why, yes!

egress

Main Entry: ¹egress

Pronunciation: \ˈē-ˌgres\
Function: noun
Etymology: Latin egressus, from egredi to go out, from e- + gradi to go
Date: 1538

1 : the action or right of going or coming out
2 : a place or means of going out : exit

happy weekend

be cherry. or cheery.
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Kershisnik Exhibit: Over Looking

Young Astronomer by Brian Kershisnik

Brian Kershisnik Exhibit: Over Looking
David Ericson Fine Art
through Oct. 23rd 2009
418 South 200 West
Salt Lake City, Utah 84101

There are so many things that draw me to this painting: the combination of turquoise and red, the soft lines of the mother's dress against the angled edges of the window. The dark red carpet. The intensity of the night's sky. The small town cloaked in shadow. The angel peeking in the window. How completely engrossed the mother is in her book. The faces on Kershisnik's babies and children are so delightful.

Also...
The texture, size and color of Kershisnik's paintings do not transfer to this page. Seeing them in person under gallery lighting is an experience not to be missed.

happy weekend

going pumpkin picking this weekend. can't wait to find the perfect pair:
one ready for porch sitting and one for carving.
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my red heaven

Minerva Teichert said, "I want a little red in my heaven." I want to be in Minerva's heaven, for she has a signature shade all her own. I imagine her up there painting sunsets and bursting dahlias. Portraits of children with cheeks in brilliant shades of rouge. And autumn leaves like those we saw tonight on our way up the canyon to a place I believe to be a little piece of heaven.

Like a Minerva Teichert painting, there were no hard lines, just places where one color fades into another: green blends with yellow, then orange, then red. The further up we got, the less red there was. (The lack of red wasn't an indication of our relativity to heaven, just a change in landscape, I firmly believe.)

We pulled through the gate at The Lot as the sun began to rest its eyelids. The aspens seem to have turned early this year, fallen leaves like yellow confetti welcoming our weekend party up the stone path. We had just enough daylight left for a short walk before dinner. The light of the late afternoon played in the nooks and crannies of the hillside, casting shadows down the face of the mountain, subduing the fall hues.

When everyone was inside, I turned off the light on the deck and stepped out to look at the stars. Aspen branches stretched heavenwards and cradled the night's sky, a canvas of black and white. I located the Evening Star and the curve of the Big Dipper, which has dipped a bit lower than a few weeks ago. Under a Harvest Moon, I imagined Minerva painting a picture of our little Lot in the woods, cocooned in aspens and pines, one color fading into another.

red white and blue

{image via flickr}

beautiful thoughts on freedom found at a favorite blog Sweat, Tears, or the Sea.

Then and Now

At the last minute, I took a right and headed passed the gates into the park. For all intents and purposes, I looked like a mom picking up her child from soccer practice, my black work pants absorbing the heat of the day as I stepped out of the car. Nevertheless, I made my way across the street to the grass. I passed a woman with "True Blue" splashed across her shirt, which was more a shade of lavender, and a girl spread out on a yoga mat, head bopping side to side. I pod ear buds in her ears, I was puzzled as to how she planned to channel her soul's center while listening to "Boom Boom Pow."

I chose a spot between two trees, one much older than the other. The younger greener one was very much alive, the other not so, but for the life going on beneath it, birds pecking at the ground, picking up pine needles, strewn about like fallen soldiers, the remains of a battle fought against Time. I sat at the peak of the hill, just enough on the slope to see down onto the soccer field, carved out of the surrounding hills like the center of a summer melon. I slipped off my red shoes and put them next to my red sweater. Red and red. Noticing my more-pink-than-red toenails, I sidled them up to my sweater, quite pleased with the discord; I liked the unpredictability of it all. Red. Red. Pink. I opened my book and began to read.

I was distracted from time to time by the sun bouncing off the lining of my red shoes, the gold insides faded from use. And, if it wasn't the shoes, it was the soccer practice going on below. With my fingers, I added up how many years I spent down on that very field. How many times I jogged its perimeter. The corner kick drills we ran near the white goal post. The very goal post where I did my first (and most likely last) diving header. Sometimes, when the field was covered with snow, we'd play in the parking lot where the snow plow had been, digging our cleats into the asphalt to stop us from slipping on the cold, wet pavement. Oh how I would have given anything back then to trade in my cleats for a pair of red shoes.

I watched three men jog around the field, their shadows cast long behind them. Stripping themselves of their bright yellow pennants as they went, they gathered up the orange cones. In mere moments, the field was vacant, except for a couple playing frisbee on the sideline. My eyes moved from one word to the next on the page, until the sun stopped gleaming off the insides of my ruby shoes. I folded down the corner of my book, made my way past the two trees, across the grass and into my car, merging into the six o'clock traffic towards home.

happy (long) weekend

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Universe in a Red Bag

I stepped out onto 25th Street, between 5th and 6th Avenue, and in a very Martha Takes on Manhattan attitude, my morning stride matched those of the other native New Yorkers. I was determined to blend in; to seem as if I knew exactly where I was going. I was surrounded by people getting their morning groove on, ipod earbuds shoved in their ears to drown out the sounds of the city. I could have joined them. But this trip I knew I'd spend a lot more time on foot than the last, and I wanted to hear and see it all. I had everything I needed in my bag (ipod included). K helped me plot out a path the night before. I was to head straight down 5th until I reached Union Square.

* * *
In my visits to the City, I've noticed that everyone carries large bags. Why? Because they have to be prepared for anything. A last-minute dinner date, an unexpected downpour, sore feet after a long day on Wall Street, an extra bone for their little dog (who fits in their bag) a coat in case the wind changes, an ipod, a laptop, clothes for the gym, a good book for the subway...New Yorkers, for the most part, are prepared for anything. I've seen ladies pull full wardrobe changes out of their bags. By the time the Subway stops on Broadway and 42nd Street, they're all dolled up and ready for a night out on the town.

There is a scene in a less than stellar chick flick where the two main characters (guy and girl) are sitting on a bench. Guy has just gotten himself into a bit of a situation and girl comes to his rescue. Girl pulls one thing after another out of her bag, all of which aid in the rescuing of said guy. In what could be considered one of the cheesiest exchanges in the whole movie, (if not in all of Chick Flickdom) guy asks girl, "What else do you have in there?" The response, which inevitably makes me want to throw up each time I hear it, "My universe."

* * *

I made it down to Union Square on my own, and, in one of my dumber moments, purchased books for my family at the beginning of what I knew was going to be a long walking day. I figured I'd lug the books around until we braked for lunch, at which point I could switch my satchels at K's place before the afternoon adventures commenced. The rally spot was Whole Foods. The only thing on our list: organic marshmallows. Both practical and delicious. They wouldn't add any heft to my hauling. K would meet me there after her morning of work. I'd tell her all the things I'd seen; all my favorite spots.

I forgot to mention that in a moment of utter ignorance, I brought THE most impractical bag ever known to (wo)Man. It was big, therefore, I thought it was the perfect candidate for the job of towing things to and fro as K and I traipsed up and down Manhattan. When I saw it in a store at home, it had a certain je ne sais quoi about it, and, with a New York state in mind, I thought I'd bring it along and try my hat at the whole avant garde thing. So, I bit the bullet and bought the bag. Darling, yes. Practical, no. The straps slid off my shoulders, the cute flower on the outside kept catching on my sleeve. By the time I lugged my books seven blocks, I was through.

At the bottom of Union Square, near Whole Foods, I spotted it: Filene's Basement. Therein lied my salvation. I walked in, perused their purses and grabbed a big black one off the hook. Behind the black bag was a red bag. Red. I quickly switched the two, and bought the bargain bag (Thank you Filene, your Basement -- which really isn't a basement at all. I took two escalators to get there, and your bottom-line prices). I told the lady, no, I didn't want a bag for my bag and hurried out to the lobby where I spilled all contents of my bag(s) onto the tile floor between Filene's Basement and DSW. The Red Bag was a smash hit from the beginning, fitting all the contents of my old bag, a new pair of shoes from DSW (turns out my sensible shoes weren't so sensible) an umbrella, my books (still a dumb idea, even if I found a Central Park Running Guide Dad just had to have for his next trip to the City) and all other necessary contents for a City Girl on the go. The shiny redness of it all helped, too. And the patent-leather (Fake. We're talking Filene's Basement, folks) would be practical for those on-the-spot New York down pours, rain pelts sliding off the patent.

The bag traveled with me for the next nine days. It's contents grew by the day, as did the grooves in my shoulders. But, the straps stayed in place, and everywhere I went the people did shout, "Where oh where did you get that bag?!" New York people. The very Avant Garde themselves! I wanted to say I found it on sale at Barney's to send a mad dash of female shoppers in a frenzy, but instead I said proudly, a little shop at Union Square called Filene's. Back here at home, even a year and a half later, I say, "Filene's Basement in New York." "You're kidding?!" is the typical reaction. "Forty bucks," I say. Oohs and aahs follow.

So, in what was a moment of utter frustration and unpreparedness, I bought what I thought was a bag to fit the bill. Really, what I bought was a sense of self. That red bag has become my signature. I take it where ever I go and when I arrive, I put whatever I find inside. The straps are fraying, the zipper on the inside is becoming loose, and, when the seasons change (patent ain't so hot for summer, or so I'm told) I nearly cry when as it is laid to hibernate for the summer months. I'm utterly amazed at what I find when I empty it: too many lip glosses to count, receipts, business cards, glucose tablets, tiny notebooks, medium-sized notebooks, graph paper, the latest read, lots of change. Just the other day someone asked if anyone had a pen. I quickly opened my red bag, showed off my collection and asked, "Which kind?" It was a felt tip that did the trick. I guess you could say that bag contains my universe. But, you won't ever hear me admit that out loud, at least not to a guy.