My dogs are awesome

My dogs are awesome, although, right now, I can only say "My dog is awesome."

We have been down to just on greyhound now for a bit more than a year, since losing Holli the Honey Hound in August 2010. I miss her. She was my heart dog, so sweet and loving. Twist is a goofy kick (and so smart!) and Anni was fascinating and regal, but Holli was a special love. Truly, though, they've all been great and have taught me so much. Like patience, and the need to be unselfish and to remember to regard the world with wonder.

They also have and continue to make me laugh; getting spooked by turtles and snakes, being scared of hardwood floors and, in Twist's case, cameras, and snoozing in completely ridiculous fashion on their backs, legs splayed in the air and heads lolled back. Totally undignified for such regal hounds.

When Anni was still alive, she escaped my Mom's backyard one summer day because the lawn crew had left the fence gate open. She flew into the big field next to the garage, but the little training that she had had up to that point somehow stuck. When we finally realized where she was, it only took two "Anni! Come!" commands for her to zoom back to me. My heart was in my mouth. She could have been in the next county, or ruined under a truck, but it didn't happen.

That's when she got the nickname "Adventure Girl." So I used that to create a poster about her for a design class I took. Truthfully, they have all been Adventure Girls.

A propos de ... rien

Not to be overly original, but, summed up, "le weekend, trop breve."

I'm in a French mood, thanks to two of the three movies I saw this weekend.
"Mozart's Sister" and "Sarah's Key"

The former got good reviews for its cinematography, but really, the editing was strange and the lead actress, Marie Feret, passionless. That might be the script's fault. It meandered. All over the place. The movie was more a series of vignettes than a story. But I loved the one that showed Nannerl in Paris, teaching music, and bending down at the end of a lesson so her young pupil could give her a "baiser" before leaving. That scene, so French, in the closeness and distance described in one moment.

The latter suffered from the same fault as the book: halfway through, the heroine, Sarah Starzynski disappears; and at the end she is a cipher. I love Paris, and to think of what happened to the French Jews there during World War II, as described in "Sarah's Key" is past awful. Credit to Tatiana de Rosnay for bringing this story to light. But the film fails on the same level as the book, Kristin Scott Thomas notwithstanding.

Bien. Pour ce soir, c'est tout.

L'image est de le Metro de Pittsburgh, une piece de Romare Bearden.

To Russia with ... love? and Kate's peepshow confessions!

Hi everybody! All you readers in Russia! How are ya tonight!? Feeling good? All right!
So let me just say thank you! No really, thank you!

If it wasn't for your spambots, this blog would have no readership! None. Nada. Niente. Rien. And however you say "none" in Russian. (I'm not looking it up.)

Seriously though, this is a tiny blog. Only four followers (one day we hope to have five!). Let us go. We really can't do you much good.

To my four faithful readers, it appears that spambots, originating in Russia, like this one http://domar.ru (DON'T CLICK) hijack blog traffic, for reasons they can fathom, but I can't.
Here's my Russian readership, that pale green area stretching across a big part of the upper northern hemisphere.
Who knew? So if for some reason you get anything Russian related, or with a .ru in the address, add an "n" and run. Do not click on anything. Nothing. Nada. Niente. Rien.
Capiscono?

OK. I could explain in greater detail, but, bottom line is spammers. And I'm not special, that's why spambots do the hijacking.

Onward

My peepshow tonight revealed a young man in a house up the street, playing his violin. I confess with no guilt that I love to look in my neighbors' windows (from the street, of course. My nose never, ever meets glass!)

A lot of homeowners in my neighborhood have converted open-air porches to indoor rooms and these spaces generally have lots of glass real estate. One of my favorite windows looks into a living room that has a huge piece of modern art on one wall, a silhouette of a cool sofa and nothing else visible. The painting is in colors of red and yellow-green and is striking, all the more so for flying solo in that room.

Anyway, the dog and I were wandering up the street, her nose to the ground, mine up in the air, when I heard some really lovely music.

In a home on the uphill side of the street, a young man in a blue and white sweater was practicing his violin, on one of those closed in porches.

His music was really lovely; thankfully Twist was totally absorbed in some moist, earthy scent, so I could pause to listen.

I wished for a hundred-thousandth time that I had kept up with piano, but I also was reminded of how it is really good to get out of your shell once in a while, and take the time to appreciate the passions of the other souls who occupy our earth.

Topics

A few years ago, I bought my husband a DVD compilation of SCTV shows for his birthday.

I think I watch them more than he does. One of my many favorites is a sketch involving the McKenzie Brothers, played by Rick Moranis and Dave Thomas. They are trying to come up with a topic for their show, which usually is just about beer and grilled meat. They worry that their show will be cancelled if they don't come up with better "topics." Enter slimy Johnny La Rue, played by the late, great John Candy, and wry hilarity ensues.

There are YouTube posts on the sketch, but I am not going to link to them because the quality is poor. And oddly, the SCTV site has no video clips.

Anyway, the point (besides the fact that Second City has graduated a ton of tremendous comedians and actors including, wow! Peter Boyle, Joan Rivers, John Belushi and Ann Meara)? I needed a topic.

The picture is totally unrelated to the topic. I had brunch with friends in the Strip District last Saturday. Because I was early, I walked for a bit, including halfway over the 16th Street Bridge, which crosses the Allegheny. These bronze sculptures are paired at either end. I think they are tremendous.

Julie Andrews sang for my family

So.

Bookends notwithstanding, Katy's professional Monday wasn't too hot. Result? Blues.

Add in a husband sick with a cold, rainy weather and everything seems really ... bleah.

Solution? Retail therapy! I took a break and walked to Macy's, formerly Kaufmann's. I bought a wallet and a pair of stockings. And came close to tears.

The store Muzak was spooling Christmas music, of course. The piece playing as I browsed purses was Julie Andrews "Joy to the World," from her 1969 Christmas album made with Andre Previn.

In 1969, I was 14 and living at home, the oldest of 7 kids. We listened to LPs back then and one of them, every Christmas for many years, was the Julie/Andre album. Julie's voice and the powerful joyful orchestrations, surrounded my noisy family. I will never forget those sounds. Especially because my family was intact. Mom, Dad, sibs 1 through 7. All there.

I miss my Dad so very, very much; I would love to be able to talk to him about work, life and just generally what's going on. And my brother Chris, so quiet, so stubborn and such a pillar.

Julie sang for all of us. When I heard her today in Macy's, it was all I could do to keep from crying.

Monday bookends

The middle of my Monday can be summed up thusly:

F
Three letters follow.
Do the spelling.

Now that that's out of the way, let me just say the beginning and end, for a Monday, were pretty darned good.

Not in order of importance: First, I broke my rule and ran for public transit and made it morning and evening. Thank you to the driver of the morning train, who waited. Thanks to luck for letting me make the evening train.

Second, a very light blanket of fog greeted the dog and I this morning on our walk, offering a lovely backdrop to the black bones of bare trees in my neighborhood and its park. It was so beautifully quiet, just the clicking of Twist's nails on the pavement. I love the starkness and stillness of mornings like these; the whole is made even more beautiful by the last golden leaves still hanging and the warm greens of pines and hemlocks.

Seedpods, dried goldenrod, moss on logs and water dripping from eaves and over stones. I'm such a crank that none of those are nearly enough to carry me through the winter. For one day, though, they will more than do and thanks to whoever is in charge of creating the scenery that makes me happy.

The picture is of a creation that's totally artificial: The Christmas tree in the street level lobby of the really lovely Fairmont Pittsburgh hotel, taken on the way to a good Monday bookend. The hotel has really pretty public spaces, including a museum-quality display of medicine bottles, porcelain doll heads and other early 20th century detritus unearthed during construction.

The blank page

Imagine a blank sheet of paper in front of you, or a blank screen. It's yours to fill, but with what? In the pantheon of scary imaginings, this scenario ranks maybe a 1. Or less. But it's still scary.

My writing career, such as it is, could be called Katy Interrupted. I go for long stretches with nothing to say. That's because I'm thinking. I'm also reading, admiring some writers and being exasperated by others. Yet they birth words, sentences, essays articles daily, weekly, monthly, yearly. My words gestate.

Despite my erratic output, I've learned the important skill of editing. Here's how I work: I pour everything out, onto paper or screen. Then I read it; maybe keep some or none. Tinkering and more tinkering come next. Then usually a walk, preferably with a dog. Thinking ensues, then maybe a break for coffee or napping, or work. Then comes wholesale revision or reconsideration of concept. B often ends up looking nothing like A.

What else have I learned? A pretty package of words is usually just pebbles in a sieve. Not intrinsically worthless, but not gold, either. Coming up with something precious takes a lot of panning. (Sorry for the labored metaphor.)

I've worked with writers who think their every keystroke is golden. Who think breaking all rules, instead of just one, for effect, makes them fearless and therefore brilliant.

No.

To write when you have nothing to say, to write and be unafraid to discard, that's fearless and approaching brilliant. To write and have a great editor, that's gold.

The photo is from one of my many diaries.