Wind with words the line and form
and round the rhythm with a phrase,
curve the lip to syllables of sound:
deep from damp earth's dungeons
Dig your clay
spin it
and from the magic spirals let it rise,
a springing, slender line, sensitive, ageless.
Fire it, hold it petrified in stone
safe beyond time.
Sunday, August 20, 2006
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
Goodbye Kelly, Hello Victoria
Sadly, we must bid adieu soon to Kelly Clark our amazing PR/Marketing head. Kelly has done a fabulous job in getting our stuff in ink--we jump up and clap our hands together and applaud her efforts!! Kelly leaves us to return to teaching. (Which is, of course, just flat out CRAZY, but who are we to judge?) So anyway, this CRAZY chick who is leaving PR to go to teaching is also an incredibly talented photographer. Perhaps she will Email me a link to her website so I can post it here. Anyhow, we will miss her very much but know we'll see her at shows and that we'll stay in touch- because in the end, you know you can take the girl out of the MUD but....
Taking Kelly's place will be Victoria Compton who is also an amazing fine artist and a Drew University Alumni like myself. We are very happy that she's joined our company and have been struggling to write a press sentence about just how happy we are for the last week or so. Over the moon. Jumping for joy. Like a pig in...well, anyhow we are really glad she has chosen to work for us and we look forward to getting to know her better. Kelly leaves big shoes to fill. My feeling is that Victoria may choose to kick the ball out of the park barefoot.
If anyone is reading this who owns, like, a National Magazine or say a television show, please Email Victoria at Victoria@ournameismud.com Or just say howdy and welcome. We're all family here.
Taking Kelly's place will be Victoria Compton who is also an amazing fine artist and a Drew University Alumni like myself. We are very happy that she's joined our company and have been struggling to write a press sentence about just how happy we are for the last week or so. Over the moon. Jumping for joy. Like a pig in...well, anyhow we are really glad she has chosen to work for us and we look forward to getting to know her better. Kelly leaves big shoes to fill. My feeling is that Victoria may choose to kick the ball out of the park barefoot.
If anyone is reading this who owns, like, a National Magazine or say a television show, please Email Victoria at Victoria@ournameismud.com Or just say howdy and welcome. We're all family here.
COME SEE ME AT THE GIFT SHOW!
Come see me at the New York Gift Show Monday from 2-4. Watch me stand front and center in the booth, popping altoids and attempting to look like I am not socially awkward. Listen as Jill reads every single new Guardian angel out loud to prospective buyers. I have free "Guardian Angels of Giftware" to give away to anyone who wants to come say "hi." Tell me about the ashtray you made in High School. Suggest a mug that says something about PMS. I live for this stuff, people. Be there or be square.
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
This Blog is Clogged
Between abscessed teeth and weekend schleps, I have slacked on the blogging. Here now, in an effort to begin to make amends, are some random free floating thoughts, in no particular order:
Israel etc: Why can't we all just play nicely? And wouldn't it be cool if it was spelled Isreal? Many people think I am Jewish, but I am not. Nor am I waspy in a JCrew catalog kind of way. I'm just a pear shaped anglo.
Latest download for my Ipod: Mary J Blige's rendition of U2's "ONE." It's good, in a sweaty, spiritual kind of way.
Dave and Carmen: I don't understand the facial hair. Or the fingerless gloves on a man. Guess I am a square. A square fan of SuperNova.
Jesse: has seen "Superman Returns" 3 times despite the fact that it is rated PG, but I still won't let him watch Power Rangers. Does this make me a hypocrite?
Annie: Needs to stop holding her pee for 5-6 hours at a time. What's that about?
The Weather: sweat happens.
Losing Weight: Why can't they make a calorie free glass of wine? For Gosh sakes, it's grapes we're talking here--if they can do it for a cola bean then why can't I have zero calorie Chardonnay?
Lenny: I share a turkey sandwich with him many a lunch hour. Last week he threw up all over my keyboard. Now some keys stick and the whole thing smells like the F train.
The F Train: I know because I used to ride it.
My Wisdom Tooth: Coming out Friday at 10:30. Since I have been mainlining codeine every two hours, I'm hoping for better drugs.
Designing Fall 2007: Something tells me that everything I think is really funny this week, may not actually be so once the drugs do wear off.
Final thoughts: I still miss my black sweater.
Work with me people. Post your random thoughts below; except keep the ones about making money at home to yourself thankyaverrymuch.
Israel etc: Why can't we all just play nicely? And wouldn't it be cool if it was spelled Isreal? Many people think I am Jewish, but I am not. Nor am I waspy in a JCrew catalog kind of way. I'm just a pear shaped anglo.
Latest download for my Ipod: Mary J Blige's rendition of U2's "ONE." It's good, in a sweaty, spiritual kind of way.
Dave and Carmen: I don't understand the facial hair. Or the fingerless gloves on a man. Guess I am a square. A square fan of SuperNova.
Jesse: has seen "Superman Returns" 3 times despite the fact that it is rated PG, but I still won't let him watch Power Rangers. Does this make me a hypocrite?
Annie: Needs to stop holding her pee for 5-6 hours at a time. What's that about?
The Weather: sweat happens.
Losing Weight: Why can't they make a calorie free glass of wine? For Gosh sakes, it's grapes we're talking here--if they can do it for a cola bean then why can't I have zero calorie Chardonnay?
Lenny: I share a turkey sandwich with him many a lunch hour. Last week he threw up all over my keyboard. Now some keys stick and the whole thing smells like the F train.
The F Train: I know because I used to ride it.
My Wisdom Tooth: Coming out Friday at 10:30. Since I have been mainlining codeine every two hours, I'm hoping for better drugs.
Designing Fall 2007: Something tells me that everything I think is really funny this week, may not actually be so once the drugs do wear off.
Final thoughts: I still miss my black sweater.
Work with me people. Post your random thoughts below; except keep the ones about making money at home to yourself thankyaverrymuch.
Thursday, July 13, 2006
Codeine
Thank God for Codeine. That's all I have to say. Wait, that and ........um, I forget. Oh yeah, I'm glad that codeine exists and........ummmm.....yeah. That's it.
Voila! C'est Tristan
C'est Tristan, un garcon francais qui est vie avec nous. Il parle anglais, je ne pas parle francais, oui? Mon enfants il sont adore. Il est tres manifique.
Monday, July 10, 2006
The Devil does not wear Prada
Almost every single day, for the past five years, I have worn the same black sweater. (I originally purchased two of them, but one became lost in 2002.) There is nothing special about my black sweater; it is an acrylic cardigan with five black buttons in front. Friends and family have gifted me with upgrades throughout the years--various versions of cashmere or wool, but they remain folded and unworn. For approximately 1,725 days, it has been the first thing I have put on in the morning-often over my pajamas.
I love my sweater. Newly washed, and warm from the dryer it has brought me great comfort. I have defined my self within its embrace-it has been amongst other things, armor, uniform, shroud, and bandage. I am like that sweater now: comfortable and well worn, with spots of paint that won't wash out.
When the first few holes began to appear along the seams, I made plans to repair them. It was only later that I realized that the sweater itself had begun to disintegrate from years of daily wear and washing. It is futile to try to mend fabric when you cannot bring two edges together; when the reason for the hole is a vanishing of substance. My sweater is disappearing.
This morning I decided I would put it aside. At least for a week. I would explore life without its secure coverage--I would venture from the blackness--I would try a different fabric against my skin.
My arms feel exposed and vulnerable. I am aware of my own hugeness in space. I am too hot. I am too cold. (I begin to wonder where the missing sweater is from 2001--perhaps I actually could find it, and be set for another five years.) I think about how all well loved items made of cloth and fiber suffer the same fate: Jesse's blanket worn smooth as silk in places, stuffed animals missing ears and eyes. At some point we must all set aside the things that give us comfort. It's a necessary journey. If you cannot pack a sweater, bring a raincoat.
I love my sweater. Newly washed, and warm from the dryer it has brought me great comfort. I have defined my self within its embrace-it has been amongst other things, armor, uniform, shroud, and bandage. I am like that sweater now: comfortable and well worn, with spots of paint that won't wash out.
When the first few holes began to appear along the seams, I made plans to repair them. It was only later that I realized that the sweater itself had begun to disintegrate from years of daily wear and washing. It is futile to try to mend fabric when you cannot bring two edges together; when the reason for the hole is a vanishing of substance. My sweater is disappearing.
This morning I decided I would put it aside. At least for a week. I would explore life without its secure coverage--I would venture from the blackness--I would try a different fabric against my skin.
My arms feel exposed and vulnerable. I am aware of my own hugeness in space. I am too hot. I am too cold. (I begin to wonder where the missing sweater is from 2001--perhaps I actually could find it, and be set for another five years.) I think about how all well loved items made of cloth and fiber suffer the same fate: Jesse's blanket worn smooth as silk in places, stuffed animals missing ears and eyes. At some point we must all set aside the things that give us comfort. It's a necessary journey. If you cannot pack a sweater, bring a raincoat.
Thursday, July 06, 2006
Aunt Lynn
What is more important: how you say goodbye to someone in their final hours, or how you have loved them all your lives?
My last visit, only two weeks ago, was rushed and inconsequential. Jesse refused to come into the house until my Aunt removed the oxygen tube from her nose. Annie clung to me and refused to give even a smile. We spoke of nothing important. I said a quick goodbye, lips brushing her parchment cheek.
Goodbyes are so hard, but necessary before any meaningful journey. And at this juncture, it is two, not one, who must travel a new road. Aunt Lynn will go to the place where creative souls who lead good lives go, and I will see her there one day. And I will begin a journey of my own, which is the path that leads away from her.
If tomorrow morning the sky falls,
I will have clouds for breakfast.
If my heart catches in my throat at the word "goodbye"
I will ask a bird how she sings.
If I am afraid of the dark
I will remember the night rainbow.
My last visit, only two weeks ago, was rushed and inconsequential. Jesse refused to come into the house until my Aunt removed the oxygen tube from her nose. Annie clung to me and refused to give even a smile. We spoke of nothing important. I said a quick goodbye, lips brushing her parchment cheek.
Goodbyes are so hard, but necessary before any meaningful journey. And at this juncture, it is two, not one, who must travel a new road. Aunt Lynn will go to the place where creative souls who lead good lives go, and I will see her there one day. And I will begin a journey of my own, which is the path that leads away from her.
If tomorrow morning the sky falls,
I will have clouds for breakfast.
If my heart catches in my throat at the word "goodbye"
I will ask a bird how she sings.
If I am afraid of the dark
I will remember the night rainbow.
Tuesday, July 04, 2006
Happy Beerthday Scottie
The picture will have to wait until Dan returns to make me an url.
Happy Birthday Scott!
Scott adds the necessary testosterone into the studio mix that helps prevent us from destroying ourselves with monthly free floating rage. He is a good guy. An extremely likeable guy. The kind of guy you could definately take home to your mother- but you know that if you did, your dad and he would end up watching football together all night on the couch. That kind of guy. A guy who is generous with his smiles.
My children love him, and he, in turn, has painted them pyramids and expressed admiration for their superhero antics. He is probably a great brother, an amazing friend.
He is interesting because he is always interested.
He puts his head down and does his work. I admire his tenacity, his optimism, his willingness to try new things. I think we are lucky that he found us.
So Happy Birthday Scottie--and choose your cake, for the one from Dan's birthday last week (sadly unblogged) is about gone and Lord knows we need chocolate daily.
Friday, June 30, 2006
Hey, Superman
This story begins last week, at a cottage by the lake where we spent seven days sans cell phone, computer, and television in the company of children. At twilight one evening, more desirous of finishing a second chilled glass of Chablis than of playing one more round of soccer or hide and seek, I pointed out a gnarled tree to 5 year old Jesse and deemed it, (as mothers are wont to do after the first glass,) a "Magic Tree."
"If you collect 100 acorns and lay them at the base of the tree, it will grant your wish." I tell him, settling into the wooden swing, relaxing as he ran across the yard squirrel-like and began to make his pile.
Much later, I leaned in closely behind him to hear him whisper his desire into the textured bark. I expected to hear him ask for a toy or game, to express his yearning for an object or item that could be easily purchased, or sought after and obtained on eBay.
"I wish I could fly." His back turned towards me, lips pressed into the tree, his shoulders hunched in concentration, he wished and wished and wished.
"Doesn't happen right away," the wine told him, "Tree magic is very slow magic. We'll just have to wait and see what happens. In the meantime, why don't you fly on upstairs put yourself in pjs, and put yourself to bed?" A bold wish on my part, unsubstantiated by acorns, and met with as much immediate success as his own.
I thought the wish was forgotten-blown out to sea by days spent swimming in the lake or riding bikes. Before bed we spoke of picking strawberries and making swords from driftwood; there was no mention of flight other than to remark upon the birds that sang a morning greeting.
Then last night, our first full night back in New York, Jesse had a long conversation with Kip about rocket boots and jet backpacks. Anxious to get to all that TiVo had captured in our absence, Kip did nothing to dispel the talk of engines and boosters. Jesse fell asleep believing that his father would make all that was necessary for him to fly in the morning; that from duct tape and cardboard boxes his father could make flight a reality.
The first thing Jesse did upon awakening was call me into his room and begin to discuss his plans for flight. It could have been Christmas morning for all the enthusiasm he brought to his description of what would be built that day, and all the flying he would do. I nodded, sipped my tea, noted the sheen on my boy's upper lip, the wide pupils full of excitement, the anticipation visible in every limb. I left him sitting on his bed, talking excitedly about what the day held for him, and went to my husband to tell him this was entirely his fault and ask him what he planned to do about it.
Kip went in and tried to explain that he could not make a flying suit from materials readily available at Home Depot. And then the crying began.
I went in and tried to explain that rockets were fire-based, and that rocket fuel was dangerous, and you had to be at least 14 to fly, and that there were rules about this sort of thing. His mouth open, face wet, Jesse looks at me and says "yes, but I made that wish on the Magic Tree and YOU said it would come true. Were you just pretending? Were you? Were you?" I was ashamed at the look of utter betrayal that crossed his face as he said this, and in an instant knew the days of seeing fairies in the corner of the woods would soon be ending. I want my child to believe in magic forever. But in the end, magic can disappoint. Mommies can disappoint. And the crying continued.
Annie comes to the door and asks "What's wrong wif my bwother? Why you crying Jesse?" and she reaches out a tiny hand to comfort him, which he kicks away in anger and rolls over to face the wall. " I want to f-f-f-f-fly...." He keeps wailing. Annie finds this ridiculous. Just yesterday she wanted to be a guinea pig-but she got over it.
We try other tactics. We leave him to himself and tell him to come out of his room when he gets a hold of himself. He cries another 20 minutes. I tell him to be grateful for the fact that he can walk-tell him there are children who can't run, can't swim, can't skip. He thinks about this for all of three minutes before returning to his sobbing. He wants a hug but he does not want a hug, he is hungry but he does not want breakfast, he tells me his heart has broken and he will never draw another picture for me.
Kip leaves, because this morning he will be bringing Chirpie to the vet to put down. She has begun to pee everywhere, most notably on the children's beds, and at roughly 140 human years, it is time for her to go gently into that good night.
Last night we discussed what to tell the children. I suggest we invent the most perfect farm. "We'll leave a note for the kids" I tell Kip, "From Chirpie's mother. It will say that she came to pick her up, and that they are going to live on a farm and eat tuna out of the can every day." Kip suggests telling the children the truth. I look at him like he is crazy.
I realized as I bought my morning tea, 38 minutes late for work, having left Jesse still sobbing at the elevator door; (" I will NOT have a good day.") that I need to let the shadows touch my children. That they need to know that trees do not grant wishes, that 5 year old boys can't fly, that Daddies can't fix everything, that Mommies make up stories, that sometimes the things we love and think will be around forever must die. I know in my heart that to provide them with the strength and armor they will need in life that I must show them truths in all their messiness. But I wish it weren't so. And so I continue to gather acorns.
"If you collect 100 acorns and lay them at the base of the tree, it will grant your wish." I tell him, settling into the wooden swing, relaxing as he ran across the yard squirrel-like and began to make his pile.
Much later, I leaned in closely behind him to hear him whisper his desire into the textured bark. I expected to hear him ask for a toy or game, to express his yearning for an object or item that could be easily purchased, or sought after and obtained on eBay.
"I wish I could fly." His back turned towards me, lips pressed into the tree, his shoulders hunched in concentration, he wished and wished and wished.
"Doesn't happen right away," the wine told him, "Tree magic is very slow magic. We'll just have to wait and see what happens. In the meantime, why don't you fly on upstairs put yourself in pjs, and put yourself to bed?" A bold wish on my part, unsubstantiated by acorns, and met with as much immediate success as his own.
I thought the wish was forgotten-blown out to sea by days spent swimming in the lake or riding bikes. Before bed we spoke of picking strawberries and making swords from driftwood; there was no mention of flight other than to remark upon the birds that sang a morning greeting.
Then last night, our first full night back in New York, Jesse had a long conversation with Kip about rocket boots and jet backpacks. Anxious to get to all that TiVo had captured in our absence, Kip did nothing to dispel the talk of engines and boosters. Jesse fell asleep believing that his father would make all that was necessary for him to fly in the morning; that from duct tape and cardboard boxes his father could make flight a reality.
The first thing Jesse did upon awakening was call me into his room and begin to discuss his plans for flight. It could have been Christmas morning for all the enthusiasm he brought to his description of what would be built that day, and all the flying he would do. I nodded, sipped my tea, noted the sheen on my boy's upper lip, the wide pupils full of excitement, the anticipation visible in every limb. I left him sitting on his bed, talking excitedly about what the day held for him, and went to my husband to tell him this was entirely his fault and ask him what he planned to do about it.
Kip went in and tried to explain that he could not make a flying suit from materials readily available at Home Depot. And then the crying began.
I went in and tried to explain that rockets were fire-based, and that rocket fuel was dangerous, and you had to be at least 14 to fly, and that there were rules about this sort of thing. His mouth open, face wet, Jesse looks at me and says "yes, but I made that wish on the Magic Tree and YOU said it would come true. Were you just pretending? Were you? Were you?" I was ashamed at the look of utter betrayal that crossed his face as he said this, and in an instant knew the days of seeing fairies in the corner of the woods would soon be ending. I want my child to believe in magic forever. But in the end, magic can disappoint. Mommies can disappoint. And the crying continued.
Annie comes to the door and asks "What's wrong wif my bwother? Why you crying Jesse?" and she reaches out a tiny hand to comfort him, which he kicks away in anger and rolls over to face the wall. " I want to f-f-f-f-fly...." He keeps wailing. Annie finds this ridiculous. Just yesterday she wanted to be a guinea pig-but she got over it.
We try other tactics. We leave him to himself and tell him to come out of his room when he gets a hold of himself. He cries another 20 minutes. I tell him to be grateful for the fact that he can walk-tell him there are children who can't run, can't swim, can't skip. He thinks about this for all of three minutes before returning to his sobbing. He wants a hug but he does not want a hug, he is hungry but he does not want breakfast, he tells me his heart has broken and he will never draw another picture for me.
Kip leaves, because this morning he will be bringing Chirpie to the vet to put down. She has begun to pee everywhere, most notably on the children's beds, and at roughly 140 human years, it is time for her to go gently into that good night.
Last night we discussed what to tell the children. I suggest we invent the most perfect farm. "We'll leave a note for the kids" I tell Kip, "From Chirpie's mother. It will say that she came to pick her up, and that they are going to live on a farm and eat tuna out of the can every day." Kip suggests telling the children the truth. I look at him like he is crazy.
I realized as I bought my morning tea, 38 minutes late for work, having left Jesse still sobbing at the elevator door; (" I will NOT have a good day.") that I need to let the shadows touch my children. That they need to know that trees do not grant wishes, that 5 year old boys can't fly, that Daddies can't fix everything, that Mommies make up stories, that sometimes the things we love and think will be around forever must die. I know in my heart that to provide them with the strength and armor they will need in life that I must show them truths in all their messiness. But I wish it weren't so. And so I continue to gather acorns.
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
This blog is for YOU
I won't be blogging for a week, so I've loaded on a bunch of pictures of our new Fall products in an effort to tide you over. But you may also write your own version of this blog in the comments section. I know when I return that Spamela will have written her usual comment about making money at home, but I am hoping that some of the rest of you will share your wit and wisdom with the rest of the world. Have a great week!
Friday, June 16, 2006
Happy Father's Day, Dad
As a child, had I heard "My father can kick your father's butt" on the playground, perhaps I would have replied with; "Yeah, but my father can build a bird house or paint a six foot high canvas, or build a clay bank around a blown up balloon!" Because my father could certainly do all that and more. He could build things, grow things, paint things, imagine things. And yet, he was also a businessman. His hair never grew beyond his collar, I never saw him wear a pair of sandals, and although interested in athletics, he probably wouldn't have been caught dead in a yoga class. So one of the best gifts he gave me was the shattering of the "artistic" stereotype. In watching my father be a tie wearing commuter, a planter,a successful businessman, a sculptor, a painter, a leader, I formed the belief that those abilities lay within all of us, including me.
My father taught me that creativity is a verb. It's not something you possess or try to own--it is an action, a movement, a decision to make something new appear in the world.
My father taught me that work of any kind is joyful. That life is about the business of doing. That anything worth doing is certainly worth doing well. That when you do something, you gain satisfaction in the knowledge that you did your best: and that other people's opinions about what you did-good or bad- don't matter at all. That esteem lies in the amount of effort put forth.
To this day, my father is sometimes frustrated by my penchant for hyperbole. He is exasperated by my tendency to revise history, to lean towards the dramatic, to write my present story with a slant and to bend and weave facts in a manner that pleases me. Things that I do, this blog included, will puzzle him. He will wonder why I felt a need to publicly share all of the above.
At which point, he may likely blame my mother and her side of the family.
Nevertheless, Dad, I am proud to be your daughter. Happy Father's Day!
Happy Father's Day Dee-Dad
Ten Things I Learned From Dee-Dad
1. Remember in grammar school when you were studying American History, and learning about The Constitution, and your teacher told you that it could be important to know about later in life, and you were like; "yeah, right-about as useful as Algebra, snort." Dee-Dad proves she was correct. Sorry, Mrs. Applebee.
2. Lawyers can be good people. Frustrated actors can be great lawyers. Both can be amazing Father-in-Laws.
3. Every day should start with a latte and a donut for the people you care about. They are like kisses for the tummy.
4. Drive a "no top" car. Blast musicals on the car radio as you make your way down life's highway. Sing loudly. Understand "pitch" as it relates to life outside of baseball.
5. Golf; more than a game, it's a way of life. But make sure to get your better half expensive jewelry whenever you can, just to keep your hobby in perspective.
6. There is a place children can get sent to called "Chair School." You don't want to get sent there by Dee-Dad, and you also never want to visit Door School.
7. Refrain from saying "I don't like." If you need to be frank with Dee-Dad, try to use statements such as "This sucks..." or "I can't stand..." Extra points if you say "I abhor..."
8. It takes a real man to kick prostate cancer right in the ass.
9. It doesn't matter if you are 4 or 40; hearing a father say they are proud of you still makes you feel like you are king of the world and can accomplish anything.
10. You can bring equal passion to the things you do in life- your family, your work, your enjoyment of red wine and golf, your stance on ethics, your enjoyment of traveling to osh gosh county and speaking to people, your ability to read the Times cover to cover, the pleasure of a choir in full song. At the end of the day, it is the love you have put into the moments we are together that matters-and Dee-Dad fills them to the brim, our cups always overfloweth when we are with him. Happy Fathers Day!
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