this is my friend Lisa who passed away just recently, yesterday would have been her 35th birthday~
she has left behind a sweet little girl, Taylor who is 10 years old...I wanted to share some websites that are holding fundraisers for a few different things...but the one I would love for you to check out, is funds that will go directly to sweet Taylor~the money will go for Taylor's upbringing and education. Any Bank of America will take donations for Love for Lisa. Some mail it to her direct address 5139 Trevi Place NW, Albuquerque, New Mexico 87114
Also I wanted to mention ...the art doll bodice that I have for auction on ebay....portions of the proceeds are being donated to Taylor~ http://www.velvet-rooms.com
http://www.active.com/donate/tntnmep/donese
http://www.caringbridge.org/wa/lisamcdermott/
According to the Santa Cruz News, the specimen was thirty-four feet long, its head bigger than a barrel, and its eyes bigger than an abalone. Also, it had a great oval shaped body with a neck seven feet long and thirty-six inches in diameter. Its body was covered with a coat of "semi-hair and feathers," and its mouth was like that of a duck's bill.
"In the Wake of Sea Serpents," Bernard Heuvelmans' authoritative book, discusses the monster in the following terms: "It was a strange creature, with a huge head longer than a man, tiny eyes and sort of duck's head beak. It was joined to the main body by a slender neck that seemed to be about thirty feet long."
We now come to perhaps the most intriguing description of them all, given by one of the most scientifically competent of them all. Mind the reader, not most competent, but one of the most competent. His name was E.L. Wallace, a man who served twice as president of the Natural History Society of British Columbia. He had the following to say about the animal...
My examination of the monster was quite thorough. I felt in its mouth and found it had no teeth. Its head is large and its neck fully twenty feet long. The body is weak and the tail is only three feet in length from the end of the backbone. These facts do away with the whale theory, as the backbone of a whale is far larger than any bone in this animal. Again, its tail is too weak for an animal of the deep and does away with that last version. "With a bill like it possesses, it must have lived on herbage . . . I would call it a type of plesiosaurus."
Check out more info on dinosaurs & other intriguinging questions & answers.... www.drdino.com
I wanted to share with you.... Keith Lo Bue read this to his "precious little group" at Artfest 2006, which touched many our our hearts...I noticed a few weepy eyes~
The ragpicker worked in silence among the stains and smells. His bag was swelling.
The city turned slowly on its left side, but the eyes of the house remained closed, and the bridges unclasped. The ragpicker worked in silence and never looked at anything that was whole. His eyes sought the broken, the worn, the faded, the fragmented. A complete object made him sad. What could one do with a complete object? Put it in a museum. Not touch it. But a torn paper, a shoelace without its double, a cup without saucer, that was stirring. They could be transformed, melted into something else. A twisted piece of pipe. Wonderful, this basket without a handle. Wonderful, this bottle without a stopper. Wonderful, the box without a key. Wonderful, half a dress, the ribbon off a hat, a fan with a feather missing. Wonderful, the camera plate without the camera, the lone bicycle wheel, half a phonograph disk. Fragments, in complete worlds, rags, detritus, the end of objects, and the beginning of transmutations...inside the shack rags. Rags for beds. Rags for chairs. Rags for tables. On the rags men, women, brats. Inside the women more brats. Fleas. Elbows resting on an old shoe. Head resting on a stuffed deer whose eyes hung loose on a string...
The brats sitting in the mud are trying to make an old shoe float like a boat. The woman cuts her thread with half a scissor. The ragpicker reads the newspaper with broken specs. The children go to the fountain with leady pails. When they lime back the pails are empty. The ragpickers crouch around the contents of their bags. Nails fall out. A roof tile. A signpost with letters missing...
The ragpickers are sitting around a fire made of broken shutters, window frames, artificial beards, chestnuts, horses tails, last year’s holy palm leaves. The cripple sits on the stump of his torso, with his stilts beside him. Out of the shacks and the gypsy carts come the women and the brats.
Can’t one throw anything away forever? I asked.
The ragpicker laughs out of the corner of his mouth, half a laugh, a fragment of a laugh, and they all begin to sing.
First came the breath of garlic which they hang like little red chinese lanterns in their shacks, the breath of garlic followed by a serpentine song:
Nothing is lost but it changes
Into the new string old string
In the new bag old bag
In the new pan old tin
In the new shoe old leather
In the new silk old hair
In the new hat old straw
In the new man the child
And the new not new
The new not new
The new not new.
Anaïs Nin (Ragtime, 1944
