Back to things that I Google...

and yes, I do know there are quite a few other search engines.

How to season a wok
What's the heat index of flax oil
Info on First Friday
The hours for The Cove
The hours for La Gloria
Local Paint Parks


I miss my brother.

Regression

• Regression (psychology): a defensive reaction to some unaccepted impulses
• Regression analysis: a statistical technique for estimating the relationships among variables.

Multiple regressions have occurred in this longitudinal study. I mark the predictor variables' impact on this hard to quantify phenomenon:

a balmy Sunday afternoon, an intermittent breeze, the hum of a passing airplane, bird song in the abundant spring trees, and the faceless neighbors' (N=3) conversations on the other side of the wooden fence. As you pick weeds in our landlord's backyard, I sit on the deck at my laptop, searching for p values.

All subjects hear the distant sound of a train's whistle. You raised your head up from the weeds, faced the direction of the slow, sad sound. The female adult neighbor says, "Choo-Choo". The child responds, "Choo-Choo, Da Da". The male adult replies, "Choo-Choo... that's right."

You didn't turn to look at me, just bent over again, resuming your chore. Had our eyes met, we both would have shattered, scattered into the wind, into others' lives like the slow, sad train whistle. After a few minutes, you walked inside, shut the door behind you. I felt the unaccepted impulses to run, scream, cry, vomit....swear, apologize, lie, and promise. Heartbreak is still non-quantifiable.

The faceless neighbors' variables correlated well in their own longitudinal study. They have the vows, the house, and... the baby girl. We only have defensive reactions to our unaccepted impulses and mine are still in a constant dialectical drama. In our longitudinal study, I am responsible for 90% of our variance, but in today's snapshot...

"Choo-Choo, Da Da"
has the greatest impact on the non-observable, still non-quantifiable phenomenon known as heartbreak.
"Choo-Choo, Da Da"
is the strongest with Beta values that force us completely off the tracks.

We Are Eight

Thanks to a dear friend.... I googled a poem. Friends always bring poetry to our lives.
This poem is a sad one, but reminiscent of the bond of the beloved 8, appropriate for the birthday of the youngest of the beloved 8.

William Wordsworth
We Are Seven

-A Simple Child,
That lightly draws its breath,
And feels its life in every limb,
What should it know of death?

I met a little cottage Girl:
She was eight years old, she said;
Her hair was thick with many a curl
That clustered round her head.

She had a rustic, woodland air,
And she was wildly clad:
Her eyes were fair, and very fair;
--Her beauty made me glad.

"Sisters and brothers, little Maid,
How many may you be?"
"How many? Seven in all," she said
And wondering looked at me.

"And where are they? I pray you tell."
She answered, "Seven are we;
And two of us at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea.

"Two of us in the church-yard lie,
My sister and my brother;
And, in the church-yard cottage, I
Dwell near them with my mother."

"You say that two at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea,
Yet ye are seven!--I pray you tell,
Sweet Maid, how this may be."

Then did the little Maid reply,
"Seven boys and girls are we;
Two of us in the church-yard lie,
Beneath the church-yard tree."

"You run above, my little Maid,
Your limbs they are alive;
If two are in the church-yard laid,
Then ye are only five."

"Their graves are green, they may be seen,"
The little Maid replied,
"Twelve steps or more from my mother's door,
And they are side by side.

"My stockings there I often knit,
My kerchief there I hem;
And there upon the ground I sit,
And sing a song to them.

"And often after sun-set, Sir,
When it is light and fair,
I take my little porringer,
And eat my supper there.

"The first that died was sister Jane;
In bed she moaning lay,
Till God released her of her pain;
And then she went away.

"So in the church-yard she was laid;
And, when the grass was dry,
Together round her grave we played,
My brother John and I.

"And when the ground was white with snow,
And I could run and slide,
My brother John was forced to go,
And he lies by her side."

"How many are you, then," said I,
"If they two are in heaven?"
Quick was the little Maid's reply,
"O Master! we are seven."

"But they are dead; those two are dead!
Their spirits are in heaven!"
'Twas throwing words away; for still
The little Maid would have her will,
And said, "Nay, we are seven!"

Mary Bonner

"I know not how to tell thee who I am. My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself, because it's an enemy to thee."                        - William Shakespeare

My first tomato...adorable!

This morning NPR interviewed Jack White’s wife about her new album. Do you know Jack White? He’s an interesting rocker of White Stripes, but I pictured the lead singer of White Zombie until I googled them just now. Curses! I ruined my morning visualization of the lead singer of White Zombie and a younger version of Carre Otis.

No, I’m going to stick with my original version. Anyway, his wife (whose name I can’t even remember and have learned my lesson about Googling everything) is a model/singer. She didn’t decide to start singing because of her husband’s career, she had been dabbling in it before and during her modeling. She was a cabaret singer, a back up singer for Robert Plant or Palmer… there I go again. Robert Plant sounds more likely, right? I’m working on my auditory processing skills and memorization. She has been harboring songs that she has written. She would release them once in a while around her home. Jack heard her and demanded that she stop being so self-conscious and start recording.

Here is the image that is stuck in my head this morning: She stated that there is an exquisite studio in their garden with musicians of all sorts traipsing in and out all day. I was supposed to be rich. Rich and eclectic. This is my garden. I can see the peacocks that we let roam the premises and smell the fragrant honeysuckles that creep along the vine-covered walls of the studio. I can see the wooden swing that hangs from one of our enormous oak trees. There are also weeping willows whose boughs sweep along our cobblestone paths near our roses and azaleas. One favorite oak tree bows to let my earth-stained children climb. They’re laughing, of course. And on the shaded veranda, on the table where there is a pitcher of lemonade and a bowl of citrus fruits, and a loaf of fresh nutty bread, a worn wooden cutting board, and a dull knife... I write. I have all the time in the world to play with my children, the sounds of the studio as our soundtrack, and to write. Perhaps I would sit there and write about the life of a teacher who lives in the suburbs of San Antonio.

Traipsing. I want to traipse with the artists in our garden.

Monet's Weeping Willow