belated . . .

So friends, I owe you some stories. I've been in the new house for more than a month. Can you believe it? Me neither. It's so very beautiful. I find that my favorite parts end up being a patch of wall brought to life by some mish mash of mixing old and new. I am so sad that I don't even have a digital camera so that I can show you. I wish I had a fairy to bring me things.

I live in a neighborhood three blocks off of Interstate 10. I kind of like this only for the fact that people as far away as Los Angeles also live off of my thoroughfare. The other night while walking the woofie to the little park two blocks away, through the dip, past the kiddie seats on springs, I met a new neighbor. Why is it that you always remember the dog's name and not the master? Grant I think it was, and Charlie was the pupper. He told me that on my street a vato gang used to run amok in some run down houses and block off the road to have their parties. He also said that a year or so ago the city finally knocked down a big house a stone's throw from mine that had real hookers and crack addicts. Do you think he was just telling me stories? I must have missed all the color because there's none of that now.

This neighborhood is your standard inner city, new town home gentrifying spot--me in the town home, my next door neighbors in the little old house with two rentals behind it, a homemade can recycling business in the inner courtyard and a fantastically kept garden taking over much of their land. Last Saturday night I returned home around midnight, sleepy as ever, changed in the dark, but somehow caught a glimpse out my window of this Tejano dance party happening just below. I slid down the wall next to the window so that I could sit and watch them for awhile.

Hmm, those are my best stories for now. I am having house guests this weekend and a Sunday barbecue to warm the place up. Looking forward to it.

I'll post more pics soon.

Sistra.

new home

It's been a busy March. My girlfriends and I kicked it off by hosting a baby shower for Michelle at her lovely home in Dallas. Last week we celebrated Match Day for med students all across the land. Envelopes passed out, "one, two, three," presto, they learned where they'll spend the next four years. (Stephanie got Dallas, and Heidi got Chicago.) On Saturday night before Easter, I got a little good news of my own. All week I'd been on the fast track of applying for pre-approval on a mortgage and bidding on my first home. At around 11 o'clock I got the call. Crazy.

Welcome to my house.

It looks like this on the inside.

Except, my fireplace is actually charcoal grey. I'd like to hang my Rebecca Miser on it. No flat screen TVs for me.

The floor wants this on it in black and white.

Madeline Weinrib

The bathroom wants these on it.

Walnut Wallpapers. Little Whales.

The dining room needs a change of light fixture from this glowing Frisbee thing . . .

to this.

Ochre Furniture

Wouldn't this be a lovely banquette nestled next to the dining table? My table actually looks almost like the one in the above picture.

Ochre Furniture

The rooftop has a terrace.

I'd like to turn it into something like this.

Until next time.

Gang leaders on "The Wire"

My dear friend, Joel (pronounced ho - el, an important descriptor I think), introduced me to the wide wide world of HBO's The Wire last season, a show that is like sitting on the edge of the plains, looking up at the West Texas night sky, everything wondrous and yet barely perceptible upon first look. While striving to decipher the language of the street and at least two dozen characters' story lines, I crinkled my nose and said under my breath, "ay'on'no" during my first viewing. The show was most of the time set in the ghetto. Last season focused on the kids and schools in the ghetto. I wasn't sure that I needed that dramatized for me. But, wow. After three or four episodes last season, wow.

This season I've been searching around the web for articles and reviews on The Wire to become better acquainted with its writer/creator, his background, critics' opinions and so forth. It turns out that a crew of Salon.com staffers have created their own Sunday night chat room after each episode, and an editor on Slate.com thinks it's the best show on television, ever. I've learned that the show has been either snubbed or missed by those who honor achievement in television acting, writing, and directing for its entire run. I think that just means that it's a sleeper hit, maybe too fuzzy for those who start bandwagons.

Anyway, last night I stumbled upon this fantastic weekly blog entry. Ew-good fantastic. Check it out.

"Ding-dong, the witch is dead! Which old witch? The Clinton witch!"

Unexpectedly Orange may turn political for the next eleven months. (The entry title above comes from a line in a piece by one Rebecca Traister, writer of my favorite explanation of the Hillary win in New Hampshire, published on Salon.com.)

Excerpt: "So no, I have not been a Hillary Clinton supporter. But the torrent of ill-disguised hatred and resentment unleashed toward a briefly weakened Clinton this week shook that breezy naiveté right out of me, and made me feel something that all the hectoring from feminist elders could not: guilt for not having stood up for Hillary. "

The naiveté she's referring to is the careless assurance she felt that many more suitable female presidential candidates will present themselves in step with the males in the years to come, that she has no worry about Hillary being a one-time wonder and, thus, no responsibility to feel allegiance to her as the first Democratic female presidential candidate.

Ditto.

I read a narrative accounting of the happenings on election night at one caucus locale in Iowa. It turns out that if a candidate's station does not fill up with enough caucus supporters to reach the percentage quota, then the votes don't count and are up for grabs, or, horsetrading. One Hillary campaign leader began her call for votes, championing all that is righteous and twinkling about her candidate, with: "She's a woman." The horses looked up from the fray of bids being shouted at them and walked away from the Hillary camp.

Is that all you've got? Apparently so, that night. But she regrouped in New Hampshire by calling Obama out for referencing King and Kennedy, saying in effect that he's no King or Kennedy. She brought fight for five days, and humility, which we saw, in contrast to the hammer coming down on her by those who decide our elections--the press. It was over. And, surprisingly, I felt sorry that it was. I can't say that I felt guilt like Rebecca Traister, but I definitely felt sympathy and a wish that it wasn't yet over, so quickly with one night's outcome deciding a presidency.

For Rebecca, her urge to stand up for Hil would have led her to vote for her, if only for one night. I can't say the same. But I'm glad that the women in New Hampshire rallied in a stand against the tsunamis created by pollsters and pundits. I get swept up in them sometimes. I depend on them to deliver my winner, at least I did on Tuesday. He came in 2 points behind instead. But Hillary's display of true joy at her win seemed to also be a display of joyous surprise that voters still have the power to defy. How fun.

I'm not a very good blogger

Hello! More than two months since an entry. Hmph. Blogging requires you to be home in your spot where you enjoy blogging rather than filling all your time with social engagements and travel. My mother sent me a new year's email that included this quote: "Most of us have been given many more blessings than we have received. We do not take time to be blessed or make the space for it. We may have filled our lives so full of other things that we have no room to receive our blessings . . .." I have been filling my life so full of some things that often times there's no room to call someone back, or send out my Christmas cards, or do the things that may change someone's life or my own.

In December, I spent 11 days with my brother in his NYC apartment. He took me along to his GED tutoring session one evening, and I worked with two women to review equivalent fractions. Haha. Okay, let me see here. Fourth grade math steps catch you by surprise at first because you can't remember them. But they return, and you try to teach. This experience led me to one of my five resolutions--to volunteer to teach literacy to adult students. I have found a group here in Houston. I attend a one-day training and then tutor two nights a week for a 12-week session. Perfect. Another resolution is to buy my first house this year. Another resolution is to write, to work on one single writing project and try to make something of it. Another resolution, or goal, is to get myself to France this summer and do a biking tour through Provence with my brother. And, finally, the fifth resolution is fitness and good health.

Wishing you a fantastic, creative, and fortified 2008 (three things, Jeffrey!)

Sistra V

the disappearing frogs

Mark Catesby


Eight years ago when I was preparing for my comprehensive exam that would determine whether or not I would pass graduate school, one of the books on the reading list was from my favorite collection, The Best American Essays. In one of the essays the writer started off with an exposition about the disappearing frogs. I was heart sick at the thought of this. Frogs were dying out? How would little children grow up without frogs? What would a summer evening be without the sounds of croaking in the air and walking through the grass with an eye on the blades, wondering if you were about to step on a mottled bullfrog? I sighed a big sigh and took this woman at her word--she'd done her research, she must have. They wouldn't have published her essay twice without a quality check, and then I tried to put it out of my mind.



John Holbrook, American Herpetology


It is true. The rapid decline of frogs began in the 1980s, and since then scientists have been trying to pinpoint the cause. Climate change looks like the biggest factor--warmer temperatures breed a fungus deadly to frogs, called chytrid. Pesticides are another factor. Atrazine, a common ingredient in weed killer, disrupts the sexual reproduction in male frogs. In truth, many factors have led to the decline. If you look at amphibians as a whole, one third of this population has been lost, gone extinct throughout the world, since the 1980s, according to the Global Amphibian Assessment. When you localize it to countries with warmer climates, the numbers are much more startling. In La Selva, a protected area in the Costa Rican rain forest, amphibians have declined 75%, according to Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences.



Beatrix Potter, Jeremy Fisher Fishing. Frederick Warne & Co. 2006

I suppose everything in the previous paragraph to be just depressing. But this summer I noticed something unusual. Maybe you noticed it too. I live in a warm and sticky climate, and this year, all of the sudden, the frogs were back. Really and truly it had been years since I'd experienced a summer with frogs. But here they were. Fat little toads were hopping around my courtyard. Gus pup noticed them first. He chased them with his nose. They were in my friend, Stephanie's yard. When my friends and I went to Rockport for our coastal extravaganza, a strange-looking sucker frog was suctioned to the glass on our back door, and the grass was filled with bullfrogs. I brought it up in conversation at a bridal luncheon, and lo and behold, in Weimer, TX, this young woman's three boys were leaping for joy upon the act of dipping their forearms through a hole in a tree trunk and grabbing frogs for play. Frogs were everywhere this summer.

The decline of a species is layered and complex. No one fully understands this frog drop, and perhaps the uncertainly offers the opportunity for unforeseen spikes, not only those but a steady rise again. 2007 was the year of the toad. Hippity hop. Yes please.

rockport

Another annual friends weekend in quaint Rockport, Texas came and went. Choice moment: spontaneous dance party in the living room while watching Saturday Night Live. Musical Guest: Spoon. Picture lots of odd side kicks and hands in the air like we were channeling the Charleston, something like that. Gone by too quickly.

It happened here.

gratitude journal

Do you know No Impact Man? I came to know him through a Nightline special that aired this summer. It was a thorough piece about his family's daily life living in such a way as to put no carbon-producing, energy-draining impact upon this green earth. They have embraced an experiment in what it would take--what kinds of adjustments would be required and what would it really be like living that way. Incredibly enough, they are successfully living this experiment amidst the urbanity of bustling New Yorkers.

No Impact Man has a fascinating blog which seems to be a major part of his commitment, journaling to get the word out there day-by-day. Tonight's entry caught my eye, this line in particular: "I sometimes despair that our state religion is consumption and our main prayer is for more," not so much the consumption part, but the prayer for more, because who doesn't want more? Not necessarily more money or things, but more experiences, knowledge, inspirations.

He says, ". . . I do feel as though we (and I include me) have come to worship desire."

And so, he has me thinking on the matter. What would be wrong with desire? With pleasure in things? It's natural.

And he says, ". . . being grateful for what I have makes me want less." He says gratitude equals kindness, "And also, it turns out, gratitude equals happiness."

I like the sound of that.

My gratitude journal for today--

I am grateful for Genevieve Moss, a lady I had just met, who walked with me across the street and into a building filled to the seams with folks I'd never met before. She had me follow her through the crowd, stopping to squeeze a few hands, and sit with her people. So nice, and it made the experience of that morning connected rather than box-like.

I am grateful for my friend Stephanie this evening. I feel like singling her out. I am accepted in her presence in the comforting way that all of us need in just that moment sometimes. I am grateful for her patience, her abounding appreciation for the people in her life, her spirit of fun. She is a beautiful lady, and I'm glad she's mine.

I am grateful for Michelle and Joel's thrilling new developments.

I am grateful for second annual friends' weekends in a beach house, with big breakfasts, white sangria, dancing on the pier, and a slumber party.

I am grateful to live in Houston, go figure, but I am. I don't know why, but I feel grateful for that.

I am grateful for a courtyard with neighbors, grateful that Sharon had me over for coffee cake the other morning. I hadn't had homemade coffee cake since high school.

I am grateful for my mom, dad, and brother, for Hector and Jackie, Peggy and the Powells, and cutest little Gus. These people are my family.

green roofs

photo by This Old House

Starter kit.



Add water.


photo by Alycat
Lower Manhattan


The idea of a rooftop garden is the perfect combination of all that is good about materials and all of that is good about nature, namely to be in it. By the good in materials I mean the want you feel when standing in front of scored horizontal panels of porous white travertine. You have to touch it, and it is quiet when you do. Or upon seeing black-as-night hot-rolled steel flooring, you want to lay upon it, because it must be cool and soothing somehow in its sheet-cake likeness.

I am charmed by a garden at the tip top of my building. I can climb up there, like I did when I was little to our tree house. From a roof garden you have a bird's eye view. You have your head in the breezes and are safe from exhaust. You are closer to the sun and can stroll where there's traffic just below. Elevator going up!

The terminology today is simply: green roof. Chicago, Portland, Atlanta and Philadelphia all have city programs to engender green roofs to pop up all over town. There are quite a few environmental benefits, as you would imagine: less run-off from the greater absorption of rain water for one, and cooler temperatures down below. In my search I discovered that New York City is considered an urban heat island. Concrete is an impervious material that retains heat, even after the sun goes down. Flashing back to my first August in NYC, standing in the middle of Union Square dripping sweat from my legs, yes, New York streets are hot. The gardens up above reflect heat rather than retain it, so that's a good thing. Green roofs come in several varieties: prairie-like, garden-lane-strolling-like, zen-garden-like, even farm-like.

Please enjoy.





photo taken by anyhoo
London, England


rooftop in Germany


photo by dreamymo
Toronto, Canada



photo by Payton Chung
Battery Park City, New York


photo taken by jthorvath
111 South Wacker, Chicago, IL


photo taken by holdfast4
Vancouver Public Library



Chicago City Hall


photo by GreenGrid
American Red Cross Center, Chicago, IL


Vancouver Public Library


photo by Deutche Telecom
Art & Exhibition Hall, Bonn, Germany


photo taken by 天曉得。
Rogner Bad Blumau in Styria, Austria


photo by PortlandTransport
Amsterdam


photo by identity chris is'



photo by jippolito
Japan


photo by grooble
Laos


photo by gullevek
Japan


photo by driftlessmedia


photo by Flatbush Gardener
Madison Square Garden, New York


photo by Devatar
Venice, Italy

miser works on the walls

This Saturday night artist Rebecca Miser will be showing several paintings from her extensive body of work in Houston at an art space called Super Happy Funland. Works will remain for viewing for at least a few weeks. Becky is one of my dearest and most talented friends. She paints in abstract expressionist style, using the prominent figure to tell narratives. Vibrant color, thick outlines in black, and whimsical elements that almost look stuck on make up the foreground and background of her stories.

Please wander through her paintings here below and here.

Art Show at Super Happy Fun Land 2610 Ashland Street (@ W27th Street in the Heights), Houston, TX 77008

"A Sunbeam in the Abyss"

Matt Zoller Seitz is a former Dallas Observer writer, Dallasite, and Wilson brothers fan. He writes a very moving article about Owen Wilson here, entitled, "A Sunbeam in the Abyss." Here's a little from the piece:

Art is always informed by life, but one doesn't automatically predict the other. Depression is an implacably private thing, a fog comprised of biography, present-tense experience and body chemistry. It's as unpredictable as the elements and as unknowable as God. It's an abyss that you fall into, and you either die there or climb out.

Owen, peace be with you.

these are the chairs

I bought my first dining room table three summers ago at this relatively new mom and pop hardware store in Austin. They utilized half of their floor for furniture that mixed a certain ranch grandiosity with Crate and Barrel contemporary. The table is a large rectangular slab made of rosewood, from the rainforest I later discovered (felt like I'd committed a sin upon learning that). The large slats are bumpy instead of smooth, and show the grain beautifully outlined in black where the mahogany stain set in. It looks a little like a farm table in that regard but with formal turned legs. I got this beauty at a sale for half its original price, making it doubly delicious.

There wasn't any way that I was going to purchase furniture showroom chairs of brown or black leather. I wanted something to contrast the slightly rustic, formal feel so that each element would stand out.

It's been three summers, and today I found them (thanks to a random blog find: Silk Felt Soil). Phoebe from that site posted these earlier this month from a fantastic design website entitled StudioIsle. The shots above are from a restaurant in London called Cecconi's. StudioIsle revamped the restaurant and how. The only problem is that these chairs are not for sale that I can see. Perhaps the designer custom made them for Cecconi's. If you know the name of the style these chairs are designed in or have seen anything similar out there I would greatly appreciate your pointers.

turn ons

Do you know what turns me on? A strapping thirty-four-year-old, former child prodigy, grown up to be geneticist, anthropologist, and master mind of National Geographic's Genographic Project.

Sigh.

Even though we both went to the University of Texas, and I've got a year on him, he graduated 6 years ahead of me. If I'd only known I would have studied harder and not dropped Honors Physics my senior year in high school to pursue a life of leisure.

Dr. Spencer is captivated by a subject fascinating to all of us--where we come from--and he's developed a way for us all to participate in his Genographic map making with a kit that you can send off for. The kit contains a tool, a cotton swab with which to swab the insides of your cheeks in order to get all the little DNA bits to send to the lab. After several weeks go by, you receive a report that tells the story of either your maternal or paternal ancestry (not both; men have to choose, and women have to go with the maternal strain of lineage since we are without a Y chromosome).

Dr. Spencer cautions that the project does not give percentage break downs of ethnic make-up or pinpoint a family crest. His research reveals what the project calls, "deep ancestry along a single line of direct descent," tracing your path backwards to the beginning.

It looks something like this.

There's a lot more to it than just lines and arrows on a map. I dig. To read more, click here.

one more, I couldn't resist

Black, white, and green is my favorite color combination these days. The Danish company Ferm Living (Ferm, meaning clever), has two new designs for the fall--this beautiful Cherry Tree design and another called Bamboo. Scrap booking away samples for the house purchase. More to come on that later.

pretty things

Thank you to blog friend Maryam at My Marrakesh for adding me to your blog list! Good lady that you are . . .

So, a young gentleman named Joseph is helping me come up with a new blog header to freshen up the place. I told him that I wanted hues of orange sherbet, persimmon, and buttercream. Sounds yummy. Then I thought some more on it. It need not be too modern. I like bold graphic designs, but then, it must also convey a sense of handmade. I like designs that are layered on top of one another to create dimension, and then, I like those that are simple line drawings with a touch of whimsical yellow, like on Happy Cavalier. Oh man do I love that blog header.

I send Joseph images every week or so, a hodgepodge of others' blog heads, photographs, posters, and wallpaper snippets. And that has me thinking about wallpaper. My thoughts on it have changed from yuck to wowza like most of us who have an eye for the pretty. But even if I see the most delicate and beckoning image of a ginkgo leaf, let's say, if it is repeated exactly the same like a grid, I don't want it in my house. I would go crazy in a house of grids. It conveys a uniformity that doesn't ring true to my insides, the wandering nature of my thoughts and desires. Now here are some papers up my alley:

Oh beauty!

I detect a theme after this exercise. It has to do with night. Only one bright, sunny one in the bunch. Okay, from left to right and so forth:

Takes me into a fairy story. Midnight Butterfly. Johanna Basford Designs

Looove it! Amour Plantarum. WerningWallpaper manufactured by Boråstapeter.

You could melt into the bindweed. Bindweed 108. Ferm Wallpaper

The brightest thing I've ever seen. Leaf Turquoise/Gold. Jocelyn Warner

The green is almost neon. That does it for me. Victoria and Albert Museum. Hand printed flocked wallpaper with leather decoupage. Linda Florence