A Bit of DIY - The Simplest Possible Padded Hangers

(Free fiction and other writing can be found here.)

It's been ages since I last blogged -- certainly not for lack of material, since I've done all sorts of interesting things since my last post. I'll get to those very soon, but I'd like to begin with a lifehack that  I came up with last week. If it's elsewhere on the Internet, I have yet to find it.

ALMOST FREE PADDED HANGERS

I own a lot of haori jackets and kimono, most of them vintage. The traditional way to store them is carefully folded in boxes, but wanting easier access I hung them in my closet. To my dismay, the hangers created ugly points at the garments' shoulders that over time might easily damage the fragile fabric. Sweaters and nicer blouses were likewise threatened. The only way around the problem was padded hangers, but long searching revealed that they were costly to buy, while do-it-yourself sites disheartened with elaborate instructions that involved sewing, knitting, or intricate wrapping.

But then, epiphany. While spring-cleaning the basement I came across the perfect item for my purpose. Estimated time of construction: a minute or less per hanger.

STEP ONE: Get some coat hangers. For optimal results they must be plastic, but needn't be fancy.

STEP TWO: At your local hardware store, buy some tubes of 1-inch foam insulation that plumbers use to keep pipes from freezing. It's dark gray and comes in four-foot lengths or thereabouts, with a seam running down it. The price should be around a dollar a length.

STEP THREE: Slit the tube seam with scissors. Fit the foam over the hanger, leaving an inch or so of it sticking out past the plastic. Make a hole in the middle of the tube with a ballpoint pen to receive the hanger's hook, fit the rest of the foam over the other side of the hanger, and shorten with scissors. Proceed to do the same with other hangers until you're out of tube; you should be able to make three per length. I ended up with about a foot left over from each tube, which I used with another leftover foot to cover another hanger.

For especially sensitive garments, perforate and drape an expendable handkerchief over the hanger, thus avoiding the need to cut and sew. (The one pictured already had a few holes in it.)

That's it.  The foam doesn't stain, weighs almost nothing, and costs about a quarter a hanger. Pointy shoulders banished!

Namaste, 

CK

Last Glorious Gasp

(For more of my writing, click here.)

"The wind is cold, the year is old, the trees whisper together..." ~The Incredible String Band, "Witches Hat"

Autumn is a heart-tugging time for me. The languid heats of summer have all but faded from memory and winter haunts the future like a vengeful spectre, ready to strip the branches naked and cover the once-lush fields with frost. But the Now is all blaze and fullness, harvest and riches; a time for meditation and reflection and summing-up. The other day while wandering about I encountered this tree and stood with it for a while, enjoying the kinship.

CK

(Photo taken during Michaelmas Term at Cambridge, UK. Colors are actual, not enhanced.)

 

My Journey Now

“Succès d'estime: a success in terms of critical appreciation, as opposed to popularity or commercial gain” [definition courtesy of the Oxford Dictionaries].

   WorldCon takes place in Chicago this weekend--the great annual gathering of authors and aficionados of science fiction and fantasy, where the Hugo Awards are handed out. My only WorldCon was in San Jose a decade ago, shortly after Wysard and Lord Brother were published, and it was fabulous. I attended as a guest professional and took part in panel discussions, critique groups, greenroom socializing and epic parties, making new acquaintances and reuniting with people I'd previously met at my first-ever such event, Norwescon. The ConJose Wiki entry gives an idea of how exciting it was. As a final flourish I celebrated my birthday in the unexpected company of a terrific bunch of kindred souls.

     Thanks to Facebook, which didn't exist when ConJose took place, I can keep in touch with fellow inkslingers from those days. Since then we've moved into a time of wondrous and sometimes distressing changes. Like many others, I've been delighted to be able to give my books a new digital lease on life at Amazon and elsewhere, but faced with the ever-increasing publication inundation, the resultant pandemonian clamors for reader attention, and the recent revelations concerning some authors' extreme measures to secure fame and/or fortune, I'm seeking the quiet lately. My energies are focused on writing new books, but it's a deep pleasure to reflect that the Ryel Saga has achieved what I consider true success. What I wanted most was to create something beautiful to give the world; and that which I craved, I accomplished thanks to invaluable others who read me for the love of it and asked for nothing in return. To be accorded praise after being read with care is the greatest honor a writer can ever experience, and to have it said that I might be remembered in years to come is fame enough for a lifetime.

Honored,

CK

I've Got To Be Meme

     It isn't a normal Facebook day without at least a half-dozen memes adorning my news feed, usually of pets, babies, or well-known entities either cartoon or political being cutely off-color and/or insistently sentimental. Wishing to join in the fun, I've tried my hand at concocting my own with the help of my vast collection of images and that free PhotoScape software I can't praise enough. Here's one I made yesterday, inspired by childhood memories of gazing up in awe and hoping I too might someday shine:

And here's another, more colorful and with a dash of naughty:

     To pass Facebook censors I cropped the above picture to obscure the fact that the Tibetan god and his consort are locked in ecstatic yabyum, but everyone knows dang well what they're doing.
     More to come, very likely. Feel free to pass them around, and to click the Facebook button on the upper left of this page if you like.


Namaste,


CK




    
     

Hair-Tearing-Out Time

     I can't believe it's been this long since I last blogged. So far summer has kept me busy in far too many non-writing ways, but now that things have calmed I can give the work I love--or rather works, which are stacked up like planes over Heathrow just now--my full attention.
     I'll get around to discussing the reason for this post's title, but first I want to thank my new readers from these last couple of months, to whom I owe the acquisition of my new Acer netbook which I love so much I feel like carrying it around in a baby sling. Small, light, tough, perfect for travel...you bet I'm grateful.
     And now to the problem that inspired this post. I'm having a terrible time coming up with the right title for the third part of the Ryel Saga. The prequel (an almost complete first draft at present) already has a name--Starklander--and will be a stand-alone dealing with Guyon Desrenaud and his adventures in the North and in Almancar, predating the events touched on in the first two volumes. But Part Three will cover entirely new territory, bringing in the two Art-cities of Elecambron and Tesba, hitherto only mentioned in passing--the bleak citadel of ice and the lush paradise of the senses, where Ryel Mirai and his erstwhile enemy Michael Essern seek a solution to the dilemma that concludes Lord Brother. Michael's brother Yvain Essern, the Count Palatine of Roskerrek, will also figure in the story, as will Riana the One Immortal, along with other characters from the first books and new key players. So I need a title that will suggest both deep divisons and close alliances at work in a world where magic runs both deadly cold and ardently hot. I love a challenge, but this one's tasking me. 
     My urban fantasy Queen of Time has been pulled from publication while it undergoes revisions, which should be complete early next month. Although I'm not exactly new to the game I've taken to heart the expert advice to novice writers by con acquaintance David Brin, and am re-starting the action in medias res where it should be. Anyone wishing a PDF of the new version to replace the old need only e-mail me once it's ready, which I'll announce here.
     Lots more to work on after that, but my next post will deal not with what I'm writing, but those influences that make my writing what it is.

Namaste,


CK
     
     

     

Another Spring Freebie - PenTangle: Five Pointed Fables

     Spring always jump-starts me. The winter doldrums get packed away along with the woolies, and inspired by emergent beauty I become energized and impatient. I have half a dozen unruly writing projects tugging at my virtual skirts, each clamoring for my full attention, plus a house that will never ever be the clean and orderly haven it could be if I didn't write. Between divvying out quality time among the brain-brats and attempting to confer a modicum of order on my cluttered and chronically maintenance-deferred domicile, I try to fit in some advertising of my various inked wares. 
     I'm almost invisibly discreet when it comes to pluggery, therefore I thank very much the many ebook sites that got the word out and helped me give away ~7000 Kindle copies of Wysard and Lord Brother during my March promotion. I also thank everyone who downloaded either or both books, and the many kind people who purchased copies when the promo ended. Being read is truly a humbling wonder, and I'll never forget to be grateful.
     My latest giveaway is PenTangle: Five Pointed Fables, a collection of short fiction. All of the five stories save one were previously published in ezines; I didn't seek a venue for The Heart's Desire because it wasn't the sort of thing I normally write, although some people might think it the best yarn of the lot. 
     I created the cover of PenTangle myself, using a divine free program called PhotoScape and five of my favorite fountain pens that wouldn't hold still for their photo until I applied two-sided tape. I love the retro snazz of the end result:

The stories in PenTangle: 

     The Kind Gods - Did the old gods really die? A warrior seeks answers at the burial-mound of his greatest enemy. A Norse-themed elegy, first published in Bewildering Stories.    
     The Heart’s Desire - A government scryer's life is a prison until she and her bodyguard discover the ultimate secret language. This story is my first attempt at near-future slipstream, and I loved writing it. 
     Last Laughter - A cautionary tale about a wicked court jester and his comeuppance, first published in Silver Blade Fantasy Quarterly. 
      Regenerated - Cela always hoped she’d find Jorgen again someday…but was this really Jorgen? A tenderly bitter tale of love and giant lizards, first published in Quantum Muse. 
     Everafter Acres - Happily Ever After isn’t always perfect, but dark knights can be illuminating. A wry autumnal satire first published in Luna Station Quarterly.

The giveaway ends Wednesday, April 18. Namaste and happy reading,


CK

Celebrate!

By happy coincidence it's World Book Day and I'm spotlighted on D. P. Prior's blog! Check it out at http://dpprior.blogspot.com/, and while you're there enjoy Derek's entertaining posts and links to his well-reviewed fantasy fiction. Please feel free to buy one of our books in honor of the holiday... :-)

 

Absolutely Favulous

See anything different about my blog? (Hint: it's on the address bar.)

I'm having fun with favicons lately. Blogger has a generator of its own, but it's easy to make a personal version for your website. Just visit this favicon generator and watch it create your tiny picture and the code to go with it. My own favicon, seen up close, looks like this:

It's a stylized plum blossom (ume), and it ties in with my love of things Japanese and the word 'kari,' which in the kanji for plum means 'pure.' Kari is my nickname, and I used to sign the the 'i' with a five-petaled flower (still do, now and then). I may change the design later on in favor of something with a letter K, but for now this will work charmingly.

Precious Sails

"Lutes, Laurels, Seas of Milk, and Ships of Amber." ~Belvidera in her mad scene, from Thomas Otway's tragedy Venice Preserv'd (1682)

      As with the duck of the adage, there's been a lot of flurry beneath the seeming serenity of my life lately. I've been writing and publishing other things besides this blog, which explains the long stretch since my last post.
       The other day I dusted off a work in progress that made me think of the quote that heads this post, which in turn led me to recall the Schatzkammern, Wunderschranken, and cabinets of curiosities that were popular in England and northern Europe during the 16th through the 18th centuries. I've always loved such collections, and make a point of seeking them out when I travel. By far the most memorable--breathtaking, really--have been the fabulous Green Vaults (Grünes Gewölbe) at the royal castle in Dresden. Never before or since have I encountered so many precious things gathered in one place--the most lavish, glittering, gorgeous assemblage of objects, truly 'beauty too rich for use,' since every item is meant to be admired solely for its combination of costly materials and exquisite workmanship.
      The driving force behind the Green Vaults was Augustus the Strong, a cultivated lover of the finer things who spent immense sums on art, palaces, and amours (he was said to have enjoyed more than three hundred mistresses, and kept a gallery of their portraits to record his conquests). His penchant for magnificence coincided perfectly with the opulent age in which he lived, and under his direction the Green Vaults filled with masterpieces of the Baroque wrought in gold, silver, enamel, jewels, and other precious materials. I don't remember a ship of amber, but there was one of ivory.

      The pride of the Vaults is The Court of Aurangzeb, a masterwork in precious metals, enamel, and gems depicting the enthroned sultan surrounded by his entourage. More than a hundred tiny figures, all about three inches high, are depicted in exquisite detail. It took eight years to make, and cost the price of a castle. Click the image for a larger view.

    Here's a delicious detail:

      As I examined the gorgeous toy--or rather knickknack, since it had no earthly use save to be marveled at--I thought of Augustus' legendary cousin King Charles the Twelfth of Sweden, and how that energetic, impatient, intelligent young soldier might have reacted to such wanton extravagance. Compared with Augustus' lush wigs, gemmed silks, rampant libido and reckless excess, the celibate Charles with his cropped hair, stark uniforms, ascetic nature and unswerving purpose was an object lesson in the virtues--and hazards--of severity. My novel will describe those two remarkable and entirely opposite men, and I'll definitely include a scene in which Charles gets a tour of the Green Vault; he once paid Augustus an impromptu visit in Dresden, blithely disregarding the fact that he and his cousin were then at war with one another. Augustus, ever the gentleman, greeted Charles cordially, and let him depart unhindered.
      Since I haven't the means to construct a Schatzkammer of my own, I keep one in the domed vault of my cranium. As with Augustus' collection, not much of mine is really useful, but it's a constant and ever-added-to trove of marvel and delight. Ideas and images from every place and time, all sorts of odd bits of information and out-of-the-way anecdotes, poetry, history, art, myths and legends, theater, music, languages, journeys, loves and passions...infinite riches from years of observation and countless books, that make my writing what it is. All my life I've been careful about what I stick in my brain, and now, in times like these, I cherish my mind-hoard all the more.

To Boldly Glow

(Information about my other writing can be found here. Happy reading!)

Will you wear orange, my dear oh dear,
And will you wear orange, Jenny Jenkins?
No, orange I won't wear, and it rhymes, so there!

Jenny wasn't alone in her antipathy. According to a study, orange is one of the least popular of hues. Observe the pie:

 

White, grey, and brown are disliked even more than orange, which isn't surprising; they seem to be most preferred by monks and winter. Still, I can't understand the animus toward orange, because to me it embodies optimism. It paints the hope of sunrise and the promise of sunset. It's the standout color of this my favorite month, figuring in pumpkins (away with those trendy pasty ones!), gourds, squash, and blazing leaves. It's wonderful to have such a gorgeous glut of the hue, braving the barren onset of November.

Some of my leaves from yesteryear.

 

Red and yellow, which combine to form my beloved color, 

can be a bit trying on their own.

 Then again, they can be stunningly splendid. 

(For more examples of uchikake, see my blog post Imperial Opulence.)

I'm always wary of "What your favorite color says about you" articles because they tend to over-accentuate the positive, and sweetly assure you that you're introspective and outspoken rather than narcissistic and obnoxious. However, one analysis that I came across the other day seemed eerily spot on:

"Orange: This color of luxury and pleasure appeals to the flamboyant and fun-loving person who likes a lively social round. Orange people may be inclined to dramatize a bit, and people notice them, but they are generally good-natured and popular. They can be a little fickle and vacillating, but on the whole they try hard to be agreeable. Orange is the color of youth, strength, fearlessness, curiosity and restlessness."

A decade ago I'd have agreed entirely with that assessment, but I've become reclusive since then for reasons that I hope will prove temporary, and my patience is mightily strained at times. Still, in my heart and in my writing, the traits described are still very much alive, although the passage of time has made me prefer the darker shades like cinnabar, persimmon, and (most apropos) bittersweet.

Another color I've become fond of is the deep purple I associate with wine, but which is more often called maroon. It's a popular color in India for bridal saris, perhaps because it's both regal and restrained.

I didn't quite know what motivated my affection, but the article previously cited had some answers:

"Harsh experience has probably matured the Maroon person into someone likable and generous. It is often a favorite color of someone who has been battered by life but has come through. It indicates a well-disciplined Red personality—one who has had difficult experiences and has not come through unmarked but who has grown and matured in the process."

The hesitant prophecy of the first sentence is, I hope, true in my case; the other conditions certainly seem to fit. When I look back on my writing--I recently unearthed a trove of stuff written in my teens that I'd entirely forgotten about, with mostly good reason--I'd have to agree that what I'm now working on is rich in the fruits of experience. It's not purple prose, but definitely autumnal. Most of my short fiction is set in the fall, a time of reflection, meditation, and harvest. Ripeness really is all.

Namaste,

CK

Visit my website for free short fiction, first chapters of my novels, and bookstore links.

At The Core Of The Happy Apple: A Mystery Solved

(Links to my fiction and other writing can be found here. Enjoy!)

Let me begin by stating that I'm careful with things. Like an Entwife, I prefer order, and plenty, and peace. Wanton destruction is something I can't remember indulging in even once in my entire life, and I make the following confession with a contrite heart. Caution: this post contains possibly disenchanting revelations. If you have fond recollections of the Happy Apple and prefer to let its inner workings remain an enigma, please don't read on.

Some background first. The Fisher Price Happy Apple was a wobble toy from the early 1970s, and countless babies loved it for its cheery face and soothing chimes reminiscent of a gamelan. They also enjoyed its invitingly chewable and easily detached stem and leaves, features typical of playthings in that less-regulated era. Fisher Price shortened the stem later to discourage teething, and here are the two versions:

Chipper, aren't they?

Fisher Price retired the Happy Apple after 1974, which is odd considering the toy's popularity, and sad because quiet lovely sounds are always good for people no matter what their age. Although it was made to be patted, batted, and swatted by tiny flailing hands, the Apple is best savored when held close to the ear and just barely shaken. If Fisher Price could make a minimalist version for the present day, unencumbered by perilous foliage and minus the rather overly-insistent grin, they'd sell jillions. I'd buy one in a heartbeat.

And now for the regrettable part of my tale. Always keep in mind while reading further that my Happy Apple was nowhere close to mint condition when I acquired it at the local Goodwill some months ago. Shorn of its stem and greenery and covered with a heavy patina of scratches, it looked all of its nearly forty years, but from its secret depths emerged the most lovely celestial harmony. Many people are that way, with a world-worn exterior masking inner resonance. The poignancy of the notion moved me, and the 99-cent price tag seemed a killer steal.

After I got Happy home and gave it a scrub, I kept it on the table next to the sofa where I like to write, and at intervals when I required inspiration I'd rock it and swirl it, letting its soft tolling like distant temple bells imbue me with serenity. What a wonderful toy this must have been, imparting to a child the lesson that the more gently something is handled, the more its beauty will appear! The Happy Apple could have fallen from Buddha's bodhi tree.

But the serpent had entered the garden. Peace fosters the spirit of inquiry, and eventually Happy's deep delicate tones caused me to muse "what's inside this battered tchotke creating such an exquisite, angelic sound?"

Not wishing to expend effort that would destroy the object, I looked all over the Internet for an answer but found none, which astonished me. People are always tearing stuff apart, so I expected to find at least a few YouTubes or gleeful accounts of someone taking a sledgehammer to a Happy Apple, but no. The toy had existed long before the Internet, and had achieved a venerable prestige. The few YouTube videos that chanced to feature a Happy Apple tended to show closely-watched infants interacting with what was clearly considered a cherished family heirloom.

Still, Happy Apples aren't all that rare since they were produced in the many thousands during their brief time of flourishing, and I was relieved to find that they can still be readily acquired online, stem and leaves intact, for a nominal price. Reassured by their availability and unable to control my curiosity any longer, yesterday I took a compass saw and went to work, severing the fruit along the weld line in the middle.

Happy turned out to be a toughie despite its disarming smile. It's hefty, about the size of a small cantaloupe, so it wasn't easy to hold steady on its side. To add to the difficulty its plastic was as thick as harness leather, which meant I had to saw around the complete circumference before the halves finally came apart. As I worked, I frequently stopped and gave the Apple a shake to make sure I wasn't wrecking the mechanism within, and it always chimed reassuringly. As I got closer and closer to my goal, however, I began having trepidations. What if I accidentally cracked open a hidden chamber of mercury, spilling it everywhere? What if it for no reason at all the thing caught on fire? What if what lurked inside was really a malevolent alien being who'd been waiting nearly forty years for liberation? The chances were remote, but you never know. Worse than any of those possibilities, what if  I ended up destroying whatever caused the beautiful sound? I began to feel a bit like Eve must have when she handled her apple.

But none of those dire mischances occurred, and here's what I found. Click the image for a larger view.

The Happy Apple's core exposed.

 I'd never have guessed that the mechanism was so simple. I'd envisioned spheres within spheres, delicately balanced and calibrated, only too capable of falling apart beyond any recovery once the Apple's secret was unlocked. Instead, I found a little circle of eight metal rods in different lengths in the lower part, struck by a swinging metal disk suspended from the top section, very much like a fixed set of wind chimes. The components of this ingenious gong were of springy steel tough enough to withstand the wear of decades.

And there you have it, another of life's mysteries solved. While I regret sacrificing a vintage treasure, I take heart in knowing that my discovery may save countless other Apples in far better states of preservation from a similar fate.

Since my Apple's aesthetic appearance, if it can really be said to have had one, is now impaired, I plan to remove the mechanism and house it in something made of natural material like wood or bamboo or gourd. That way I'll be able to enjoy its lovely harmonies in a form rather more dignified and decorative than a plastic fruit with a goofy grin. Still, I'll always remember Happy.

CK

November 30, 2019: I'm surprised and delighted to find that this entry has been read by so many, and accrued such kind comments. My deepest thanks, and best wishes for joyful holidays and a richly rewarding new year!

Postscript added April 28, 2015: This is one of my most popular blog posts, and I'm delighted it's attracted so much notice. Since I'm best known for my fiction writing, I hope you'll explore my other entries for free short stories and chapters of my novels. Thanks and happy reading!

News -- December 4, 2015: "At The Core Of The Happy Apple" is now available as an e-book at Smashwords, which distributes to Barnes and Noble, Kobo, and many other retailers (including Apple!).

Italian Hours

[Information about my other writing can be found here. Happy reading!]

 Ciao, amici! It's been a travel-rich summer with no time to blog, since I spent most of June in the Rockies and explored Italy for the month of July. Eventually I'll post about the West, but this one's all about bella Italia. I'd visited there many years ago and it was a pleasure to return, especially since nothing went seriously wrong, the places we stayed were uniformly comfortable, and everyone we met kindly tolerated my rusty struggles with their native tongue.

Hub had a week-long conference at Pisa, after which we explored Tuscany and Umbria by train before ending up in Venice. We visited as many towns as our schedule and stamina would permit, with a preference for new territory. Since we never got enough of Venice, we gave ourselves three days there to crown our travels. Unlike my past visits, this time I had a camera with me, and I nearly wore it out. Click on the images to enlarge them to full size.

 During our week at Pisa we stayed at this former monastery. Although the monks had long departed, their church was still in active use, and its early Mass bells were our wake-up call.

An evening view of what Pisa is famous for, peeking out behind its companions. They all look a bit off-kilter to me.

Assisi with its immense church dedicated to St. Francis, viewed from our hotel window. The local bus spared us what would have been a stiffish climb.

A monk enjoys the cool of the Assisi evening. Compared to the throngs of pilgrims and tourists I remember from my first visit back in the 80s, Assisi seemed very quiet this time.

The tranquil Tuscan landscape viewed from 
the heights of ancient, austere Todi.

One of mighty-walled Perugia's massive Etruscan/Roman gates; the traffic sign gives an idea of its size. The Umbrian Jazz Festival was in full swing while we were visiting, and we wandered the town enjoying free music from stage acts and street musicians.

 
A street in Spello, one of the loveliest places in Tuscany.

 Another view of Spello. I loved its unspoiled, unstudied charm, and hope its citizens someday decide to lessen (or better yet, eliminate) car traffic through the narrow streets, a regrettable feature of Italy's medieval towns.

Gloria! An ecstatic upward-yearning angel on a 

chapel fresco in gracious, art-filled Modena.

 

What Chaucer would call a 'a verray, parfit, gentil knyght,' found gracing a wall of Modena's archaeological museum. The sculpture's low relief and other aspects of its style remind me of Egyptian art, making me wonder if this unknown paladin was a Crusader.

 A stately pleasure-dome indeed: the fantastic pavilion at the luxurious Tettuccio Spa in Montecatini Terme, a resort once frequented by the likes of Audrey Hepburn, Clark Gable and Sofia Loren. Taking the waters is a declining pastime now, and as a result the pavilion is only open for special events. By lucky chance a charity gala was going on, and the door guard let us in to look around. 

 Towers and church spires of the hilltop old quarter of Arezzo spike the horizon in this view from our hotel's roof terrace. Touristed mostly by Italians who come for its classic ambiance, annual jousting tournament and association with the film La vita è bella (Life Is Beautiful), Arezzo is a gem of a town, full of beauty, vitality and warmth. So few Americans visit Arezzo that Hub and I, who are both blondish, were routinely mistaken for Germans.

No, I don't own a time machine, and these soldiers aren't discussing their upcoming campaign against the Picts. They're Roman re-enactors at the amphitheater ruins in Arezzo, looking perfectly at home in legionary gear.

Bologna, which I'd loved at first sight years ago, had changed very much. Still, I was intrigued by a sculpture show in one of the courtyards, full of stylized slaughter and rapine. Viewers could get as close to as they liked and the place was packed, but somehow I managed to take a few snaps that weren't crowded with people, like the picture above.

Padua's university district, dating from the Middle Ages. Graduation was going on, and we watched students celebrating with friends and family in hilarious ceremonies steeped in ancient tradition--costumes, speeches, jokes and songs, accompanied by lots of wine. Despite all the fun, I could tell it was a very proud moment for everyone concerned. In Modena I saw honorees crowned with actual laurel wreaths. 

The Roman acqueduct at Spoleto, flanked by a monastery and a fortress, the latter built to guard the water supply. Spoleto's famous music festival had just ended, but there was much else to enjoy, from the giant Calder sculpture in front of the train station to the winding maze of medieval streets and the wonderful architecture from every century.

 

The striking, typically Tuscan banded-marble cathedral in Pistoia, one of several such buildings in the city's old center. The weekly market was taking place when we visited, making for a lively, crowded scene.

Pistoia's a bit rough around the edges, and I saw a lot of faces that would fit in perfectly with this detail from the c. 1525 terra-cotta reliefs depicting the Seven Works of Mercy on the loggia of the Ospedale del Ceppo. The hospital was founded in 1277, enlarged after the Black Death in 1348, and is still used as an administration building.

On a typically broiling Venice summer day this gondolier wisely waits in the shade for customers, who should appear very soon. Despite the high prices for rides (starting at about $80 a half-hour), I saw far many more gondole in action on this visit than I did during my first trip years ago. Mainland Chinese seemed to make up a large fraction of the clientele this time.

Palazzi on the Grand Canal. Since 2011 is a Biennale year and many countries rent floors of beautiful buildings like these to serve as galleries, Hub and I had the glorious opportunity to enjoy not only the art exhibits, but the wonderful rooms once inhabited by noble families. I loved the frescoed walls and ceilings, terrazzo and inlay floors, and magnificent balcony views of the most fascinating main street in all the world.

A water view of the Piazza San Marco, taken during the ten-minute trip back to our lodgings on the Lido. We had a 3-day pass for unlimited vaporetto rides to all parts of Venice and the outlying islands, and it was always a pleasure to cruise down the Grand Canal on our way home. The Lido was a restful, small-town-feeling, welcome break from the tourist mobs.

A detail from one of the medieval 15th-century column capitals of the doge's palace at Saint Mark's square. The theme is the Seven Deadly Sins, and this panel features Gluttony. Hub insisted that the greedy lady is devouring a cone of gelato rather than a chicken drumstick, probably in allusion to my own passion for Italy's amazing ice cream. (For what it's worth, you can see the bird's claws just below Gluttony's clutching hand.)

I took hundreds more pictures, but these few give an idea of how much I enjoyed my return trip to a country that has given me countless things of beauty from the most distant past to the present moment, all of them joys forever. 

Now that I'm home and settled in for a while, I'll be putting all my efforts into getting Queen of Time published. As soon as it's live, I'll be posting the news here.

Arrivederci,

CK