The Kitchen of Mrs. Moreau

This just in from the AP: Do It Yourself DNA Amateurs Trying Genetic Engineering At Home.

There's a snapshot of a woman in jeans and a T-shirt, sitting in her spare room, puttering with equipment that includes a box of baggies, Tupperware, and a roll of toilet paper. Here's the caption:

"Meredith L. Patterson, a computer programmer by day, conducts an experiment in the dining room of her San Francisco apartment on Thursday, Dec. 18, 2008. Patterson is among a new breed of techno rebels who want to put genetic engineering tools in the hands of anyone with a smart idea. Using homemade lab equipment and the wealth of scientific knowledge available online, these hobbyists are trying to create new life forms through genetic engineering - a field long dominated by Ph.D.s toiling in university and corporate laboratories."

And you thought scrapbooking was cool.

Mr. Moreau: "Honey, I'm home."
Mrs. Moreau: "Hi--Wait! Don't step there."
Mr. Moreau, left foot frozen in midair, eyeing the floor in panic: "They got loose, didn't they. I knew it, I knew it... "
Mrs. Moreau: "Oh stop. It's just grape jelly."


Mrs. Moreau carefully lifts a test tube with barbecue tongs and heats it with a hair dryer. The contents begin to glow a faint blue.

Mr. Moreau, suspicious, stepping away from the jelly: "What are you working on?"
Mrs. Moreau: "It's a surprise."
Mr. Moreau groans, "That's the biofluorescent plaque-eating toothpaste bug, isn't it." Silence. "Isn't it!"
Mrs. Moreau, eyes fixed on her work: "Maybe."
Mr. Moreau: "Good God, woman, it ate the kids' teeth into points! They look like little sharks!"
Mrs. Moreau: "Relax. It's just baby teeth. They'll grow new ones. And on the plus side, the bullies at school are afraid of them now."

Mr. Moreau, slumping into a kitchen chair: "You have to quit this, Edna. You're going to kill us all."
Mrs. Moreau: "Nonsense. It's perfectly safe."
Mr. Moreau: "Who says that, Edna, who?"
Mrs. Moreau: "Scientists. Many scientists. And when I get this right, we'll be rich."
Mr. Moreau, brightening: "Oh. Well then. Carry on."

The Story Stone Project

*Original Post Here

When I posted this piece for the "Beautiful" Photo Hunt topic, Sandcastle Momma suggested making up a story for this old brooch. Three of us so far have come out to play. As promised, here are the stories and links. If you're inspired too, either leave your story in the comments or post it in your blog and leave a link in the comments. I'll add links to your entries in updates to this post. So, without further ado...

From Ian whose excellent blogs include So Far, So Good.

"Never did this brooch leave my mother's possession, let alone her trinkets box. She pawned or sold everything she had- including herself- when Father got sick in the summer of '50. But never this brooch. No picture of her exists wearing this rather ornate piece of jewelry. I never saw her wear it, not even to my own wedding, not even to match the unapologetic display of wealth of my in laws.

Wait, I saw her wear it, once, when I was in third grade. I was walking home from school (since I got kicked out of the bus) when I saw her across the street, rushing through the madding crowd, brooch on her left breast, shimmering in the afternoon sun. The shimmering was abruptly dulled by the tight, excited hug of a man I've never seen before..."

From Janet, of the blog Fond of Snape:

"Back when she was a traveling gypsy, telling fortunes, she always thought the blue crystal she gazed into would, when she retired, make a lovely centerpiece on a brooch...and she was right!"

And mine:

Evening sunlight slanted past the whispering leaves of the ancient oaks on Diamair Street, danced quickly through the rippled glass of a certain attic window, and gathered, glowing, in the heart of a sky blue stone.

The sudden glint caught the eye of one Maggie Faye, age 11, as the old brooch fell from the folds of Irish lace the child had pulled from her grandmother's dusty trunk.

Maggie came often to Nanna's house. She loved its warm kitchen, its soft, flowered sofa, and the walls lined with books. She loved gardening with Nanna and, of course, Nanna herself, with her twinkling eyes and her fairytales. However, Maggie had been to the attic only once before, when Nanna had taken her there to see the photograph of her great grandfather. Nanna had used an ornate metal key to open the door, and had locked it again when they left. And so, Maggie was surprised when the door opened for her on this afternoon, when she had grown bored and gone exploring.

Maggie caught the brooch as it fell. She had never seen anything like it. There were seven small, bright stones at the top, and an empty place where an eighth had been. Nine more, three sets of three, glittered at the bottom edge. Five chained blue orbs with spiral markings hung bellow. They made a pleasant, chiming sound as Maggie held the brooch up to the light. As the great blue stone caught the sun's last rays, its misty center began to flicker. Maggie drew it closer, unable to believe her eyes or to look away.

The room had grown dark by the time a cold hand gripped Maggie's shoulder, hard enough to hurt. Blinking, Maggie looked up into her grandmother's face, drained of color and strangely unfamiliar. "Careless ... stupid ... reckless to have kept it here," Nanna whispered, staring at the jewel in her grandchild's hand.

Maggie rose quickly to her feet, heat creeping into her cheeks. "I'm sorry Nanna, I didn't mean to ... I just wanted to see what was in the trunk, honest. Here, take it ..."

But Nanna was already shaking her head slowly and backing away. "No, child. It has come to you now. There is no going back."

On the absence of cows

It wasn't supposed to rain today. I had a full agenda of things to do and errands to run, including stops at the camera store and the library. After that, I was planning to track down some cows.

The cows in question are not your garden variety moosters. In fact, I've never seen any others like them. They would be perfect photo subjects for the Black Project -- that is, assuming the herd is still where I saw them last.

Alas, it was not to be. Halfway through my to-do list it started to rain. And it was clearly going to be the steady, all-day, buzz-kill variety of rain to boot. This is where I reach the limit of my dedication. I will hunt for cows, but I will not hunt them in the mud.

I did stop at the camera place and used a little bit of my inheritance to buy a tabletop studio, something I've wanted for a while now. (Mom loved toys too. Somewhere out there, I know she's smiling.) I wrestled the box back to the car with only a little water damage and made for the library, my favorite spot in town.

So there I was, arms loaded with newly arrived novels and nonfiction, when the real storm hit. The big plate glass windows shuddered under the onslaught, the roof thundered overhead, the doors shook on their hinges ... obviously, there was nothing for it but to settle into a deep, upholstered chair at the end of the stacks and read. In other words, I had a great excuse to do exactly what I really wanted to do anyway.

I spent the best hour of the whole week there, surrounded by books, lulled by the sound of water, relieved of the need to feel guilty. After all, no one would be expected to go out in weather like that, regardless of how high the laundry pile is.

Actually, the storm may not have lasted a whole hour. I kind of lost track of time. But hey, isn't that what libraries and Saturdays are for?

Soon as I find a spot around here that's relatively free of cat hair, I'll set up the new studio and choose a new subject. That light box is much too small for cows.

May 9 is Lost Sock Memorial Day

In honor of the occasion, I have written you a poem:

Ode to a Lost Sock

Does anyone know
where the single socks go
when a pair of them go in the dryer?
Do they slip out to play
and wander away,
forgetting that they are attire?

Do they tire of their mate
and their tiresome fate,
every day in the dark of a shoe?
Do they follow the song
of a silky black thong
and cling to that siren like glue?

Are they captured by pirates,
or stolen by gnomes
who are jealous of our cozy toes?
Are they pilfered by mice
to make their nest nice?
Are there gangs of barefoot Eskimos?

There are those who say,
in a sinister way,
that a dryer's a portal in space;
that socks who fall through
(and they swear this is true)
warm the feet of an alien race.

Ah, does anyone
anyone anyone know,
someone who isn't a liar?
Does anyone know
where the single socks go
when a pair of them go in the dryer?

Copyright May 2008

Aw shucks, I'm blushin'

What a nice surprise! I stopped in at Kiva's Eclectic Granny, as I often do when I'm looking for great posts to read, and discovered she'd given me this cool award. Coming from her, this is indeed an honor.

If you haven't been by there, please go. Her blog is a wonderful read, and her photos are great fun too. She's nominated two others for the award, Mrs. Annie of More Than Just a Mom and This Mom Can Cook, as well as our own Karen at Outpost Mavarin. All of them are well worth a look.

Kiva, thanks so much for the award!

It looks like a lot of the blogs I read have already been tapped for this, so my picks range a bit further afield than usual:

1. Glory Ho. I've recommended this one before, but it has to be in here. It's the journal of a young American couple traveling in the middle east, and it includes astonishing photos you'll want to see.

2. Long Drives to Nowhere, by Tammie Jean. She hasn't posted in a while, but her essays are timeless. You'll find beautiful writing and lovely photos.

3. Tips and Tricks. This one deserves way more traffic than it gets. The author, G.Kiser, is a photographer who writes thorough, in-depth explanations of photographic basics and welcomes questions. If you're a nascent shutter bug, it's a good place to hang out. (The blog is actually a sub-collection from his main blog, Photo Trek, a treasure in its own right.)

To all of you, thanks so much for sharing your time and talent.

A haiku for you

Karen at Outpost Mavarin hosts a Weekend Challenge every Friday, and this time the assignment is to write a poem in honor of National Poetry Month. I don't usually do writing assignments; my blogging problem is not in finding subjects, but in finding time to write about them. However, I am a big fan of poetry. So how could I pass on this one?

The assignment demands a new poem, fresh from the fires of creation, so to speak. *Here's mine:

Blossoms dance in wind
One bud shuts tight her eyes
Petals sigh and fall

We were not supposed to haul out an old one, but when will I find a better excuse than National Poetry Month? (Hey. You click in here, you get what you get.)

Turning of the Leaves

I must be home at the turning.
Some passion not understood, keenly felt
sends me to the mountain
to hermit out winter in hot tea.

Leaves carpet the evening
and horizons grow on branches, gradually.
A hushing deep in the mountain's heart
gathers power and silence,
reduces all to absolute seed and center.

Now is the iron time and the knowing.
I have always been here for the turning.

(Copyright 1977)

Extra credit: If I had to choose, my favorite poets would be Robert Frost, Billy Collins, and T.S. Eliot.

P.S. OK, so I'm missing the seventh syllable in the haiku. I'm workin' on it.
*Update 4:07 PM. Here's the extra syllable I owe ya.

Buds balloon, bursting
Blossoms dance in laughing wind
Petals sigh and fall

Write post. Hope for comments. Try again.

I'm sitting here with pneumonia. (Yeah, officially pneumonia.) It's the first day since Monday I've felt like being out of bed. From the looks of the back-issues of New York Times Online, I was better off unconscious. I am sorry I missed this from last week, though, at the Well blog there:

Seven-Word Wisdom: The Contest
How much advice can you distill down to seven words?

As it turns out, seven words is a surprisingly catchy way to deliver a message. Just ask writer Michael Pollan, whose book “In Defense of Food” is debuting at No. 1 on The New York Times best-seller list this weekend. (Read my recent interview with him here.) The popularity of the book is due in no small part to Mr. Pollan’s catchy seven-word edict: “Eat food. Not too much. Mostly plants.'’

My colleague Dwight Garner, over at the Paper Cuts blog, notes the slogan has a “haiku-like resonance'’ and offers his own versions of 2-3-2 word sequences. My favorite, “Have sex. Really quite often. With humans.” (For the rest, click here.)

Surely this warrants a competition?

It did indeed, so they ran one, and a fine time was had by all. Click here to see the winners.

So had you known about this exercise in time to compete, what wisdom would you have shared in that 2-3-2 form?

There's good news, and there's bad news...

I sat down here today to mourn the loss of some really good blogs, two of which announced their closings just this week: Ronnie Bennett's Time Goes By and John Scalzi's By the Way. They were the latest in a number of blogs I've loved and lost, and I was pretty bummed.

However, when I went to Bennett's place to grab the link, I found that her farewell message in the top slot had been replaced by a heartfelt response to her readers' reaction to the closing, along with a promise to continue posting after all -- with a few new rules in place. (More on that later.) So, Yay for Ronnie!

Time Goes By is absolutely the best, brightest, and most thoughtful blog online about the joys, possibilities and challenges of growing old. Yes, old. And it may be the only place anywhere that doesn't shy away from the word. I love that about it, too.

Recently, the author's efforts have become more political, focused on the fight to preserve our freedom, privacy, social justice, and democracy. She maintains, and I concur, that in these dark times this is urgent and critical work for the nation's elders.

I regret to say that, up until now, I have been only a lurker over at Time Goes By. I am grateful to have been given a second chance to participate, and I will become an active participant there. I hope that you will, too.

John Scalzi of AOL, alas, will only say that he may post occasionally at By the Way "as a civilian," once his contract ends December 31. He is the reigning Blogfather of AOL J-Land, which he built into a vibrant, unique blogging community with his daily postings, memes, links to member blogs, and technical help. The J-Land group dispersed when AOL suddenly began running unwanted advertising on our blogs. Most, myself included, sadly set sail for other, less exploitative venues.

Scalzi soldiered on, serving up a delightful mix of games, challenges, funny links and commentary for the remaining handful of regulars. His career as a fiction writer has taken off and, much as he seems genuinely to enjoy his AOL readers, I'm sure he does have other fish to fry.

Scalzi is also bowing out of his central role at Ficlets. I always meant to get involved there, too, and somehow never did. Guess I'll wait now to see what happens when the group is on its own.

John Scalzi blogs for himself at Whatever, which is also a great place to hang out, though it's a very different place than AOL. I found that one quite a while ago by Googling his name, and have been lurking there ever since. By the Way was a daily stop for me, and I'm really going to miss it when it's gone.

Don to Earth was another favorite, though it didn't last long. It belonged to Don Crowdis, who gained fame as a blogger just for being over 90 years old, but who was also a very thoughtful, intelligent, and articulate voice. He had an amazing life, and may be living still. His last post was "I'm Not Dead" -- but that was back in March. I do hope he's still out there and will be back one day.

And then there's Walt. Walt passed away last spring, shortly after his last post at The Diatom Project. There was never a kinder person or a more faithful friend than Walter, and I still miss his funny comments and personal messages of encouragement and cheer. I think of him so often, and I still click over to his blog, where it will forever be Christmas Morning.

It's a funny thing about blogs. We get comfortable with a few, and after a while they're a part of our lives. But they are, all of them, ephemeral creations that live at the whim of their authors. All of them can vanish without warning. The best of them leave us a little better, a little wiser, a little happier just for having been there. To all of you out there, writing and visiting, I'd just like to say Thanks.

Release your inner novelist

Isaac Asimov said, "If my doctor told me I had only six minutes to live, I wouldn't brood. I'd type a little faster."

You, however, are luckier. First of all, you probably have way more than six minutes to live. Plus, you have way more than six minutes to deadline: You have a whole month, to be precise. A whole, entire month, to write ::insert drum roll:: your very own novel! (Well, actually, it's more of a novella, but let's not get hung up on details.)

November is National Novel Writing Month, A.K.A. NaNoWriMo. Na No What-o?, you may ask. From the website:

National Novel Writing Month is a fun, seat-of-your-pants approach to novel writing. Participants begin writing November 1. The goal is to write a 175-page (50,000-word) novel by midnight, November 30.

Valuing enthusiasm and perseverance over painstaking craft, NaNoWriMo is a novel-writing program for everyone who has thought fleetingly about writing a novel but has been scared away by the time and effort involved.

Because of the limited writing window, the ONLY thing that matters in NaNoWriMo is output. It's all about quantity, not quality. The kamikaze approach forces you to lower your expectations, take risks, and write on the fly ... (click to continue.)

Thousands of writers around the world will spend November hunkered down over big, steaming piles of hasty prose, chugging caffeine and sharing the experience in online forums. Sounds like a good time to me.

If you want to play, be sure to sign up by October 31. There's a cool little logo thingy you can put on your blog for the month. And if you actually manage to hit the 50,000 word goal, you get bragging rights and a badge of honor. In other words, it's about the journey, not the destination. Really, isn't everything?