storyrainthejournal: (owl&pussycat)
We haven't done that old throwback Thursday thing in a while. Here's a b&w pic from 1964. I was something around a year, give or take some months. My mom's smile is so uncharacteristic for photos of her from that time that I feel like I'm looking at someone else's mother, some other baby. Of course, they really are other people, from long ago, now long gone, except in some memories (those reliable old things), persisting sense triggers, and the relationship I still have with my mom, the love I feel.

mommeb&w.jpg
storyrainthejournal: (yoruichi-light)
Another Thursday, another old photo. Cindy, me, mom. Not sure where this was, either Fairmount Park or Maine is my guess. I have pigtails. Sometimes I still wear my hair in pigtails, precisely because people have a habit of saying it's a hairstyle for little girls and grown women who are serious shouldn't wear their hair that way. I mean, who the fuck asked any of them how I--or any woman old enough to make up her own mind--should wear our hair?

cindymemom.jpg
storyrainthejournal: (colette'shandw/cat)
A couple of shots from the piles of old photographs I inherited from various sources, the first in the backyard of the house we lived in til I was 8 or 9, the other two in Fairmount Park in Philadelphia on different visits.

I'm the baby in the background. Brother and sister look wet, so we were probably playing with the hose.

IMG_1957.JPG

Sister with dog, brother and I without.
IMG_1956.JPG

Mom in green poncho carrying fall leaf. I don't think that's my brother behind us. Thanks to photographic degradation, it looks like a small phantom of the opera. We are alarmed.
IMG_1955.JPG

TBT pics

Oct. 1st, 2015 11:02 am
storyrainthejournal: (mehat)
TBT...ten months. As a reminder to self that we're all born with a capacity for joy.

IMG_2157.JPG

And, Philadelphia, 1983 (one of the ugliest decades, style-wise, for my money), dad, sister (making a face, sorry, sis), sister-in-law, and brother; I was taking the picture.
IMG_2159.JPG

portraits

Aug. 13th, 2015 01:20 pm
storyrainthejournal: (flying)
Some TBT; me at 16. I rmember thinking my hair was too curly/frizzy and my nose too big. Oy. File under youth wasted on.

Portrait by my father, who would have been 88 tomorrow.

sixteen
storyrainthejournal: (colette'shandw/cat)
My father, David Reisman, passed on Saturday evening, May 23, in the nursing home where he's been for the last few years in Machias, Maine. My brother and his wife, who live up there, were with him. He'd been declining sharply in the last few weeks, nonresponsive, not interested in food.

My brother wrote a thoughtful obituary. Things I've been remembering: he taught me to make eggs scrambled with peppers and onions when I was around 10; he loved photography and the quality of light. Quite a few of the older pictures I've posted were ones he took. As my brother's obituary mentions, he loved poetry and language. He was, for a good portion of his life, very well read. I'm sure his love of language is in part responsible for my own.

When I was small, he called me pookie and sometimes carried me on his shoulders. One summer in Maine, on Long Lake in Naples, when I was four or five, I remember asking him what made the diamonds on the water when the sun was coming up. He gave me the scientific explanation.

He took me to two plays in Philadelphia that I remember well, Fiddler on the Roof and Stop the World, I Want to Get Off. He loved movies and I have very early memories of seeing movies, too. When he and my mother were in the process of getting divorced, when I was six and half or seven, they for some reason thought it was a good idea to take me to see The Andromeda Strain. Then we went for pie. I haven't much liked virus stories since. Intellectual, liberal east coast Jews, my parents.

He also loved eating out and took us to both Chinese and Japanese restuarants in downtown Philadelphia when I was small (my siblings are six and seven years older), in the late 1960s. I remember these experiences, little visual details of them, vividly. Memory being what it is, who knows, but I still appreciate these bits and pictures of experience.

My Dad was never too thrilled with what I wrote; the refrain, which I know quite a few others have heard from a father, concerned when I was going to write something serious, i.e., literary realism. He did once compliment my writing by saying I would have made a good lawyer (his own profession, which was not really the thing he had wanted to do, but the thing he was required and expected to do as a son of an immigrant father and second generation immigrant (I think) mother.)

His own mother, for whom I was named, died when he was 16, of leukemia. He once told me that life was suffering; in retrospect, he was perhaps being darkly humorous, but I was a teenager and it made me very sad for him. There were a couple of years when I lived alone with my Dad, between his second and third marriages. I always felt like we were two people who didn't understand how, and couldn't manage, to have the relationship we were supposed to have, some sort of father-daughter thing that eluded us, that we were both too damaged to engage properly. We were like strangers, trying, always trying.

But I loved him, and I know he loved me, and he honestly tried, and did as many good things for me and my sister and brother as he could.

Here he is in 2007, in Buffalo.



And a couple from a trip my brother, sister, and I took him on, to Philadelphia, to visit our old house and Fairmount Park, the places of my childhood.



Flashbacks

May. 22nd, 2015 08:36 am
storyrainthejournal: (mehat)
Flashback Friday, instead of TbT. Mom (pretty hep outfit), me, and Lisa. Fairmount Park, probably. (Philadelphia) I'm probably five or six. So it was around 1968-9. This has been your historical moment.

momme&lisa.jpg
storyrainthejournal: (bluebutterfly)
Ephemera of ephemera, a 2009 spiderweb, 2006 sand tracks, & me in the first year of grad school, 1990.

no titlewhat made these?
storyrainthejournal: (catscream)
For TBT, seestra and mother in 2008, reflected in my mom's glasses, something scary. I don't remember what it was, so our memories were probably wiped by some terrifying supernatural visitation.



On the recommendation of this same seestra, I recently watched the film LUCY, directed by Luc Besson and starring Scarlett Johansson. Another movie that was previewed and sold misleadingly, and wrongly. I liked it a lot. Thanks, seestra!
storyrainthejournal: (colette'shandw/cat)
Another throwback Thursday, another little story: I remember telling everyone else to go on ahead on this hike--I wanted to be alone in the woods for a little while. Clearly, my instructions were not followed.

meinwoods
storyrainthejournal: (colette'shandw/cat)
Throwback Thursday - my first cat, Ladyjane, brought to me as a kitten by my mother when she came to visit. (We named him before his balls dropped.) I was seven or eight. My father was not particularly pleased. Ladyjane looked very much like my current oldest cat Aristotle, or Aristotle like Ladyjane, I suppose, with the same cuddly, affectionate nature.
Ladyjane
storyrainthejournal: (colette'shandw/cat)
I have a fond, compound memory of moments like this one, watching the fire with an almost autistic fascination, especially when it got down to embers (so sure there was something alive in them), with my mother at my back; all of those moments would have taken place before I was seven. The dog's name was Lisa.
memomfire

some pics

Oct. 22nd, 2013 06:31 pm
storyrainthejournal: (wolfinthehood)
Some pics from MexicArte's early Day of the Dead parade, Viva la Vida.

20131019_175437_1

the rest below cut... )
storyrainthejournal: (snowy)

Sweet, huh?

There were many other lovely, thoughtful gifts (which I refuse to laundry list on the grounds that it's not interesting for anyone but me) (I am very lucky in my friends and family), two lovely dinners with N&C & the kids (teenagers now), plus xmas day antipasto, and some precious time off to live more at my own pace, doing those things I love most, writing, meditating, reading, hanging with my cats, seeing movies, and going for walks. Back to the dayjob tomorrow, for two days, then another four off. Yay!

The cats all say hello, or zzzzzzzz:

  Scaramouch
  Tinker
Aristotle
storyrainthejournal: (Default)
Some pics from last Fri-Mon writing retreat.

In the cabin:

 
On the porch, with obligatory Texas kitsch (rusted things):
 
The river...
 
 
Ryloh the dog, who lived on the grounds with his pal Malacai (with more obligatory rusty things):
 
Sadie-dog, who came with us:
 

Scaramouche, happy when I came home:
storyrainthejournal: (Default)
Went to the Pecan Street fest this past weekend with god kids and their 'rents. Here's a pic from our perambulations through the crowds:


I got a hat with ears and the most amazing goat cheese concoction, from this wonderful sounding goat farm: Coon Ridge Organic Goat Farm Dairy

Also, my god daughter has adopted a mod/steampunk style, including top hat. She was pretty adorable.

*
Phantom Drift issue #2, Valuable Estrangements, is now available. Get it here or order it at your local bookstore.

From managing editor David Memmott:
Issue Two presents 166 perfect-bound pages of estrangement wrapped in a gorgeous cover featuring the darkly mysterious art of sculpture-filmmaker John Frame and includes sixteen original stories, twenty-one poems/prose poems, three essays, a review and six letter compositions.

My little "Boneshadow" appears among the original stories. Here's an excerpt:
     It was summer under the eaves of the sky and the city echoed with heat. Sadie ran, on the curved shell of dusk’s descent, through a downtown of worn concrete and brick.
     The city owned many architectures, deep and thick with the dreams, spoils, battles, victories, and longings of its inhabitants, whose lives stained its walls as a smoke accreted as the rooms, ells, and stories of its many buildings accreted, souls coloring an alley or a forgotten room here and there in luminous shades, while everywhere else was gray and aged.
    “Where are you running, Sadie?” “Why are you running, Sadie?”
     The questions hissed and echoed up from grates, around corners, out of the air, in voices sly and insistent and gentle.
     Sadie had seen a thing, a crack in the bone and breath of the world, and it had seen her.

*
 
Also, there's this, the best story ever. "They had gone on a very long trip."


storyrainthejournal: (stotmeister)
These kittens are currently being fostered by my friend B, who rescued them and their very young mother (who's already gone into the Austin Humane Society adoption program). They are lovely and socialable and four of them are black and white, which is the best thing for a kitty to be. They'll be available for adoption at AHS as of Friday or Saturday.

 


More pics thisaway... )
storyrainthejournal: (flower)

Aristotle shields Tinker's eyes from bad dreams; or possibly spoilers.



Something about this picture that I took at the Memphis Zoo evokes story for me...in any case, I really like it.


storyrainthejournal: (Default)
Over my long weekend I went to Zilker Botanical Gardens and chased butterflies around trying to get good pictures of them. Only got a few:

000y62e9
000y7zrz

Lily pond action and some obligatory cats (it's been a while) below

the cut... )
storyrainthejournal: (Default)
Am thankful. Here's some cats and a hat and a Happy Thanksgiving.
this way for pictures... )

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