Hello dear reader!
Stop everything and go have a look at Esti's latest drawing.
It is magical. MAGICAL.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Monday, October 27, 2008
A screeching halt
The illustration for this episode of "The Lady of the Ring" can be found here.
Then, one deep dark winter’s night, those two decades of housebound, jewelled wonder came to a screeching halt. It was that screech which woke the lovely lady with a start in the middle of the night and made her sit up in bed, fearful and shocked. She stared into the cold darkness of her bedroom, instinctively standing up, pushing her feet into her thick sheepskin boots , gathering her woollen cloak around her shoulders, and racing down the stairs, along the corridor, through the french doors and into the courtyard.
She found herself standing on a smooth, crisp layer of freshly fallen snow. Her terrified eyes looked down and saw a white expanse of moonlit dust, and on it were the small imprints of a bird’s feet, which she followed, silently, intently, until she saw the two scaly legs, thin and sharp, scratch, scratch, scratching through the snow. As she slowly raised her head, she took in the thick feathered torso, the curve of the neck, and the glossy staring eye. There was the unforgiving beak, the trembling crown, and then, with a rush of air and a rustle reminiscent of the shuffling of a portentous deck of cards, the beast displayed a fan of feathers so magnificent that they brought the lovely lady, with full force, to her knees.
The lovely lady knelt there in the snow, silent, still, watching, and slowly raising her arms towards the beast as if to greet it. As she did so, she felt a painful tugging on the second finger of her left hand which forced her to squeeze her eyes shut and grimace. When she next opened her eyes the feathered beast was gone, and as she pushed herself off the ground her left hand felt strangely free, and as she brought it up before her face, she realised the fabulous, horrifying truth. The ring had departed.
Then, one deep dark winter’s night, those two decades of housebound, jewelled wonder came to a screeching halt. It was that screech which woke the lovely lady with a start in the middle of the night and made her sit up in bed, fearful and shocked. She stared into the cold darkness of her bedroom, instinctively standing up, pushing her feet into her thick sheepskin boots , gathering her woollen cloak around her shoulders, and racing down the stairs, along the corridor, through the french doors and into the courtyard.
She found herself standing on a smooth, crisp layer of freshly fallen snow. Her terrified eyes looked down and saw a white expanse of moonlit dust, and on it were the small imprints of a bird’s feet, which she followed, silently, intently, until she saw the two scaly legs, thin and sharp, scratch, scratch, scratching through the snow. As she slowly raised her head, she took in the thick feathered torso, the curve of the neck, and the glossy staring eye. There was the unforgiving beak, the trembling crown, and then, with a rush of air and a rustle reminiscent of the shuffling of a portentous deck of cards, the beast displayed a fan of feathers so magnificent that they brought the lovely lady, with full force, to her knees.
The lovely lady knelt there in the snow, silent, still, watching, and slowly raising her arms towards the beast as if to greet it. As she did so, she felt a painful tugging on the second finger of her left hand which forced her to squeeze her eyes shut and grimace. When she next opened her eyes the feathered beast was gone, and as she pushed herself off the ground her left hand felt strangely free, and as she brought it up before her face, she realised the fabulous, horrifying truth. The ring had departed.
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Pitter patter tiny footsteps
How true were the peacock lady’s words. How very true. The lovely lady truly was at the mercy of the ring; unable to step out of her own front door without fear of being discovered, imprisoned, and sentenced to death. She did, at first, try to leave the house. She donned a pair of long silk gloves, kept her hands in her pockets and, during one long, cold winter, she even held a small fur muff. But the ring forbade it; at night, it glowed with a phosphorescence powerful enough to illuminate the depths of the ocean, and during the day, it throbbed with an intense heated glow, spitting tiny, sizzling embers into the air.
The lovely lady soon grew accustomed to the shape of her walls, her front door, her windows. Days turned into months, months to years, and the years continued, one after the other, until two entire decades could be heard running through the lovely lady’s corridors, pitter patter, pitter patter, tiny footsteps. During those years, the ring’s jewel expanded until it was twice its previous size, and its sparkle became brighter until it almost blinded the lovely lady as she went about her daily house-duties. It was both stunningly beautiful and unbearably overpowering. Not a day went by that didn’t have the lovely lady wringing her hands in painful desperation, while simultaneously holding her left hand up to the light so as to marvel at the miraculous beauty glowing on her finger.
***I could not decide on an illustration for this continuation of the tale. So, I ask you, dear silent reader, can a poem illustrate a story? All in favour, say "aye." The ayes have it! So here it is:
THE PEACOCK (By Judith Wright)
Shame on the aldermen who locked
the Peacock in a dirty cage!
his blue and copper sheens are mocked
by habit, hopelessness and age.
The weary Sunday families
along their gravelled paths repeat
the pattern of monotonies
that he treads out with restless feet.
And yet the Peacock shines alone;
and if one metal feather fall
another grows where that was grown.
Love clothes him still, in spite of all.
How pure the hidden spring must rise
that time and custom cannot stain!
It speaks its joy again - again.
Perhaps the aldermen are wise.
The lovely lady soon grew accustomed to the shape of her walls, her front door, her windows. Days turned into months, months to years, and the years continued, one after the other, until two entire decades could be heard running through the lovely lady’s corridors, pitter patter, pitter patter, tiny footsteps. During those years, the ring’s jewel expanded until it was twice its previous size, and its sparkle became brighter until it almost blinded the lovely lady as she went about her daily house-duties. It was both stunningly beautiful and unbearably overpowering. Not a day went by that didn’t have the lovely lady wringing her hands in painful desperation, while simultaneously holding her left hand up to the light so as to marvel at the miraculous beauty glowing on her finger.
***I could not decide on an illustration for this continuation of the tale. So, I ask you, dear silent reader, can a poem illustrate a story? All in favour, say "aye." The ayes have it! So here it is:
THE PEACOCK (By Judith Wright)
Shame on the aldermen who locked
the Peacock in a dirty cage!
his blue and copper sheens are mocked
by habit, hopelessness and age.
The weary Sunday families
along their gravelled paths repeat
the pattern of monotonies
that he treads out with restless feet.
And yet the Peacock shines alone;
and if one metal feather fall
another grows where that was grown.
Love clothes him still, in spite of all.
How pure the hidden spring must rise
that time and custom cannot stain!
It speaks its joy again - again.
Perhaps the aldermen are wise.
Friday, October 24, 2008
The drawing room
Just in case you are a new reader, here is an explanation:
I am in the middle of a short and continuing tale titled "The Lady of the Ring", posted every so often. Due to a coincidental discovery of this photograph which I found here (thanks Suse!), I realised that it would be interesting to illustrate each chapter with a picture or photograph from another blog. So, for Chapter Four, I linked to this photograph (thanks Julia and C) as my "illustration".
I hope that you will understand that I am not copying other artists' work by doing this, but rather linking to it, because the thing I love most about blogging is the constant artistic energy generated by so many wonderful bloggers I read, and communicate with, every day. I really do feel as if I am living in a global village, as corny as that may sound!
The three illustrations I have chosen for Chapter 5 can be found here. They are three photographs of the multi-talented Journeymama, taken by her multi-talented husband.
Upon entering the drawing room, everything came back in a flash, for standing before her was the woman in black, and on her head was a small, velvet black beret with a very long peacock feather which was attached to one side and formed an extended arc over her head. The feather quivered slightly as the woman blinked, and its colours were emerald and turquoise and topaz and jet, all glistening silk and feathered sharpness. The young lady gasped and pointed at the woman in black and said, “It was you, that night.” “Yes,” the woman nodded and the feather waved, twice, in affirmation. Still pointing, her voice now a vicious, accusing whisper, the lovely lady said “You are the jewel thief, the jewel thief,” and then she raised her left hand from its pocketed hiding-place and thrust it towards the lady’s wide-eyed gaze. “Take it off and take it back, you thief, take it off, take it back,” she shouted with all her might, and as she repeated herself, her voice become even louder and stronger and desperately urgent in a way which was quite terrible to witness. But what was worse, far worse, was that the lady in black simply shook her head and said, quite clearly and calmly, “No, I’m afraid that ring is yours now.”
The young woman let out a deep howl which brought her to her knees and then pushed her down until she was in the most dreadful state known to woman – a state of complete and utter helplessness, cruelly combined with an acute self-knowledge which scraped up against the truth, over and over again. The wind whipped through the tall firs which lined the driveway, the walls of the house shook, the staircase expanded and contracted like an old-time accordion, the flowered wallpaper wilted, a piano was heard from a distance playing an eerily familiar tune, and a tiny baby’s cry pierced through the thick sunlight and cut a hole in a window-pane. The two women, one lying on the thick carpet beside the marble fireplace, the other standing beside the large, forest-green armchair, stared at each other, and then everything stopped.
The lovely lady crawled towards the chair and slowly, painfully pulled herself up. She paused for a moment and then, in a burst of energy most surprising, she hurled herself towards the door of the drawing room. The door was pushed aside and there she was, racing down the long corridor, limping slightly, sweat beading on her brow, lips trembling in anger, and fear, and then she reached the kitchen. Steadying herself on the counter, she reached down and flicked her wrist so that an entire drawer and its contents landed on the black and white tiled floor. With one hand still holding on to the counter, she bent down, reached out, and grasped the thick black handle of a long, butcher knife. The knife glistened in its silvery sharpness, her knuckles turned white as she closed her fist tighter and tighter, and she prepared her left hand by bending each of its fingers, except for the ring-bearing one which lay long and steady, waiting. Her right hand raised the knife and prepared it for the fall, but just as it began its descent, a third hand reached out and grasped it, stopping it in mid-flight.
“No, my dear,” said the woman in black, in her low, calm voice, “Your flesh, and blood, and bone, my sweet, are no longer at the mercy of the knife, but at the mercy of the ring.”
I am in the middle of a short and continuing tale titled "The Lady of the Ring", posted every so often. Due to a coincidental discovery of this photograph which I found here (thanks Suse!), I realised that it would be interesting to illustrate each chapter with a picture or photograph from another blog. So, for Chapter Four, I linked to this photograph (thanks Julia and C) as my "illustration".
I hope that you will understand that I am not copying other artists' work by doing this, but rather linking to it, because the thing I love most about blogging is the constant artistic energy generated by so many wonderful bloggers I read, and communicate with, every day. I really do feel as if I am living in a global village, as corny as that may sound!
The three illustrations I have chosen for Chapter 5 can be found here. They are three photographs of the multi-talented Journeymama, taken by her multi-talented husband.
Chapter Five
Upon entering the drawing room, everything came back in a flash, for standing before her was the woman in black, and on her head was a small, velvet black beret with a very long peacock feather which was attached to one side and formed an extended arc over her head. The feather quivered slightly as the woman blinked, and its colours were emerald and turquoise and topaz and jet, all glistening silk and feathered sharpness. The young lady gasped and pointed at the woman in black and said, “It was you, that night.” “Yes,” the woman nodded and the feather waved, twice, in affirmation. Still pointing, her voice now a vicious, accusing whisper, the lovely lady said “You are the jewel thief, the jewel thief,” and then she raised her left hand from its pocketed hiding-place and thrust it towards the lady’s wide-eyed gaze. “Take it off and take it back, you thief, take it off, take it back,” she shouted with all her might, and as she repeated herself, her voice become even louder and stronger and desperately urgent in a way which was quite terrible to witness. But what was worse, far worse, was that the lady in black simply shook her head and said, quite clearly and calmly, “No, I’m afraid that ring is yours now.”
The young woman let out a deep howl which brought her to her knees and then pushed her down until she was in the most dreadful state known to woman – a state of complete and utter helplessness, cruelly combined with an acute self-knowledge which scraped up against the truth, over and over again. The wind whipped through the tall firs which lined the driveway, the walls of the house shook, the staircase expanded and contracted like an old-time accordion, the flowered wallpaper wilted, a piano was heard from a distance playing an eerily familiar tune, and a tiny baby’s cry pierced through the thick sunlight and cut a hole in a window-pane. The two women, one lying on the thick carpet beside the marble fireplace, the other standing beside the large, forest-green armchair, stared at each other, and then everything stopped.
The lovely lady crawled towards the chair and slowly, painfully pulled herself up. She paused for a moment and then, in a burst of energy most surprising, she hurled herself towards the door of the drawing room. The door was pushed aside and there she was, racing down the long corridor, limping slightly, sweat beading on her brow, lips trembling in anger, and fear, and then she reached the kitchen. Steadying herself on the counter, she reached down and flicked her wrist so that an entire drawer and its contents landed on the black and white tiled floor. With one hand still holding on to the counter, she bent down, reached out, and grasped the thick black handle of a long, butcher knife. The knife glistened in its silvery sharpness, her knuckles turned white as she closed her fist tighter and tighter, and she prepared her left hand by bending each of its fingers, except for the ring-bearing one which lay long and steady, waiting. Her right hand raised the knife and prepared it for the fall, but just as it began its descent, a third hand reached out and grasped it, stopping it in mid-flight.
“No, my dear,” said the woman in black, in her low, calm voice, “Your flesh, and blood, and bone, my sweet, are no longer at the mercy of the knife, but at the mercy of the ring.”
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
The statue, the mother ring and the strange visitor
After having discovered an illustration for Chapter Three through a lovely blogging coincidence, I realised that it would be most fitting to continue linking to illustrations in other people's blogs. My little fable is, after all, inspired by the many blogs I read.
Chapter Four's illustration can be found here, and I thank Julia very much for having inspired the statue-like pause experienced by my protagonist.
The emotions contained in that one lovely lady as she stood before her mirror were so powerful and so chilling that they literally froze her into a statue of herself. The lovely lady remained a statue for a very, very long time. You will possibly not believe me when I tell you this, dear reader, but that is of no consequence, for the truth is always stranger than fiction. You see, the lady remained a statue for many, many months. In fact, for almost a year. Or thereabouts. Until, one bright morning, without the slightest warning, the statue liberated itself into the image of the lovely lady reflected in the mirror, and this lovely lady could hear, crystal clear, the sound of a horse-drawn carriage making its way down the pebbled driveway. She heard the carriage stop in front of her house. She heard the faint social mutterings of a visitor. She heard the brisk footsteps of her maid, a knocking outside her bedroom, and the lovely lady could now see her maid’s bright, pink-cheeked face peeking in through a crack in the door. Apparently, a visitor had arrived, insisting that she was expected. “A proper lady, ma’am, terribly tall with a long black dress and quite the strangest hat I have ever seen.” She had asked her to sit in the drawing room. To wait.
The lovely lady stood and thought, and thought some more, and then she remembered something, and forgot something, and she touched the ring. The ring was firmly lodged on her slim and elegant finger, and as she pulled and twisted it the ring simply became tighter and tighter, until the skin around it was red and swollen and chafed. Tears sprang to her eyes as she confronted her dilemma of the jewel thief, the precious ring, and the strange visiting woman waiting for her in the drawing room. As if in a trance, the lovely lady slowly walked towards her wardrobe and carefully dressed herself in the sprigged muslin dress with the pearl buttons, the lace collar and the deep pockets. Tucking her left hand into a pocket, she walked resolutely out of the bedroom, down the staircase and along the corridor. She paused for a moment, gave her hair a little pat, secured a loose pin, smoothed a rebellious curl, breathed in, and out, and turned the doorknob.
Chapter Four's illustration can be found here, and I thank Julia very much for having inspired the statue-like pause experienced by my protagonist.
Chapter Four
The emotions contained in that one lovely lady as she stood before her mirror were so powerful and so chilling that they literally froze her into a statue of herself. The lovely lady remained a statue for a very, very long time. You will possibly not believe me when I tell you this, dear reader, but that is of no consequence, for the truth is always stranger than fiction. You see, the lady remained a statue for many, many months. In fact, for almost a year. Or thereabouts. Until, one bright morning, without the slightest warning, the statue liberated itself into the image of the lovely lady reflected in the mirror, and this lovely lady could hear, crystal clear, the sound of a horse-drawn carriage making its way down the pebbled driveway. She heard the carriage stop in front of her house. She heard the faint social mutterings of a visitor. She heard the brisk footsteps of her maid, a knocking outside her bedroom, and the lovely lady could now see her maid’s bright, pink-cheeked face peeking in through a crack in the door. Apparently, a visitor had arrived, insisting that she was expected. “A proper lady, ma’am, terribly tall with a long black dress and quite the strangest hat I have ever seen.” She had asked her to sit in the drawing room. To wait.
The lovely lady stood and thought, and thought some more, and then she remembered something, and forgot something, and she touched the ring. The ring was firmly lodged on her slim and elegant finger, and as she pulled and twisted it the ring simply became tighter and tighter, until the skin around it was red and swollen and chafed. Tears sprang to her eyes as she confronted her dilemma of the jewel thief, the precious ring, and the strange visiting woman waiting for her in the drawing room. As if in a trance, the lovely lady slowly walked towards her wardrobe and carefully dressed herself in the sprigged muslin dress with the pearl buttons, the lace collar and the deep pockets. Tucking her left hand into a pocket, she walked resolutely out of the bedroom, down the staircase and along the corridor. She paused for a moment, gave her hair a little pat, secured a loose pin, smoothed a rebellious curl, breathed in, and out, and turned the doorknob.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
It takes two floors to make a story
Way back in August I wrote about going to a Jason Mraz concert with my daughter. You might remember that I added a second clip to the post, one which shows Mraz singing "Life is Wonderful". One of the first phrases of that song is: "It takes two floors to make a storey," and I just love that kind of wordplay.
I read an article a while back about how many of Mraz's most popular songs were composed as part of a game he played with his fellow musician friends. One of his friends would set a challenge - "Let's see who can write the best song about _____". A bit of competitive fun can really get the creative juices flowing, and because each person's songs are always unique to that person, it ultimately isn't a real competition, it only starts off as one so as to get the artists working.
Now, what was my point?
Ah, yes.
I really want to get back to that lady and her ring, and I am a bit annoyed at myself for getting carried away with other posts and losing the flow of the story. So, to make myself feel a bit better, I have decided to think of Chapter One and Chapter Two as being the two floors which are needed to make the story, now I need to entice you to come inside. So then I think to myself "I have to find a fabulous illustration". So far, I've been using the peacock feather pictures, and I like the way they brighten up the endless black words, but what will I use to illustrate Chapter Three?
No idea.
So I decide to put it off for another day. Instead of organising the next chapter, I visit my blog friends to see what they have been up to during the last few days. Imagine my surprise when I visit Suse and see that she has only just posted the perfect illustration for Chapter Three?!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I have kept the chapter, word for word, as I wrote it before seeing Suse's beautiful photograph of her own hand. Except for one little word. You see, I felt compelled to somehow add Suse into the text, as a token of my appreciation. Originally, the lovely lady slipped her small, pale feet into a pair of quilted slippers. Well...I changed them to knitted slippers, for Suse.
The next morning, she opened her eyes to see sunlight glittering in the crack between the curtains, and she saw a small sparkle of light on the wall. She slowly sat up in bed, and found that the light sparkle was following her. She brushed some stray hair away from her eyes, and there was the sparkle darting back and forth across the wall. She stretched both her arms above her head, and there was the sparkle, stretching across the ceiling in a hurried flash. She pushed the blanket off, folded her arms, and took a good long look around the room. She checked all four walls, the chair, the cupboard door and the lampshade. She was doubly careful when looking at the folds of the curtains and the frames of the hanging pictures, and she even scanned the mirror for a long time, although the likelihood of a sparkle hiding there seemed far too obvious to be true. The sparkle had disappeared as mysteriously as it had entered her bedroom.
The lovely lady stood up, slowly and carefully, and twisted her back, first to the right, then to the left, checking whether she was still suffering from the previous night’s injury. In her delight at discovering that she felt no pain, she failed to notice the little sparkle which mimicked her movements to the right and left and back again. Covering herself with a silk dressing-gown, and slipping her small pale feet into a pair of knitted slippers, she floated dreamily towards the dining room. Breakfast was ready and waiting for her, as it always was. There was the plate, the cup, the silverware, the neatly folded newspaper, all ready for her and her alone. As she nibbled on her marmalade toast and sipped her tea, the day’s headline suddenly came into sharp focus before her eyes. JEWEL THIEF STRIKES AGAIN. Well, oh dear, that was rather strange. Her manicured fingers moved towards the newspaper, pulling it closer to her, flapping the front page open, holding it up towards the ray of light which was streaming in from the large french doors, and then her eyes slid sideways and rested on her left hand. There was a ring on that hand which she had never seen before. The ring was very large, and it seemed to pull the light, and then push it towards the ceiling, where it left a shivering sparkle, not unlike the one she had seen in her bedroom.
Her hands were now shaking uncontrollably. She knew they were shaking because of that noise she was hearing, that rustle rustling dry shivering shaking noise the newspaper was making as its pages flip-flapped between her arms. She steadied herself by digging her elbows into the dining table and leaning forward, and it was at that exact moment that the small black letters gathered before her eyes and told her that the jewel thief had struck again, last night, at the masquerade ball, by opening a safe, and removing from it one item. This item was considered to be the most precious jewel in the entire world, which made it, in actual fact, priceless. The article referred to it as “The Mother Ring.” She gasped, the newspaper fell from her fingers and slowly wafted down onto her lap, and then the floor, and then she stood up and ran as fast as she could, kicking off her slippers as she went, back to the bedroom. She stood before her mirror and stared at her own reflection, then she slowly raised her left arm and held it up towards the mirror, as if to show an acquaintance a newly acquired jewel. Her reflection looked down at the ring and nodded. Yes. It was real.
I read an article a while back about how many of Mraz's most popular songs were composed as part of a game he played with his fellow musician friends. One of his friends would set a challenge - "Let's see who can write the best song about _____". A bit of competitive fun can really get the creative juices flowing, and because each person's songs are always unique to that person, it ultimately isn't a real competition, it only starts off as one so as to get the artists working.
Now, what was my point?
Ah, yes.
I really want to get back to that lady and her ring, and I am a bit annoyed at myself for getting carried away with other posts and losing the flow of the story. So, to make myself feel a bit better, I have decided to think of Chapter One and Chapter Two as being the two floors which are needed to make the story, now I need to entice you to come inside. So then I think to myself "I have to find a fabulous illustration". So far, I've been using the peacock feather pictures, and I like the way they brighten up the endless black words, but what will I use to illustrate Chapter Three?
No idea.
So I decide to put it off for another day. Instead of organising the next chapter, I visit my blog friends to see what they have been up to during the last few days. Imagine my surprise when I visit Suse and see that she has only just posted the perfect illustration for Chapter Three?!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I have kept the chapter, word for word, as I wrote it before seeing Suse's beautiful photograph of her own hand. Except for one little word. You see, I felt compelled to somehow add Suse into the text, as a token of my appreciation. Originally, the lovely lady slipped her small, pale feet into a pair of quilted slippers. Well...I changed them to knitted slippers, for Suse.
THE LADY OF THE RING
Chapter three
The next morning, she opened her eyes to see sunlight glittering in the crack between the curtains, and she saw a small sparkle of light on the wall. She slowly sat up in bed, and found that the light sparkle was following her. She brushed some stray hair away from her eyes, and there was the sparkle darting back and forth across the wall. She stretched both her arms above her head, and there was the sparkle, stretching across the ceiling in a hurried flash. She pushed the blanket off, folded her arms, and took a good long look around the room. She checked all four walls, the chair, the cupboard door and the lampshade. She was doubly careful when looking at the folds of the curtains and the frames of the hanging pictures, and she even scanned the mirror for a long time, although the likelihood of a sparkle hiding there seemed far too obvious to be true. The sparkle had disappeared as mysteriously as it had entered her bedroom.
The lovely lady stood up, slowly and carefully, and twisted her back, first to the right, then to the left, checking whether she was still suffering from the previous night’s injury. In her delight at discovering that she felt no pain, she failed to notice the little sparkle which mimicked her movements to the right and left and back again. Covering herself with a silk dressing-gown, and slipping her small pale feet into a pair of knitted slippers, she floated dreamily towards the dining room. Breakfast was ready and waiting for her, as it always was. There was the plate, the cup, the silverware, the neatly folded newspaper, all ready for her and her alone. As she nibbled on her marmalade toast and sipped her tea, the day’s headline suddenly came into sharp focus before her eyes. JEWEL THIEF STRIKES AGAIN. Well, oh dear, that was rather strange. Her manicured fingers moved towards the newspaper, pulling it closer to her, flapping the front page open, holding it up towards the ray of light which was streaming in from the large french doors, and then her eyes slid sideways and rested on her left hand. There was a ring on that hand which she had never seen before. The ring was very large, and it seemed to pull the light, and then push it towards the ceiling, where it left a shivering sparkle, not unlike the one she had seen in her bedroom.
Her hands were now shaking uncontrollably. She knew they were shaking because of that noise she was hearing, that rustle rustling dry shivering shaking noise the newspaper was making as its pages flip-flapped between her arms. She steadied herself by digging her elbows into the dining table and leaning forward, and it was at that exact moment that the small black letters gathered before her eyes and told her that the jewel thief had struck again, last night, at the masquerade ball, by opening a safe, and removing from it one item. This item was considered to be the most precious jewel in the entire world, which made it, in actual fact, priceless. The article referred to it as “The Mother Ring.” She gasped, the newspaper fell from her fingers and slowly wafted down onto her lap, and then the floor, and then she stood up and ran as fast as she could, kicking off her slippers as she went, back to the bedroom. She stood before her mirror and stared at her own reflection, then she slowly raised her left arm and held it up towards the mirror, as if to show an acquaintance a newly acquired jewel. Her reflection looked down at the ring and nodded. Yes. It was real.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Some answers
Thanks for all of your comments concerning the last post! I shall try to answer your questions...
The decorations on the outside of the Sukkah are pictures of "the seven species" - grains and fruits that are special products of the Land of Israel: wheat, barley, grapes, pomegranates, figs, olives and dates.
The sign above the doorway says (in Hebrew) "Blessed are you as you enter." On the other side of the sign it says "Blessed are you as you depart."
The traditional greeting for almost all festivals is "Chag Sameach" (the "ch" being that deep throat-clearing sound and not "ch" as in "cheesecake") which means "happy festival". But saying "Happy Sukkot" is beautiful...thank you!!
Still not the cheesecake festival, but there is certainly no Rabbinical ruling FORBIDDING the eating of cheesecake in the sukkah....I will now always laugh whenever reading of Moses and the tablets, picturing him instead carrying a large round cheesecake. Hepsibah......she must have been the competing kosher caterer of the time...was she the one who sneaked up behind Mo and pushed him?
The very observant eat all meals and snacks in the sukkah, and actually sleep in it as well. But I am not very observant at all...so we eat in it on the first night, and then on and off during the week if the weather holds up. I should mention that it is almost invariably rainy and windy during sukkot...and, yes, it rained all day today. Naturally.
What did we eat last night? Well....chicken soup (again, of course), chopped liver (my mom's special), crispy chicken, roasted beetroot and pumpkin, green salad, chocolate mousse for dessert. You all asked for seconds, and we found Eurolush trying to hide a chocolate mousse in her handbag.....we were all terribly embarrassed for her and so looked the other way.
Thanks so much for your interest, humour and kind words.
Chag sameach!!
The decorations on the outside of the Sukkah are pictures of "the seven species" - grains and fruits that are special products of the Land of Israel: wheat, barley, grapes, pomegranates, figs, olives and dates.
The sign above the doorway says (in Hebrew) "Blessed are you as you enter." On the other side of the sign it says "Blessed are you as you depart."
The traditional greeting for almost all festivals is "Chag Sameach" (the "ch" being that deep throat-clearing sound and not "ch" as in "cheesecake") which means "happy festival". But saying "Happy Sukkot" is beautiful...thank you!!
Still not the cheesecake festival, but there is certainly no Rabbinical ruling FORBIDDING the eating of cheesecake in the sukkah....I will now always laugh whenever reading of Moses and the tablets, picturing him instead carrying a large round cheesecake. Hepsibah......she must have been the competing kosher caterer of the time...was she the one who sneaked up behind Mo and pushed him?
The very observant eat all meals and snacks in the sukkah, and actually sleep in it as well. But I am not very observant at all...so we eat in it on the first night, and then on and off during the week if the weather holds up. I should mention that it is almost invariably rainy and windy during sukkot...and, yes, it rained all day today. Naturally.
What did we eat last night? Well....chicken soup (again, of course), chopped liver (my mom's special), crispy chicken, roasted beetroot and pumpkin, green salad, chocolate mousse for dessert. You all asked for seconds, and we found Eurolush trying to hide a chocolate mousse in her handbag.....we were all terribly embarrassed for her and so looked the other way.
Thanks so much for your interest, humour and kind words.
Chag sameach!!
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