the sandbox

Tonight I spent a couple of hours handling lead type at the SF Center for the Book. It was a busy night at open studio. Among others, there were two couples there, one printing their own wedding invitations and looking googly-eyed, and one arguing sotte voce over the wood type. All four floor presses were in use. I set about 16 lines of text in Futura Medium, 18 pt, and three lines of colophon in Lydian, 10 pt. I think the Lydian is old and therefore worn, and so when I proof it it'll probably be a pain in my arse. All this is in preparation for my first solo flight on the Vandercook, next week. Will I pull it off? Ink I have covered. Type is set. I don't know what to do about paper--not sure how to use the guillotine cutter. Without cutting off vital portions of my anatomy, that is. Stay tuned for an update from the, um, press corps...

When prepared properly, it's good for your health. When it's overcooked or too much fat or sugar is added, it's cloying soggy mash. And lots of people claim not to like it.

I have two poems on my fridge (not counting poetry magnet ephemera). I cut them out of the New Yorker. Here is one of them--I thought it appropriate for the evening, as I was just at the symphony. I like it. I don't think it's brilliant, but I like it.

Beagle or Something

The composer's name was Beagle or something,
one of those Brits who make the world wistful
with chorales and canticles and this piece,
a tone poem or what-have-you,
chimes and strings aswirl, dangerous for one
whose eyelids and sockets have been rashing from tears.
The music occupied the car where
I had parked and then sat, staring at
a tree, a smallish maple,
fire-gold and half-undone by the wind,
shaking in itself,
shocking blue morning sky behind, and also
the trucks and telephone wires and dogs
and children late to school along Orange Street, but
it was the tree that caused the uproar,
it was the tree that shook and shed,
aureate as a shaken soul, I remembered
I was supposed to have one--for convenience

I placed it in my chest, the heart being away,
and now it seems the soul has lodged there, shaking,
golden-orange, half-spent but clanging
truer than Beagle music or my forehead pressed
hard on the steering wheel in petition for release.

                            -April Bernard
 
 
Eat your vegetables, kiddies.

It’s been three weeks.

In that time,

Number of days spent camping and botanizing in the Sweetwater Mountains: 3

Number of Pilates training appointments attended: 5

Number of relatively hefty checks arrived by mail, ensuring room and board for foreseeable future: 3

Number of performances attended:

Ballet plus Shaolin Monks, 1
Opera (Das Rheingold), 1
Shakespeare play (Pericles), 1
Piano/cello recital, performed in the living room by virtuosic sisters aged 6 and 12, 1

Pool parties attended: 2

Plants planted in planter boxes: 26

Farmer’s market trips taken: 3

Slumber parties, impromptu or otherwise: 2

Letterpress mini-broadsides printed: 32

Books read: 11

Magazines read, cover to cover: 4 (2 New Yorkers, 2 National Geographics)

Deep breaths taken: damn sight more than there have been lately

Giggles giggled: innumerable.

Unemployment is FABULOUS.

http://www.nytimes.com/2008/04/21/sports/othersports/21patrick.html?_r=1&hp&oref=slogin

Remind me to tell you about my day at the defensive driving course at Sears Point. I hope that prick reads the New York Times.

So I turned 30 the other day. (Or 6 weeks ago--but who's counting?) Although I wasn't looking to the day with any particular sense of dread or impending doom, I did want to mark the moment in some meaningful way. In the months and weeks beforehand, I had a lot of ideas--invite everyone I've ever known to help build a Habitat house; take over a nice space in some fun SF bar or restaurant; make personalized letterpress invitations...  but really, what I wanted most was to have a sweet, comfortable evening with people I care about, in a place that felt like home (but wasn't my actual house). To my great delight, S. offered her house and cooking skills for the occasion. Lucky me!

We ended up with exactly the number of people to fit around the hefty oaken dining table. The magic cocktail was made and enjoyed (for recipe, see Repast). Dinner was fabulous. Apple frangipane tart was delicious and arrived to much fanfare:

And the Calvados whipped cream went over big too:

Funny stories were told:
My friends gave me lovely thoughtful heartfelt gifts: My sister and I mugged for the camera:
But we weren't the only ones!
Obviously I need to be a little more careful about where I wear this dress:
As the evening wore on and the level in the absinthe bottle dropped, the pictures get a little murkier, as does my memory:
Apparently I said completely respectable and normal goodbyes to the guests, and even went down the steep stairs to my car (in heels no less) to get my overnight bag, and laid out my pj's on the bed... none of which I have even the faintest memory of. So that after a philosophical conversation in the kitchen that I remember perfectly clearly, I was very touched by the care someone had taken in getting my things from the car and laying out my pj's on the bed. Lesson learned: drink absinthe only in the company of trusted friends.

In all, it was exactly the party I wanted--simple, intimate, and delightful. All love and compliments to the chef and hostess who made it possible.

 

This is why I can never leave the Bay Area.

I have many things about which to blog. Many pictures languishing in folders on my hard drive waiting for their 15 minutes. But I'm very busy and important, so I can't promise anything...

I have bad news about the bacon chocolate.

Um, it's gross.

I tried to like it, I really did--but in the end, I just threw it away.

I am SO not kidding. 

So I say to the guy, "where are the steel folding sawhorses?"

And he says to me, skeptically, "Did someone tell you specifically that they wanted the steel folding one? Because we have a lot of different kinds."

Um, hello? That seems like a lot of mental gymnastics to perform in order to avoid the idea that I, the person in the store, am the one who wants a sawhorse, and yes, I want the one I asked for.