Category / Bunberry

by Sixer

Endeavor Lives

“Achievement, n. The death of endeavor and the beginning of disgust”

            — Ambrose Beirce, The Devil’s Dictionary

A rather late welcome to 2012! Wanna see what I’ve been doing?

It’s a rather motley collection, I’ll grant you. There was Nanowrimo (an additional 6,000 words added to an already established story. I aim high), then there was tea buying, yarn shopping, and, of course, ebay browsing. Oh yeah, I’ve been producted. Productive.

Ahem.

The knitting above is destined to be Rebkahjoy’s version of Hewn. There is something really magical about knitting a pattern with modifications that a complete and total stranger emailed you. I now know the attraction of a cult, and it’s driving me towards actually finishing this little bolero. Of course, I’m not going there particularly fast. This project has already become a little comedy of errors. First, because I didn’t read the pattern all the way and began by increasing an extra two stitches every knit row. I didn’t realize how wrong this was until I had increased the back stitches to the desired 88 and was  trying to figure out how the thing was going to fit me (I have no spatial skills at all, so my blind trust is as necessary as it is dangerous). I had a little wrestle with myself over whether the seven additional side stitches would be noticeable, but I’m proud to say that Sense won out and the poor thing was ripped back to practically the beginning. I’ve been knitting at it ever since, but going slow as silly putty. And then, there was that five day hiatus while I waited for my knit pick order to come and replace the number four I had accidentally sat on and broke. Maybe I should move to metal needles, huh?

As for the colorful sticky notes .  . . . That’s my Japanese study. Yes, I’m still pulling that goal out every now and then. If we don’t exercise our dreams, you see, they’ll atrophy away. This time has been really fun because, despite all the text books I’ve borrowed from my sister, and the grandiose ambitious plans I’ve worked out with colored pens, I’ve basically done nothing but what I want to do, which is read Natsume Youjinchou. Natsume is my all time favorite anime. It’s about as eventful as a drying room, and sweetly sticky as if the substance on the walls were honey and not paint. I adore it. And so I jumped at the chance to buy five whole volumes of the series. Yes, five little comic books, each with three or four “episodes.” I’ve had these since a little before Christmas and I’m still on the very first of the very first story. Reading a single page can take an hour, and requires every resource I can scrounge up. I usually read with my Japanese-English dictionary, which I got at a second hand store in Japan. The more I study with it the more obvious it becomes that it was meant for people learning English, and not the other way round, but I love it all the more for that. It is, however, inadequate to the task. So I’ve added in my dad’s iPad, on which he has kindly let me put Jdict. Jdict is free, which is right in my price range, and allows me to look up kanji – and thus, ultimately, words  – by drawing them on the screen. Yes, that’s right, I scrawl a few lines, press search, and voila, it gives me five kanji it thinks are close. I usually have to try a few times, and the more complex kanji have a way of making it quit, pouting no doubt, but it still works really, really well for all that, and it comes with a radical* search as well, which I’ve often resorted to.

When these two dictionaries fail I usually turn to Denshi Jishou, conveniently accessible on the iPad. But sometimes the problem is grammar related. In these cases I turn to  Japanese Sentence Patterns for Effective Communication, one of those books I borrowed from my sister, and  Barron’s Japanese Grammar pocketbook, which isn’t as good but has things the first book doesn’t have. Not to mention the later book makes it much easier to find what you’re looking for, bad romaji aside.
A lot of people who take their Japanese Journey online emphasis memorization and having fun. I’m too poor of a student for the former, and the latter for me must be weighed against my competitive nature. I can give up on a sentence ending (nowa, nanto, etc.  These have no good translation avaiable to them in my dictionary, though I could probably find some if  I really looked online), but giving up an entire word often feels too much like admitting defeat. Now that I’ve hit a panel that is completely unintelligible I’m having to weigh my desire to understand with my desire to progress.

Anyway, this and tea drinking have been really the only productive things I’ve done so far. Oh, and I wrote this post. In January. It’s a humble sort of achievement, I guess.

———————–
*Radical: I can’t say this word with a straight face. It’s just so . . . so . . . radical.

by Sixer

A Change of Sole

Looking around at my life, it’s pretty much an established fact that I was and always will be a late bloomer. No where is this more apparent than with shoes.
 Before I hit my teens “put your shoes on” was synonymous with “we’re going shopping,” to the point where we often assumed our shoes were in the car and then had to stay in the parking lot and wait while mom went in for groceries. I hated shoes and I hated socks, and both of them were pretty much tied up with dramatic ideas of oppression in my head. Sneakers were the worst because they not only required one to wear socks, even in summer, but they had to be tied and retied. There was a song we used to listen to about this (adult) guy who could do pretty much everything but tie his own shoelaces.
                              That was me until I turned eight. It’s probably a good thing I didn’t read about feet binding when I was a kid.
Eventually  I started having to be out, in public, for longer periods of time. Community College required me to be in shoes for hours on end and, grudgingly, I adapted. Somewhere around my fourteenth year I acquired my first pair of merrells. Those became my fall shoes, and I wore that first pair until they fell apart on me at college. Then I went and replaced them with the exact. Same. Shoe. Only the shade of brown was different, and that was a change they made at the factory.
My summer shoes were equally imaginative. My mom bought my sister and I matching navy sandals once and I wore holes into mine and then stole my sisters (a completely fair thing to do. I can still remember the gorgeous slip-ons with the star embroidery that I never got to grow into). Since then I’ve made it my go-to sandal style, closed toe with wide straps, though I’m pretty sure I’m getting them from a different company each time. These shoes aren’t anywhere near as durable as my merrells and, after a few months of constant use, they look just awful. My current pair was originally a creamy tan. Now it’s just . . . gray.
Somewhere in there I lost the feeling that wearing shoes was a sign of weakness and submission ( . . . . to the kind people who tear down metal jungle gyms. Remember, we’re talking tennis shoes here, not heels). I even like wearing socks now, although short socks still puzzle me unless they’re being worn with a poodle skirt. This acceptance has been creeping up on me for a while, as slowly as the callouses on my feet have softened. Okay, not that slow. But now that I’m starting to attempt to dress like a well-bred, if somewhat absentminded, lady, it’s really no surprise that I’m starting to think about shoes. Luckily I do actually have more than two pairs of shoes. My blue clogs, for instance, which I bought on a whim during one of the few sister-shoppings sprees I’ve ever partaken in. I only wore them once the first two years I owned them, but they’ve been a real life saver this summer, and I would love more of a similar shoe (perhaps in brown or burgundy) because they’re so . . . amphibious, transitioning well between barefooted summer and stocking-clad winter.
 I also have my black and white flats, which have to be at least four years old. These come in handy a lot, and as soon as I hem my flowy black skirt I’ll wear them all the time and pretend I’m a ballerina.
Then there are my cool shoes. These are the ones I only wear when I’m really bored, because my wardrobe, indeed, my whole carefully constructed image of self, can hardly support them. They’ve too much style. I’m always worried I’m going to ruin the sneakers, and the boots are . . . problematic to walk in. Which doesn’t stop me from enjoying wearing them, I just walk funny to compensate.
I was thinking about my shoe ‘drobe and wondering how to get the most out of it. What kinds of shoes I needed so that I could have smallest number of pairs and the highest number of options. And then I started thinking about stockings, because while I’ve only recently liked wearing socks, I’ve always loved the idea of knee highs.
                         Of course, if you get a girl shopping for socks, she’s going to want to buy some clothes to go with them. And there’s where I falter. It’s kind of scary to think like this, because of how fun it is, and how different. I’ve always been materialistic, but since that’s only resulted in some very well stocked bookshelves I’ve never felt guilty about it before. Now I feel like I might easily become either vain or a hedonist. I realize that I don’t think of clothes as important – though I felt no qualms in purchasing Inkheart, or a volume of H.F. Wells novels – and that, though I think dressing smartly is as valuable an art to nurture as the ability to make said clothes, I would rather buy eight yards of a really impossible coral-orange than admit to wanting to go shopping. With all that said, it’s going to be interesting seeing where my wardrobe is going and how it’s going to get there: I’m betting is goes by foot.
by Sixer

The Efficient Extension

Hello.

Hi?

Yes, today I want to talk a bit about a person very close to my heart: me. That’s right, a few days ago I fell further into my tweens: “the irresponsible twenties between childhood and the coming of age at thirty-three.”

It’s really very sobering to be quite past the age where most of your fictional friends turn, magically, into adults. Especially when you, quite clearly, age like a hobbit. This year I was reminded of how lucky my parents are that I was born when I was. Not just because I’m so lovable in general, but because I need all the help I can get when it comes to being considerate and my birthday is really conducive to that. I share September not only with Frodo and Bilbo (September 22nd) but with Theo and the Geekette as well. These are two people I’ve known since before I got the knack of coming up with really cool aliases. They know all the embarrassing alter-egos of my past and yet, somehow, love me anyway. And, because our birthdays are all in the same month, I’m never more than a month late giving them a gift.

After a month, I kind of figure “what’s the point,” so, yeah, my birthday has saved my friendship probably twenty times over.

Plus, it’s on national talk like a pirate day, score.

I’m a little too full of grasshopper pie right now, seeing as how that’s been my dinner for the past three days, but sometime this year I really would love to do a picture tutorial of a cake. Not just any cake, but the Geekette’s birthday cake. It’s called The Bloody Chicken Cake, but don’t worry, it’s safe for most vegetarians.

It was born out of a side comment and a joke of a promise, that somehow just wouldn’t die. A few months ago the Geekette came over and cooked me some chickpeas. We always seem to have a can of these in my house but, before last month, I think the last time I had eaten them was when I was seven (I don’t count hummus when saying this, just as I wouldn’t count salsa if I said I hated tomatoes). Anyway, she cooked them up in olive oil with curry, cumin, paprika, and a little bit of the bush basil my dad has growing by the front step. It was really good, even after she pointed out that chick peas really do look like chickens. It was so good that we decided her birthday cake should be made out of chick peas, and of course once that was voiced I had to volunteer, and thus the Bloody Chicken Cake was born. The “blood” in the title comes from my first imagining of the cake, which used blood oranges. That idea didn’t last long, but the name was too good to waste.

Wanna slice?

by Sixer

Skittles

Sometimes I think that, when the skittles company was still in its tender years of advertising, a wise marketer took it aside and said:

“Look, your catch phrase is a problem. Not only does it make no sense, a rainbow being nothing more than light refracted through a prism – tasteless and intangible – but it also makes the mind jump to unicorns. You don’t want your product associated with unicorns. Trust me.”

And so the Skittle Company begged the wise marketer  to tell it what to do.
“Change your slogan” he advised. But the Skittle Company didn’t want to. They pleaded, groveled, and cajoled him to think of a way they could use their treasured catch phrase without having to bring in unicorns, until finally the wise old marketer said “There is a way, but it’s dangerous. Not every product can pull it off.”

“We’ll do it,” Said the skittle company. “For the sake of our rainbow of flavours, we’ll do it”

And thus was born the skittle commercials: The men held by giant hands, the kid with the skittle tree, the blender angered at being replaced – all attempting to be so surreally fantastical that they make the slogan (“taste the rainbow”) seem not only quite normal but safe and familiar.

At least, that’s how I imagine it to be. But then again, I don’t like skittles.

by Sixer

Cycles

아녱센요! (a-nyeong-se-yo, or my attempt at a hello).

It’s nice to see everybody has survived their summers. I’m so looking forward to fall. Having only one class, I should be able to post more often, right? I guess I should warn you, I just published a post a few minutes ago, but I dated it August 15th. I actually wrote it on the seventh, but my pictures wouldn’t upload, so twenty days later here it is! And yes, the power to alter my blogs chronology is some kind of scary cool. Should I say I wrote this when I was six?

Most of the things I alluded to in the previously mentioned post are actually still current. I did sign up for a class, I’m still following my study plan (loosely, but enough to make me wonder if I’m merely an alien replacement), and I haven’t yet made my bento freezer staples. However, Snow White and her dwarves are scheduled to leave today for a week so I’m looking forward to a productive weekend at least. Maybe even an actual post?

I’ll tell you all about my class when I have something more interesting to say than “I’m taking such-and-such at such-and-such a time.” In order to distract you, can I tell you the latest news in sewing blog land? Ms. Casey, from Casey’s Elegant Musings, is going to hold a circle skirt sew-along. I’ve watched her swing dance sew-along, and Ms. Gertie’s one for Lady Grey (that was hard to watch, I love colette patterns), and I’m thinking this time maybe I won’t just watch.

Desire.
Dream.
 Do.
The three steps of obsession.

This, combined with my halloween costume, my language study, my class, my blog, and the fact that I do actually work now, should fill up my hours quite nicely. I’m hoping to get a lot of crafty stuff done now because, come November, I’m trying for Nanowirmo again. Last year I hit the humiliatingly low number of 5,000 words, which must not happen again. In recognition of all these plans, I’m ending this post with a sappy limerick poem. Enjoy!

My dreams sometimes seem like so much rubbish.
Like shiny candy wrappers,
Tossed away with glee.
In the sweetness of this swiftly fading present,
I give up a cloudy future
For hard and sure reality.