tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-74413161654824786482024-03-20T02:56:00.074-07:00The Rocking HorseFilm, event/venue, record, and book reviews plus poetry, recipes, and crafty how-to's...all written from a brazenly personal standpoint. Hopefully entertaining, and certainly heartfelt.Whitnihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05137647309742069582noreply@blogger.comBlogger14125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7441316165482478648.post-18513081643378197842011-09-07T15:06:00.000-07:002011-09-07T19:14:19.279-07:00Rocking Horse ReviewFilm: Midnight in Paris, Cave of Forgotten Dreams, and The Tree of Life<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic1yJf3wxPeLwXoMhjAVEB6XGucBm33yYHZA7VnRcynnkcCdLWbAClXRgGVjLMEsQWQafsJDniu3mi2ltmhVVs44XJiqbVt7gIP_IjcXldaEcsJtyJxRxVV9iz5wm0_TS_FjGBr7EZfCQ/s1600/midnight-in-paris-movie-poster-011.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 136px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic1yJf3wxPeLwXoMhjAVEB6XGucBm33yYHZA7VnRcynnkcCdLWbAClXRgGVjLMEsQWQafsJDniu3mi2ltmhVVs44XJiqbVt7gIP_IjcXldaEcsJtyJxRxVV9iz5wm0_TS_FjGBr7EZfCQ/s200/midnight-in-paris-movie-poster-011.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5649755866035874146" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ1tyUX1WTw-etyMXm0DM2ed76MLIlHOLUVthz8VToOt0tAOK_indaYuE8v5bWXLpsY3_c5lpN69rXmG9Zr537lp7RDZiYcEpeesQGv3SW8Q54vtMRINI4d1H8RPkxoBcDM7sevmv90-g/s1600/images-1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ1tyUX1WTw-etyMXm0DM2ed76MLIlHOLUVthz8VToOt0tAOK_indaYuE8v5bWXLpsY3_c5lpN69rXmG9Zr537lp7RDZiYcEpeesQGv3SW8Q54vtMRINI4d1H8RPkxoBcDM7sevmv90-g/s200/images-1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5649755622414278674" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJb__LYB5jSWbU1OeCZ4DjtdDQxyXgKYMVafd5zd64144-llet_e-TlhA5yKYL6daUm9L_hhlN1tbd-sGp10RWj5w7huf21C42w66DqUvc3fUWjG92Yznd0SHLovOgx7ESfvnYjCaUIZA/s1600/the_tree_of_life_movie_poster_01.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 135px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJb__LYB5jSWbU1OeCZ4DjtdDQxyXgKYMVafd5zd64144-llet_e-TlhA5yKYL6daUm9L_hhlN1tbd-sGp10RWj5w7huf21C42w66DqUvc3fUWjG92Yznd0SHLovOgx7ESfvnYjCaUIZA/s200/the_tree_of_life_movie_poster_01.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5649756105172052466" /></a><br /><br />It has taken me a while to process all three of these fantastic films, hence the lateness of the following review. I was lucky enough to see all three within the course of one week, after a spell of seeing relatively few movies in the theater (mainly because of the high ticket price here in New York). The trio proved to rank among my favorite film experiences of all time. <br /><br />I am not a gusher. When I don't love something, I think the best thing to do next is forget about it. There are so many innovative pieces of art being made every day, and not enough time or brain space to take them all in. So if something is sub-par, I'd rather not have it lingering around, taking up space in my psyche. So I prefer not to write negative reviews. They are easier to spit out, but why bother? I've already forgotten the stories that wasted my time.<br /><br />These three films are anything but time wasters. They are all great in ways that both differ and converge. I think Woody Allen, Werner Herzog, and Terrence Malick are all very different in their directorial styles, but I was not necessarily surprised by their collective success. They're all forces to be reckoned with in their own ways. In these films in particular, all three of these aging directors boldly came forward with unmasked proclamations about the real meat of life in all of its quaking beauty, elevating their respective stories from theater to poetry. <br /><br />Yet for all their unifying depth, each film certainly left me with a unique lingering mood. Midnight in Paris made me feel grateful to live my own time. Of course my mood danced and soared with all the sweeping nostalgia of early 20th C Paris, aglow with the light of literary and entertainment giants. But after being sufficiently caught up in the romance, I felt my feet being gently but firmly planted in the glorious potential of the here and now. When the lights came on in the BAM theater, I was able to look around appreciatively at the space I live in, and as I poured out into the street among the Sunday afternoon crowd who had been seeking shelter from the June heat, I found myself smack in the middle of a Caribbean food festival in Ft. Greene and rejoiced in a familiar neighborhood pulsing with life here in 21st C Brooklyn. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCykhplKlxsWzrfXN1u4xky8vaIUTH17h7Y_5Y29btvEY1DPoXVfd1PYCG84yStVGXY_oDpjIz8xHnmd81VD98si2uUPG1-j-KeO-34e-DdHsQLsMXsyNed0KhkEIpYJdZLxJqbjYFNBQ/s1600/midnight-in-paris.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 130px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCykhplKlxsWzrfXN1u4xky8vaIUTH17h7Y_5Y29btvEY1DPoXVfd1PYCG84yStVGXY_oDpjIz8xHnmd81VD98si2uUPG1-j-KeO-34e-DdHsQLsMXsyNed0KhkEIpYJdZLxJqbjYFNBQ/s200/midnight-in-paris.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5649757990483886930" /></a><br /><br />The Cave of Forgotten Dreams left me in an absolute trance. I felt all sense of time orientation dissipate into the richness of 3-D imagery that allowed me to be enveloped in the prehistoric cave itself. The mesmerizing detail of the animal paintings made by artists thousands of years ago, backed by Herzog's dry, existential narration and interviews helped me feel what every idealist educator dreams his or her students might feel during the glow of a well-prepared lecture: reverence and gratitude for the gift of exploration. I suppose it is impossible to ever enter that French cave in person, but after Herzog's tour, I feel that not only have I been there, but I got to go in with the weirdest of guides: a man inclined to compare the human artistic impulse to the fragile, freakish existence of albino crocodiles lazing in a thermodynamic pool. After the film, everything and nothing seemed strange anymore.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyRxrZMNolZGxqkNu30PKopvX6lG6PZdkaBHkr0dHYNiRm0oW5BVssqqs1h72sFpf2d1aNuKHuHdIhRs2Tf9l0MO-IabNqoxGxqA-UH1v9_ZgNftRg1rPk-xav0NgWlaBrSxmHSn8LLYQ/s1600/images.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 160px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyRxrZMNolZGxqkNu30PKopvX6lG6PZdkaBHkr0dHYNiRm0oW5BVssqqs1h72sFpf2d1aNuKHuHdIhRs2Tf9l0MO-IabNqoxGxqA-UH1v9_ZgNftRg1rPk-xav0NgWlaBrSxmHSn8LLYQ/s200/images.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5649756937332321282" /></a><br /><br />The Tree of Life, it should be admitted, is easier to appreciate from a Judeo-Christian perspective. I have friends, for example, not of this philosophical persuasion, who found the movie somewhat irritating. Being a lover of eternal questions, patchwork plots, Imax-worthy cinematography (think Science Center films), and the Biblical book of Job...I was in love with this film from the opening scene. It also helps that, although I did not grow up in Waco, TX, where Tree of Life was filmed, I did grow up in Florida, so the ubiquitous sunlight filtering through oak branches dripping with Spanish moss was a surprise cinematic homecoming. The innocence and loss of childhood is actually grappled with here--not explained, just acknowledged for the devastating conundrum that it is. I appreciated that Malick was brave enough to alienate some viewers by painting a picture that so many others could and needed to see themselves reflected in. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYHpjQZeK99xHqDnfJOYrqmJYDv9bONIKKQ1sfQFv16k3ONFxvTS3SRSIVP0RY8sB0biippiUq2nh4npPrG9zTbKSRztZynHI9UpNjO9ekSP1eQb3t4c1VfEqpOmdZIqPMXb5vqskc3YA/s1600/tree-of-life-5.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 133px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYHpjQZeK99xHqDnfJOYrqmJYDv9bONIKKQ1sfQFv16k3ONFxvTS3SRSIVP0RY8sB0biippiUq2nh4npPrG9zTbKSRztZynHI9UpNjO9ekSP1eQb3t4c1VfEqpOmdZIqPMXb5vqskc3YA/s200/tree-of-life-5.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5649757093248076226" /></a><br /><br />So if you haven't already experienced these films, search them out. Revel in some of the best stories you'll ever hope to meet.Whitnihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05137647309742069582noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7441316165482478648.post-44432175321755046662010-09-06T20:04:00.000-07:002010-09-06T20:23:18.202-07:00Rocking Horse Prose PastureEscape Artist Me<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikDlkWNi4fXlvgBCLFCaLQjVThRG9ggQQ-H-s0j89nNNcK6eCe38Zi3rB5NhHfxJWTADUL9Sb-qZVv4BPoQiIXX05sHDLmx9zQwJwm1mTk7QoMkk1POlkX8dcvejtoYFjvd0ilW2pyoQ8/s1600/Butterfly_Emerging-006a.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 166px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikDlkWNi4fXlvgBCLFCaLQjVThRG9ggQQ-H-s0j89nNNcK6eCe38Zi3rB5NhHfxJWTADUL9Sb-qZVv4BPoQiIXX05sHDLmx9zQwJwm1mTk7QoMkk1POlkX8dcvejtoYFjvd0ilW2pyoQ8/s200/Butterfly_Emerging-006a.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5514006519972635858" /></a><br /><br />Once upon a time I rode a horse, and then a plane, and then a train. I was fleeing my former habitation and needed to do so by several different means. Those fierce enemies I was compelled to outwit and outrun were both clever and brash, and it was all I could do to stand against them, but I have a fighting spirit. I’m glad to say, it prevailed. <br /><br />I arrived relatively unscathed in New York City, the land of autonomy. Sadly, autonomy only works for people who trust themselves, and I don’t. I have outrun many a foe, but it’s me that I’m really trying to elude. It’s hard enough to get away from others, but it takes particular planning and route-devising to escape oneself.<br /> <br />I came here in the first place because I needed to escape, and in fact, I’m still escaping every day. The train is the last means of transport I mentioned because it is the way I continue to devise my daily getaways. Each morning at precisely 7:15AM I leave my Brooklyn apartment to walk 1 ½ blocks to the train. Thirty minutes later I arrive at the Lexington Ave. 77th St. station and begin my five-minute westward walk to arrive at my library by nearly 7:50AM, depending on the reliability of the train’s schedule, not mine. <br /><br />I may give the impression that I am merely heading to work in a very old library for young scholars, but actually, I am a hopeless runaway. It’s compulsive. I run and get lost and recover myself only to keep trying to get lost again. <br /><br />I find I am only really happy during those brief moments of unbridled athleticism and acrobatics when I can’t find me anywhere in sight, and I finally have room to see others, to take in the ideas and joys and concerns other people express in their intense old-man conversations, Peruvian flute street music, paper-cut silhouette art, or sidewalk break-dancing. I am suddenly wide enough to hold it all and let the vibrations they cause rattle me down to the soles of my shoes. It always has made the back of my neck tingle when that happens: those moments when I’m gone. <br /><br />But there are other moments when I feel incredibly locked in and bolted down, unable to defy gravity. I get stuck rehearsing all my disappointments with different failed enterprises, and I think, “God! Why is it so easy for everyone to suck up mediocrity and label it glamour?” <br /><br />I feel the weight of all I’ve tried to practice at and shine and exude. Then, under that heaviness, I crouch low and whine, “what is the point of learning difficult things when it’s not what people care about because it’s so much less snazzy than rap stars and iPhone apps and American Apparel and TV talent competitions?” And I’m left wondering why I suddenly really feel the need to change my hair and wear skinnier jeans.<br /><br />I didn’t arrive here empty handed and expect the city to deliver happiness into my lap. I really worked at finding something to legitimize my self-expression—to trick myself into thinking there really is such a thing in the first place. I have a Master’s degree and I’m still in my twenties. Does that make me ahead of the game? Not anymore? Well am I at least in the game? Barely? Well that explains why I’m so out of breath. <br /><br />I walk past a shabby but bustling bakery and think, “I could do that. I could be really good at baking delicious morsels to titillate the masses during every breakfast rush and lunch break.” Would that be a fulfilling use of my gifts? Well I would re-decorate for one thing. This shop on the corner of Lex is less than eye-catching. It needs more blues and softer assorted materials draping its windows instead of stark maroon polyester. <br /><br />Now listen to me. I’m talking and thinking like a true artisan decorator. Well after all, interior design was my first imagined vocation when asked during those elementary school “career days.” Maybe my MA would lend sufficient credibility if I tried to land a job with a design magazine. That way, I could help rich people bolster and defend their aesthetic sensibilities, and—I’d hate myself. <br /><br />Well hoodiddily, now that I’ve passed the bakery and am approaching the garden nursery, I don’t care so much anymore anyway. <br /><br />I’ve moved on to plants, yet another interest, maybe even passion of mine (mind you, “passion” is a word I throw around far too liberally). I am living in the city, but my time in more rural settings fostered my familiarity and folkloric “expertise” on plant varieties and habitats. Could I possibly lend a hand amid the cool foliage hanging under the awning? Maybe dawn an apron and duck around misting branches and dusting leaves till they glisten with a tropic luster? I would be good at it. Like baking. So why not? <br /><br />The fact is, I am a misfit librarian determined not to be boxed in by a singular career. Which helps explain why, in the afternoons, I give part of my time to helping children with crafty pursuits like crochet and knitting. So to top it all off, should my evenings be spent pruning?<br /><br />By the time I arrive at the library, my head is jammed full of just what I despise, and what I planned to flee from all morning: my ego. I am overloading my brain with a ridiculous heap of eventualities that have no bearing on making this particular day real, tangible, and gratifying. <br /><br />Instead, I mindlessly plow through people at the crosswalk, and I am cross. And look, see? I am making them cross too. We are all cross with each other as we cross in front of the cross taxi drivers carrying the cross people across town. And we all sigh audibly and clench our fists because we can’t think of anything worse than each other. As long as I fail to break out and escape myself, I see everybody through the bars of my own cage, and all I can do is grrrrowl at them all. <br /><br />But now listen. I’m standing still on the far corner, and here comes the wind, and there is the child laughing while her skirt and pigtails billow, and there are the tiny pink flowers planted in the Park Ave. median for nobody in particular. And I can see myself shrinking down to the size of the butterfly hovering over those tiny pink flowers. And my self is so tiny I could fit on that butterfly’s back, and let the wind catch us, and there we go, up above the apartment windows, and no matter how hard you squint against the morning sun, you can’t quite make us out because we are gone. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQmhqT83mCcxLUvoGzD1mRlhWco8C1QFpLQ_hxotHV7f7j3Ip6cioDxcCHI_QUeuqSKxugNRH8j234LVch7o7mSDUPsx7Onk7OTXoSH3uPayq9NSJHzgqKgy9iFmYdYqa2DJmWIzfuSGU/s1600/butterfly-city.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 305px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQmhqT83mCcxLUvoGzD1mRlhWco8C1QFpLQ_hxotHV7f7j3Ip6cioDxcCHI_QUeuqSKxugNRH8j234LVch7o7mSDUPsx7Onk7OTXoSH3uPayq9NSJHzgqKgy9iFmYdYqa2DJmWIzfuSGU/s320/butterfly-city.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5514006799947028018" /></a>Whitnihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05137647309742069582noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7441316165482478648.post-49522573997168479072010-07-30T19:52:00.000-07:002010-07-30T21:17:20.306-07:00Rocking Horse Ranting<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg28-Be0RYhV9kI3aH3jZUQXtWTu7N4WediyQGlidEHy2imN5QN9QPl-HCoMe5OnorvzhO3ydsuV_c1VPGZrDm7zNjOHUq6Sdx3gNwAMEnmDu6L2Vg8sVSgIFtAfoQit3H_VVEr47-UMwg/s1600/homehip.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg28-Be0RYhV9kI3aH3jZUQXtWTu7N4WediyQGlidEHy2imN5QN9QPl-HCoMe5OnorvzhO3ydsuV_c1VPGZrDm7zNjOHUq6Sdx3gNwAMEnmDu6L2Vg8sVSgIFtAfoQit3H_VVEr47-UMwg/s200/homehip.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5499913681565579794" /></a><br /><br />How Do the Hipsters Feel?<br /><br />Instead of feeling overwhelmed and under-dressed around my colorful new neighbors in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, I've chosen my favorite course of action: pondering. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIR9JzQsHHG7Cteao2B0emFs5cbg_LzPvl-yabME8D1l4Au7W_zpof12ByDyXozv0o-JP1zTGTKG2QrH_9nFRlQEUjUoKM3pFsxaSEAyj50q_eOLkXit-wRPqmytXknMfIFVl2FVhNKfg/s1600/P5230168.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIR9JzQsHHG7Cteao2B0emFs5cbg_LzPvl-yabME8D1l4Au7W_zpof12ByDyXozv0o-JP1zTGTKG2QrH_9nFRlQEUjUoKM3pFsxaSEAyj50q_eOLkXit-wRPqmytXknMfIFVl2FVhNKfg/s200/P5230168.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5499905319481614434" /></a><br /><br />I have given these scene-baskers some serious thought over the past twenty-four hours (arguably not enough time to concoct a serious value judgment, but I'm going for fast hard first-impressions here, so bear with me). And I have decided that I am here for my egregiously hip brothers and sisters. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSoKBjwiY6waMPajtm6KrxWRd5JnniGnEBYUMJUFGxKFlxk4STPfISgNTbf3kfKyN8YNJa0my8tmZFXmTg0X94eSzsvYikdKtkLfFFoYi1ltAFBZeJMV1765MZBRRmosPJ30Dxvi9hDOg/s1600/hipsters-1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 165px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSoKBjwiY6waMPajtm6KrxWRd5JnniGnEBYUMJUFGxKFlxk4STPfISgNTbf3kfKyN8YNJa0my8tmZFXmTg0X94eSzsvYikdKtkLfFFoYi1ltAFBZeJMV1765MZBRRmosPJ30Dxvi9hDOg/s200/hipsters-1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5499914643375042466" /></a><br /><br />I present myself as a supporter and defender of twenty-something (and secretly thirty-something) up-starters everywhere...those snug-jeaned, plaid-shirted, designer tattooed, somber-faced, kind-of-still-kids young adults resisting shopping mall fashion and setting the break-neck pseudo-vintage pace Urban Outfitters is forever trying to keep up with. I like you. Heck, I may just be one of you in a way, and that makes me happy because we're a colorful bunch of people with all different religions, skin-tones, amounts of money in the bank, and critical mass of chips on our shoulders, but the thing we all share is tastefulness. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx9ymy6jmvn5uP8-FACS0uHR2aFjjJK4WjUVgRmJlVa8Pco7GBO9oiD-NdZxjpASQNQUDM48VQaO4uLdXQFCoKUpl96D1GRFVEC9gg7nqO3vZ9ulqbGMLKll_WNaSsUT35GaFT92E5pnE/s1600/hipsters_060807.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx9ymy6jmvn5uP8-FACS0uHR2aFjjJK4WjUVgRmJlVa8Pco7GBO9oiD-NdZxjpASQNQUDM48VQaO4uLdXQFCoKUpl96D1GRFVEC9gg7nqO3vZ9ulqbGMLKll_WNaSsUT35GaFT92E5pnE/s200/hipsters_060807.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5499914263735468866" /></a><br /><br />In our headlong rush to eschew pop culture, we've transformed it and made it infinitely more nuanced and inclusive. Hipsters. Who are they/we?? Is that a derogatory term? It feels like one, but I guess it's the hipster in me trying to over-analyze my generation and pick a hyper-critical fight. <br /><br />Basically, it doesn't matter. I like where I live, and I like the grand display of young urbanites who are bound and determined (for better or worse) to put as much energy into their fashion as they do their philosophies. Bless their/our hip little hearts.Whitnihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05137647309742069582noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7441316165482478648.post-66631718741493135202010-04-07T22:21:00.000-07:002010-04-07T22:44:53.062-07:00Rocking Horse Rhymes<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.gutenberg.org/files/13619/13619-h/images/ljv5-5-th.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 299px; height: 400px;" src="http://www.gutenberg.org/files/13619/13619-h/images/ljv5-5-th.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />Fighting for light<br /><br />When Mr. Milton sat to write<br />his epics, did he have to fight<br />tradition or the obligation<br />to create, or further reputation?<br /><br />Or did he see by inner light-<br />more vivid visions than his sight<br />allowed for in its degradation—<br />and daily digest inspiration?<br /><br />It seems unjust to expect night<br />to yield to sudden noonday’s bright<br />exposure without hesitation.<br />We, daily, earn illumination.Whitnihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05137647309742069582noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7441316165482478648.post-48193422954821908132010-03-16T10:47:00.000-07:002010-03-16T10:51:16.140-07:00Rocking Horse Rhymes<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG1K_A7n9yjIxsoHJtEyE0YueDHRIH5M9G4MZ7qk8nV8g44W4ZdBf2zihdV08P-h0VaYx9ePsnym6WGgz0jEB3AIuQK4Yi0QYUo9wVS72g0gfgZiIWepUQlsgGur_ebTrleylklPPOXJM/s1600-h/4114_17.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 105px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG1K_A7n9yjIxsoHJtEyE0YueDHRIH5M9G4MZ7qk8nV8g44W4ZdBf2zihdV08P-h0VaYx9ePsnym6WGgz0jEB3AIuQK4Yi0QYUo9wVS72g0gfgZiIWepUQlsgGur_ebTrleylklPPOXJM/s200/4114_17.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5449290606504672194" /></a><br /><br />For the Gentleman in the Champagne Mercedes<br /><br />When you honked the horn of your fancy car<br />Because you were in a hurry to turn right,<br />And the woman jogging across the road<br />Was in your way,<br />I was watching.<br /><br />I saw your face grow read <br />As you shook your head in disbelief.<br />Honking was your way of reminding the world<br />How much your time is worth.<br /><br />The young woman in her blue running shorts, <br />Sweaty blond hair clinging to her neck beneath her ponytail,<br />Strode across the road in front of your bumper<br />And stepped cheerfully onto the opposite curb <br />Among the dandelions.<br /><br />Your horn seemed too loud and too late.<br />She turned at its noise<br />And laughed at you.Whitnihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05137647309742069582noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7441316165482478648.post-63579326804664530022010-02-24T11:17:00.001-08:002010-02-24T11:36:54.289-08:00Rocking Horse RantingWho controls the people who control everything? <br />Why is there no check or balance on greed at the end of the day?<br />Why is it always up to someone else to censor which art gets heard or seen?<br />Why are those people so pigheaded and always, inevitably, too late?<br />Why is the only answer given for these questions a pedantic, "life's not fair."<br />Does anyone else have a problem with this answer?<br />Is that really what we're all willing to settle for?<br />I guess a better plan just hasn't been thought up yet,<br />But I, for one, am sick of auditioning<br />Trying out for the team<br />Being led to believe whatever they feel like telling me.<br />I'm sick of it always being up to other people.<br />I'm glad all the big industries are failing.<br />I'm glad new technology makes it easy for anyone to put out whatever they want.<br />But there's still a gauntlet to be run, as far as I can see.<br />It's still not <span style="font-style:italic;">really</span> a free-for-all.<br />Maybe we need someone controlling everything--for quality control<br />But I want quality control for the quality control because it's gone to their heads.<br />And they're still screwing us all.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit_ikKtjwvJrfyf7nYimYt40RCg6TF7fgvJjSn_fHWONfCNTlVWyge4P0wUmFdowihCkO6MoksYADOohw_0UdFG4WcIaeqcT5lWcha0PQ3ZDu1RWKHxKxTxofXpvwUL3Qj-bi99yS_t4A/s1600-h/scream.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit_ikKtjwvJrfyf7nYimYt40RCg6TF7fgvJjSn_fHWONfCNTlVWyge4P0wUmFdowihCkO6MoksYADOohw_0UdFG4WcIaeqcT5lWcha0PQ3ZDu1RWKHxKxTxofXpvwUL3Qj-bi99yS_t4A/s320/scream.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5441896154434162898" /></a>Whitnihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05137647309742069582noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7441316165482478648.post-74760839402448185032010-02-19T20:10:00.000-08:002010-02-19T20:14:35.961-08:00Rocking Horse RhymesNew Poem by Whitni Roche:<br /><br />Riff-raff in the Park<br /><br />While riding around the lake<br />I take in what I see and pass by<br />a homeless guy—stopping to share.<br />I watch him tear some bread for geese--<br />His fight for peace begins here.<br />I fear those geese as tall as my waist,<br />trying to taste anything that moves.<br />What would improve this urban retreat?<br />A smoother street? Less geese? No riff-raff with bread?<br />Instead—we steer our bikes away from cars;<br />This park is ours even if built with others in mind<br />a fancier kind—the public deed<br />favors the need of people like him,<br />as well as the whim of people like me.<br />Parks are free for the riff-raff.<br />I am the riff-raff.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggbWsB68JEjt2WJto2v1k4KSEM7uiJGYvj-m6wio5lejKXYdRhBCK53HeJhYwGc8ziJNp8YwqslJmT-83kzFNviJJsdlotZ7kqJslHGO0wicHxtplLO37dOVEfGw55TCJ9ngKZrfhoSAI/s1600-h/2238176176_1e4dfe6a92.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggbWsB68JEjt2WJto2v1k4KSEM7uiJGYvj-m6wio5lejKXYdRhBCK53HeJhYwGc8ziJNp8YwqslJmT-83kzFNviJJsdlotZ7kqJslHGO0wicHxtplLO37dOVEfGw55TCJ9ngKZrfhoSAI/s320/2238176176_1e4dfe6a92.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5440174105475274530" /></a>Whitnihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05137647309742069582noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7441316165482478648.post-34312128354000639352010-02-19T19:39:00.000-08:002010-02-19T20:10:24.878-08:00The Rollicking Rocking Horse Happening Hangout HeraldREVIEW of the Black Dub Show at Spaceland, Silverlake--last Sat. night 2/13<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ9Do0oc3BYrwpJEFCz5RBC-mGb8mtpXsmyRR1LnrV9p4VJULaJ19vtfa3uz9mKuMbRjX-mo22IPF4hRMD8UFTJX8yDHXB5oON4PHQ-eSos8TTOky9JWF-9jEiG4-OiTOckawTUYUE79A/s1600-h/6a01116901308f970c0120a6626d99970c-800wi.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ9Do0oc3BYrwpJEFCz5RBC-mGb8mtpXsmyRR1LnrV9p4VJULaJ19vtfa3uz9mKuMbRjX-mo22IPF4hRMD8UFTJX8yDHXB5oON4PHQ-eSos8TTOky9JWF-9jEiG4-OiTOckawTUYUE79A/s320/6a01116901308f970c0120a6626d99970c-800wi.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5440169589058627970" /></a><br /><br />A soulful backyard garden of sounds that defied stereotype, last Saturday night’s Black Dub show at Spaceland in Silverlake surprised and delighted those of us lucky enough to be in the audience. Legendary producer Daniel Lanois’ latest project, Black Dub is just starting out on its debut tour after recording. The band blends Trixie Whitley’s gut-punching vocals (gut-punching in the most beautiful way possible) with Lanois’s grittier classic rock harmonies, tempered by the sweetest drumming and bass-lines that only two true-blue Southerners could conjure: Brian Blade and Daryl Johnson from Shreveport, LA and Memphis, TN respectively. <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitNzb1tjCBVoBTBwTKQIBTtIHjcXuFhdoTcwF2JB0zR2c3RohCAwbVz3DEivQQ_mkTPR-u2eHomX_yD9HbrDeVhgJveqZKtXzyBUVsl3aw37VRhIHwVJrgtbml9qR0pbMyzD_GVKn26vI/s1600-h/6a01116901308f970c0120a6626d1f970c-800wi.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitNzb1tjCBVoBTBwTKQIBTtIHjcXuFhdoTcwF2JB0zR2c3RohCAwbVz3DEivQQ_mkTPR-u2eHomX_yD9HbrDeVhgJveqZKtXzyBUVsl3aw37VRhIHwVJrgtbml9qR0pbMyzD_GVKn26vI/s320/6a01116901308f970c0120a6626d1f970c-800wi.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5440169837145211810" /></a><br />The band played such a tasty, well-timed set that I completely forgot all reference to time and space, and the crowd was so unanimously transported that the good vibes spread to even the most cynical LA hipster, and everyone swayed along all the way through the encore. Because each song was so artfully placed in connection to the others, creating that sustained music-induced euphoria every performer strives for, it is difficult to single out any one highlight from among the general high of the concert as a whole. But if I had to choose a moment of concentrated soul-love, it would be during Lanois’ and Whitley’s stark, haunting harmonies in the chorus to “Silverado.” If those two could do their singing from the mountaintop setting the lyrics invoke, the emotion they push into every note during that song would be enough to send a rocky avalanche sliding down from the San Gabrielles, and probably set off the big San Andreas earthquake everyone’s predicting. It was raw musical power. <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK-pw6morDQoB87Re0Ctt-B_JyVBHCF5bhc-6g1rn65pUUY5TP_WJvGpCofVf_O9jE_ORthuw3m39P96h6PUK-H_qnDnLid-4vaonEQ-AI0UN5h3HDnQ7wIOW5Hvd1qfxcH95zaMiMeuU/s1600-h/081117082239-large.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK-pw6morDQoB87Re0Ctt-B_JyVBHCF5bhc-6g1rn65pUUY5TP_WJvGpCofVf_O9jE_ORthuw3m39P96h6PUK-H_qnDnLid-4vaonEQ-AI0UN5h3HDnQ7wIOW5Hvd1qfxcH95zaMiMeuU/s320/081117082239-large.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5440171884244933186" /></a><br />The night ended with a slow acoustic build beginning with Lanois and climbing to the perfected synergy this newly-formed group has so rapidly achieved. They left us wanting more. Which is high praise from one such as I who is not so big on the typical ego-massaging encores squeezed out by so many songwriting bands playing smallish venues around town. The set was like a summer rainstorm in the Southern regions that inspire so much of Lanois’ music: it began with a few gentle drops, slowly gaining force and volume for about an hour’s worth of refreshment, then, before our boots had time to get soggy—it petered back to a gentle sprinkle of acoustic showers, sending us all off to bed with gentle dripping resonating in our ears. <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUJ1tTTVA6cWjz4vhOBkXEx1TCSE0UOhro1bmp5hfc_6vpdwws1EZmcnTRpCKcfqQh4eGsbkBv7bFbA9Bp5JmAgBr3837Iu7aqwAIjs5pQnMGPMbAJV3ZOMp5VjMH9TBh2f_03iUxCQVo/s1600-h/Rain.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUJ1tTTVA6cWjz4vhOBkXEx1TCSE0UOhro1bmp5hfc_6vpdwws1EZmcnTRpCKcfqQh4eGsbkBv7bFbA9Bp5JmAgBr3837Iu7aqwAIjs5pQnMGPMbAJV3ZOMp5VjMH9TBh2f_03iUxCQVo/s320/Rain.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5440172860379603618" /></a><br />The Rocking Horse gives this show a 5 o’clock shadow for rustic charm, a crisp dill pickle for satisfaction, and a shining silver horse-shoe for gut impact. And while we’re at it, “Spaceland” gets our Flying Saucer Award for classy ticket-sale limitation—you just can’t pack ‘em in like sardines and expect musical magic. Thanks for the space to dance “SPACE” land! HA.Whitnihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05137647309742069582noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7441316165482478648.post-45683337156198561542010-02-03T11:40:00.000-08:002010-02-03T11:56:10.736-08:00Rocking Horse Record Review<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijhg863noofR8nn-EyJShOnq21CMbFcfekTs_LBYLWgNn7hyIQz29uEP67jBBEwODaQJFa3V6UwNSgPHoBhVg17nXnXj6adEUWaIy9JP6PwVVM6liMSQ0gyYcqm1fpPDm7TbcOIi-Xfus/s1600-h/images-1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 116px; height: 116px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijhg863noofR8nn-EyJShOnq21CMbFcfekTs_LBYLWgNn7hyIQz29uEP67jBBEwODaQJFa3V6UwNSgPHoBhVg17nXnXj6adEUWaIy9JP6PwVVM6liMSQ0gyYcqm1fpPDm7TbcOIi-Xfus/s320/images-1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5434107706914382338" /></a><br /><br />The Kings of Convenience have a new album out called, “Declaration of Dependence.” Which is also the title of a Christian-themed song by Dove acclaimed CCM superstar, Steven Curtis Chapman. I don’t know if the Kings of Convenience are aware of this, but I have a feeling the Norwegian duo may be inclined to quietly snicker about it if they found out. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIGNsSI65KPw02MGxhCCFHcWad8KCcBfBeoB8vOjwNiIHJeqMmNzlpYiKnK7S1XZS34hwm1TiD4FCwZzSXyr_h2q6SFX7LF0DZL3V0Uqf_TnEhAYKPayIX7LpmFcyBA8Qvcrqz4XC6HBM/s1600-h/images.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 127px; height: 95px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIGNsSI65KPw02MGxhCCFHcWad8KCcBfBeoB8vOjwNiIHJeqMmNzlpYiKnK7S1XZS34hwm1TiD4FCwZzSXyr_h2q6SFX7LF0DZL3V0Uqf_TnEhAYKPayIX7LpmFcyBA8Qvcrqz4XC6HBM/s320/images.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5434107711323233746" /></a><br /><br />I think this album <span style="font-style:italic;">sounds</span> like what I imagine it would <span style="font-style:italic;">feel</span> like to rollerblade along a beach in Southern California, then follow the trail as it magically leads into an undersea tunnel through the deepening Pacific, where the dolphins and jellyfish dance gently overhead as I continue skating toward Catalina island, where I emerge inside a luminous cavern filled with phosphorescent moss formations. In other words, I have fun listening to it. <br /><br />From the Rocking Horse Record Review this album receives a pinwheel for musical styling, a razor blade for truth, and a mermaid’s kiss for creative whimsy.Whitnihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05137647309742069582noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7441316165482478648.post-40143289386093174412010-02-01T21:26:00.000-08:002010-02-01T21:41:04.604-08:00The Rollicking Rocking Horse Happening Hangout Herald<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFGXhgkcQ-50U2SrXMgn9iTsm2EHYR6f5mN14k6jeWcM7QBCtzSEjSL8KuPfIgZ5oSNsffDzFibN4dwFz00un_Xm71Ubx4PMAe9HS1P0we_weUjOY-gsRqPcjxDBzyghHvpy6-DHpwzsA/s1600-h/running-with-the-night.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFGXhgkcQ-50U2SrXMgn9iTsm2EHYR6f5mN14k6jeWcM7QBCtzSEjSL8KuPfIgZ5oSNsffDzFibN4dwFz00un_Xm71Ubx4PMAe9HS1P0we_weUjOY-gsRqPcjxDBzyghHvpy6-DHpwzsA/s320/running-with-the-night.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5433515486682541650" border="0"></a><br />This week I recall....<br /><br />“Running with the Night” at The Adventist Speakeasy<br /><br /> Last Tuesday, January 12, there was an excellent gathering of ladies and gentlemen from around Riverside, California, to sit in a cozy living room and hear amazing new music from local geniuses. The event was conceptualized by local artist and curator, Lee Tusman, who also played some of his i-phone mixes as part of the evening’s entertainment. This you had to see to believe. Lee wore a quilted poncho of sorts, while producing and dancing along to wild soundscapes projected from his i-phone through an old-fashioned boom box that served as his portable amp. <br /><br /> Before Lee, local songwriter and producer, Aaron Roche performed acoustic samplings from his new, fully orchestrated, soon-to-be-released album, “Plainspeak.” He even invited me, his dear wife, to join him on vocals for one of the folksier numbers. <br /><br /> The final act of the evening was an experimental guitar duo comprised of Monte Williams and Joe Hill of Spiderworks and Alien Ant Farm. They created an elegant layer-cake of sound ranging from mountain-music gentle to traffic-jam arresting. As they eventually rappelled themselves down from their wall of sound, the rapt audience stirred gently, looked around at one another in the dimly lit room, then gathered their things to head back out into the night. <br /><br /> Rumor has it, this won’t be the last we hear from “Running with the Night.” It’s a series coming to a neighborhood, street corner, or warehouse near you.Whitnihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05137647309742069582noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7441316165482478648.post-77637494268602489542010-01-30T22:48:00.000-08:002010-02-01T21:38:08.657-08:00Bully Book Review: "Why I oughtta MAKE you read....."<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimtf9dBRVuFdJy2sU0NsYsvQH_wRCBjCWF8N6yIemJvDnL0zgLBpULVMTCxflGCPUeUX4wCHt3GTi3TCy0cJ5x2h3HiS2KyxmCltvbfta0_Ty_Qi7iGoQY9-pfW6I3TbeoEPvkbbFHPRQ/s1600-h/images.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 82px; height: 129px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimtf9dBRVuFdJy2sU0NsYsvQH_wRCBjCWF8N6yIemJvDnL0zgLBpULVMTCxflGCPUeUX4wCHt3GTi3TCy0cJ5x2h3HiS2KyxmCltvbfta0_Ty_Qi7iGoQY9-pfW6I3TbeoEPvkbbFHPRQ/s320/images.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5433516231990307314" /></a><br /><i>The Education of Little Tree</i> by: Forest Carter<br /><br />This is the book I have recommended to 3 different people this week, and that's saying something, since it has been 5 or 6 years since I last read it. It still lingers in my mind like the remembrance of a good, not embarrassingly intimate, yet cozy conversation with a dear friend. My husband, Aaron, finally got around to reading it, after my constant bullying, and even read one of the chapters aloud to me. Just one chapter brought back my unshakable sense of what a prize this book is. Just a warning to any naysayers out there: it is vulnerable to your naysaying both in title and opening...this book dazzles sloooowly. In order to savor the home-grown flavors of this story you have to be willing to walk along with the characters for a spell or two, as if you are on the Southern Appalachian mountain trails <i>with</i> Grandfather. Ok, I won't say anymore, for I fear I'm only going to scare off anyone already uncertain about the merits of a book with no readily apparent frills or thrills. Just READ IT...ok? Or I'll steal your lunch money.Whitnihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05137647309742069582noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7441316165482478648.post-39707828111235002392010-01-08T11:16:00.000-08:002010-01-08T11:30:50.275-08:00The Rocking Horse Manifesto<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMCnRzMBJbWkECx3KBccokHz9RvLAHdWOQSD5AApUgA2rbImOVjk3BLtJsXtSRyuIEIhAIlRTXJRCUsmC3iuneyHQ1wrDc8kgxtw_9ph5G1M_EZwIYva-Zkgaehc6WbM-e8osnlBnWMWc/s1600-h/P8030110.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMCnRzMBJbWkECx3KBccokHz9RvLAHdWOQSD5AApUgA2rbImOVjk3BLtJsXtSRyuIEIhAIlRTXJRCUsmC3iuneyHQ1wrDc8kgxtw_9ph5G1M_EZwIYva-Zkgaehc6WbM-e8osnlBnWMWc/s200/P8030110.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5424453646543661090" /></a><br />The Rocking Horse exists to bear witness to any and all artistic dealings and goings-on and general hubub that its writer, Whitni Roche, either initiates herself or discovers and finds compelling. It is a fact of said writer's life that she is a fated "jack-of-all-trades, and master-of-none." Although she will, in June 2010, be universally (or at least academically) recognized as a "Master" of English, she still feels uncomfortable with the notion of utter specificity. In light of the writer's condition, she cannot, though she would like to, seem to buckle down and focus purely on writing stories, poetry, books, comic strips, and the like...though she hodge-podgedly dapples with all of the above. Thus, The Rocking Horse provides a way to house various ideas on a multifarious range of subject-matter--all accessible to her friends and family with the click of a button (or touch of a screen--for all the fancy i-everything people). But if you lean in close, what follows amounts to ultra-secretive fine print about bigger and better plans for The Rocking Horse:<br /><br />Eventually The Rocking Horse could become a physical reality in the form of an older, multi-story building with one floor as a venue, another as a tea-shop/lending library/yoga studio/ fiber arts collective, and another as recording space. This is, of course, a far off dream--but in the meantime we'll just keep rocking along in cyber space.Whitnihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05137647309742069582noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7441316165482478648.post-16717313025638607052009-12-31T16:10:00.000-08:002009-12-31T16:26:19.681-08:00New Year New Decade New YORK<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://ancientstandard.com/images2/times-square-ball.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 298px; height: 423px;" src="http://ancientstandard.com/images2/times-square-ball.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />It's pretty cool being in the "world capitol" to ring in a new era. I am sad to be missing the best New Years event in Orlando--the Rossist Art Trade at the Copelands' place. But a chilled out Brooklyn party with a view of the Manhattan skyline for fireworks is a pretty good consolation prize. I think we may move here! Also, I don't know why I tend to forget how simple it is to hang out with family, listen to stories, eat Grandma's baked beans, and be grateful for holiday riches that don't really cost much, but are priceless. Also...I like snow but it will be great to get back home to CA tomorrow and eat a $.99 delicious fish taco and get 10 limes for a dollar at Maxi Foods (our local Mexican grocery store). <br /><br />To come in the near future on "The Rocking Horse":<br /><br />A visionary outline of "The Rocking Horse" manifesto<br />Recent photography endeavors by various artsy friends<br />A mini-online-museum-exhibit of things I've recently made with my own two hands<br />A list of cool, exceptional children worth getting inspired by<br />An essay on what I think about church (I like it by the way--)<br />A 3 part imaginary tale about life in 1950's Upstate NY<br />Whitni's top 2009 Booklist (and possibly Filmlist)<br />A Tribute to all things Riverside<br />A Sonnet referring to growing up in Orlando, FL circa 1990's<br />A true story on how Aaron Roche and Whitni McDonald ended up married (and loving it!)<br /><br />Stay POSTED!! and HAPPY NEW YEAR!!Whitnihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05137647309742069582noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7441316165482478648.post-43169868836486733172009-12-25T11:45:00.000-08:002009-12-25T11:59:42.012-08:00Upstate New York<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://theproduceplace.net/yahoo_site_admin/assets/images/P1020012.212164149.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 640px; height: 480px;" src="http://theproduceplace.net/yahoo_site_admin/assets/images/P1020012.212164149.JPG" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXYJqIEhCon6bwBlxqZ1opmeaRClr7NecqYBUnPIXDejSbhR8pkxmZt80EfU6-gV2kVNngV37R4nXK421NbrHWYC4-qeYIE4ItBdfjmyPfiTUVG2qEm5GIxMaTiKplDYoCU3fJaHN7Ygw/s1600-h/PC170276.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXYJqIEhCon6bwBlxqZ1opmeaRClr7NecqYBUnPIXDejSbhR8pkxmZt80EfU6-gV2kVNngV37R4nXK421NbrHWYC4-qeYIE4ItBdfjmyPfiTUVG2qEm5GIxMaTiKplDYoCU3fJaHN7Ygw/s320/PC170276.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419265861284933650" /></a><br />Here is the land of snow and old Roche and Fischer stories. Harbors are frozen and geese form noisy v-shapes criss-crossing the skies. The prayers Grandpa Roche prays are straight to the point. "For life, for food, for family, Lord, we thank you." And the turkey is on the table right next to Uncle Bill, even the family vegetarians venture a taste. It doesn't seem possible to have such a roaring fire in such a tiny living room, but Grandpa's furnace is a new, efficient model that he's proud of, although Grandma misses the way the old one looks. And even though I miss opening stockings on my parents' bed in Florida, the fire is something we actually need here, which is a nice change. Later, we'll go eat pie and root-beer floats with a million other cousins, aunts, and uncles, and probably toss a few snowballs at each others' faces. Merry Christmas from the little Roche-infested township of Union Springs, New York.Whitnihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05137647309742069582noreply@blogger.com0