Random Thursday: Edible Yoga, Optical illusions, and Two Men Having Words

Random Thursday (ˈrandəm ˈTHərzdā): the day on which Sarah plunks down all the odd bits and pieces she’s acquired during the week in an effort to avoid writing a real post, the assembly of which usually ends up taking twice as much time as actually sitting down and creating genuine content.

Sorry if this post already showed up in your feeds—I decided to assemble the post last night, since today is gonna be hectic, and hit Publish when I meant to hit Preview.  

That’ll teach me to be efficient.


Another Reason to Love the Savasana Position

Patti Page Baked Ideas has amazing cookies and is now selling yoga cookie cutters in their online store:

Unfortunately, my piping skills are gruesome non-existent, so I’ll just have to order the cookies instead.  Darn.

In related news, more or less, there are also Kama Sutra Cookie Cutters available in the UK, but you can tart up your own browser history searching ’em out—I’m still clinging to the idea that this is a family blog.

(thanks to Vicki for the yoga cutters . . . and the other ones, too)


Optical Illusions sans Nausea


The Music isn’t bad, either.


For Lyra—She Knows Why

It makes me feel better to think that Aslan has an Ineffable Plan for my family’s missing hosiery . . .


Two Men Have Words

Jeff Somers and Sean Ferrell are two brilliant authors who, when combined, are actually weirder than the sum of their parts. Which sounds a lot more suggestive than I thought it would, but oh, well.

There are several other episodes, some with Dan Krokos, who is just as brilliant.


*Your Motion Sickness Levels May Vary


Book Review: Numb

I’ve been following Sean Ferrell’s blog since the days when he gave better odds to being struck by a meteor that getting his book published.   The man’s math might be suspect, but he’s got a marvelously intelligent sense of humor,  and gives great interview.

 How can you not pay attention to a man who says: 

“It took me a long time to realize that finding my own way to write was okay. I kept trying what people told me was “the way.” Problem: there is no one way. It’s not like traveling by train where there are rails and if you go off you’re doomed; it’s a bit more like exploring hiking trails: go for a while, get lost, refind the trail, get lost again, find some amazing views you didn’t expect, then pass out, exhausted.”*

Not to mention:

“If you ever want to know the location of my secret fortress just ask me to write a synopsis of my novel: I’ll crack like a twig.” 

So it was with great anticipation that I got my hands on my own copy of Numb.

I read it.  Twice.  It’s that kind of book.

Smarter people than I have reviewed this story and found things that made me go, “Hmmm.”  But to me, Numb is an exploration of protective dissociation, where the psychological runs parallel with the physical. **

The main character of Numb  is . . . numb.  He has no past, he feels no physical pain, has very little affect, and he bobs around like a rubber duck in an ocean of stimuli, letting the waves toss him around. 

There is something simmering underneath the main character’s thick layer of passive skin, but only a deep strike, psychological as much as physical, can penetrate enough to trigger a willful change in course.  At the beginning of the book, his boss at the circus shoves him in a cage with a lion—a monstrously selfish act, pun intended, that shreds Numb’s leg.  Numb’s buried core of self-preservation is breached, and he walks out.

The effect doesn’t last long, though Numb’s best friend, Mal, appears to be trying to break through with increasingly outrageous acts that hurt only himself.  But even the love and acceptance of a woman who can see through Numb’s armor isn’t worth the potential pain and responsibility.

Until the affronts against Numb start to build and he’s finally shaken loose from his cocoon. . .

When I was in the fourth grade, I learned a valuable lesson—don’t play “Red light, Green light” in a room with French doors at both ends.  I have a wide, oval scar where broken window glass scooped a chunk out of my wrist.  The nerves under the smooth scar tissue convey only pressure—even the dog puncturing it with her toenails some years ago didn’t hurt.  While I read this book, I found myself running the edge of a fingernail over it, sensitivity to null to sensitivity, wondering what it would be like to abdicate . . .

It’s that kind of book.

Read it. 


* One can only hope—I’ve already got the lost and exhaustion parts down . . . 

**See, Dad?  I am using my degree.  And probably horrifying Mr. Ferrell in the process. . .