Monday, December 28, 2009

Vote or Death!

Okay, maybe I won't actually kill anyone if they don't vote. After all, how can I blame my upwards of four readers if they are apathetic about an infrequently-updated personal blog? Anyway, here's the pitch: you get to help me pick out the theme of this blag for the next little while (code for "whenever Caitlin decides to change it again"). Should I keep the one that's up now, or should I put one of these lovely options up instead? No pressure, I mostly wanted to show off the other options.


  1. oh gosh. this is hard....

    they are all good and evoke very different moods. I'm partial to either #2 or #4 (vines or old-time girl) at any rate, cool stuff.

  2. I do like all of these.... now I SEE the water in the top photo. I love it! It does have a stoney quality to it. Oh geeze, I cannot decide.

  3. i like the current one,
    andthe first. we're not making this much easier, are we? hahaha

  4. The third one top to bottom. It's brilliant. Many thanks.

    Greetings from London.

  5. #'S 1 & 4 are fabulous for sure,
    but the b&w photo... is also dear.

    from 'The Tin Drum' is not true that when the heart is full the eyes necessarily overflow, some people can never manage it, especially in our century, which in spite of all the suffering and sorrow will surely be known to posterity as the tearless century. It was this drought, this tearlessness that brought those who could afford it to Schmuh's Onion Cellar, where the host handed them a little chopping board - pig or fish - a paring knife for eighty pfennigs, and for twelve marks an ordinary, field-, garden-, and kitchen-variety onion, and induced them to cut their onions smaller and smaller until the juice - what did the onion juice do? It did what the world and the sorrows of the world could not do: it brought forth a round, human tear. It made them cry. At last they were able to cry again. To cry properly, without restraint, to cry like mad. The tears flowed and washed everything away...

    ~ Günter Grass