To my adorable friends: always sing without fear.
Happy Holidays and may you have a New Year that embraces you with all the good things you desire.
I preferred to think that the tree had not been touched by human hands. Instead, I wanted to imagine a type of botanical, seasonal transition: that the green blood had crystallized into silver, gold and scarlet. And when the joy could no longer be hidden, the blossoms appeared in delicate explosions. Their thin metallic skins would shine with a clear complexion - in colors that were pure and inspirational.
It would be impossible not to pluck this Christmas fruit from the tree that dared to bloom in the late autumn, with winter peering over the Advent horizon like a mischievous child.
They would be irresistible. They would have a scent like an expectant kitchen, full of spices that had traveled through history from the misunderstood continents, the lands of Western fear, of medieval confusion. They would taste like snow falling from the festive clouds: a profusion of crystals blowing through the white air in blissful geometry.
And inside of each one would lie a seed, a tiny window looking into the heart of the fruit. The pulp would be flavored with these sweet prisms - with the alluring light that turned the orchards of this holiday crop into a starry countryside.
And now this tree was heavy with their radiance. But I decided not to pick the glittering baubles from their branches. I chose a different harvest. I left the tree and its glittering yield behind, knowing that I would be enjoying its shining feast whenever I closed my eyes.
I didn't see you standing there. Do you mean you're waiting for me? You know you're rather a stranger in these parts - and I make it a point not to fraternize with outsiders.
You've been referred to me? By whom? Do I know this person by name? Oh. Yes - a co-worker. And you've been described as smooth, yet biting and delicious? I notice the cherries - what purpose do they serve? No, I'm not being cheeky, I just don't see them working successfully with a jigger of whiskey.
You know, I've never trusted whiskey. Something masculine about it. The last whiskey drink I had was a whiskey and soda I ordered when I was out on a date. It's an old story, Mr. Sour, and I don't think I need to go into detail.
What? My, you are talkative for a famous mixed drink whose sources date back to the 1870's. I agree - this is our Christmas party, and my intention is to get beautifully tanked before the appetizers are served. I'm not sure how you know this, but yes, it is time to celebrate - sloppily.
And...you like my skirt? Now you're making me nervous. I'm old, and I don't know how to deal with compliments anymore. But in that case, let me say that that is a pretty glass - squat but graceful: I wish I could manage that.
OK. My sobriety is boring me, and I'm sure it's boring everyone else at this table (I'm a jolly drunk, Mr. Sour, trust me ) Are you a sipping drink? I will approach you as such - I did so enjoy our conversation, and it would be tragic for it to dissipate quickly.
(pause)
SIR!
You deny your family name - you are sweet, sublime, and with each sip the maraschino cherries delight and tease my vision. You, sir, are an adorable drink, and you are very well met.
Waiter! Another!
"...but American girls are pretty and charming - little oases of pretty unreasonableness in a vast desert of practical common-sense."
- Oscar Wilde
The England of Victoria was scattered with the bones of their disappointment. They foundered on society's unforgiving landscape and were held fast, like sparrows caught on barbed wire. They swooned, jeweled wraiths, across a countryside of regret.
These were the daughters of America, bred from the new, raw, ricih. Vanderbilt. Morgan. Whitney. Jerome. Thjeir fathers were the barons and the bankers, dirty from railroads, mines and Wall Street. Their mothers were coarse and pushy - seeing their future in the calling cards accumulating in the salverby the door.
They had the money. But the family name needed something beyond wealth, it needed dignity, it needed respectability. So it was the responsibility of their dainty - if doomed - daughters to wash their fathers' hands and smooth their mothers' silhouettes and manners.
These nouveau riche had made their names. But they also needed titles. So they groomed their daughters, pressing them like flowers between the intolerant walls of behavior and decorum. They were being prepred for adventures across the sea, and England was ripe for plunder.
Waiting to be claimed by these "dollar princesses" were the impoverished sons of the peerage, languishing in ballrooms like dying wolves. English girls, steeped in tradition and hooded eyes, had no chance against the audacious competitors which invaded their country. There was a type of charm in their impudence and fresh faces. They flirted and teased with a rapier-like modesty. Like pirates they ransacked the aristocracy until their accents rang in every large house in the country.
But the Victorian aristocracy had been growing tired and decadent. The husbands who had married American money bore hidden depravities and resentments like coiled diseases. Their country houses were dank and moldy, chilling their golden brides. The romantic wistfulness, the daring hand on an ungloved arm, were all for show at the Mayfair parties.
So many times after the marriage, the heiress would fade away, her fine dresses never unpacked, her jewels clouded and tangled. When Consuelo Vanderbilt wed the Early of Marlborough, her tears made a diamante pattern across her wedding veil.
Maud Cunard sacraificed her bohemian mentality for a cold, bitter life in her husband's Northern lands.
Jennie Jerome's husband was a brilliant parlimentarian, and would die of syphilis.
Mary Leiter worshiped her parents' visits: "I love the chairs you sat on, and try to see you there, and my eyes fill with tears."
This was the Gilded Age, society's golden veneer, the false, desirable beauty. It only took a false word, the image of a young bride in a locked bedroom, to scrape the paint away - to reveal the terrible depths of a dark heart, its cruel, hidden realities.
I don't think I will ever enjoy Christmas as much as I did when I was a child. Back then, seemingly, all I needed to do was wear a silver - as silver as Christmas tinsel - visiting dress:
Or kneel by the tree and play with the fire engine which was undoubtedly meant for my brother:
...in order to know that the very summit of the year had been reached, the time of the bright exhale.
Christmas was the decorated, fragrant tree and a house that was remarkably changed. I had nothing to do with this - I would just watch my parents bring the holiday inside to dazzle us.
Now, during the course of the years, there have come worries, disappointments, petty ugliness and cynicism: the detritus of adulthood, of living on your own. These bruises have hurt the innocence that dared to look forward to a day because it was...happy.
But there is one good thing. Now, every Christmas it is up to me to decorate some lucky tree waiting with evergreen hope beside its brethren in some orchard/hardware parking lot. It is up to me to transform my apartment with shiny things and swathe it with all the radiance of the season. And then on The Day, I will invite my parents over so I can dazzle them.
Do you remember the things you did when you first started using the Web and how it has changed your life?
Holy crap, that was a long time ago! The first time I surfed the web with an actual graphic user interface was from the basement computer lab in the AS&M building at UCSD, using one of those fancy schmancy SUN Sparcstations.
Before websites had pictures, Archie, Veronica, and gopher were types of sites that had databases and information. No Yellow Pages, but you could find information on just about any college student or government employee that way. You accessed those from a UNIX workstation or from a UNIX server which you connect to by dialing in from your computer's modem.
There were no pictures, and no clicking, you had to navigate with the keyboard. Then came HTML, which we would browse using Lynx.
Then my IRC buddy, Taner, told me about this thing called NCSA Mosaic, but you have to use a workstation like a Sparcstation that supported graphics because it took half an hour to load a web page on my brand new computer with a blazing fast (for its time, upgraded from 2400 baud) 28.8 kbps modem, that's like 1/52000 the speed of the Clearwire internet I have now.
The first website I went to was http://www.zima.com, a malt beverage that tasted like alcoholic Perrier. I was 19.
Those were the days.
Paris trembles under many lights. Looking down on the city, it meanders like a circle of galaxies.
During the Second Empire, in the mid-19th century, Paris was a delightful gamine, overdressed with crinolines and diamond sandals. She was a shocking, immoral child - but always held back with the soft ribbons of etiquette, always wearing an extravaganza of couture.
Paris was also an epicurean state, with a history of exotic tastes, extravagant meals and wasteful, profligate menus. There is one story of a dinner that was served during this time:
Waiters stood tall and handsome as they shouldered a lengthy, silver platter. It was covered, and heavy. They were en route from the kitchen to the dinner table, only this time the kitchen wasn't below stairs, but upstairs, in milady's boudoir.
Beneath the silver cover, the feast reclined in the edible darkness. She thought luxuriously of the corsets, taffetas, crinolines and sandals left behind in her 'kitchen'. But the black pearls - product of an oyster's imagination and passion - still rested around her neck, floating atop a milky sea.
Bouquets of lilies and violets tickled her shoulders and knees - staining her skin with a layer of perfume. Petals curled in her hair, and she tapped their glossy colors with her fingers, feeling their tints run through her hands. Her veins were now a delicate cartography of blue, lavender, bronze and mint.
It was well known throughout the city that the finest chef in the country was on this lady's staff. But for this one night only, she would be the one presenting the most delicious flesh in the Empire.
"What! That girl leaning forward? Oh, that is a distinguished member of the demi-monde. She is but just arrived from Paris, where her beauty, her wit, and her profligacy were the theme of every tongue. I have met her there frequently, so, if you want an introduction I will give it to you - her name is Cora Pearl."
What gifts are you planning to get this year for the tech-geek in your life?
Sponsored by LifeScoop: Bringing You Tips for a Connected Lifestyle.
Some soap from Bliss. And a wallet.
The wallet's going to kick ass, will post pictures later when I actually buy it.
...I would invite every one of my handsome, adorable, clever neighbors to my apartment for Thanksgiving dinner.
If I could, I would expand my list of invitees, like a sparkling balloon, to include parents, children and all manner of pets. How I would love to be introduced to them all.
If I could, I would alter the design of my dinner table into something Dr. Seuss or Lewis Carroll might design - curving into space, higher and higher - until it had lengthened sufficiently so that every one of you could find a place.
If I could, I would alter the space continuum so that my kitchen would be BIG ENOUGH to accommodate the positively epic, Edwardian dinner I would plan for you.
If I could, I would alter the time continuum so that my far-flung precious ones would be able to find their way to the Aubrey domicile with ease and economy. And yet still be able to travel first-class.
If I could, I would place a glass of flower-like, art nouveau proportions at each place setting. It would be full of champagne, and glittering at the bottom would be either a diamond bracelet, or a brace of diamond cufflinks. They are for you.
If I could, I would arrange the champagne toasts thusly: they would not be to your hostess, to your family, or to your loved ones. You would not toast this innocent North American holiday. You would, instead, toast yourselves.
Because words fail me.
Happy Thanksgiving, all.
First, we're happy to announce that the team has identified and fixed the issue with the YouTube conduit; you can now find and add videos from YouTube to your library and posts. As always, thanks for your patience!
The other news we have today is about a new addition to the Six Apart family: TypePad Micro, a new free level of TypePad that is streamlined for microblogging. We see a new form of blogging emerging that lives between the quick status updates of Twitter and Facebook and the long-form posts of "classic" blogging; TypePad Micro is designed to meet that need. You can read more about TypePad Micro in Chris Alden's post on the Everything TypePad blog.
A lot of the new capabilities we've added to TypePad this year were actually inspired by some of the best things about Vox: favoriting, member profiles, a dashboard to follow other bloggers, and easy ways to post content from other social media sites. But the things that make Vox different from TypePad are still there: Vox has always been -- and still is -- the best place for "friends and family" blogging, where you're in control over who sees what. TypePad, on the other hand, is built for the blogger who wants, no, craves, attention.
Do you have a passion or interest you want to share with people beyond your Vox neighborhood? If so, we'd love it if you tried out TypePad Micro. Maybe you've always wanted to start that obsessive blog that's just about waffle restaurants. Or want a place to share videos of your favorite band (Jonas Brothers, anyone? Anyone? ...). TypePad Micro's great for those topic-specific blogs. Take it for a spin and let us know what you think.
On the Vox front, our designers are working on some cool new themes (coming soon!). We'd also love to hear your thoughts about where we should take Vox in the coming year. What are the key things you'd like to see for Vox? If you've had a chance to use TypePad this year, what are the features there that we should bring over to Vox? And, if you're thinking big thoughts, how could we connect the Vox and TypePad communities in order to bring together bloggers and their shared passions? Your feedback is really important to us, so please leave a comment here, or shoot me a message.
And again, thanks for your patience as we found and fixed the YouTube bug!
~ daisy
