on Homeland, women & career and worlds end.

Lets see. 

The last two weeks I've been in less than a "making mode" and more of a "filtering content mode." Working on all sorts of filtration projects. The nice thing about Saipua is I never have to want for content. Just the time to get it lined up and presented to you. 

And by "content" I mean a complete deconstruction of my final thoughts on Homeland, I've replaced the iphone pictures of the TV screen from my private collection with some unrelated here-and-there farm/flower images. Bear with me.

Over dinner the other night, after days of rumination I said - "You know when Brody and Carrie are sipping wine in the cabin in front of the fire?" I feel like thats what all women want all the time. (I hope you don't mind that I make a sweeping statement about our gender here - that we all want to bed down with lying terrorists who abandon their families.) 

There is a scene around episode 11 in Homeland where Carrie and Brody meet in the woods. I can reenact it for you in person if you like I've watched it about 5 times, sneaking home for lunch firing up showtime on demand. What I like about this scene is the romantic tension. The uncertainty, the complication. 

In relationships we tend to always migrate toward the routine. Couple up, domesticate, start a family. I see the advantage of this, the attraction. But I have always also been afraid of that sequence. One which feels - for me - restrictive. I watch a show like Homeland -- and thank you for indulging me - and I want to BE IN THE CIA. I really do, I have actually spent time thinking about the feasibility of a career change. I want adventure like that. Responsibility and power like that. To walk in with top clearance wearing one of those clippy name tags that scans you in anywhere.

So when Carrie chooses Brody over her career (for those fleeting moments before the bomb - THE DRAMA! GOD TV! I LOVE IT!) I wanted to throw something at the screen. Weakness I thought. 

I really don't know where I was going with this. 

I started writing this morning with the intention of sharing the new Worlds End website. I was going to write a stoic post about nature to announce it. I wanted to make a soundtrack featuring songs about the end of the world. Fitting right. Maybe I'll get to it later. 

www.worldsendfarm.com

I hope you click around it and enjoy it. I shared it a few days ago in our newsletter. I'm really happy and humbled to say that we're already at capacity with our two scheduled work days, but I'll soon be posting more opportunities for those wanting to visit and participate. Because I guess I'm keeping my day job.

recent wreaths.

the last one liza made, but i'm going to take the credit because i like it so much.

December roses.

I'm looking at this picture and getting REALLY into it. I may be slightly tipsy. Roses and wine make for good company. And I've had a lot of both lately.



I'm into roses in a big way this year. This week I've spent all my free time stalking various bushes all over town. I have my spots. Nea's a good companion for this. So is Asheley because she's stealthy and gorgeous. When we're sneaking clipped booty out of an Ikea parking lot and a security guard rolls by in a golf cart, you better believe having a bodacious blonde as an accomplice helps.





Hustling these beauties back to the studio I spend several different occasions primping them and arranging them. It's like playing with dolls sort of except these have thorns, and likely have been urinated on by every neighborhood hound. Whatever.





It's not the time of year most of us think of roses, I know. I should be talking about wreaths, since that's whats really happening work wise, and wreaths are all I see all over candy instagram land. Beautiful wreaths! half wreaths, thin wreaths! upside-down-inside-out wreaths, fern wreaths, edible wreaths etc. Everyone's wreaths seem to resemble them in soome way. Ours tend to be sorta chubbs and little goth. I gotta show you some soon.





Asheley and I took a quick run up to the farm yesterday to check on some feral cats that we parked there to control the rodent population. So far they just eat and look cranky. Oh cats. I never thought I'd go back to cats, but I'm desperate to save my tulip bulbs from voles and chipmunks. We've not named or photographed them yet, so it's like they don't exist except for when Nea finds their droppings in a newly planted ... tulip bed. You just can't win.





Hey, our shop is going to be open this weekend and every weekend till Christmas. It's like old times; we're selling soap and everything. If you are on our mailing list you know we have some snazzy new soaps and are making a small collection of unique wreaths which I promise to show you soon. Will you come by and say hello? We can chitchat about flowers and I'll cut you off to talk about Homeland. Trust that George Michael's "Last Christmas" will be on repeat Saturday and Sunday from 11-6pm.

Till then...have you seen some of the roses along the west side highway downtown? They are still blooming like crazy; the strangest little temperate habitat, snuggled from wind and cold by the city on the east and Battery Park high rises on the west, coddled by the exhaust of persistant traffic. Man and nature.

1991

I mentioned it weeks ago, when Aaron my friend made it OK to listen to Enya again. I think I mentioned it.

In an aisle of the Goodwill in Albany he flashed me ShepardsmotherfuckinMoon. NO. I said.

His poise authoritative amidst the color-coded sweater aisles. It clearly was not up for discussion. And so I’ve been living in a perpetual musical dead zone ever since. This shit is like a lullaby for my 11-year-old self. Which in fairness I feel I deserve right now, all things considered.

1991! The year Donnie Walburg is arrested for allegedly setting his hotel room on fire in Louisville Kentucky. The year Eric Clapton’s son fell to his death, 49 stories from a NYC apartment. A year of Desert Storm.

Strange to realize you’ve lived through history; written already...sent to the publisher years ago. History books now outdated, boxed in storage or already on the shelf of a Goodwill. On a long walk this evening I found myself wanting my childhood back. Or at least an afternoon to visit my 11-year-old self. An opportunity to be my own mentor. What would I say? Lighten up.

Recently I notice my ability to produce a genuine smile at the grocery store checkout. I was not always capable of that, so I mark this as progress. You ever see someone’s smile fade right after they turn around? Waitresses are good people to catch in that.

Listening to Enya on headphones. Waiting for life to happen. Or Homeland. It’s 9:56pm.