LEARNING AS I GO

today

forloveofwords — Sun, 21 Aug 2011 17:26:12 +0000

How beautiful it was then, through that void, to draw lines and parabolas, pick out the precise point, the intersection between space and time when the event would spring forth, undeniable in the prominence of its glow.
Italo Calvino on the time of radiant clarity in cosmic prehistory.
Found in Envisioning Information by Edward R. Tufte

new babies :)

forloveofwords — Sat, 25 Jun 2011 16:25:52 +0000

lord byron

shelley

what is

forloveofwords — Sat, 25 Jun 2011 16:20:25 +0000

But there is always the sun when the sun shines and the night when the night falls. There’s always grief when grief afflicts us and dreams when dreams cradle us. There is always what there is and never what there should be, not because it’s better or worse, but because it’s other.
Pessoa

forloveofwords — Sat, 14 May 2011 00:41:30 +0000

Do not go where the path may lead, go instead where there is no path and leave a trail.
Emerson

a day warmer than today

forloveofwords — Tue, 01 Feb 2011 20:32:13 +0000

chris + amelia

My love, my life, my light.

book review: neurodiversity

forloveofwords — Sun, 09 Jan 2011 20:47:43 +0000

If you know me personally, I’ve probably already over-enthusiastically recounted to you how life-changing I found this book to be. You might have even thought to yourself, “This is feeling intense, I may not have time to hear her entire spiel about this.” Until, of course, I sucked you in with my riveting synopsis and insights, spurring you on to the inescapable conclusion:

“I must go read that.”

For those of you who weren’t lucky enough to hear me evangelize this noteworthy non-fiction in person, here’s the premise:

You’ve got biodiversity. Ethnic diversity. Genetic diversity within all the species. Let’s stop looking at different types of human brains as deficits to a standard norm and start appreciating them as a sampling of neurodiversity, an important part of evolution in its own right. By “different types of brains,” I mean to say the autistic, the ADHD, the dyslexic, the anxious, the depressive, and so on. Author Thomas Armstrong argues that these brain types are not diseases or unfortunate anomalies, they have vital relevance to both the past and future of our species. (Even if there are difficulties inherent in each way of being.) He goes on to highlight the unique characteristics and oft-overlooked benefits of seven different types of brains, devoting a chapter to each one.

I found this riveting, because a) we’re all somewhere along each of these continua, and are used to evaluating only the negative traits imposed on us by each “spectrum disorder” (you know this way of thinking: I’m this much ADD and this much depressed)—it’s a welcome paradigm shift and b) I have tons of friends and family and acquaintances who can be identified along these spectra as well, and I’m used to looking at their differences, much like my own, in a certain way—a bad way in most cases, to be perfectly honest. So, to read a book that touts the benefits of having a differently-structured brain, to focus, case by case, on the evolutionary advantages conferred upon individuals that possess these unique structures—that’s enlightening. Transformative, in fact.

If you’re looking for a book to usher in the New Year, this is it. I personally guarantee it to be good for both the mind and the character.

here’s to 2011

forloveofwords — Tue, 04 Jan 2011 01:51:42 +0000

my blogging companion

I’ve got a shiny new digital tablet and revamped computer set-up to facilitate more blogging in the new year. My trusty lap warmer, Emerson, is revved up and ready to go.

Here’s to a productive 2011 filled with unprecedented posts, ubercool photos, and poems I hope you’ll find inspiring.

Aristotle

forloveofwords — Thu, 30 Dec 2010 03:22:18 +0000

This is the beginning.
Almost anything can happen.
This is where you find
the creation of light, a fish wriggling onto land,
the first word of Paradise Lost on an empty page.
Think of an egg, the letter A,
a woman ironing on a bare stage as the heavy curtain rises.
This is the very beginning.
The first-person narrator introduces himself,
tells us about his lineage.
The mezzo-soprano stands in the wings.
Here the climbers are studying a map
or pulling on their long woolen socks.
This is early on, years before the Ark, dawn.
The profile of an animal is being smeared
on the wall of a cave,
and you have not yet learned to crawl.
This is the opening, the gambit,
a pawn moving forward an inch.
This is your first night with her, your first night without her.
This is the first part
where the wheels begin to turn,
where the elevator begins its ascent,
before the doors lurch apart.

This is the middle.
Things have had time to get complicated,
messy, really. Nothing is simple anymore.
Cities have sprouted up along the rivers
teeming with people at cross-purposes –
a million schemes, a million wild looks.
Disappointment unsolders his knapsack
here and pitches his ragged tent.
This is the sticky part where the plot congeals,
where the action suddenly reverses
or swerves off in an outrageous direction.
Here the narrator devotes a long paragraph
to why Miriam does not want Edward’s child.
Someone hides a letter under a pillow.
Here the aria rises to a pitch,
a song of betrayal, salted with revenge.
And the climbing party is stuck on a ledge
halfway up the mountain.
This is the bridge, the painful modulation.
This is the thick of things.
So much is crowded into the middle –
the guitars of Spain, piles of ripe avocados,
Russian uniforms, noisy parties,
lakeside kisses, arguments heard through a wall
too much to name, too much to think about.

And this is the end,
the car running out of road,
the river losing its name in an ocean,
the long nose of the photographed horse
touching the white electronic line.
This is the colophon, the last elephant in the parade,
the empty wheelchair, and pigeons floating down in the evening.
Here the stage is littered with bodies,
the narrator leads the characters to their cells,
and the climbers are in their graves.
It is me hitting the period
and you closing the book.
It is Sylvia Plath in the kitchen
and St. Clement with an anchor around his neck.
This is the final bit
thinning away to nothing.
This is the end, according to Aristotle,
what we have all been waiting for,
what everything comes down to,
the destination we cannot help imagining,
a streak of light in the sky,
a hat on a peg, and outside the cabin, falling leaves.

“Aristotle”
by Billy Collins

love & marriage

forloveofwords — Tue, 21 Dec 2010 02:09:32 +0000

perfect love

October 30, 2010

beautiful kids and cake

moments here and there

reception

A few wedding favorites.

Images courtesy of f8 photography.

pre-wedding flashback

forloveofwords — Wed, 15 Dec 2010 01:32:08 +0000

A few bridal pics taken by Gary Donihoo of F8 photography.

Click to view.

Me, back when I was just a blushing fiancée.

Courtesy of f8 photography.