. So we whisked him to the vet, who kept him overnight for various tests and to rehydrate him.

I should get some news today. I am worried. Pasha, please don’t let it be serious or fatal. Hang on, mon Pash, don’t go like Luritja did.

Wealth and Creation

I feel incredibly wealthy... I have received my box from Better World Books today and I have... not one... not two... not three... but THIRTEEN handpicked unread books ready for my summer and vacation reading! I sometimes stock two or three, but THIRTEEN waiting for me, all from authors I already know and like?...
LIFE. IS. GOOD. and I feel super-duper privileged and spoiled as if I were a millionaire... Wealth is all in the eye of the beholder, I suppose.



On another front, I like creating (painting, sewing, drawing etc...) and I was a magpie in a past life in the sense that I adore everything that is shiny, glittery, sparkling... so my new current hobby (I feel like I'm eight years old again, and by Jove, that's rather pleasant actually):
Beads!! I'm making sparkling bracelets in a rainbow of colors, incredible shades of greens and blues (much prettier than the pictures)... it's creating things of beauty, just for the pleasure of it and I find it enormously fulfilling... I used to wear nothing but my earrings and my watch (as far as JEWELRY is concerned, jeez people but you have dirty minds!) but I have taken to always having some of my creations on my left wrist. They catch the light all day and I'm all bubbly inside every time I see them shine...




So there you have it. Two things that bring me joy... I try to always count my blessings.

Before and After

Before:

Look at the size of her beside a hand...

Today:



Before:


Today:

Nothing new on the Dream front

Inception didn't do it for me... Why? Let's see...
The actors and the dialogue, in the first third of the film, never let me forget I was watching lines being delivered.
The music throughout was loud enough to become distinctly annoying.
It's a film that wants to be deep without relinquishing its claim to Action. Unfortunately, the action is both unnecessary to the story, and dragging. The attack on the snowy compound is like a video game: you shoot, anonymous silhouettes crumble, except I got bored with the game long before the director did.

Examples of truly ground-breaking movies are the first Matrix, Avatar, the early Blade Runner. Despite the fuss, Inception is not one of them. The necessary romance, hero's angst, action and twists in the plot have been too dutifully assembled. Instead of being carried away, you simply want to put a check mark as you recognize each element.

Kuddos, however, to Tom Hardy, playing Eames. He's the only breath of fresh air in the middle of a cast of stilted, artificial acting.

The Year the Curtain was Lifted

For 8 years, we have been convinced that something was "off" with my son. In those 8 years, we consulted several times, trying to figure out what was going on.

Each and every time we were sent back with the assurance that he was perfectly normal and any difficulties we were having were due to upbringing. Read: "You are failing as parents, it's all your fault if he's messed up, your parenting is clearly inadequate."

You can just imagine the level of guilt we developed through the years, or maybe you can't possibly. Each time, we left resolute to crack down on my son's misbehaving and war and mayhem would ensue.

Then, a few months or a year later, we'd stare at him and think: "It's NOT the parenting or at least not only that. Something is WRONG." And off we would go to another professional, to be more or less covertly blamed as usual and assured that my son would be just fine if we were just stricter.

It went on for 8 years, 8 years of conflicts, of rage on both sides, of slowly becoming despondent, both parents and child. Then, in his first year of high-school, my son threw in the towel. School was so stressful, painful, hated, humiliating, that he simply stopped going, and nothing could change his mind.

Distressed, we once more rang up the channels of the powers that be. This time, he had reached such a state of undoing that it was impossible to ignore any longer or pretend he just needed stricter parents. The teachers were at loss, the psychologists were at loss, we were at loss. So throughout this school year, 2009-2010, we slowly navigated the channels. It is harder to obtain an appointment with a child psychiatrist than to meet the pope. We dug our heels. We were patient. My son had dropped out of school at 12, there was nothing to lose anymore.

After seeing numerous professionals, a diagnostic was finally given, in June 2010. My son has an Attention Deficit Disorder AND Pervasive Developmental Disorder (PDD), a form of autism. He also has a superior IQ. All these years of trying to convince the counsellors that he WAS different...

Emotions are mixed. Rage at having been blamed all along and at their failure to realize he needed help... Relief, to know it wasn't our fault after all, and that he's not behaving the way he does because he's a brat, a fear that was haunting me... Grief at having to accept that he will ALWAYS be different...

He's enrolled in special PDD classes next fall. And all the while, we tried to hammer him into fitting in school, when he was a square among circles, and caught hell for it from the merciless classmates.

First-thing-in-the-morning reads

Time magazine recently published a list of the so-proclaimed 25 best blogs of 2010 (needless to say, they’re all English... perhaps we could amend that to the 25 best English-language blogs? Naaw, North America has long forgotten there’s a world beyond...)

I have 5 blogs linked on my page, and I enjoy them so much that I want to briefly introduce each of them, in no particular order:

Coriolistic Anachronisms:

Vince is a photographer philosopher unless he is a philosopher photographer. He’s also a gifted writer, world traveler, computer and camera equipment maniac.

What you can mostly expect on his blog:
Wonderful photographs, food for thought, technical posts and Wisdom.


Morning Bray Farm:

Two burros and two donkeys live on a farm in New Mexico. Justina and Don, the owners, take great photographs of the daily life.

What you can mostly expect on this blog:
Plenty of donkey’s antics, wrapped in humor and tenderness.


The 7 MSN Ranch:

Out in the middle of a spectacular nowhere: one woman, one horse, two burros, one dog, one pig, five cats and the occasional visitor (snake, spider, lizard, varmin). Linda is professional-class photographer who truly has an eye for light and composition. She takes pictures that tell stories... those are the best.

What you can mostly expect on this blog:
A wonderful sense of humor, an inextinguishable love for animals, pet pictures that will make you dream, laugh or fall in love, and George and Alan, the two cutest asses on the planet.



Don Estorbo de la Bodega:

This is a black cat’s blog. A black cat with a strong accent and an attitude.

What you can expect on this blog:
A hilarious black cat with a strong accent and an attitude.


66 Square Feet:

Marie lives in a tiny apartment in Brooklyn. She mostly blogs about things that grow, cooking, and daily life in Brooklyn. She takes remarkable close-ups of plants and food. She’s well-read, outspoken, with a sharp and lively mind. Her blog has been acknowledged and nominated on several occasions.

What you can expect on this blog:
All about growing and identifying plants, delicious recipes, drinks and editorials.


Of course, there is some family connection (not that it influences my judgement in any way OF COURSE!). Vince is my brother, Marie my sister-in-law and Estorbo my cat-in-law. The asses, unfortunately, are not related.

So go visit, and enjoy!!

Re-introducing: the Cats

Today is a momentous day. Today, after a hiatus of one year, I’m going back to blogging. I knew I would eventually. I waited to be ready.
I’ve discovered new blogs that I enjoy beyond words, and they also nudged me forward.

Most of my favourite blogs have a point. A theme. A purpose. I delight in the fact that mine has not. My blog is my blank page, the voice of the girl who seldom speaks out. I delight in my freedom to write about anything ...
Compounding my freedom, is the fact that all my followers have long ago stopped checking on my blog. I don’t expect traffic except for a few loved ones. That also makes a difference, knowing that what I write will hardly be read.

Last evening we had a thunderstorm. Wind and rain lashed the windows, the trees, the clothes laid out to dry, the kind of outpour that soaks you within seconds, violent winds that flipped leaves over, like a skirt billowing up against your will. I loved it. I love storms. A gorgeous double rainbow illuminated the sky and then night fell.

When I was blogging last, I had just lost one of my favourite cats ever. Right away, I got two new kittens and they did a wonderful job of distracting me from my grief. So now, for this new reader that I will call "you", here’s how the family stands:

Circe is twelve, the oldest, the veteran. She’s declawed. She is a mama’s girl, following me like a shadow, trusting no one but me. She’s very soft, very skinny, under her fluffy fur she actually weighs nothing. I pick her up like a rag doll and she pretends to hate it but she loves it. She’s curious, sociable, not shy, but grumpy. She will lie close to the others but will never actually cuddle with them. She’s learned to bite hard, to make up, I think, for her helplessness at being declawed (I mistake I vowed never to do again), but with me, she only fakes it and never actually bites.

Circe

Loukhi was Luritja’s “baby”. I’ve never seen two cats so attached to each other, so inseparable, so intimate. I know Luritja’s death left a huge hole in Loukhi’s life. For months on end, she lost patches of fur, bare spots as clean as if they had been shaved. I think she was grieving badly in the beginning. Loukhi is the quiet, peaceful one. She’s a solid cat, yet she has that tiny, soft, shy meow, which she uses only to answer when you sweet talk to her. Even though she doesn’t love them as she loved Luritja, she gets along fine with the others and I think she’s happy enough again, as happy as you can be when the love of your life has been taken away from you. She loves being petted but doesn’t come onto your lap. None of my cats do.

Loukhi and her love

Happier times

Loukhi

Saphi is the tiny thing I adopted one day after Luritja died. As a kitten, she was adorable. Independent, curious, friendly. She immediately got along with the others. Her characteristic was that she fell in love with the blanket on my bed and used it as a surrogate mother. She would suckle on it passionately, purring loudly, until she soothed herself to sleep, her nose still in the fake fur. I have endless pictures of Pasha and her, as kittens, and on each of them, Pasha is stretched out like a rabbit while you can’t see Saphi’s nose, buried in the blanket. They made for an adorable pair. A year later, Saphi is still as tiny and as skinny as delicate china. She’s become even more independent. She doesn’t like petting and tries to avoid our hands. She doesn’t purr easily and she’s the first cat I know who hardly ever smiles. A non-smiling cat is so very odd to me. Instead of smiling, she gravely looks at you with huge but friendly eyes, studying you. She looks directly at you, deep into your eyes, intent on understanding what you’re saying, or on passing a silent message. She spends hours away from home. We wonder where she goes. For all that, it is clear that she’s a perfectly happy cat, playful, jumping higher than any other, and as acrobatic as a monkey. Precious Saphi.

Don't hate me because I'm beautiful...

"Hum, impressive!"

A few days after Saphi, I got Pasha. Pasha is the only male, as was Luritja. And they turned out to have a lot in common. Pasha is a bon vivant. Food is his hobby, and from being slightly smaller than Saphi as a kitten, he’s grown at least twice her size. He’s the biggest cat now. He’s a trusting, good natured fellow, who rolls onto his back any chance he gets, another thing Luritja used to do. He has regular bouts of intense affection during which, purring loudly, he rubs back and forth against you, stubbornly. And he has the funniest meow, which he uses a lot. His meow is very clear: an insistent, reproachful whining. It seems to chide you for the way you treat him/ignore him/not feed him, it complains: “I am a poor, pitiful cat and I’m being grossly mistreated”. You could build unions on his meow. His only fault is that he plays too rough. When he claws in play, he doesn’t hold back, as the cries of the others often remind us. And when he decides to ambush my feet beneath the sheet while I’m peacefully sleeping, the pain has made me scream out loud. Idiot.

With the newcomer



Well! I certainly did not intend to write to such length on my first post back, but I’m glad you are now introduced to the crowd. Thus you will know who I’m talking about... All these pictures are old, and now that they're grown up, I'll post new ones so you can see the changes. As for the rest of the house’s inhabitants, it will be for another time!