a wolf angel is not a good angel

A cute quiz. I got 20/25, with some lucky guesses, some not-so-lucky guesses, and some basic knowledge of cool factoids you’re taught. I know what the minimum number of vowel sounds in a language is; I know what the biggest phonemic inventory is.

But.

I believe that Itelmen allows up to 9 consonants in a cluster, but only word-internally. (7 or so word-initially.) English “mm-hmm” and “psst” are stretching the argument a lot. Vietnamese is many things, but among those things is not Austronesian (it’s Austro-Asiatic).

If I were a star, I’d be Judi Connelli (who?), Nicole Kidman or Madonna.

I’ll vote for Nicole Kidman, except for the part where I actually look nothing like her. If I try another photo it says Judy Garland. My sister compared me to Lauren Ambrose, and I’ll take that.

If you check, you’ll see none of these celebrities look at all alike. But that’s okay.

c/o Rana

You’re A Prayer for Owen Meany!
by John Irving
Despite humble and perhaps literally small beginnings, you inspire
faith in almost everyone you know. You are an agent of higher powers, and you manifest
this fact in mysterious and loud ways. A sense of destiny pervades your every waking
moment, and you prepare with great detail for destiny fulfilled. When you speak, IT
SOUNDS LIKE THIS!

Take the Book Quiz
at the Blue Pyramid.

I love that book.

c/o Michelle

And, through luck and maybe a little knowing what I wanted the answer to be:

You’re Canada!
People make fun of you a lot, but they’re stupid because you’ve
got a much better life than they do.  In fact, they’re probably just jealous.
 You believe in crazy things like human rights and health care and not
dying in the streets, and you end up securing these rights for yourself and
others.  If it weren’t for your weird affection for ice hockey, you’d be
the perfect person.
Take
the Country Quiz at the href="http://bluepyramid.org">Blue Pyramid

“Ice hockey”.

I must figure out how much Sam weighs. There was a loud thump when he jumped onto the bed. Admittedly this is in part because he’s so ungainly. Still. I’m curious. Also how a cat like him can catch small animals.

And Matilda — the cat who should have been big but is runty — is back to eating apples. Well, she doesn’t eat them, exactly, she licks the juice off them. I eat an apple, and she sniffs around and thinks “Aha! Apples!” and runs to the apple. Then she waits. I pass her the part of the apple I’ve bitten, and she licks off all the juice. Then she waits for me to bite another piece off, so she can get the juice from there, too. It’s really weird, but I figure it can’t be bad for her.

Yes, of course it’s sanitary. Anyways, I never deny my cats things. They’re not spoiled, they’re just well-loved.

Why I Am Not A Painter

I am not a painter, I am a poet.
Why? I think I would rather be
a painter, but I am not. Well,

for instance, Mike Goldberg
is starting a painting. I drop in.
“Sit down and have a drink” he
says. I drink; we drink. I look
up. “You have sardines in it.”
“Yes, it needed something there.”
“Oh.” I go and the days go by
and I drop in again. The painting
is going on, and I go, and the days
go by. I drop in. The painting
is finished. “Where’s sardines?”
All that’s left is just
letters. “It was too much,” Mike says.

But me? One day I am thinking of
a color: orange. I write a line
about orange. Pretty soon it is a
whole page of words, not lines.
Then another page. There should be
so much more, not of orange, of
words, of how terrible orange is
and life. Days go by. It is even in
prose, I am a real poet. My poem
is finished and I haven’t mentioned
orange yet. It’s twelve poems, I call
it oranges. And one day in a gallery
I see Mike’s painting, called sardines.

-Frank O’Hara

. . . enchiladas!

Also:

I am the macaroni protest movement!

This puzzle is sort of fun. If you prefer an interactive version, they have them all over (I didn’t use one).

Not at all a hint: the numbers on the front are the ones that are relevant, so roll one is 4 1 6 3 6.

Not exactly a hint: stop thinking so hard.

I just signed up for the glass fusion class. Why not? It should be fun. It’s glass! I like glass. And I can afford the money the course will cost me. I hate thinking about spending all that money . . . but I’m earning a fair amount and I have no real expenses for the moment. I want to save, and I am saving, but I also want to do wonderful things I love. If I don’t like it, it’s something to know. And if I *do* like it, I can do more (I can rent kiln space. I can buy a mini-one, but I think perhaps not).

A friend and I have agreed to take a carpentry course together come September, too. It’s something I’ve been thinking about for years. I have no idea *where*, but the local weeklies always have all this information in August or so. We’re going to learn to knit this summer. I’m going to make jewelry.

I’ve decided not to use bevels in my box, so I’m all ready to finalise the design and start cutting the glass. Well, not all ready — I always feel incredible fear before I cut really expensive (read: so wavy it makes using the scorer an extreme sport) glass. But still. I’m feeling excited. After I make this one, I’m going to make one for friends back in the US — I have a sketch of that design, too. I have an idea for a panel, which I’d like to get to, too. And kaleidoscopes . . .

But glass fusion. I don’t really know much about it, except that it involves melting glass and it looks really cool.

Back to work, back to work. It’s almost harder to work when I’m so excited about these other things. But then I remmber that this work pays for my love of incredibly expensive crafts, and it’s aiming towards a job I will like. Life is full right now.

I want these!

Mmmm, pig fat dipped in chocolate.

I’m not sure if I want t o know how the guy found all of these.

I drew up a dozen designs yesterday. I have a few I really like of those and so am heading off to the glass store, where I will buy some things using my bank account that is, suddenly, full of money. I will meet a friend for coffee. I will buy fresh bagels. I will come home and build things. I will try not to figure out why I had a dream about sheets and googling for information about my car using the search terms George repair.

Today I am just plain happy. And though sometimes (more often than I would like) I feel I am more interesting or worthwhile or more something while depressed, it’s feeling really good.