The view from my kitchen window in the early morning light.
A perfectly symmetrical Monarch sunning herself on grape leaves.
Saturday.
Photo by Enchanted Seashells. Taken with my Canon Rebel T3i
After The Caterpillar…
3
Author Archives: Enchanted Seashells
Happy Birthday to MEEEEE!
Today blog is my not-so-humble brag about the original Angel Boy. I am so very proud of him.
I talk an awful lot about the second boy who stole my heart, AB 2.0, my curly haired free spirit/sprite and his equally magnificent sister, Angel Girl, but there is still the one who owns MOST of my heart, his daddy…
…WHO WROTE A BOOK THAT GOT PUBLISHED!!!
Here’s the deets:
Title: THE GEOLOGICAL UNCONSCIOUS
GERMAN LITERATURE AND THE MINERAL IMAGINARY
https://www.fordhampress.com/9780823288113/the-geological-unconscious/
From the author…
“Already in the nineteenth century, German-language writers were contending with the challenge of imagining and accounting for a planet whose volatility bore little resemblance to the images of the Earth then in circulation. The Geological Unconscious traces the withdrawal of the lithosphere as a reliable setting, unobtrusive backdrop, and stable point of reference for literature written well before the current climate breakdown.”
“Through a series of careful readings of romantic, realist, and modernist works by Tieck, Goethe, Stifter, Benjamin, and Brecht, Groves elaborates a geological unconscious—unthought and sometimes actively repressed geological knowledge—in European literature and environmental thought. This inhuman horizon of reading and interpretation offers a new literary history of the Anthropocene in a period before it was named.”
“These close readings show the entanglement of the human and the lithic in periods well before the geological turn of contemporary cultural studies. In those depictions of human-mineral encounters, the minerality of the human and the minerality of the imagination become apparent. In registering libidinal investments in the lithosphere that extend beyond Carboniferous deposits and beyond any carbon imaginary, The Geological Unconscious points toward alternative relations with, and less destructive mobilizations of, the geologic.”
It might take me as long to read it as it took him to write it ‘cos it’s definitely going to stretch all of my working brain cells which are more used to reading chicklit by Jennifer Weiner or Sophie Kinsella, but it’s IMPORTANT to read things that are outside our comfort zone. WAY OUT.
This is the kind of book you need to read with a dictionary and Thesaurus very close by.
Sample page 121:
Editorial Reviews:
“An impressive and accomplished study that delves deep into the layers of German mineralogical imagination from Goethe to Benjamin. Stones may not be able to speak, but they have found their spokesman. A pleasure to read.” (Geoffrey Winthrop-Young, University of British Columbia)
“The Geological Unconscious offers subtle close readings of several canonical texts that receive provocative illumination from ecocriticism. The book’s focus on the instability of ground is insightfully paired with a consideration of how already in the nineteenth century literary style and narrative register geological time and planetary wounding.” (Catriona MacLeod, University of Chicago)
UPDATE: Author Dr. Jason Groves is a tenured professor at the University of Washington in Seattle. He is cotranslator of Werner Hamacher’s Minima Philologica.
Home Sweet Home
In quarantine? Isolation? Distancing?
Happy to have a home to go home to, no matter what it looks like, that’s the message I’m getting from this little bird, being grateful for what we have.
Every spring, for years and years, this dedicated vireo mom builds and rebuilds her home in my garden. If I count them all up, I’ve been grandma to approximately one hundred babies.
As you can see, her home looks a bit shabby. It really needs to be repainted and I attempted to fix the bottom with string because it was starting to fall apart. I’m not much of a handyman (woman) but it’s OK for now.
Going home
Checking out the view
Breakfast is ready!
Moon Glow
I forgot how much I love to take pics; the May Flower Moon was the perfect time to get out my good camera. I don’t have the most expensive lens, but it’s still beyond cool how much detail can be seen 239,000 miles away.
Thanks to Angel Boy 2.0, I guess I’m an avid planet watcher now. He’s fascinated by astronauts and the sky. We often take him to the science center; he has a dozen books about the planets and the moon walk, and can recite all of the nine planets.
On those rare days when the sun and the moon are visible at the same time, it’s a treat to see how excited he gets. “Both of them, Grandma, at the SAME TIME!”
These pics were snapped with a Canon Rebel T3i; no tripod.
I thought the power lines added an artistic touch. The color was amazing; no filter or editing.
The Boy Who Is My Heart
- Update Mother’s Day 2020: I wrote this post about my son lightyears prior to Angel Boy 2.0. because without him, I wouldn’t be a mommy at all.Since the birth of his baby sister, AB 2.0 and I repeat this conversation pretty much every single time we speak or we’re together. (A little needed reassurance about his place in the world.)
“Who’s my very favorite boy?”
“I am, Grandma!”
And who’s my second favorite boy?”
“DADDY IS. DADDY IS!”
“You’re right! Now…who’s my favorite GIRL?”
“CharChar is, right, Grandma?”
“You got it, T. And then who’s my second favorite girl?”
“MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY!”
Just keeping it straight for the second little boy who is my heart.
(P.S. My poem was published in Waterways: Poetry in the Mainstream Volume 34 #4)
The Yellow Steamroller
So much depends
upon
a yellow
steamroller
- buried
in the dirt - behind the shed
- On one bitterly cold wintry afternoon, I embarked on a major yard cleanup project. I raked all the pine needles shaken loose during the fury of Alaska-borne winds that roared down the coast to Southern California.
- Metal rake clanged against metal.
- Then I saw it, a bright yellow igniting the dirt and pine needles, suffused with a gleaming radiance through the brown.
- I threw down the rake, crouched on all fours, and with bare fingers dug through the wet fecund soil to uncover an abandoned yellow Matchbox toy from the spot where there once was a sandbox that my son’s dad built for him when we first moved to this house in 1985.
- I discovered in situ a three-inch wide artifact imbued with all the wonder of my perfect four-year-old child, the same age that my grandson is right now, thirty-five years later.
- I gently brushed away decades of encrusted soil and sand.
- I was engulfed in wave after wave of memory.
- I was there. Really there. 1985.
- I saw him–my precious four-year-old son in this beautiful huge sandbox filled with fresh, clean sand.
- I watched him as I often watched him from the bay window in the kitchen overlooking the backyard where I would wash dishes and keep an eye on him, keeping him safe–always keeping him safe–as he played in the sand with his dump trucks and cherry pickers and this steam roller and his buckets and plastic cups and forks and sticks with his cats and dog always near, and the loveliness of the memory set me on my heels and I cried.
- Happy tears for the exquisite soft rosy glow of healthy well-fed cheeks, the deep Imperial jade green eyes, the curls that were my curls, my boy, my angel love.
- The boy whose every breath contains a whisper of the intangible all encompassing LOVE I possess for this being who was a part of me before he was a part of the earth and sun and sky and sand.
- The boy who is — and always will be — my heart.
- I shut my eyes tight to keep the pictures from disappearing, but the ephemeral/evanescent impressions floated away with the tears that spilled out for the remembering of the beauty of a luminous child playing in a sandbox, singing to himself and constructing sand sculptures of the future, or, in his case, building words and spinning thoughts and erratica.
- Those grains of sand that between his fingers mashed and smashed into forts and tunnels were the detritus of the granite from whence his brain reformed them grain by grain into skyscrapers of words and sentences that flow like a path from the back door to the sandbox.
And what eventually happened to the steamroller? It’s still here in the garden, living a new life helping another curly haired, green eyed little boy weave his own stories…
- In a way, a sort of homage to…
- The Red Wheelbarrow
William Carlos Williams - so much depends
upon
- a red wheel
barrow
- glazed with rain
water
- beside the white
chickens.
Beach Walk
I got up early, made my French roast coffee (black), observed from the video in the outdoor camera that my coyote came to visit last night around 3:30 a.m., got dressed and walked to the beach while it was still overcast and relatively cool.
It’s a hilly walk and I was already sore from a hard workout yesterday, but I kept going. I wanted to avoid the crowds that were sure to descend as soon as the sun came out.
Here’s a couple pics of a very flat Pacific Ocean, although it’s so crowded, I don’t think epic surf was anyone’s goal.
And then I saw this gem of sage advice on the sidewalk in front of the house where a couple of feral children reside. I know they’re little assholes because at one time I saw them throw rocks at their cat and I told their dad, who turned out to be a bigger asshole. Apple def didn’t fall far from the tree in their genetic pool. He didn’t respond in a kind manner when I told him he was successfully breeding future sociopaths.
Going Gray
At least four of my friends took a chance and stopped coloring their hair and are in the process of allowing it to return to whatever natural color it might have been.
Some of them actually started doing it before the salons were shut down, while a couple of friends decided to use this opportunity to embrace the gray.
Oh, that’s not ME: I like my hair color a lot, and it’s been pretty easy retaining it on my own, but I decided that my blog needed a makeover. I’ve been blogging since 2012 and color palettes have changed. I’ve changed too, and wanted to move away from pink and turquoise.
I spent a bit of time doing a photo shoot with rocks and seashells and pearls–I’m pretty satisfied with the results as it clearly represents the things I love.
In general, I love the color gray. I have gray carpeting, I love silvery, sparkly things, and is there anything more beautiful than a gray beach rock, almost too hot to touch from a million years of absorbing sunshine?
In the color palette, gray is the midpoint between black and white. Some people think gray is boring, but I find it elegant and calm and a great canvas for all of the other colors in the rainbow.
Gray is an old soul, having endured countless life experiences, and is thought to be wildly insightful. However, gray only offers its pearls of wisdom when asked to, unlike me, who might at times offer unsolicited advice.
The color gray respects boundaries, making it a peaceful presence. It offers tranquility and serenity, and can’t we all benefit from more of that? I know I can.
How could I forget the silvery moon? Tonight is the Flower Moon (supermoon), so actually, it’s named after me, haha. This full moon in Scorpio has a spiritual, healing, and compassionate influence. This is the first positive moon phase for six weeks, and a great night to manifest positive intentions, compassion, and love.
Are any of my fellow bloggers using this forced isolation to re-do your blog themes?
Three Little Birds
This is one of my absolute favorite Bob Marley tunes, check out the video below.
“Don’t worry about a thing, ‘cos every little thing’s gonna be all right.”
You know how sometimes you hear a song that’s the perfect song for how you’re feeling, and whether it’s a coincidence or a sign or a message, you feel its uplifting energy? That’s this one.
This is my mantra for today: “Don’t worry about a thing, ‘cos every little thing’s gonna be all right.”
And then I took my camera outside to see what beauty nature could inspire me to feel gratitude and peace and this lovely little brown bird followed me around for a while.
“This is my message to you.”
Got it. Message received loud and clear. Breathe.
Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
Rock Rose
I love roses of all kinds but this one has nothing to do with Rowdy Rosie; a nickname I acquired in another life during a brief stay in Steamboat Springs. (Read about it here: https://enchantedseashells.com/2013/07/02/the-story-of-rowdy-rosie/)
This one’s a hardy garden rose that does well in drought conditions.
Cistus is a genus of flowering plants in the rockrose family Cistaceae, of which there are about twenty varieties.
It’s a perennial shrub found on dry or rocky soils throughout the Mediterranean region, from Morocco and Portugal through to the Middle East, and also on the Canary Islands; they do really well in my SoCal garden.
I’ve had really good success propagating them, too. Here’s how I do it:
- Snip 6-inch cuttings off stems that have not yet flowered.
- Remove lower pairs of leaves, keeping only the topmost one or two pairs at the crest.
- Dipping the cuttings in powdered rooting hormones spurs root growth.
Perfect for a hot summer garden with no rain in sight.
“I swear, Grandma!” More chat with the world’s most brilliant human
Four going on thirteen. That’s Angel Boy 2.0, or as he likes to be referred to when he’s cooking: “Mr. Ovens”.
I have no idea where he gets that precocious attitude. Well, yes I do, but that’s another story.
Since the pandemic has eliminated all of our in-person visits, T-boy and I have been chatting on the phone a lot, sometimes several times a day.
If he sees my favorite breed of dog walk by his house, he likes to call me and say, “Grandma, I just saw a Border Collie, you love Border Collies, don’t you?”
Or he’ll call and flip the camera around to show me his weather, “It’s supposed to rain today but right now there’s some blue sky and clouds.” “What’s your weather like today at your house, Grandma?”
He likes to call me after dinner when Mom is giving baby a bath and putting her to bed and before his bath and bed routine. Dad is usually working in the garden and I’ll get a call.
“Hello, my special friend! How was your day? ”
“GOOOD. I’m outside with Daddy. You know what, Grandma? I had to call you. I swear. Daddy went on a skateboard and didn’t wear his helmet again. I swear. I told Daddy you want him to wear his helmet but he doesn’t. He wears it on his bicycle but not when he’s skating with me. I wear my helmet, Grandma.”
“Thank you for telling me about Daddy. And I’m so proud of you for making good choices and wearing YOUR helmet. Well done!”
“Thank you.”
“Let me talk to Daddy, OK?”
“OK, Grandma.”
And then I hear…
“Dad? Daddy? Jay? Jas? JASON NATHANIEL!! Grandma wants to talk with you. I told her about the helmet situation.”
It cracks me up every single time I hear T call his daddy by his other names using the same exact inflection that he’s heard. Pretty adorable.
“Oh you did, huh? Hello, Grandma.” Says the original boy who stole my heart so many years ago.
“DADDY, I was just informed that you are still not wearing your helmet when you skate with T. You do not need to be told about traumatic brain injuries, you know all about that. Who will take care of your babies when you are incapacitated?”
“Geez, he’s a tattletale haha. I wear it sometimes.”
“Dad, did you hear what Grandma said?”
“Hey, T, I have an idea. Tell Daddy that I won’t allow him to go surfing the next time you guys come to visit if he doesn’t make good choices and wear his helmet.”
I hear him yelling at the top of his lungs, “DAD! GRANDMA SAID YOU CAN’T GO SURFING IF YOU DON’T WEAR YOUR HELMET!”
Then I hear Dad, “OK, tell Grandma I will.”
“Grandma, did you hear that? Daddy said he would wear his helmet.”
“Awesome job, T. We love Daddy and we want him to be safe just like we want you to be safe, right?”
“Right, Grandma. Hey, look at me jump! Grandma, I can jump so high! Grandma, did you send me a box of presents? Did you send The Borrowers Aloft?”
“I did, you’ll get the box in a couple of days.”
“DAD!!! JAY!!! I swear, I told you Grandma sent the second Borrower’s book! I knew she did. I told you not to buy it, I remember Grandma said she was going to send it.”
“OK Grandma, I’m going to go now. I’m going to have a bath. High five, Grandma.”
He likes to “high five” the phone.
“Bye, T. I love you.”
“Bye Grandma, love you, too. I’m going to hit the red button now.”
And he’s gone.
Enchanted Seashells | Princess Rosebud 