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one problem with on-line applications...
Jan. 3rd, 2012 04:47 amis that some sites let you copy/paste your resume, and some require you to upload it. I've got it saved as a word doc...but when I try to look at it myself, it won't let me open it and my computer starts trying to install some program or other to look at it, etc. So I don't know for sure if the employers can look at my resume when I do upload it. It's not like they'll bother to tell me, you know?
Very annoying!
Very annoying!
from "V is for Vendetta":
Jan. 2nd, 2012 03:58 pm"Behind this mask there is more than flesh. Behind this mask there is an idea, and ideas are bulletproof."
Curried Chicken and Apricot Pie
Jan. 2nd, 2012 03:49 pmCurried Chicken and Apricot Pie
2 tbsp sunflower oil
1 large onion, chopped
1 lb boneless chicken, roughly chopped (you can substitute turkey leg meat)
1 tbsp curry powder
2 tbsp apricot or peach chutney
1/4 cup dried apricot halves
4 oz cooked carrots, sliced
1 tsp mixed dried herbs (it doesn't specify, so "to taste")
4 tbsp sour cream
12 oz shortcrust pastry, thawed if frozen
salt and ground black pepper, to taste
beaten egg or milk, to glaze
broccoli, to serve as a side
Heat the oil and fry the chicken and onion until lightly browned. Add the curry powder and cook briefly, then stir in the chutney, apricots, carrots, herbs, and sour cream. Season wtih salt and pepper to taste, stir, and then transfer to a deep 5-cup pie dish. Preheat the oven to 375. Roll out the pastry to 1 inch wider than the dish. Cut a strip of pastry and press it on the dampened rim of the dish, then brush the strip with water and place the pastry lid on top, pressing to seal. Trim off any excess pastry, crimp the edge, and decorate the top with pastry leaves (HA!) Brush with beaten egg or milk. Bake for 40 minutes, or until golden. Serve with broccoli.
2 tbsp sunflower oil
1 large onion, chopped
1 lb boneless chicken, roughly chopped (you can substitute turkey leg meat)
1 tbsp curry powder
2 tbsp apricot or peach chutney
1/4 cup dried apricot halves
4 oz cooked carrots, sliced
1 tsp mixed dried herbs (it doesn't specify, so "to taste")
4 tbsp sour cream
12 oz shortcrust pastry, thawed if frozen
salt and ground black pepper, to taste
beaten egg or milk, to glaze
broccoli, to serve as a side
Heat the oil and fry the chicken and onion until lightly browned. Add the curry powder and cook briefly, then stir in the chutney, apricots, carrots, herbs, and sour cream. Season wtih salt and pepper to taste, stir, and then transfer to a deep 5-cup pie dish. Preheat the oven to 375. Roll out the pastry to 1 inch wider than the dish. Cut a strip of pastry and press it on the dampened rim of the dish, then brush the strip with water and place the pastry lid on top, pressing to seal. Trim off any excess pastry, crimp the edge, and decorate the top with pastry leaves (HA!) Brush with beaten egg or milk. Bake for 40 minutes, or until golden. Serve with broccoli.
Passion may call for a partner
to share the music of its bones,
to weave shadows, rain, moonshine, dreams-
Passion may hammer on hard door panels,
empty a hot vocabulary of wanting, wanting-
it is all there in the fragments of Sappho.
Passion may consider poppies cheap
with their strong stalks in the wind,
with their crying crimson sheaths-
Passion may remember tiger lilies,
keepers of a creeping evening mist,
tawny watchers of the morning stars-
Passion may cry to the moon
for miracles of flesh,
for red answers to a white riddle-
it is told in the tears on many love letters.
Passion may spend its money,
its youth, its laughter, all else,
till again passion is alone
spending its cries to the moon-
and some weep, some sing, some go to war.
Passion may be alone at a window
seeking kisses fasten lips in wild troths,
a storm of red silk scarfs in a high wind,
armfuls of redbirds let loose into bush and sky-
and some weep, some sing, some go to war.
Passion may come with baskets
throwing paths of red rain flowers,
each folded petal a sacrament-
the evening sunsets witness and pass on.
Passion may build itself houses of air
and look from a thousand tall windows
till the wind rides and gathers.
Passion may be a wind child
transient and made of air-
Passion may be a wild grass
where a great wind came and went.
The evening sunsets witness and pass on.
to share the music of its bones,
to weave shadows, rain, moonshine, dreams-
Passion may hammer on hard door panels,
empty a hot vocabulary of wanting, wanting-
it is all there in the fragments of Sappho.
Passion may consider poppies cheap
with their strong stalks in the wind,
with their crying crimson sheaths-
Passion may remember tiger lilies,
keepers of a creeping evening mist,
tawny watchers of the morning stars-
Passion may cry to the moon
for miracles of flesh,
for red answers to a white riddle-
it is told in the tears on many love letters.
Passion may spend its money,
its youth, its laughter, all else,
till again passion is alone
spending its cries to the moon-
and some weep, some sing, some go to war.
Passion may be alone at a window
seeking kisses fasten lips in wild troths,
a storm of red silk scarfs in a high wind,
armfuls of redbirds let loose into bush and sky-
and some weep, some sing, some go to war.
Passion may come with baskets
throwing paths of red rain flowers,
each folded petal a sacrament-
the evening sunsets witness and pass on.
Passion may build itself houses of air
and look from a thousand tall windows
till the wind rides and gathers.
Passion may be a wind child
transient and made of air-
Passion may be a wild grass
where a great wind came and went.
The evening sunsets witness and pass on.
Her Beauty, by Max Plowman
Jan. 2nd, 2012 03:37 pmI heard them say, "Her hands are hard as stone,"
And I remembered how she had laid for me
The road to heaven. They said, "Her hair is gray."
The I remembered how she once had thrown
Long plaited strands, like cables, into the sea
I battled in-the salt sea of dismay.
They said, "Her beauty's past." And then I wept,
That these, who should have been in love adept,
Against my fount of beauty should blaspheme,
And hearing a new music, miss the theme.
The modern biographers worry
"how far it went", their tender friendship.
They wonder just what it means
when he writes he thinks about her constantly,
his guardian angel, beloved friend.
The modern biographers ask
the rude, irrelevent question
of our age, as if the event
of two bodies meshing together
establishes the degree of love,
forgetting how softly Eros walked
in the nineteenth century, how a hand
held overlong or a gaze anchored
in someone's eyes could unseat a heart,
and nuances of address not known
in our egalitarian language
could make the redolent air
tremble and shimmer with the heat
of possibility. Each time I hear
the Intermezzi, sad
and lavish in their tenderness,
I imagine the two of them
sitting in a garden
among the late-blooming roses
and dark cascades of leaves,
letting the landscape speak for them,
leaving us nothing to overhear.
Patterns, by Amy Lowell
Dec. 29th, 2011 09:01 pmI walk down the garden paths,
And all the daffodils,
Are blowing, and the bright blue squills.
I walk down the patterned garden paths
In my stiff, brocaded gown.
With my powdered hair and jewelled fan,
I too am a rare
Pattern. As I wander down
The garden paths.
( ....... )
And all the daffodils,
Are blowing, and the bright blue squills.
I walk down the patterned garden paths
In my stiff, brocaded gown.
With my powdered hair and jewelled fan,
I too am a rare
Pattern. As I wander down
The garden paths.
( ....... )
Marie Darrieussecq
Dec. 29th, 2011 07:27 pm"To Read is to be absent from the world
to read is to get re-acquainted with the world
to read is to be alone with the world between the hands
to read is to be alone while in company of others."
to read is to get re-acquainted with the world
to read is to be alone with the world between the hands
to read is to be alone while in company of others."
Falconer of God, by William Rose Benet
Dec. 29th, 2011 07:21 pmI flung my soul to the air like a falcon flying.
I said: "Wait on, wait on, while I ride below!
I shall start a heron soon
In the marsh beneath the moon-
A strange white heron rising with silver on its wings,
Rising and crying
Wordless, wondrous things;
The secret of the stars, of the world's heart-strings
The answer to their woe.
Then stoop upon him, and grip and hold him so!" ( ....... )
The Black Panther, by John Hall Wheelock
Dec. 29th, 2011 07:16 pmThere is a panther caged within my breast;
But what his name, there is no breast shall know
Save mine, nor what it is that drives him so,
Backward and forward, in relentless quest-
That silent rage, baffled but unsuppressed,
The soft pad of those stealthy feet that go
Over my body's prison to and fro,
Trying the walls forever without rest.
All day I feed him with my living heart;
But when the night puts forth her dreams and stars,
His wrath is hurled upon the trembling bars,
The eternal passion stretches me apart,
And I lie silent-but my body shakes.
But what his name, there is no breast shall know
Save mine, nor what it is that drives him so,
Backward and forward, in relentless quest-
That silent rage, baffled but unsuppressed,
The soft pad of those stealthy feet that go
Over my body's prison to and fro,
Trying the walls forever without rest.
All day I feed him with my living heart;
But when the night puts forth her dreams and stars,
His wrath is hurled upon the trembling bars,
The eternal passion stretches me apart,
And I lie silent-but my body shakes.
"If You Could Write One Great Poem...
Dec. 29th, 2011 07:07 pmWhat Would You Want It To Be About" (asked of four student poets at the Illinois Schools for the Deaf and Visually Impaired), by Robert Plinsky
Fire: because it is quick, and can destroy.
Music: place where anger has its place.
Romantic Love-the cold or stupid ask why.
Sign: that it is a language, full of grace.
That it is visible, invisible, dark and clear,
That it is loud and noiseless and is contained
Inside a body and explodes in air
Out of a body to conquer from the mind.
Fire: because it is quick, and can destroy.
Music: place where anger has its place.
Romantic Love-the cold or stupid ask why.
Sign: that it is a language, full of grace.
That it is visible, invisible, dark and clear,
That it is loud and noiseless and is contained
Inside a body and explodes in air
Out of a body to conquer from the mind.
Chocolate Soup, with Fruit Salsa Topping
Dec. 27th, 2011 09:20 pmChocolate Soup
4 cups whole milk
1 can sweetened condensed milk (14 oz)
1 bag Ghirardelli bittersweet chocolate chips (11 1/2 oz)
1/4 cup coffee-flavored liqueur (such as Kahlua)
1/2 tsp salt
Kept separate:
2 tsp vanilla extract
1 tsp espresso powder
For the Salsa:
1/2 cup strawberries, diced
1/2 cup pineapple, diced
1/2 cup kiwi, diced
1 tsp sugar
Combine the whole milk, condensed milk, chocolate chips, liqueur, and salt in a saucepan; bring to a simmer over medium-low heat, whisking constantly. Reduce heat to low and cook, whisking often, until chocolate melts and mixture is smooth, 20-25 minutes.
Whisk vanilla and espresso powder together until dissolved. Off heat, stir the mixture into the soup. Toss strawberries, pineapple, kiwi, and sugar together into a bowl. Garnish soup with salsa and a dollop of whipped cream, if desired.
The recipe says the soup reheats well, over LOW heat; but that the salsa should be made fresh, shortly before serving. Any good quality dark chocolate chips will do, though Ghirardelli is preferred. Makes 6 cups soup, 1 1/2 cup salsa; prep time, approx 35 minutes.
I Ask My Mother to Sing, by Li-Young Lee
Dec. 27th, 2011 08:51 pmShe begins, and my grandmother joins her.
Mother and daughter sing like young girls.
If my father were alive, he would play
his accordian and sway like a boat.
I've never been in Peking, or the Summer Palance,
nor stood on the great Stone Boat to watch
the rain begin on Kuen Ming Lake, the picknickers
running away in the grass.
But I love to hear it sung;
how the waterlilies fill with rain until
they overturn, spilling water into water,
then rock back, and fill with more.
Both women have begun to cry.
But neither stops her song.
Mother and daughter sing like young girls.
If my father were alive, he would play
his accordian and sway like a boat.
I've never been in Peking, or the Summer Palance,
nor stood on the great Stone Boat to watch
the rain begin on Kuen Ming Lake, the picknickers
running away in the grass.
But I love to hear it sung;
how the waterlilies fill with rain until
they overturn, spilling water into water,
then rock back, and fill with more.
Both women have begun to cry.
But neither stops her song.
Found this one in "A Book of Women Poets From Antiquity to Now", edited by Aliki Barnstone & Willis Barnstone. I love that book; there's so much in it that I've never found anywhere else, especially from Asia.
He loved three things in life:
singing at vespers, white peacocks,
and worn-out maps of America.
He did not love tea with raspberries,
or feminine hysteria.
...and I was his wife.
Dusk, by DuBose Heyward
Dec. 27th, 2011 08:44 pmThey tell me she is beautiful, my city,
That she is colorful and quaint; alone
Among the cities. But I-I who have known
Her tenderness, her courage, and her pity;
Have felt her forces mold me, mind and bone,
Life after life, up from her first beginning-
How can I think of her in wood and stone!
To others she has given of her beauty;
Her gardens, and her dim old faded ways;
Her laughter, and her happy drifting hours;
Glad spendthrift April, squandering her flowers;
The sharp still wonder of her autumn days;
Her chimes, that shimmer from St. Michael's steeple
Across the deep maturity of June
Like sunlight slanting over open water
Under a high blue listless afternoon.
But when the dusk is deep upon the harbor,
She finds me where her rivers meet and speak,
And while the constellations gem the silence
High overhead, her cheek is on my cheek.
I know her in the thrill behind the dark
When sleep brims all her silent thoroughfares.
She is the glamour in the quiet park
That kindles simple things like grass and trees;
Wistful and wanton as her sea-born airs,
Bringer of dim rich age-old memories.
Out on the gloom-deep water, when the nights
Are choked with fog, and perilous, and blind,
She is the faith that tends the calling lights.
Hers is the stifled voice of harbor bells,
Muffled and broken by the mist and wind..
Hers are the eyes through which I look on life
And find it brave and splendid. And the stir
Of hidden music shaping all my songs,
And these my songs, my all, belong to her.
That she is colorful and quaint; alone
Among the cities. But I-I who have known
Her tenderness, her courage, and her pity;
Have felt her forces mold me, mind and bone,
Life after life, up from her first beginning-
How can I think of her in wood and stone!
To others she has given of her beauty;
Her gardens, and her dim old faded ways;
Her laughter, and her happy drifting hours;
Glad spendthrift April, squandering her flowers;
The sharp still wonder of her autumn days;
Her chimes, that shimmer from St. Michael's steeple
Across the deep maturity of June
Like sunlight slanting over open water
Under a high blue listless afternoon.
But when the dusk is deep upon the harbor,
She finds me where her rivers meet and speak,
And while the constellations gem the silence
High overhead, her cheek is on my cheek.
I know her in the thrill behind the dark
When sleep brims all her silent thoroughfares.
She is the glamour in the quiet park
That kindles simple things like grass and trees;
Wistful and wanton as her sea-born airs,
Bringer of dim rich age-old memories.
Out on the gloom-deep water, when the nights
Are choked with fog, and perilous, and blind,
She is the faith that tends the calling lights.
Hers is the stifled voice of harbor bells,
Muffled and broken by the mist and wind..
Hers are the eyes through which I look on life
And find it brave and splendid. And the stir
Of hidden music shaping all my songs,
And these my songs, my all, belong to her.
From strange_tears, and the discussion centered on how these look like very high-class pin-ups, as if they were pointing the way to the pulp covers of the 20th century. I can see what they mean, from his use of color, posing, and the fleshy, rounded look of the models' bodies.
La Chaussure
( ....... )
La Chaussure
( ....... )
white & gold ink swan, on black carboard
Dec. 27th, 2011 07:48 pmdrawn and shared by fefa_koroleva, at world_of_art on LJ:
