A quick sketch of my outfit today -
sometimes it's just what you need when there is no photographer around. :)
Tuesday, August 16, 2016
Thursday, August 11, 2016
Sketchbook: Russian Beauty
I did a bit of sketching while I was on vacation in Oregon. This was the most interesting one, I think. Inspired by Pinterest board Justin has with medieval costumes and stuff. I believe Slavic costumes are among the most intricate ones.
Wednesday, July 13, 2016
Tuesday, October 13, 2015
#62 Killer Samovar (Poem)
62
Write about a nonsense, anything you heard or read or came up with
yourself. (May Doctor Seuss help you!)
OPTIONAL: Work on your fiction and share.
The Killer
Based on true story
I went to the kitchen
I went to the kitchen
The house was asleep
But I wasn’t sleepy -
I fancied something to eat.
I know!
I should wait till next morning
When all are awake,
But I was so fortunate
To find me some cake.
I opened the fridge,
And there was my beauty.
Jump into my shoes -
What’d be your duty?
“Stop! Do not move!”
I heard a voice from the sky.
And before my response
Something heavy did fly.
It fell on me once,
It fell on me twice,
It fell on me head
The whole three times.
I could not believe it,
Once I was back on my feet.
You, the pot from my land!
How you dare to contradict?
I rubbed the knob on my head,
Put that heavy thing where it belong,
And stretched arms to my sweetie -
I could not wait for so long!
The vicious attacker
Flew and struck me once more.
"There’s nothing in the fridge,
Not for you, you moron!"
It fell on me twice,
It fell on me thrice,
It fell on me head
The whole four times.
I stayed down on the floor
Right there on my knees.
The house was asleep,
Not aware of my caprice.
"I want the darn cake!"
I cried (it was loud).
The Samovar stroke me again,
For crying outloud!
It fell on me twice,
It fell one me thrice,
It fell on me head
The whole five times.
Here in my coffin
I’m peacefully now.
In a pretty make up
And my favorite dress with a bow.
“She died for a cake,”
My obituary states.
I’m peaceful… I’m speechless…
The killer escapes.
It fell on me twice,
It fell on me thrice,
It fell on me head
The whole six times.
The moral of this story
Is simple as hell.
Don’t put heavy items of metal
On the upper shelf.
* * *
Monday, October 12, 2015
#59. Doctor
59
Write about a doctor – a real one, a fictional one, a good one, a bad or spooky one.
When I was in 4th grade, I was constantly playing doctors and hospitals and thought that I wanted to become a doctor when I grow up. I played doctors and hospitals because doctors and hospitals played a significant role in my early years - I spent a month in a hospital in 3rd grade, and another month in 4th grade, and for a few years I would be under doctor's constant care - once a month I had to get up early in the morning, rain, shine or snow, and before breakfast, when it's still dark outside and most people are still in their bed, go to a hospital to have a blood test. Was it fun? Nope. It never was fun. There is very little that I felt positive about those experiences. But I did have a couple of heroes, or rather she-roes. One was my pediatrician whom I thought was one of the most beautiful women in the world. She always looked beautiful with make-up and manicure, and her hair cut and colored in a fashionable manner. She was what we call these days a curvy woman, nobody would dare to call her fat. When she left (we had many house calls), she always left a trace of feminine perfume behind. She was kind to me. She probably was one of my first girl-crushes, in the most innocent ways - I wanted to be just like her. I remember that there was a very kind and friendly woman doctor in one of my prolonged stays in a hospital in Krasnoyarsk too. I remember her much less, not in all those little details, but she was very nice and made my stay much better. There was also a nurse who'd come to give me shots when bed rest was required. She had the kindest face and the gentlest hands - I never even felt the needle which many children (and some adults) are scared of. Her shots were light and unnoticeable. Three times a day, every day for weeks in a row, Natalya Aleksandrovna would visit me at home. Always with a kind smile, always with a kind word, and with a needle which I don't remember.
When I was in 4th grade, I was constantly playing doctors and hospitals and thought that I wanted to become a doctor when I grow up. I played doctors and hospitals because doctors and hospitals played a significant role in my early years - I spent a month in a hospital in 3rd grade, and another month in 4th grade, and for a few years I would be under doctor's constant care - once a month I had to get up early in the morning, rain, shine or snow, and before breakfast, when it's still dark outside and most people are still in their bed, go to a hospital to have a blood test. Was it fun? Nope. It never was fun. There is very little that I felt positive about those experiences. But I did have a couple of heroes, or rather she-roes. One was my pediatrician whom I thought was one of the most beautiful women in the world. She always looked beautiful with make-up and manicure, and her hair cut and colored in a fashionable manner. She was what we call these days a curvy woman, nobody would dare to call her fat. When she left (we had many house calls), she always left a trace of feminine perfume behind. She was kind to me. She probably was one of my first girl-crushes, in the most innocent ways - I wanted to be just like her. I remember that there was a very kind and friendly woman doctor in one of my prolonged stays in a hospital in Krasnoyarsk too. I remember her much less, not in all those little details, but she was very nice and made my stay much better. There was also a nurse who'd come to give me shots when bed rest was required. She had the kindest face and the gentlest hands - I never even felt the needle which many children (and some adults) are scared of. Her shots were light and unnoticeable. Three times a day, every day for weeks in a row, Natalya Aleksandrovna would visit me at home. Always with a kind smile, always with a kind word, and with a needle which I don't remember.
#58 Apples
58
Write about an apple. Do you love eating apples or apple deserts? Do you find apples symbolic for school, fall or anything else?
OPTIONAL: Work on your fiction and share.
I have to open my dark secret - I don't like apples, and never really liked them. There is one vivid memory from my childhood. I think I was not older than 6 - my father brought home an enormous red apple, which was fragrant, juicy and sweet. I was stunned - never before had I tried an apple that had such characteristics, and I have to say I still did not find another one quite like that. I also remember that when I spent a month in a hospital (if not longer), when I was 9 or 10, my parents would bring me home food and some treats (hospital food is never good, is it?), and there were apples which I did not like. But I guess at some point I tried to bite both apple and a cookie, a simple biscuit, and I really liked the taste. Only now I am aware of many apple deserts that are popular in different cuisines around the world - back then I did not know about then, and sort of by accident, or from lack of variety, I invented one. These days, I sometimes make apple deserts. Our family latest favorite desert is English Flapjack - which is not at all a pancake as Americans might think. Flapjack is made with oats, butter and brown sugar, sort of an oat bar really. In my recipe, it is made with apples, and I also add honey to it. It's one of my most favorite ways to eat apples.
Rise and Write 57-63. Week 9
I have to open my dark secret - I don't like apples, and never really liked them. There is one vivid memory from my childhood. I think I was not older than 6 - my father brought home an enormous red apple, which was fragrant, juicy and sweet. I was stunned - never before had I tried an apple that had such characteristics, and I have to say I still did not find another one quite like that. I also remember that when I spent a month in a hospital (if not longer), when I was 9 or 10, my parents would bring me home food and some treats (hospital food is never good, is it?), and there were apples which I did not like. But I guess at some point I tried to bite both apple and a cookie, a simple biscuit, and I really liked the taste. Only now I am aware of many apple deserts that are popular in different cuisines around the world - back then I did not know about then, and sort of by accident, or from lack of variety, I invented one. These days, I sometimes make apple deserts. Our family latest favorite desert is English Flapjack - which is not at all a pancake as Americans might think. Flapjack is made with oats, butter and brown sugar, sort of an oat bar really. In my recipe, it is made with apples, and I also add honey to it. It's one of my most favorite ways to eat apples.
Rise and Write 57-63. Week 9
#57. Gait
57
Write about a gait. Maybe you watched one particularly unusual stride from a street café recently, or write about your own gait.
OPTIONAL: Work on your fiction and share.
It's a little difficult to come back to daily writings after a long-ish period of silence. I compare our daily writings with the daily exercise routine before participating in a marathon. If you decide to run a long distance and all you've done before is exercising from time to time, almost randomly, you know that you need to work on your stamina first - you need to build up your strength little by little. This is what it is about - building a writer's stamina. Not about being perfect or genius in your every piece. It's all about work and about honesty with yourself.
Write about a gait, eh? The first thing that comes to my mind is a line from a popular 1980s Russian song which goes something like this... "With your flying gait, you came out of May, and disappear into the whiteness of January..." Yes, it's a love song, and it's about a short passionate affair, and it is sad, though disco music does not suggest sadness - it just never does. I always, as a little girl, imagined a beautiful young woman in a flying white dress and high heels, probably silver ones, her face not visible, but more beautiful than one can describe, disappearing into smoke and light. And it's all because of one phrase - "your flying gait". The power of word!
Rise and Write 57-63. Week 9
It's a little difficult to come back to daily writings after a long-ish period of silence. I compare our daily writings with the daily exercise routine before participating in a marathon. If you decide to run a long distance and all you've done before is exercising from time to time, almost randomly, you know that you need to work on your stamina first - you need to build up your strength little by little. This is what it is about - building a writer's stamina. Not about being perfect or genius in your every piece. It's all about work and about honesty with yourself.
Write about a gait, eh? The first thing that comes to my mind is a line from a popular 1980s Russian song which goes something like this... "With your flying gait, you came out of May, and disappear into the whiteness of January..." Yes, it's a love song, and it's about a short passionate affair, and it is sad, though disco music does not suggest sadness - it just never does. I always, as a little girl, imagined a beautiful young woman in a flying white dress and high heels, probably silver ones, her face not visible, but more beautiful than one can describe, disappearing into smoke and light. And it's all because of one phrase - "your flying gait". The power of word!
Rise and Write 57-63. Week 9
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