
This video demonstration of painting via the marbeling process is absolutely incredible, even if you are not a Van Gogh or art fan:
https://www.facebook.com/garipayart/videos/10154280182523921/

This video demonstration of painting via the marbeling process is absolutely incredible, even if you are not a Van Gogh or art fan:
https://www.facebook.com/garipayart/videos/10154280182523921/
The prompt word for the weekly photo challenge was “Nostalgia.’
All of these photos were taken on Prince Edward Island, Canada.
“Normal has an extraordinary glow of comfort when things are turning to shit. Normal is your mother’s hand on your cheek. Normal is the blanket of your youth pulled up to your neck, your head deep in billowy pillows that only this morning seemed due for replacement. Normal is precious, rich, unique, a reward for suffering long or short.
When something terrible happens, we want normal. It might be just one fine thing that is normal while all around cascades terrible, freakish, unbelievable things but if this one normal thing can occur, then we can settle down, rest, and stop careening around, a BB in a bare room.
This morning’s paper detailed the criticism aimed at President Obama for going about his normal schedule in light of the plane shot down over Ukraine and the ever-ratcheted up conflict between Israel and Palestine. He should be at the White House, act like a Commander in Chief…”
This is an excerpt from an excellent excellent piece about how to combat the manifold ills of the world by stubbornly exercising normalcy. Will Durant has made the same argument, but this modern day consideration of the matter is succinctly and intelligently written by Jan Wilberg, as is the norm in her award-winning blog, Red’s Wrap. To read the entire essay, go HERE. While you are there, you might as well “follow” her. You won’t be sorry.
“Graceful” is today’s prompt word.
A Passing Grace
Where is the grace in our swift world?
Does it lie hidden, obscurely curled
In younger limb or nimbler spine,
in movement smooth and gesture fine?
As I pondered over this,
I started to feel hunger’s hiss,
so fed the dogs their morning meat,
then turned my mind to what I’d eat.
I piled my bowl with bran and berries
and when it came to choice of dairies?
Ice cream if I must be truthful.
(My eating habits, at least, are youthful.)
I headed for the dining room
and then—a crash and solid boom
as I went down with flail and swish,
having stepped in Frida’s dish.
I landed flat—leg, arm and head.
As for the bowl? The bowl is dead.
As it exploded in dust and shard,
berries, cream and bran hit hard
and efficiently dispersed themselves
o’er floor and cabinets and shelves
as I lay moaning on the floor
with swelling ankle and what’s more—
a skinned up arm and throbbing knee—
bemoaning what was wrong with me.
Where is the grace in our swift world?
Does it lie hidden, obscurely curled
In younger limb—or nimbler spine?
It’s clear it is not lodged in mine!
For whatever other talents I’ve got,
when it comes to “graceful,” I am not.
Here are the graceful creatures I had intended to write about: