flip flop

Does anyone else seriously wear out your shoes? I try to mend things and make do as long as I can with my clothes and shoes, but this is getting out of control. My staple black flats have reached the point of no return. I've been super gluing the sole back on for a few months, but my super glue dried out so I had to throw it away. Today I wore my flats, knowing they looked ridiculous.

This is what they look like:

And I met a group of corporate clients from New York and London today. My shoes were flopping all over the place. I'm so embarrassed.

Things I love:

1) Gold things

2) Gaudy Gold Things

3) Salvaged, perfect, lamps

4) Becs for giving me the best birthday gift I could ever ask for...

The Midas Touch or aka "Liquid Leaf" and a paint brush

 5) Putti: poo-tee, noun, plural. Representation of cherubic infants, often shown winged

6) next project awesome, colorful shades. Comme ca?

The Catcher in the Rye

J.D. Salinger

I adore this book. The main character, Holden Caulfield, comes from a wealthy, disfunctional family from the Upper East Side. He lacks self discipline, motivation, is definitely ADHD and does what he wants when he wants. J.D. Salinger revolutionizes the world of literature by creating a style of writing that reflects the young generation of that time. The equivalent in today's world would be someone creating a story all through text messages, computer lingo, and status updates. Something only the rising generation would understand and appreciate. This book spans something like 3 days in the life of Holden and all the crazy things he thinks and does. His mind does NOT turn off. The writing is so honest and thorough. My favorite part is that you can actually see the ADHD in the style of writing. For example the segment I've copied below is ONE paragraph. That's how Holden's mind works and it trumps the rules of writing, punctuation, and formatting. To me, this is an example of formal elements showing up in writing. In a painting you can analyze the use of line, color, etc. to extract meaning. You can do the same in literature. Look at the flow of words, the formatting, the train of thought. I doubt anyone had ever italicized syllables before to help the reader hear how Holden was speaking. I think this book is revolutionary for those reasons.

But here's the main reason I loved this book. In all the madness of the 3 day adventure, when Holden couldn't hold still or keep a solid train of thought for more than a few seconds, the one thing that he focuses on the longest in the whole book is the one thing that has remained constant in his life. The Museum. (Of course I'm an advocate for ART museums but nonetheless I can appreciate the life changing qualities a museum can have on people) Read the following excerpt if you want. If it's too long I understand. As I read this I got all tingly and magical feeling because he was speaking my language.

"...I walked all the way through the park over to the Museum of Natural History...I knew that whole museum routine like a book...We used to go there all the time. We had this teacher, Miss Aigletinger, that took us there damn near every Saturday. Sometimes we looked at the animals and sometimes we looked at the stuff the Indians had made in ancient times. Pottery and straw baskets and all stuff like that. I get very happy when I think about it. Even now. I remember after we looked at all the Indian stuff, usually we went to see some movie in this big auditorium. Columbus. They were always showing Columbus discovering America, having one helluva time getting old Ferdinand and Isabella to lend him the dough to buy ships with, and then the sailors mutinying on him and all. Nobody gave too much of a damn about old Columbus, but you always had a lot of candy and gum and stuff with you, and the inside of that auditorium had such a nice smell. It always smelled like it was raining outside, even if it wasn't, and you were in the only nice, dry, cosy place in the world. I loved that damn museum. I remember you had to go through the Indian Room to get to the auditorium. It was a long, long room, and you were only supposed to whisper. The teacher would go first, then the class. You'd be two rows of kids, and you'd have a partner. Most of the time my partner was this girl named Gertrude Levine. She always wanted to hold your hand, and her hand was always sticky or sweaty or something. The floor was all stone, and if you had some marbles in your hand and you dropped them, they bounced like madmen all over the floor and made a helluva racket, and the teacher would hold up class and go back and see what the hell was going on. She never got sore, though, Miss Aigletinger. Then you'd pass by this long, long Indian war canoe, about as long as three Cadillacs in a row, with about twenty Indians in it, some of them paddling, some of them just standing around looking tough, and they all had war paint all over their faces. There was one very spooky guy in the back of the canoe, with a mask on. He was the witch doctor. He gave me the creeps, but I liked him anyway. Another thing, if you touched one of the paddles or anything while you were passing, one of the guards would say to you, "Don't touch anything, children," but he always said it in a nice voice, not like a cop or anything. Then you'd pass by this big glass case, with Indians inside it rubbing sticks together to make a fire, and a squaw that was weaving the blanket was sort of bending over, and you could see her bosom and all. We all used to sneak a good look at it, even the girls, because they were only little kids and they didn't have any more bosom than we did. Then, just before you went inside the auditorium, right near the doors, you passed this Eskimo. He was sitting over a hole in this icy lake, and he was fishing through it. He had about two fish right next to the hole, that he'd already caught. Boy, that museum was full of glass cases. There were even more upstairs, with deer inside them drinking at water holes, and birds flying south for the winter. The birds nearest you were all stuffed and hung up on wires, and the ones in back were just painted on the wall, but they all looked like they were really flying south, and if you bent your head down and sort of looked at them upside down, they looked in an even bigger hurry to fly south. The best thing, though, in that museum was that everything always stayed right where it was. Nobody'd move. You could go there a hundred thousand times, and that Eskimo would still be just finished catching those two fish, the birds would still be on their way south, the deers would still be drinking out of that water hole, with their pretty antlers and their pretty, skinny legs, and that squaw with the naked bosom would still be weaving that same blanket. Nobody'd be different. The only thing that would be different would be you. Not that you'd be so much older or anything. It wouldn't be that exactly. You'd just be different, that's all. You'd have an overcoat on this time. Or the kid that was your partner in line the last time had got scarlet fever and you'd have a new partner. Or you'd have a substitute taking the class, instead of Miss Aigletinger. Or you'd heard your mother and father having a terrific fight in the bathroom. Or you'd just passed by one of those puddles in the street with gasoline rainbows in them. I mean you'd be different in some way—I can't explain what I mean. And even if I could, I'm not sure I'd feel like it.

a very depressing post

I have two tomato plants that I've been cultivating since they were basically little spouts. They are now tall and strong plants and I love them and check on them frequently. They don't produce much. Last week there were three green Roma tomatoes growing. When I got back from Florida the biggest one had turned red! I was so excited. I kept checking on it to see if it was getting ripe. (Man those things take FOREVER to grow.) I've been refraining from buying tomatoes every time I go to the store because I keep thinking, "Just wait. You'll have your own soon enough." On Monday I checked and the red tomato was still a little hard. I decided to keep it on the vine to ripen a little more. On Wednesday after work I was so excited to pick my tomato. I got home and...

it was gone.


The next biggest green one was gone too.

I was instantly furious. I wondered if one of my roommates had picked it and eaten it. I wondered if a squirrel or bird had taken it. I'm on the third floor and there are no trees next to my balcony so I didn't think that was possible. So I asked one of my roommates if she knew of anything that could have happened to my tomato. She told me that the day before she noticed my plants were tipped over and half hanging over the edge of the balcony. The wind blew them over. I was sad, but relieved to know that someone hadn't eaten it. I asked her if it was crazy if I went down to the ground and looked for my tomatoes. She said it wasn't crazy. So the next day after work I went down there and I looked for it.

And found it.

it was being feasted upon by an army of ants.

i was so sad.

the green one is still unaccounted for.

This was my first attempt at growing vegetables and so far because of a freak accident I am failing. My plant currently has three more green tomatoes on it but I think it will take another few months before they are ready and they might not survive the cooling temperatures. I moved my plants off the table and to the floor of the balcony in the corner so they shouldn't get blown over again.