From Qwerty to quirky

Confessed to friend Bob last night over dinner that my typing was not good for my pottery.

In short, the habitual, differential strength of my finger pressure from being a (rather poor) typist, means that I butcher my pots when throwing on the wheel. When I accommodate to pottery, I then reverse all the letters when I resume typing.

Hmmm. What psychologists term negative transfer. But because it is part of the unverbalised and habitual features of my interactions with matter, it will take a while to become mobile and fluid in moving from domain to domain.

Bob had an elan: you'll move more readily from QWERTY to quirky.

He's a cool dude. Love it.

Diorissi
xx

SSSSnake: This image from Janaki from her recent trip, 

Klammheimliche Freude

Does anyone know in which publication Heinrich Boll used this phrase? I'd be grateful to learn if this phrase is in general use in Germany. I read it in an essay of Boll's back in '85. I've found two articles using it on google, but no links to Boll.

Half of her isn't even mine, says Nina, but I did create the image 

In the spirit of Halloween 

getting the right perpsective on end of semester 

Invitations make me think

I was writing to invite a friend to join, and I worked out what blogs might be. I found myself saying of the blog that it exists because there are people that are far from me - either geographically, or because I don't manage to have with them that whimsical daily sharing that I love.

Diorissi
xxx

Taom - a favourite poem

The unexpected tide,
the great wave,
uncontained,
breasts the rock,
overwhelms the heart,
in spring
or winter.
Surfacing from a fading language,
the word comes when needed.
A dark sound surges and ebbs,
its accuracy steadying the heart.
Certain kernels of sound
reverberate like seasoned timber,
unmuted truths of a people's winters,
stirrings of a thousand different springs.
There are small unassailable words
that diminish caesars,
territories of the voice
that intimate across death and generation
how a secret was imparted,
that first articulation,
when the vowel was caught
between a strong and a tender consonant,
when someone, in anguish,
made a green and mortal sound
that lived until now,
a testimony
to waves succumbed to
and survived.
---Moya Cannon