9''x12''
Tuesday, January 15, 2013
Chameleon
9''x12''
Monday, January 14, 2013
Great Grey Owl
Collies with PhD's
When I was eleven my parents took my brother and me on holiday for a summer to a small piece of Britain near Cornwall. The closest town was a place called Boude, where you could (and I couldn't make this up) get a rump roast on Fridays that was advertised by a sign reading: "We have really big rump. When we say big, we mean BIG."
We stayed in the B&B that a farmer and his wife ran out of an old barn and were quite comfortable if a bit sniffly. The farm was a sheep farm and my entire family including myself have always struggled a bit with allergies. That's an understatement- each of us had to take two benadryl and a puff of an inhaler to go out the door in the morning.
Anyway.
It was a wonderful place and a great spot to learn a bit of responsibility while not being overwhelmed. The afternoons were more often than not taken over by one adventure or another; generally archaeological expeditions initiated by my mother which I liked then and have since come to appreciate in my own obsessive and intense way.
The mornings of that summer were rather our own. If I woke up late I would typically read on the couch or go up to the farm house to eat a late breakfast of the leftover cold eggs and play with the collie puppies.
If I got up on time, though, I could help the farmer move the sheep through pasture for a small amount of money, which I felt was a great deal since money bought candy and I could walk to the candy store in five minutes. So I often helped.
My tasks were really simple- use a wooden prod and help the sheep through the gate into the next pasture to graze. Mind the sheep (a process of standing), and make sure they don't get carried off by pterodactyls. This simple chore was further eased because of the chief collie dog of the farm who boasted a PhD from Oxford, multiple publications, a fellowship at the University of London, and a respected reputation both in Scientific and Liberal Arts circles. His day job did not require the full extent of his intellect, but he certainly could have done the job by himself were it not for his lack of opposable thumbs.
Basically the morning went easily, with both me and the sheep being neatly nipped and herded from clover patch A to clover patch B, and occasionally into a sort of rumbling circle of sheep-ness with an errant human unable to do anything but follow stern canine instruction. Every so often, however, my opposable thumb magic was required. A gate would present itself between pastures and the collie would look at me with the intensity of a professor during a spoken final exam until I performed the small duty for which I was qualified. The other moment where I could earn my keep was to keep the sheep from drowning their (I hate to say it but...) stupid selves in the creek at the bottom of the hill.
Here's the layout of the farm: At the top of the southmost hill was the farmhouse, the converted barn in which my family stayed, a strange swimming pool, and a goodish patch of untended dirt and gravel. Sloping downward, the hill became two rich clover pastures separated down the middle by a gate. Pasture A and pasture B, if you follow. At the bottom of the hill ran what I can't even in good conscience call a stream. It was really a trickle. A streamlet. There was maybe three inches of water flowing there on a rainy day. This little rivulet was bordered on both sides by the picturesque English hedges of great fame. Twice the hedges were broken and craftily constructed bridges with high fences allowed us (the collie dog, with me stupidly bringing up the rear) to pass the sheep from pasture to pasture. On the other side of the streamlet, another hedgerow and mirrored pastures C and D, also with a dividing fence.
Now, despite the collie being so brilliant that he probably is now a contender for a Nobel prize in physics, the sheep were so monumentally stupid that they would actually avoid the nice open gate, struggle mightily over the hedge, and become trapped in the little run of water that thought it might be a stream of some kind. Then, as if they weren't absurd enough to have not listened to Sir Collie, the sheep would, of their own volition, lie down in the water and proceed to try and drown. Three inches of water, if you recall. My job was to heave their stinking, waterlogged, wooly selves back up, heave them over the hedge, and then somehow continue with my life.
When I was a kid, I was small. A small boy is useful, but when it comes to heaving sheep out of streams, they're not necessarily what should be your first pick. Generally my tactic was to push the sheep upright so that their face was out of the water, and then to encourage them to do their jumping trick to get back into pasture C or D. Sheep are stubborn as well as stupid, though, and more often than not I was forced to walk the sheep by its ear through the streamlet until the drainage pipe to the west of the plot where we could hitch back up onto the road and walk the long way around back to the farm.
It didn't matter how long this process took: when I returned to the pasture next in line I would find the collie dog waiting alertly and with remarkable self-possession. All sheep would be in the pasture, regardless of the closure of the gate or not. I would return the errant animal to the fold and the collie would usher me through, demand my closure of the gate, and then enjoy the freedom to herd his sheep and me while contemplating Descartes and possible futures for Middle Eastern countries.
We stayed in the B&B that a farmer and his wife ran out of an old barn and were quite comfortable if a bit sniffly. The farm was a sheep farm and my entire family including myself have always struggled a bit with allergies. That's an understatement- each of us had to take two benadryl and a puff of an inhaler to go out the door in the morning.
Anyway.
It was a wonderful place and a great spot to learn a bit of responsibility while not being overwhelmed. The afternoons were more often than not taken over by one adventure or another; generally archaeological expeditions initiated by my mother which I liked then and have since come to appreciate in my own obsessive and intense way.
The mornings of that summer were rather our own. If I woke up late I would typically read on the couch or go up to the farm house to eat a late breakfast of the leftover cold eggs and play with the collie puppies.
If I got up on time, though, I could help the farmer move the sheep through pasture for a small amount of money, which I felt was a great deal since money bought candy and I could walk to the candy store in five minutes. So I often helped.
My tasks were really simple- use a wooden prod and help the sheep through the gate into the next pasture to graze. Mind the sheep (a process of standing), and make sure they don't get carried off by pterodactyls. This simple chore was further eased because of the chief collie dog of the farm who boasted a PhD from Oxford, multiple publications, a fellowship at the University of London, and a respected reputation both in Scientific and Liberal Arts circles. His day job did not require the full extent of his intellect, but he certainly could have done the job by himself were it not for his lack of opposable thumbs.
Basically the morning went easily, with both me and the sheep being neatly nipped and herded from clover patch A to clover patch B, and occasionally into a sort of rumbling circle of sheep-ness with an errant human unable to do anything but follow stern canine instruction. Every so often, however, my opposable thumb magic was required. A gate would present itself between pastures and the collie would look at me with the intensity of a professor during a spoken final exam until I performed the small duty for which I was qualified. The other moment where I could earn my keep was to keep the sheep from drowning their (I hate to say it but...) stupid selves in the creek at the bottom of the hill.
Here's the layout of the farm: At the top of the southmost hill was the farmhouse, the converted barn in which my family stayed, a strange swimming pool, and a goodish patch of untended dirt and gravel. Sloping downward, the hill became two rich clover pastures separated down the middle by a gate. Pasture A and pasture B, if you follow. At the bottom of the hill ran what I can't even in good conscience call a stream. It was really a trickle. A streamlet. There was maybe three inches of water flowing there on a rainy day. This little rivulet was bordered on both sides by the picturesque English hedges of great fame. Twice the hedges were broken and craftily constructed bridges with high fences allowed us (the collie dog, with me stupidly bringing up the rear) to pass the sheep from pasture to pasture. On the other side of the streamlet, another hedgerow and mirrored pastures C and D, also with a dividing fence.
Now, despite the collie being so brilliant that he probably is now a contender for a Nobel prize in physics, the sheep were so monumentally stupid that they would actually avoid the nice open gate, struggle mightily over the hedge, and become trapped in the little run of water that thought it might be a stream of some kind. Then, as if they weren't absurd enough to have not listened to Sir Collie, the sheep would, of their own volition, lie down in the water and proceed to try and drown. Three inches of water, if you recall. My job was to heave their stinking, waterlogged, wooly selves back up, heave them over the hedge, and then somehow continue with my life.
When I was a kid, I was small. A small boy is useful, but when it comes to heaving sheep out of streams, they're not necessarily what should be your first pick. Generally my tactic was to push the sheep upright so that their face was out of the water, and then to encourage them to do their jumping trick to get back into pasture C or D. Sheep are stubborn as well as stupid, though, and more often than not I was forced to walk the sheep by its ear through the streamlet until the drainage pipe to the west of the plot where we could hitch back up onto the road and walk the long way around back to the farm.
It didn't matter how long this process took: when I returned to the pasture next in line I would find the collie dog waiting alertly and with remarkable self-possession. All sheep would be in the pasture, regardless of the closure of the gate or not. I would return the errant animal to the fold and the collie would usher me through, demand my closure of the gate, and then enjoy the freedom to herd his sheep and me while contemplating Descartes and possible futures for Middle Eastern countries.
Tuesday, January 8, 2013
Various recent Things
Here are some recents. I swear I am going to get better and more regular at this. Like a satisfying schedule with the bathroom. You'll start to rely on me. You'll see.
A snow bunny for my brother who just moved into his dorm at a new college.
I am trying to learn to draw angelfish
There...Getting some better.
A commission in progress. Shh..
Hummingbird. He needs a flower.
One of three signs I made for my brother's dorm room door. His RA hadn't made him a nametag, so I decided we should show him what for.
Pre-Columbian Notebook
Briefly
I am going to begin to use this blog as a general forum of Cei-ness as well as an art locale. Thusly:
I've developed two new intense hobby obsessions. I feel like these interests leap out at me like pieces of 'flair' from that movie, attach themselves, and then become emotionally charged momentos to take with me always, or at least to look upon with fondness. Like my brief love affair with masking tape borders on drawings.
Anyway.
I am suddenly filled with the desire to grill spinach, purchase veg from parts of the world I cannot pronounce, and to use cardamom in unexpected places. Suddenly utensils at The Cupboard (our local fancy housewares and assorted desireables emporium) that were laughable six months ago seem appealing and relevang. "What if I need to inject the lamb roast with butter?" I ask myself. "How do I create effective zestiness without a zester?" "What is the difference between a zester and a cheese grater anyway?"
And so on and so forth.
Needless to say, I have not at all become a "foodie" or any such nonsense. Never fear. I just made a lasagna that required the from-scratch preparation of sauce involving cream and nutmeg and tomato paste and now I feel exuberant.
My other recent obsession is my house plants. I have house plants for several reasons. Firstly, I have no pets. Secondly, The house is barren without them. Lastly, I took the ones my folks were not caring for adequately. Having begun this adventure with mild interest and good intent, I am now the owner of two bonsai, two bamboo, two rubber plants, two viney things the name of which I do not know, and a brand new fern whose name is Herman. I have been transported from lackluster desire for green and clean air to one who has emotional attachment, names, and a membership card to the local botanists.
I think the passion was ignited when I returned to my home after having been at my parent's house for some time recovering from surgery.
CRISIS.
Fortenbras, my Japanese hyacinth bonsai, appears mostly dead. I lept into (painkiller modified) action: misting, watering, loving, fertilizing. He still seems mostly dead, but now the intensity of my care has spread to the other plants. I desire pruning. I desire raking of soil. I tend to their drainage trays below their pots. I replace the bamboo's water in its entirety every so often. I speak to them, softly. Like Zonker Harris from Doonesbury.
That's the latest from Cei.
I've developed two new intense hobby obsessions. I feel like these interests leap out at me like pieces of 'flair' from that movie, attach themselves, and then become emotionally charged momentos to take with me always, or at least to look upon with fondness. Like my brief love affair with masking tape borders on drawings.
Anyway.
I am suddenly filled with the desire to grill spinach, purchase veg from parts of the world I cannot pronounce, and to use cardamom in unexpected places. Suddenly utensils at The Cupboard (our local fancy housewares and assorted desireables emporium) that were laughable six months ago seem appealing and relevang. "What if I need to inject the lamb roast with butter?" I ask myself. "How do I create effective zestiness without a zester?" "What is the difference between a zester and a cheese grater anyway?"
And so on and so forth.
Needless to say, I have not at all become a "foodie" or any such nonsense. Never fear. I just made a lasagna that required the from-scratch preparation of sauce involving cream and nutmeg and tomato paste and now I feel exuberant.
My other recent obsession is my house plants. I have house plants for several reasons. Firstly, I have no pets. Secondly, The house is barren without them. Lastly, I took the ones my folks were not caring for adequately. Having begun this adventure with mild interest and good intent, I am now the owner of two bonsai, two bamboo, two rubber plants, two viney things the name of which I do not know, and a brand new fern whose name is Herman. I have been transported from lackluster desire for green and clean air to one who has emotional attachment, names, and a membership card to the local botanists.
I think the passion was ignited when I returned to my home after having been at my parent's house for some time recovering from surgery.
CRISIS.
Fortenbras, my Japanese hyacinth bonsai, appears mostly dead. I lept into (painkiller modified) action: misting, watering, loving, fertilizing. He still seems mostly dead, but now the intensity of my care has spread to the other plants. I desire pruning. I desire raking of soil. I tend to their drainage trays below their pots. I replace the bamboo's water in its entirety every so often. I speak to them, softly. Like Zonker Harris from Doonesbury.
That's the latest from Cei.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)