julie makes a lamp

last week i found an old hamster cage at sacks and decides that it would make a good lampshade. then i got some paper to line it with and glued it all inside. then today i went to the hardware store to get a lamp socket, and the guy who helped me find it took the time to make sure i knew where to put the hot cord and where to put the neutral one. after he explained it all very carefully to me, i put the socket kit in my basket and thanked him, saying that i thought i'd probably be able to figure it out after all of his help. "you're practically an electrician already," he said, "next time i see you you're going to be driving a big truck for your big lamp company, and you'll have tattoos of electric bolts all over your arms."

so i came home and i did it, with a little bit of constructive help from adam. when it was time to plug it in, he teased me that since the whole thing was made of metal, if i had done anything wrong it might be catastrophic. it's true i had to take it apart a couple of times until i got it right. i know it's just a little thing, putting together a lamp socket kit, but it exhilarated me anyway. apparently i'm an easy person to exhilarate.

i would say that makes me a lucky person.

something for the feuillateurs

this wonderful flipbook website is in french, but with google tools you can translate it for yourself in a snap. only a few of the flipbooks have accompanying animations- be sure to watch the "haik" one, but it's also fun just to see the covers of some of the flipbooks in their extensive collection. for instance:














also be sure to visit the "historique," "typologie," and "feuilleteurs" pages, which have separate animations of their own. this link will take you to a translated page showing pictures and descriptions of all the old time optical instruments that incorporated flipbook technology.



when you click on the links a little film loads and shows you the machine in action.

the definition of feuilleteur: one who leafs through or skims, also can be someone who rolls out pastry.

more boxes to open

tea cups


untitled


_away
and

hey, that's mine!!

now i am officially a friday flickr favorite participant.

the gift of lunch

i'm being seduced by bento!

here at this bento virtuosa's site, i could get lost for hours in the carrot flowers. i've always had a weakness for the compartmentalized lunch, but now i want to start making my own. sophie will be glad, because i sure have gotten lazy in the last couple of years.



here are more, a little higher on the adorable scale:










now i remember one of the reasons why i wanted to be japanese so badly when i was a girl. i was so envious of my japanese friends' bento!






















there are about 10,000 pictures of bento on flickr.

but i really liked dhania's collection of the 121 bento boxes she has made for her husband.









this is one of them:


let's all make bento, i say.

on the receiving end

in the spirit of gift giving, i give you this poem about anonymous and worrisome giving, written by helen cho, who i would like to send packages of apples and fragrant lemons, with petal designs cut out with linoleum block tools. and this carved ivory pipe from the paris flea market, which i stole away with on my memory card.



A box of


I have received a box of
dirt and snow, a box as wide
as my shoulders, deep as myself. It is loosely taped:
I dig out a stone,
a can of soup, a cold white handle
bereft. It is immensely heavy. A metal
plate at the bottom of it, an inch thick.
He might have eased it onto a dolly.

It is hard to tell who might have begun
to pack such things. Someone idle, proud
of the present tense, someone
who tells himself stories
of power and desire.
I could be wrong, of course.

I am no friend, but a person he has
seen once or twice.
Not one he speaks to
any day of the week.
But he's seen enough to ascertain I will be
surprised, frightened,
and, at last, alone.

I can only imagine
one who might build a box
and fill it with apples and lemons, a handful of cotton
and coffee beans. Red pears, dried fruit.
Perhaps I am sheltered. Perhaps there is a
history I have overlooked.
Perhaps everyone sends such boxes
once and I am only now caught up.

I dig out an emptied ring,
a small red wrench, a child's shoe, and,
at last, a black banana
so soft it goes liquid.
I should lock my car.

There are no apples, lemons,
no small tree with delicate roots,
asparagus, white.
Nothing one might welcome.
What does this person mourn?
I cannot sleep at night for wondering.
My hands are cold,
delving through blackness. Something to keep,
I want something
to keep.