Obsession or Therapy?

15 - 1I’m in trouble.

I thought that by the time I got to mid-middle age I’d give up collecting “things.” You know — weird oddities that tickled your fancy back in the day, but now you’ve got so many you need a room with wall-to-wall shelving to keep them all in.

My thing was unicorns. IS unicorns. But my desire to pick up every stray statue/stuffed animal/poster has dwindled through the years. I’m content with my headboard full of uni’s and pegasus’s and the occasional dragon. Plus the corner curio. Plus the dresser. Plus the bookshelves. Plus … you get it.

Now I’m hooked on something which, on the surface, seems a lot less harmful. After all, it they don’t take up shelf space.

I’m hooked on gifs.

For those who know the word but forget the meaning, a gif is a computer image that moves. I’m sure there’s a simpler explanation, but you get the gist. Waterfalls have running water; skies have sparkling stars; women have flowing hair. I don’t know how they are made, but I think they are so cool.

I’ve started a collection on my laptop; they have their own folder and their own corner of the desktop. Now it’s not so bad — maybe 20-3o or so. What am I going to do when my collection dips into the hundreds? I tell myself they are for blogs and writing columns and … well, for enhancement of whatever I create in this three dimensional world. There is always a logical explanation for everything. All you need to do is find it.

But really they are just cool to watch. It’s like magic. I don’t want to know how its done, nor do I want to start creating them myself. I already have 1,000 things on my to-do list; creating moving pictures is not one of them.

I supposed in the short run it’s safer than collecting salt and pepper shakers or antique cars. I don’t have to dust them. But I’ve temporarily cut myself off from one of my Google+ communities, for it’s nothing BUT gifs. And I admit. I am weak. I can see me having a folder of 500 by year’s end, taking up good computer space. I can see me wasting time watching water fall instead of writing or reading. And that is not so cool.

My writing to-do list is nearly as obnoxious as my household to-do list. I really don’t have time to be downloading and watching every moving pic that tickles my fancy. But for now it seems I’m addicted. Hopefully, it will go by the wayside like roller discos and mullets. But until then — be prepared.

Do you collect things that you really don’t need to collect any more?

Another Chance

Hot Flashes and Cold FeetAs I’m always saying, the clock ticks eternally forward. While we all notice the seconds, no one feels it as much as one who has already spent a good deal of their life counting.

I’m not going to lie. I want to live forever. I don’t have a strong, religious faith in place, so I have no idea what’s in store once I close my eyes for good. I haven’t left a whole lot behind for posterity, except maybe a refinanced mortgage and a unicorn collection. I’ve made a few people smile with my writing through the years, but standing on the beach or walking through the woods or watching a funny TV show leaves a smile on their lips, too.

And sooner or later my name will blow away in the dust of time, as billions have before me. But I will have had an accomplishment that will keep its mark in me through the Great Barrier and beyond.

I’m a grandmother for the second time.

This time my grandbaby’s entrance was a little shaky. It’s amazing how something that seems so simple on the outside can be so complicated inside. Life is a miracle. There is no doubt. How we get from a spermy and eggy into a president or opera singer I will leave to the biology majors. But so many things can go wrong on the familiar path we all walk that you have to stop and think — and thank — something, someone, else for getting all parties through.

Second grandbaby is a boy, and he and mom are doing just fine now. It brought back memories of one of my past pregnancies — one where the outcome wasn’t so positive. But that was 35 years ago, and this is now, and fate has smiled on our family and friends and brought another soccer player into the family. His older sibling is starting kindergarten tomorrow, so what a better off-to-school treat than a baby brother.

How appropriate his arrival came after my last post about Getting On Track. About sometimes feeling like a loser because I go up to the cabin to write but I often do anything BUT write.  Half way through my retreat the Goddess and Buddha and whomever else had other plans for my idle time. And it wasn’t writing. Nor was it windchimes in the breeze or naps in the afternoon.

It was welcoming another being into the world.

It was being there for mom and dad and CJ and Papa and Nana and Great Grandpa Lyle and Great Grandma Katie as the new baby came wrinkled and breathless into this world.

It was preparing the world for a new chance to get it right. It was dreams of baseball and homework and trick-or-treating with yet another child of the world. Another chance to get it right. To make the world right.

You can’t ask for a better chance for an afterlife than that.

Sunday Evening Art Gallery — Su Blackwell

A room without books is like a body without a soul.

— Marcus Tullius Cicero

 

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Su Blackwell is an artist working predominantly within the realm of paper.

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She is a British artist best known for constructing delicate sculptures from the pages of books.

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Su creates tranquil unique landscapes from cutting up pages of old books.

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“I always read the book first, at least once or twice, and then I begin to create the work, cutting out, adding details.”

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“The detail is what brings it all together, the magic element.”

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Su Blackwell’s art is delicate, intricate, and personal.

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She brings the magic of books into this dimension.

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More of Su’s fantastic paper art work can be found at www.sublackwell.co.uk.

Do take time to visit her worlds.

Staying On Task

erI could live like this.

Forever.

Up at the cabin: wake up at 5:30 when hubby goes fishing; turn over and go back to sleep; wake up at 7, let the dog out, go out to the livingroom, open doors and windows and let cool air whip through the house, fall back asleep on the sofa till 9; take shower; read; grab a donut; go to library and do research for an hour; come back, have lunch; take a nap; write; go for a walk to lake; eat dinner; write; watch movies; sleep. Repeat. And Repeat.

Then the discombobulation starts. Go to bed. Try to sleep. Since I napped off and on all day, writing plots and ideas now come to the forefront. Get up. Write blog. Write Foreward to new book. Go to sleep at 1 a.m., something I’m trying desperately to change back home.

I came up to escape — to get away, to rest, to write. I’m under constant pressure back in homeyland to learn more, move faster, drive more carefully, clean more thoroughly — all that wonderful stuff that all of us do. So when we travel four hours to my father-in-law-now-my-son-and-our cabin, I do my best to unwind. To unplug.

Somehow, though, unplugging turns into disconnect in a heartbeat.

In my defense I could say my body sees an opportunity to catch up on its sleep/rest, and will be damned if anything gets in the way. That’s why half the time I’m pleasantly lethargic up here. The boys always go fishing; good for them. I hit the second hand stores; good for me. But all my plans for writing often get sidetracked by reading (I’m on the 4th Game of Thrones book now), baking, napping, and listening to the windchimes on the front deck.

Is this the world of the writer? Those who pound out best seller after best seller? Good, hard work followed by a nap in the breeze? If so, I’m pretty much a lackey in that department, too. Cool summer/autumn breezes and birds singing and no traffic and a lake in the distance aren’t always the inspiration for a murder mystery or a science fiction invasion.

I feel like a loser. 16 good hours of writing in 2 days boiled down to 2 hours of research, one hour of writing, one hour working on a friend’s website, and 12 hours of screwing around. The peace and quiet is so overwhelming it overtakes my good intentions.

I think it’s more I’m not as diciplined as I used to be. At home I squeeze writing inbetween playing with my grandson, watching TV, doing laundry and dishes, and yelling at the dogs. And it seems like I get more done.

I’ve screwed off enough for two days. I will go up and delete the word “forever” and replace it with “after retirement.” Until then I need to keep the mind sharp, the words flowing, and the blog pics amazing.

I’ll do that right after my nap.

Going One Way Or Another

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According to my online personality profile, Sagittarius is the traveler of the zodiac and considers every day an opportunity for another adventure. This a cheerful, spontaneous, and idealistic individual with an exceptional sense of humor.

Well, I don’t have the money to be a big traveller, but I do try and get away now and then. This coming up weekend is one of those times. Boys are going fishing for 4 days (coming home by dinnertime); a chance to make my days totally up to me. So I have turned the have-to-go-up-north trip for 4 days into a writer’s retreat.

And I can’t wait.

And I know that somehow or another it will get screwed up.

I have made a list of things I’d “like” to get done — “like” the key word, as to leave room for walking and sitting on the deck and nodding off and going to town to hit the homemade chocolate shop.

But Fate and me have a rocky relationship. I imagine it’s going to be more like me setting out my laptop, my notes, opening the window to let the breeze blow through, glass of soda and a few treats at hands-length, and me spending half my time in the bathroom.

My husband says he can’t take me anywhere. And this is not a new thing: I’ve gotten upset stomachs or headaches or whatever almost every time we’ve gone out — for the last 35 years.

I don’t know if it’s my psyche that goes up and over the top, imagining such a good time that it gets sick ahead of time; or my stomach cramping in anticipation; or something innocent I ate the day before decides to do the polka in my intestines. But every time I get ready to have a GOOD time, I spend half my time aching in the bathroom or on the bed.

This time it’s a freakin’ 4-day weekend! No movie stars or famous writers stopping by, no fancy dinner, no wine or alcohol of any kind. I don’t want to mess up, because I have this big novel idea that I want to dig into for a few hours every day. Why is it that every time I go up north I get horrible sinus headaches or crappy stomach problems?

I know — it’s probably psychosomatic. I suggest, therefore I am. I don’t think about it and I still am. These burbles have caused many headaches through my married life; I’m surprised my husband doesn’t have a first aid kit filled with Imodium, aspirin, sinus pills, doggie bags, and crackers. He’s had enough experience in this genre.

So with a Sagittarian outlook, I’m going to be a cheerful, spontaneous, and idealistic individual, and pack my laptop, notebooks, soda, snacks, Imodium, aspirin, and sinus pills, and hope for the best. You can’t keep a good writer down — not when they’ve got the calling.

And, after all, I have written notes in the bathroom before…

Sunday Evening Art Gallery — Angelo Musco

 What the eyes see and the ears hear, the mind believes.

Harry Houdini

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Artist Angelo Musco‘s painting of an elegant white floating feather is actually a digital photo made out of tens of thousands of naked bodies weaved together using Photoshop. He created this image by first photographing dozens of live models in pre-planned poses, then adjusted the size and color of each body and put them together to form the realistic-looking textured feather.

More of Angelo Musco’s incredible photography can be found at his website  http://www.angelomusco.com.

His other artwork is just as  magical as these feathers.

Do You Get It?

Black Circle
Black Circle

One of my favorite bloggers, David, posted a 36-word poem the other day, doing his best to “understand” it. http://davidkanigan.com/2015/08/20/oh-well/. a very lovely, emotional poem. I tried to understand it, too. And while a whiff of sense wafted around my senses, I, too, had a hard time with interpretation.

It made me wonder.

Do people who write and paint and sculpt truly abstract things truly understand their meaning?

And, if so, why are so many of us so duh about it?

Look. I know I’m not the sharpest tool in the shed. Sometimes I have to have TV show plots explained to me. Sometimes I don’t get the end of the joke. Abstract, in the purest sense of the word, is, well, abstract to me.

But most times I “get it” after pondering on things for a bit. Eventually the proverbial light bulb goes on and most of what I read/look at/listen to makes sense. (Except rap music). The truly abstract aspect of an artist’s creativity is something totally different for me, though.

An example of this confusing state of mind is Russian artist Kasmir Malevich (1878-1935).  A Polish-Russian painter and art theoretician, he was a pioneer of geometric abstract art and the originator of the avant-garde Suprematism movement (an art movement in Russia that produced abstract works featuring flat geometric forms).

Maybe it’s because I skipped Geometry in high school. Maybe it’s because my teachers taught me to write in full sentences and not in cryptic phrases. But somewhere along the line I never got into simple geometric forms.  At least, not as a form of art.

Malevich explains his aesthetic theory. “Under Suprematism I understand the supremacy of pure feeling in creative art. To the Suprematist the visual phenomena of the objective world are, in themselves, meaningless; the significant thing is feeling, as such, quite apart from the environment in which it is called forth.” He viewed the Russian Revolution as having paved the way for a new society in which materialism would eventually lead to spiritual freedom.

I’m afraid I don’t quite get that from the painting above, either.

What is this roadblock I have to understanding the other side of the universe?  I opened my Sunday Evening Art Gallery so that I could share what I considered Unique Art. Different Art. Personal Art. Something created that, even though in one way or another you don’t always “get” it, there is some thread of familiarity that runs between the artwork and the viewer.

I never studied Art theory either, so that might explain some of my unappreciativeness. I can make a connection between my friend Dawn Whitehead‘s sculptures and the world, even though most times I’m grasping at straws. I can figure out haikus and rambling poetry as long as there is an ending that makes sense.

Words thrown together without an immediate connection — that I have a much harder time with.

I am determined to delve a little further into this Suprematism movement, along with poetry that has category names but no sense. I want to be a little part of every art movement around me, even if at times the art doesn’t move me. A child of the world, as they say.

Even if I continue to get D- on my comprehension tests.

 

Did You Know You Spoke Chinese?

I have a grandson who is starting kindergarten in a couple of weeks. Ahhh…innocence floating out the window. No, not him — me. Or rather his mom. Brings to mind a blog I wrote back in October of 2011. Think it still rings true.

I Didn’t Know I Spoke Chinese

Do you believe that children and their parents speak two different languages?  Do you ever try and communicate with someone who hasn’t a clue as to what you are saying?

The teen years are stressful for those going through them. Puberty comes crashing in any time between the ages of 12 and 16, estrogen and testosterone fighting for space inside a body that is growing in too many directions at one time.  But hey. What about the ones on the other side of those swings? Those who pay for hot lunches and gym shoes and nail polish?  Not only do we have to put up with I-pods and cell phones, but we have to learn to speak a whole new language in order to be understood.  It is as if we have stepped over the threshold of reality into an entirely new universe.

Life seemed so much simpler when our kids were toddlers. The years between two and, say, five, are probably the most rewarding for all forms of parental figures.  We can do no wrong; our children hang on our every word.  They fear and revere us. They bounce around from moment to moment wanting only to please those in charge.  Pick up your toys?  Of course! Eat your spaghetti?  Of course!  Clean your room?  Of course! We speak, they listen, and things are ideal.

Then comes those “cute” years, say, six through nine.  Everything they do and say is cute, especially when they pout and say “no” with wide-eyed enthusiasm.  Pick up your toys?  No! I wanna play with ‘em a little longer.  Eat your spaghetti?  No! I want pizza instead.  Clean your room?  No!  I gotta have twenty dolls in the corner!  They are starting to catch on to the power of being an individual.  They still brush their teeth and do their homework and go to bed pretty much on time, but they learn to manipulate the world by talking or playing or whining, probably all three.

By the time middle school comes around, there is a slight Dr. Jekyll/Mr. Hyde-ish personality starting to surface. Football games and study nights with friends start to take on a bit more significance as our middle schoolers begin to feel the strength of their own convictions.  Pick up your toys?  Oh please, I don’t play with ‘toys’ anymore.  Eat your spaghetti.  Red sauce? I’d rather have cheese.  Clean your room.  Oh mommy dear and/daddy dear — it is clean!  A little clip in their voice should be the giveaway that they are catching on to you.

Just when you think you have settled the beast that rustles inside your child, their high school days hit you right between the eyes. Music becomes some thundering beat with  talking rather than singing; wearing jeans that cut low enough to show off underwear or vertical fissures becomes the fashion statement of the day. Homework becomes an enigma.  School semesters are identified by fall, winter and spring sports, and words like Paris and Pink suddenly take on a whole new meaning.

You wake up one morning sprouting antennae from your head. Your voice becomes a booming echo down an empty tunnel or a high-pitched squeak riding the airwaves.  Suddenly you speak a foreign language: ρτε τα παιχνίδια σας  (pick up your toys in Greek);  съешьте ваше спагеттио (eat your spaghetti in Russian), and 投入您的衣裳去, (Chinese for clean your room). Their eyes become glazed and their expression reminds you of eating a lemon.  One day you are a friendly, loving parent, the next moment you are Godzilla’s cousin.  You don’t know what you are talking about ― your ideas or so old-fashioned they will be amazed if you make it to 50.

How did this happen?  How did we fall off of our pedestal?  One moment our child is reaching up to be held, the next moment they cringe if you hug them in public.  Is this the reward for all of our hard work?  All our love?

Well, trust me.  This too will pass.  As your children approach their twenties, they are amazed at how smart you’ve suddenly become.  Your old-fashioned ideas transform into newly discovered truths of their generation.  The older they get, the more human you become.  Your antennae suddenly don’t seem so out-of-place; as a matter of fact, they kinda look cute on your old frame.  You find a common ground through life and all its ups and downs, and they finally understand what you’ve been saying all these years.  Words and ideas flow once again, and your pedestal gets packed away somewhere deep in their heart, only to be pulled out when you are not looking.

Either that — or you have finally learned to speak Chinese.

Sunday Evening Art Gallery — Paperweights

From the moment paper was invented, there was a need for paperweights.

Many objects were used to weigh flyaway papers down.

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Obviously, rocks, bricks, and tree branches didn’t work.

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So glass paperweights were created.

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Some of the earliest paperweights were made in Venice in the 1840s.

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The Bohemians improved upon the techniques of the Venetians, and also incorporated the aristry of the French, who really brought the art of the paperweight into full flower.

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Baccarat is unquestionably the most famous and renowned paperweight producer.

Paperweight, Baccarat, 1845-50. CE*66.12.

Other paperweight manufacturers included New England Glass Company, Tiffany, Ysart Brothers, Vasart, and Strathearn.

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No matter who created the beautiful works of art, each paperweight brings its own magic into the world.

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The beauty of a moment reflected in the center of glass

antique1Suspended in an eternal moment of color and breath

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Gaze into the center of a paperweight and see your past — your future

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You can find more works of beauty and light at:

Collectors Weekly http://www.collectorsweekly.com/art-glass/paperweights

Richard Mores Paperweight Photo Album  http://strathearn.smugmug.com/,

and other places across the Internet.

It’s That Time. Again.

s-l1000It’s here.

The end…and the beginning.

Here, during the prime Dog Days of August, it has snuck in quietly, bringing legions of supporters with it. A force to be reckoned with. Its shield reflects the colors of whatever region it calls home, the supporters wild and crazy, ranging in age from 5 to 95. And once it has taken hold, it doesn’t budge until the Ice Days of January.

Football is Back.

Dyed-in-the-wool hardcore fans  say that these first three pre-season games don’t count. That teams are whittling down 75-80 combatants to a mere 53. Try telling that to diehards who have waited 192 days, 30 hours, and upteen minutes and booga upteen seconds to be able to wear their jerseys again.

I should have sensed it coming.

The first indication of the season to come was an increased selection of bratwursts and beer. Football jerseys and shirts of every shape and size called out from the front rows of Walmart and Target. Invites to Football Fantasy leagues filled e-mail boxes all over the country.

Yet I wanted to bask in the sun and laziness of Summer for just a little longer. Fight the mosquitoes just a little longer. Try to go to sleep while it’s still light out.

But I was denied.

Today was the clincher. It was declared “Packer Casual Day” at work.

I was afloat in a sea of green, my little navy number 6 a chuckle to the masses. I survived pretty well, holding up my end of the football spectrum as well as I could. I live in  Packer country, you see, where Bears are eaten for breakfast. Silly carnivores…

Football fans of all ages and locations begin to shout at their TVs during the pre-games just as a warmup of things to come. As if the announcers, coaches, and players could hear them. Who knows — maybe on some cosmic level they can. And most times it’s not pretty. Football fans know that technically we are all equal during the first pre-season game — that we all start from zero. But they will also point out that some teams are more zero than others.

It’s not that I have a dislike for Fall — or football. I love them both. But somehow the thought of people sitting in the stands, watching players who will soon be just a name on a piece of paper, the heat at a swell 90 degrees — well, I can think of better places to spend my Dog Days. Like at the beach.

In my house, the blam bang of tackles and missed tackles and stupid calls from coaches and snide remarks from announcers will bounce off the walls from Thursday through Sunday night from now until January. That’s plenty of chaos for me.

Until then, I think I’ll play it cool. Very cool. I’ll just watch the pre-season games in my air conditioned house.

That way no one can hear me screaming at the TV. Stupid refs…

Go Bears!

To the Rennie in All Of Us

medieval_castle_decorationI don’t know if it’s a girl thing or a Sagittarian thing, but I really enjoy reinventing myself. Oh, I am the same ‘ol person inside, but the outside influences change every so often.

For years and years I used to be a Rennie Girl. Anything Renaissance would tickle my fancy to the moon and back. Every year I went to the local Renaissance Faire, bought lamps and cups and jewelry with dragons and unicorns and faeries on them. I adored the music, had fun playing the (conservative) wench, and even decorated my B&B with medieval flair.

After that wore off, I was off to being an (conservative) Irish Wench. I became a Gaelic Storm groupie; I went to Irish Fest every year, bought jewelry with my Irish family crest, wore green and drank beer and cried at the sad Irish songs, missing my red-haired Irish mother even more than I normally do.

I still keep the Rennie and the Irish Wench in my heart, and they are a part of me that will never leave. But I am a Sagittarius, and that means I’m always looking for my next adventure, my next reincarnation.

I really want to be BoHoChic. (say…bo-ho-chick really fast).

Now, I know I’ve talked about this fancy before. In the last six months I’ve really cleaned out my closet, getting rid of clothes that don’t fit or have never looked right or blah blah.  I’ve also pulled out the more “conservative” pieces and donated them to other conservative people. What’s left are skirts and sun dresses and a couple of wild, flowy tops.

I need more flow.

My conservative psyche evil step sisters keep whispering discouraging things in my ear: You’re too fat. You’re too ugly. You’ll embarass yourself. I’ve had these sisters since grade school, and while I’ve tuned them out most times, they do slip in now and then like a needle into silk. Why I listen to them at this age and point in my life I do-not-know.  But I DO know that BoHoChic is a whole life experience. And I want to wander off that way.

There are connections between being a Rennie and being an Irish Wench and a BoHo. It’s that feeling of freedom I’ve always denied myself. I’ve always thought more of what other people thought of my looks and outlook than I did of my own. Bad habits are hard to break. But I’m making the big push to throw those step sisters out the tower window.

And it’s working.

Everyone does their own thing. Some women enjoy the way they are all their life. Some like to kick it up now and then. Some want to kick but lack the boot skills. I think it’s the newfound freedom I’ve found with writing and art that makes me want to freebird like the texts and canvases I’m finding. I’ve always enjoyed reading and watching things that are a little off-center; why can’t my wardrobe — and attitude — be the same?

I am offcenter anyway. It might be a prelude to dementia, but if it’s coming it’s coming. Why not go into the last 30 years of my life flowing and mismatching and blinging? In 30 years no one will care. Least of all me.

So take your whims and dress the part. Be a futuristic clip or a black-and-white Chanel or a designer chick. You don’t have to break your budget: Good Will and local second hand stores always have your designs flowing through. Let your outside match your inner calling.

And don’t be afraid. I’ve wasted 50 years of my life doing that.

And after all, there’s always something else waiting in the shadows. Maybe one day BoHoChic will turn into FuturisticBoHoBling!

 

Sunday Evening Art Gallery — Michael Massaia

 

Michael Massaia’s photography evokes unusual, yet sentimental, emotions.

Bugs Bunny

Bugs Bunny

To create his images, collected together under the series title “Transmogrify,” Massaia spent some time experimenting with the aesthetic possibilities of melted ice cream.

dora the explorer

Dora the Explorer

His long-exposure images capture a subject matter familiar to most — he frames the frozen treats most people’s summer memories are made of.

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According to Katherine Brooks (http://www.huffingtonpost.com/katherine-brooks/), he distorts the childhood favorites by melting them before his lens, until the pops resemble ominous pools of paint or celestial snapshots.

Powerpuff GIrls

Powerpuff Girls

Ice cream? Or something more … surrealistic?

Batman

Batman

A great article on Michael’s art can be found at http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2015/04/15/michael-massaia-transmogrify_n_7067284.html  by Katherine Brooks.

More of Michael Massaia’s creative photography can be found at http://www.michaelmassaia.com/. And, of course, a more extensive collection of MIC (Melted Ice Cream) can be found at www.sundayeveningartgallery .

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Sleep and Cats and Dogs — Oh My!

eyesIt was a beautiful Summer morning. Cool breeze, bright sunshine, quiet countryside. I take the backroads to work; little if any traffic, cornfields and open fields and barns and houses on hills in the distance. Calming. Nourishing.

So I’m driving to work and I ZOOM! around this cute little ruby red car (must have been a Chrysler…great paint color), saying to myself (and them through the ethereal)…if I didn’t have to get to work on time, I’d be you.

Moving at the speed of light isn’t my thing. If you know me at all, you know it takes a lot to get me zinging at all. I’m usually not late for work — but I usually have more than 2 hours of sleep, too.

Clicking off on my fingers the reasons I might have insomnia (husband gets home at 3:30am; ; overworked at work; cats and dogs sleeping in the bed)…What?? Cats and Dogs sleeping in the bed?!?

As I get older I find that I’m really not as much a cat or dog person as I once was. Sure, they’re cute. Sure, they’re loving and affectionate and independent. They are also a pain in the butt at night.  Can’t leave the dogs (3) out to wander through the house because they’ll knock down the babygates in the kitchen and eat whatever is on the counter. Can’t leave the dogs out to wander at night because they will bark like idiots at 3:30 a.m. and wake up the kindergardener (and you don’t want a kindergardener up and crabby at 4 in the morning). Cat’s barred at the door will meow relentlessly every 15 minutes until you let them into the bedroom because, hey — they want to cuddle.

It would be one thing if the cats would just find a place at the bottom of the bed and just sleep. But, like most cats, one has to climb up by my neck, lay on my shoulder, put her arm around my neck, lick my face (ewww) every now and then, and not allow me to turn over without turning the world upside down.

I have no room in a king-sized bed.

I’m not a pet-on-the-bed kinda girl. It’s just become easier than waking up every hour or two because someone is in the garbage or meowing their heads off or scratching at the door or watching TV.

Looking back on that little ruby car, they were just meandering along the road, taking their time, breathing in the fresh air and quiet countryside. (At least that seems like what they were doing). There were no (obvious) deadlines, bosses upset, burned-out co-workers, or garbage picking dogs in their vicinity. Just them…and the morning…and driving 25 mph.

There’s no need telling you that stress is the hellion of the millenium. You used to be able to work 40 years someplace and get a gold watch for your time. Now you’re doing the work of two people, getting barely paid for one, and praying downsizing goes to the next company over. We push ourselves way too hard — and can’t help it. It’s move forward or move out.

I’m tired of working that hard. I’m tired of worrying if I’ll get my work done on time or if I’ll learn the newest version of some program. And the older I get, the more ridiculous the whole working world seems.

Believe me — I appreciate Technology. Agriculture. Science. But I keep thinking we’re paying an awful high price for the privilege. You don’t have a choice. You want TV: you have to work. You want to buy groceries: you have to work. You want to buy your grandbaby a birthday gift: you have to work.

America is such a hurry-up culture. Do it now, do it fast, move on over if you can’t handle it. As much as I preach a “stop and smell the roses” kind of life, it’s not always  feasible. Not when someone is on your tail pushing you faster and faster.

It’s hard to find the middle ground. The middle ground between sleeping in and sleeping at all. Between mowing your lawn and sitting in a chair on it. Keeping pets and living with pets. But we all have to do it if we are to keep our sanity.

Which brings me back to my original thought. Cats and dogs on the bed. Mass hysteria — or mass sleep hypnosis?

Maybe I’ll start eyeballing the comfy sofa downstairs.

 

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Bombardment Central

October-18-2011-20-12-49-DoubleFacePalmEven when I am well-intentioned, I tend to screw up. I don’t know if it’s that I don’t think things through, or I don’t know how things work so I don’t know what the outcome will really be — it could be a thousand things. But I always wind up having egg on my face.

I had waited a long time to relaunch my Sunday Evening Art Gallery. I’d added images, found the right theme, cropped the images so they were all pretty much the same size — it was going to be a GO. And it was.

But I didn’t realize that every time I re-posted a blog, or actually posted it for the first time, it would hit the airwaves like a newborn child. Every new blog blew away the one previous, acting like it was the only flash in the pan.

It overtook my Humoring the Goddess Sunday Evening gig with new artist John Lemke; readers didn’t know whether to read A or B or Z. My zealousness almost caused me readers.

I suppose I could blame it on adult-onset A.D.D. I know I’ve been antsy all my life, but only in the last few years have I found a name for it. Not being able to sit still has caused me all kinds of problems, the least of which was almost my job. Now that I’m older it causes me loss of sleep, anxiety, restless leg syndrome — the whole gamut.

It also tends to put my cart waaayyyy before the horse. I have so many projects, so many ideas, so many things in my head that I sometimes think I have hail pounding me on the head. I tell myself to slow down 10 times a day. But most of the time it’s too late.

So to you that were bombarded with Sunday Evening Galleries, forgive me. I more want you to enjoy John and his work, then move along to the next collection, and the next. I put 4-5 images in my HtG blog, then three times as many on the Sunday Evening site. That was the whole purpose behind the SEAG. I’m catching on…it just will take a while.

I hope you will visit both sites more often, and if you have any suggestions for slowing down my pretzelly condition, I’ll take those too.

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Sunday Evening Art Gallery — John Lemke

In celebration of the re-opening of the Sunday Evening Art Gallery we present…

“But I find that for myself, without exception, the more I deal with the work as something that is my own, as something that is personal, the more successful it is.”

Marian Bantjes, Canadian designer, artist, illustrator, typographer and writer

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Artist and graphic designer John Lemke  starts in various media: pen & ink, charcoal, acrylics, electronics, transforming the basic doodle or painting into something quite different.

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He takes his creation to the next level, adding detailed depth through different media, enhancing the basic piece while tranforming it.

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As a Senior Graphic Designer, John constantly comes across a number of ideas that beg to be enhanced.

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John believes anyone can find inspiration for art. All you need to do is go outside and open your eyes. There is cool stuff everywhere.

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And I do mean cool stuff.

John Lemke’s art can be found  at http://johnsconsin.deviantart.com/ 

and at the Sunday Evening Art Gallery

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I’m Coming to Get You…

scaryWhat does it take to scare you? Rather, what does it take in a movie to scare you?

Things have certainly changed since Boris Karloff chugged along as Frankenstein. These days readers and movie goers have seen just about everything there is to see in the blood and guts world. I mean, most of what is considered “horror” is really more “disgust.” How much you can do to the human body and still let them live. Even when the story is clever, there’s nothing about losing limbs and buckets of blood that make those little hairs on your head stand up.

Writing horror isn’t easy. It’s not easy to twist plots and rattle windows and whisper in someone’s ear and have them be truly frightened. Portraying that same creepy feeling on film is not easy, either. I get it. But the more we grow spiritually, emotionally, and psychologically, the more it takes to catch us off guard.

My son gets Netflix, so I decided to take a ride down the horror road and see what I could see. Half of the movies I’ve seen, half I have no interest in. Maybe it’s being older, but just because someone has pins in his head doesn’t make someone scary.

Yet, the way Hellraiser talked, the way he held himself, the way he slowly pried his way into the lives of the unsuspecting — now that was pretty creepy. It turned pretty bloody/gutsy, but the earlier ones threatened more and showed less. I tried one from France: some kids climbing over a locked gate and mountain climbing into the horror pit where some hillbilly wacko lived. (Teenagers are always so dumb.)

I’ve tried old ones (The Scream series), I’ve tried new ones (The Walking Dead). I’ve tried ghosts, monsters, psychos, and snakes. Some make it to kinda creepy, others are just d-u-m-b. The Saw series is nothing but bloody psychological terror, one fingernail at a time. But it’s not horror.

Back in the day, movies like Psycho and Halloween  brought “real life” horror into the realm of the everyday. The Exorcist and Night of the Living Dead put normal people in abnormal — and often deadly — situations. Alien and The Thing took those same situations and put them in outer space or in the future.  Devil possession, zombies, psychos in masks — how can you deal with those?

But as the years passed, what was once novelty became remakes, each one more technically savvy but emotionally empty. By the time Halloween VI or Alien Resurrection came along, nothing was new. We’d been there, done that. Only the stars had changed. And the ability to frighten us.

So what kind of movies twinkle my creepy twinkie?

It’s obvious that humankind wants to be frightened now and then. Controlled frightened. Like frightened for the length of  a movie only.  The Grudge was pretty scary, with dead bodies scurrying across the ceiling and up the stairs. The first couple Aliens were pretty scary, even though by the second one we knew the formula (pick off people one by one). Even though my husband and kids disagree by miles, I loved Cabin in the Woods, because it brought all possible endings and villians to the end. I’m hooked on The Walking Dead — I mean, sheriff driving around, looking at overturned trucks and abandoned cars, wondering what’s up, and the next thing you know — Armageddon! How can you not be creeped out by that?

I loved the old “The Haunting“, and pffffted the remake. I wasn’t scared by windows turning into eyes and canopy beds coming down to squish the heroine — I loved the old black and white because you couldn’t see the adversary. Who can forget the lion’s head doorknob turning evvver-soooo-slooowly? Or the banging and breathing of the bedroom door? You never once saw a bloody hand or face or someone’s entrails spilled on the floor. It was your imagination that frightened you.

And that, I think, is the heart of anything scary. The victims on the screen have to be you, but not you. To be tortured would be cruel beyond imagination. To have a child see dead people everywhere — that’s another story. To be able to capture your imagination and be three steps ahead of it is the true heart of a scary story. To not be able to tell what is real and what isn’t — that’s the stuff nightmares are made of. Movie or not.

So tell me — have you seen any good scary movies lately?

Read (ick!) At Your Own Risk

bigstockphotoStickingOutTongue27088I have been working very hard on getting my “new” Sunday Evening Art Gallery website up and running so that you can see even MORE of the unusual, unique, amazing art these artists come up with. There are times when I don’t want to read a thing — looking at pictures will do just fine. So hopefully by a week from Sunday I will have a visual gallery for your perusal as well.

In the meantime… Why not fill your head with a bit of food nonsense? Works wonders for me!

 

An average ear of corn has an even number of rows, usually 16.

Most wasabi consumed is not real wasabi, but colored horseradish.

Oklahoma’s state vegetable is the watermelon.

The winner of the 2013 Nathan’s Hot Dog Eating contest consumed 69 hot dogs in 10 minutes.

The  Dunkin’ Donuts in South Korea offer doughnut flavors such as Kimchi Croquette and Glazed Garlic.

(It’s getting worse…)

There is an amusement park in Tokyo that offers Raw Horse Flesh-flavored ice cream.

(And worse…)

Castoreum, which is used as vanilla flavoring in candies, baked goods, etc., is actually a secretion from the anal glands of beavers.

TMI…TMI..

Coconut water can be used as blood plasma.

McDonald’s sells 75 hamburgers every second of every day.

One fast food hamburger may contain meat from 100 different cows.

Arachibutylrophobia is the fear of peanut butter sticking to the roof of your mouth.

When taken in large doses nutmeg works as a hallucinogen.

The red food-coloring carmine — used in Skittles and other candies — is made from boiled cochineal bugs, a type of beetle.

To make jelly beans shiny, shellac is used, which is made from Kerra lacca insect excretions.

 

Thank you Buzz Feed http://www.buzzfeed.com/justinabarca/food-facts-that-will-blow-your-mind. 

Makes me never want to eat again.

 

See you Sunday!

Sunday Evening Art Gallery — Tal Peleg

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder…

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Or is it beauty is in the beholder of the eye?

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Israeli make-up professional and blogger Tal Peleg paints scenes from fairy tales, imagery from classic novels and pretty embellishments  —  including intricate designs of sushi — onto tiny areas of the face using only liquid eyeliner and eyeshadow.

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One needs a steady hand, a feel for color, and a wonderful sense of play. Tal Peleg has all of that and more.

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Tal says she loves art, color, creation, makeup and all that between.

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Looking into her eye — into her eyes — you see her love of all of the above

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Tal Peleg shows the world that color is makeup’s best friend — and every eye reflects it

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Tal Peleg’s incredible eye art can be found at the following websites:

https://www.facebook.com/TalPelegMakeUp

http://www.tp-artwork.com

http://www.boredpanda.com/eye-makeup-art-tal-peleg/

Friday Night Cheesy Whine

tim+allenBEFORE WHINE

This Friday post is mostly for writers, although you of any and all skills can identify.

Yesterday was a pretty crummy day. You know crummies — nothing in particular, but a dozen things coming and going that make you say “I quit for the day.”

I was driving home from work; a lovely stretch of countryside between my work town and home town. Four great  90 degree turns, each one hosting a different view; cornstalks five feet taller than me (which isn’t saying much), no one on the road. It was a slow, steady rain. I was taking it rather slow and steady, too.

A few things happened on this familiar trek; someone driving on the wrong side of the road, a few animals dashing from one side of the road to the other; weird things. The pavement glistened softly, reminding me of my double-rollover last November. People driving on the road who usually never take this route.

You know how a creative mind wanders. Suddenly I had this great idea for a story.  A first-person narrative about driving and getting stuck driving the same four turns and all that sci fi eerie stuff. I embellished it and worked on it all the way home.

The sad thing is, I don’t know when I’ll ever be able to write it. And I don’t think it’s ever as good as when it’s fresh in the mind.

Last night was family, tonight shopping, tomorrow family party — there’s a Sunday Art blog I want/need to get done by Sunday, things I ABSOLUTELY have to get done around the house — when is there time for writing? I don’t often write short stories any more, so when this idea hit me it was like a breath of fresh air. Yet now the air is stale, and before you know it I’ll forget the punchline. I’m already forgetting peaks that once made me excited — it’s like overthinking something. Your original idea is not always what you wind up doing.

I hear you saying, “Just Make Time!” But sometimes that’s just not possible. I’ve been fighting/working with sleep issues lately, so I can’t just go in my bedroom at 9 and write. And if I have to make a choice, prime time with my grandbaby supersedes writing a great story.

I’m sure these things happen with painters and graphic designers and everyone who enjoys being creative.  Maybe I have my priorities upside down. Maybe I need to find that time-travel hourglass thingy Hermione used in one of the Harry Potter movies (so she could take two classes at the same time).

Maybe I should just give upyadda yadda blah blah yadda blablah……

AFTER WHINE

Sat down Friday evening after dinner with the family, the boys played video games (even grandbaby), pregnant mom just relaxed, I pulled out my computer, and finished my story.

SOOOOOO

The moral of the story is: write out your whine, get it out of your system, then shut up and write/paint/draw.

As my hero  Jason Nesbith from Galaxy Quest says — Never Give up — Never surrender!

Money Money Money Mooonnneeeyy…

money_dollar_sign_rotate_hb_1_Wishful thinking or Wasteful thinking?

Wasting Time or Planning Time?

Sitting looking at at the lottery ticket I just bought, I wonder — what would I do if I won a million dollars?

What would YOU do if you won a million dollars?

It just be the dog days of summer.  The hard, long, tedious few months of my job where data entry becomes paramount. Too many mosquitoes out to enjoy a lovely evening, trying to fall asleep when the sun hasn’t set yet — daydreams are made from this.

I don’t often buy lottery tickets. I know it’s easier getting struck by lightning, but I’m not one to press my luck during a thunderstorm. So as I sit and look at this little slip of paper that will no doubt take me nowhere, I wonder what I’d really do if I won a couple of million dollars.

Of course, lotteries these days are tens of millions of dollars; for simplicity’s sake, let’s just call it One Mil. You get approximately half of that, so for more simplicity’s sake (I’m really that simple?) let’s say $500,000. Clear hard cold cash. What would you do with it?

The first think most people would say is “quit my job.” Many say that’s not practical (probably my hubby is in that crowd). But for me, being closer to retirement than my 40th birthday, it seems a viable option for me.

“Give to Charity.” God gives to those who gives to others. It is better to give than to receive. Well, sometimes I consider myself a charity case, so I’d choose my philanthropy carefully.  I’d rather contribute locally — an animal shelter, children’s daycare. Something where I could see my money work right here and now.

“Invest.” Well, paying off my bills would be an investment. Maybe not my mortgage — I’d still need some tax writeoffs. And I don’t think a vacation in Florence or Paris would be a write-off. Oh! But I could start my own business! A travelogue blog! Then I could write off all sorts of travel expenses! After I’m done traveling around the world, I’d close the business and take it as a tax loss too.

All accountants in a 100 mile radius are rolling their eyes at my folly. I’m rolling my own eyes.  I mean, let’s say I was lucky enough to live on 10% of my cash stash. That is $50,00 a year — more than I make a year, for sure, but not quite enough to pay bills AND jet across Europe tasting eclairs and biscotti.

Maybe I’d take all my besties out for dinner and drinks. Like to some fancy restaurant in Chicago. Better yet, I’d make some fancy restaurant food and hire someone else to clean up behind me.

Truth is, with a mere Mil, my life wouldn’t change a whole lot. I’d spend some, save some, waste some. Hopefully I’d be wiser, fuller, and a little more windblown from my travels. I’d still write, I’d still look for strange and unusual art, and I’d still run around with my grandson shooting squirt guns or swimming in Silver Lake.

Life is all about the journey. Not the destination. That’s what they say, anyway.

It sure would be a much easier journey not having to wake up at 5:30 a.m. every morning, though….

 

Let’s Go There Together

two-old-ladiesIt is truly the beginning of Summer — 85-90 degrees, thunderstorms out of nowhere, sweaty body parts and streets that wave in the heat (who ever thought?)

Trying to find time to finish my Sunday Evening Art bloggeroonie, along with cleaning, cooking, watering the plants, catch up on Game of Thrones, play fetchie with the dogs, and run around with my grandson. I don’t remember being this busy 30 years ago when my own kids were little. All this running around with lists and markerboards and post-it notes full of things I don’t want to forget make me begin to wonder.

I sometimes wonder if I am at the beginning stages of dementia — I forget names, I forget occasions. I get turned around at the drop of a hankie. I was talking to my bff in the car on the way to the Art Fair Saturday: we were in this big, fun, heavy discussion and I had this great point I wanted to make, and suddenly I drew a great big blank. A white 50 x 50 foot wall couldn’t have been more empty. I KNEW where I was going seconds earlier; it’s just that something (who knows what) distracted me, and before I knew it I was sitting with my mouth open trying to catch flies or something.

The only saving grace was that my friend chuckled, started her own story, and hit that very same 50 x 50 wall. She’s several  years younger than me, and maybe it was contagious, but we got a good laugh out of that one.

How would you know if you were losing your mind?

I laugh at that thought, but it’s just as serious as any other disease or accident that may or may not befall you at any time. When does the joking become real? I mean — when does it get serious?

I am able to do my job fairly proficiently still; I am able to write sentences and make my readers smile and collect unique art and talk on the phone and sketch and stencil and read long, windy books with the best of them. I remember how to get to most places, how to balance a check book, and how to do Excel and Word.

But I also forget names, recipes, and directions. I forget how to reprogram the stupid TV/Dish recorder if I hit the wrong button, and I sometimes stare at the computer screen because I’ve forgotten the next step.

I’m sure it happens to all of us. I only hope that I can make a creative moment out of every mistake that takes me in the wrong direction. I’ve already decided that there is no wrong direction (except walking into traffic). Coordinated outfits and hair styles that last the day are more like a crap game to me. If they work, fine. If not, don’t worry about it.

I often get tired of others telling me what to do, and do make strides to “do it myself.” Which I do. Most of the time. The rest of the time I nod and smile and go into my creative world and do things my way anyway. I go off on writing jaunts and unique art jaunts and kinda don’t care anymore if my family goes with me or not. Heck — I’m even singing “My Way” with Frankie now and then.

I don’t know if that’s the beginning of dementia or Alzheimer’s  — and it really doesn’t matter, does it? if I get there I get there. In the meantime I want to leave my own little legacy behind. Lots of pictures of whatever on my phone. Unicorn collections and fancy, second-hand-store wine glasses. Sappy novels, blogs, short stories, poetry, love notes, unique artwork. And, by golly, forgetful or not, I’m going to have a great time doing it all.

Someday someone will go through my laptop and smile at what was left behind.

(Oh Good Lord — did you see this?!?!)

Sunday Evening Art Gallery — Reflections

Goddess2What is Art?

Another one of those cosmic questions which has as many answers as there are human beings. Which is an unthinkable number. Since I am in the final stages of polishing my actual Sunday Evening Art Gallery blog, I thought I’d sit and reflect upon yet another awakening. After this weekend I am going to have to readjust my thinking. Truly open my mind. Again.

I started my Sunday Evening Art Gallery April 9, 2014, because I kept coming across various forms of art that just made me say, “Woah! How do they DO that?” I found it didn’t matter what media the art took; I was just as fascinated with painting as I was etching or ironwork or microscopic snowflakes. The world suddenly became more interesting. And I couldn’t wait to share that “woah!” with others.

This weekend I attended the Art Fair on the Square in Madison, Wisconsin. I hadn’t been there in years. I also didn’t have this newly acquired interest in Art  per-se back then either. Walking around the Capitol in Madison, viewing over 500 artists of varying media, my definition of Art changed by the minute. I heard the call of creativity everywhere I turned. Digital photography. Ceramics. Surrealism. Jewelry. Ironworks. Painting. Every booth was different. Every booth was unique. Catagories were just umbrellas for the cornicopia of creations around me. I’m not kidding.  A necklace was not a necklace. A neckle was a sunburst or a precious stone or 14k gold or worked copper. Paintings were three-dimensional, superimposed, carved out.  No two alike.

Every booth was like that. I was amazed that there could be so many variations of so many ideas. So much energy exploding in so many different ways. So many ideas bursting forth like statues make of stainless steel forks and knives and ceramic teapots with eyes and rabbits with human ears and bracelets of delicate hand-pounded silver. Art was so much more than Renior and Warhol.

The reason I tell you this this Sunday Evening is that, if you have any inkling to discover the world of “Art,”  you should hop on the soul train as soon as possible. Walking the local art fair is the simplest way. The fairs and festivals are not just duck decoys and crocheted christmas trees (although those are fun, too). Every art fair, every art museum, is a melting pot of creative energy. I don’t understand it all — I don’t like it all. But I am fascinated that someone took the time to paint or carve or make the paper or whatever they did to follow their calling.

I am a writer by nature, an artist by choice. You are more than one creative spiral as well. You are a starburst, you are a tree with a hundred roots going in every direction. Take the time to interpret the world in your own way. Design your own version of what you see, what you feel. Know that if you put your heart into your craft you will atttact other hearts as well. Share it! Show me, show your mother, show your bff. Show what the Muse does to you!

What is Art?

What are You?

Good Hair Day

CAM01687Yesterday my husband went shopping at Walmart (you know…the wonder world full of wonder things). He called me about noon, as said since he was there buying oil for the car he’d pick up my hair color, too.

This is the first time he’s ever offered to purchase something as personal as hair color. First time in 35+ years. ANd there was something about the combination of oil and hair color that gave me a wee bit o’ the shivers.

Most men (and I’m not picking on you guys) do a decent job of buying toiletries for your lady. I know you wince slightly when you yave to buy those monthly things, but shampoo, deodorant, no problem. It’s slightly harder when it comes to shower gel and toothpaste. Forget things like nail polish and lipstick — I mean, how could he tell the difference between Relish the Moment and Pink Peony? And, of course, there is lip stick, lip gel, lip color, lip gloss — how would he know what to buy if even I don’t have a clue?

Most time hair color falls in that category, too. Most women use the same color every time. Simple Simon. Not me. My hair was really bleached out multi blonde/brown from Disneyworld, so I needed go to brown town. But I often vary my choices between a few. Which colors? I don’t remember. Which manufacturer? I don’t remember. I usually pick the color that never quites comes out the way the box says.

But back to hubby’s gesture. I was going to pick out my own box, but it would have involved making my own trip and possibly buying something “not needed” and taking my time and making my hubby late for work, so I figured, what the heck. So I gave him the thumbs up.

“What color?”

“Brown.”  That was safe.

“Light brown? Dark brown?”

Getting dicier.

“Medium brown. Dark makes me look gothic, and lighter browns still turn out auburn.”

So last night I sat all by myself looking at the box.  Medium chestnut brown.

I’ve never been a chestnut.

But I trust my husband’s intentions (especially now that I think he’s finally over the blonde-me and the grow-your-hair-as-long-as-Cher me), so I went for it.

Maybe I should let him make a few more selections for me as the years go by. After all, one hit in 35 years can be the start of something special.

What do you think?

 

Ask

B3hKx3FCIAAGEIG Sometimes — no, wait — most of the time —  I feel like the machine that keeps track of your heart rate. Up, down. Spiky Up. Spikey Down. Rhythmic, predictable. Up. Down. Spikey Up. Spikey Down.

One minute I think — no, wait — I know — I know what I’m doing. Charge full speed ahead. Do it my way. Oh, do the work, do the research, but since most around me don’t listen to me anyway, just do it.

The next minute — no, wait — the next day — I have no confidence at all. What the heck was I thinking? It was a waste of time/energy/thought process.

This year is my Golden Year. Sssssssssixttty Twooooooo….(you know how hard that is to say). Golden because I finally have found a second wind, a second dream, a second chance. I’ve found a calling, and I don’t want to let go.

But also, being sixty two, I have had my fill of other’s ideas, criticisms, and opinions. I’m tired of listening to opinions that go nowhere, eyes that glaze, and minds that are always closed.

Herein lies the spike up and down.

I find I still do need eyes that glaze and closed minds to open my own. And I still need to reach out to others for help.

After all these years I still find that I still am afraid of putting out my ideas to others. I’m afraid of rejection, closed minds, eyes that glaze — all that negative stuff. And I find that all of that gets in the way of getting what I really want.

I know I’ve said this to you before, but don’t be afraid to share your ideas and directions with those who can really keep you on task. Those who enjoy your work and can give you the boost you need to take it to the next level.

Those who can see what you cannot.

Never take suggestions from those whose opinions you respect as criticism. Don’t take them as daggers to the heart, or balloons bursting in front of you. I know that’s the first place we all go. But it’s a waste of time and heart.

Tonight I broke bread — or rather ice cream — with a friend whose experience and friendship I trust. So I threw out my idea(s) for my Golden Stuff, and got some excellent feedback. Feedback I wasn’t expecting. Feedback that I hadn’t even thought of. Feedback I wouldn’t have gotten had I not “put it out there.” I know now that I have more work to do — and that’s a good thing.

Working on your dreams is a lot of work — whether you’re 25 or 55 or ___ (fill in the blank). Don’t settle for yesterday. Or maybe take yesterday and use it for today, which will be for tomorrow. And ask others. Take their thoughts and see if they fit within your own. If they don’t fit, that’s okay. But you’ll never know if they fit until you try.

Let’s work on this puzzle together.

 

Sunday Evening Art Gallery Blog — Rob Gonsalves

 

Imagination will often carry us to worlds that never were. But without it, we go nowhere.

Carl Sagan, Astronomer

 

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Rob Gonsalves (1959-) is a Canadian painter of magic realism with a unique perspective and style.

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During his childhood,  Gonsalves developed an interest in drawing from imagination using various media. By the age of twelve, his awareness of architecture grew as he learned perspective techniques and he began to create his first paintings and renderings of imagined buildings.

Gonsalves_SailingIsland

You can see influences of Dali and Escher, realistic and surrealistic, yet a style that is all his own.

Gonsalves_WrittenWorld

Rob Gonsalves’ work differs from the “surrealistic” category because the images are deliberately planned and result from conscious thought. His work is an attempt to represent our desire to believe in the impossible.

LadiesOfTheLake-225x175

His ideas are largely generated by the external world and involve recognizable human activities, using carefully planned illusionist devices. A touch of magic, perhaps.

Gonsalves-WidowsWalk

It is like he takes what we know, and turns the canvas just enough to make us wonder exactly what it is we are looking at.

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Maybe the term “Magic Realism” describes his work accurately. But then again, why label anything so magical?

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His fantastic work can be found all across the Internet such as http://www.paragonfineart.com/artists/rob-gonsalves.html and Rob Gonsalves.

Growing Corn

“Granny…one day this corn will be bigger than me.”
“Yes, Bay Bay…one day it will be bigger than you. Bigger than your dad. Bigger than Grandpa.”
“Then what, Granny?”
“We cut it down, feed people and cows and deer and start all over again.”
“Oh. That’s okay. We can come back here again.”

Yes, my little man, we can do this again.

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Computer Hoarder or Zen Master?

animated-gifs-computers-48 (1)Considering how haphazardly I live, organization is not a word that frequently passes my lips. I just have too much information, and not enough room/time/energy to organize it all. But then last week my Irish Muse stopped by, and I’ve been working on Big O 101. Most things around me are falling more-or-less in place.

One place I haven’t had much of a problem, though, is my laptop.

I used to fill notebooks with thoughts, ideas, research, menus for the week. The old-old ones were more like journals, full of angst and awakenings, blah blah blah. Necessary but over. The new ones, though, are a different animal. They are full of things I don’t recognize. Names. Lots of numbers that don’t mean a thing.  Notebooks became jotting books. Need a piece of paper to write down that stupid email address? Write it in the middle of a notebook. Need to add something to the grocery list but don’t have a piece of paper handy? Write it in the middle of the notebook.

I now prefer to document my writing, research, images, and ideas on my laptop.

I must admit I have kept things in much better order than the days of pen and paper. I keep/download too many things on my desktop, but they all eventually find a folder home of their own. I have folders for Stories, Chapters, Essays – Finished, and Stories, Chapters, Essays – Unfinished. I have a Humoring the Goddess folder with dozens of sub-folders.  I have one called Recipes, one called Resumes, and one called Research (which, btw, has the largest, oddest assortment of information I’ve ever seen). Novels have their own folder; inside those are sub-folders of character backgrounds, copy I’ve cut and couldn’t part with, earlier versions from cavemen days, maps of ancient landscapes that may or may not be relevant – all kinds of weird stuff.

I have folders with images: with my downloading prowess I’ve no doubt got three copies of every photo I’ve ever downloaded from my phone. I’ve got family photos, photos I’ve used in blogs, photos I think are cool, photos that are inspiration for other projects, and photos that are…just photos.

I’ve got folders with names of novels I’ve never finished, folders of novels I’ve finished, and books I’ve downloaded and have yet to read. I’ve got cute little folders such as Girl Things, Books-Music-Words, and Family Cards and Art, and boring ones like Taxes and Passwords.

The cool thing about keeping all those folders and documents around is once I open them,  it’s like time-traveling through the galaxy. Where did I get these things? Why were they important to me at the time? What did I want to do with these things?

It’s like a long, long trip through the past.

And although I don’t keep as much falderal as years past, there’s something satisfying about opening a pretzel logic database and actually being able to find something. There’s something fun about thumbing through my Research folder and perusing auras, Rite of Pan, Medieval words, wormholes, and clichés.

What a weirdo! And what a galaxy to explore!

Tell me about YOUR computer. Are you organized? Do you have more ideas than gigabites? Or are you a catcher-catch-can kinda laptopper?

 

 

Sunday Evening Art Gallery — Kaleidoscopes

Creativity is a lot like looking at the world through a kaleidoscope. You look at a set of elements, the same ones everyone else sees, but then reassemble those floating bits and pieces into an enticing new possibility.

Rosabeth Moss Kanter, Harvard Business School

green mint

 

humble-novice.deviantart.com

 

www.meipokwan.org

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Kaleidoscope_Dandelions_by_TastesLikePurple

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julienetherland.blogspot.com

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tyreanswritingspot.blogspot.com

A Man-Type Blog

th (1)You would think that with the amount of writing I’ve been doing the second half of my life, my family – i.e., my mate/husband/soulie – would get excited when I write something new. I mean, I write all kinds of things: mysteries, comedies, poetry, blogs, biographies, novels – let’s just say most everything except dissertations and financial reports. But noooo…whenever I talk about my latest gig, my soulie smiles and nods and looks at me like a deer in the headlights. Like he’s already changed the channel. Not in a mean way – more in an “I know you so nothing you write surprises me” way. So for all those (mostly) men out there that don’t quite get it, here is a manly blog any man can understand.

Saturday Night Cattle Fever

The weather cracked with electricity outside. Thunder rumbled and echoed like a 9-pin no-tap game. The Super Hero hadn’t seen a storm tumble in like that since the white walkers arrived on Game of Thrones. And he didn’t like it.

The Super Hero adjusted his mask and cape. He needed to gather his herd of USDA Prime steers and head back to the corral before the rain came. His partner, the back-up quarterback, nodded to the Hero. No mindless, idle chatter needed. “Home,” was all he said, his Pall Mall filtered extra-light dangling from his lips.

The heat rolling in before the storm was unbearable. Our Hero hadn’t felt this hot since Anna Nichole Smith’s spread in 1992. But that was nothing to the hockey freeze that might follow if didn’t get his Grade A’s to shelter. Keeping his Eye of the Tiger on the approaching weather melee, the Super Hero shouted, “Omaha! Omaha! Set! Hut!” and the cattle drive began.

Onward the cattle plodded, their steps falling in line like the Michigan State University Trojan Marching Band. The wind picked up, the sky darkened. All the Super Hero could think about was pizza and beer and darts. If he could only get back to his Man Cave.

Would his cattle make it? Would he make it?

The back-up quarter back threw his GPS in a spiral pass to the Super Hero, who caught it with one hand. Hero nodded. No need to ask for directions here, mister. He’d find his own way. Thoughts of dinner crossed the Hero’s mind as he barely missed a turkey with a 10” beard. Fortunately, the Tom was faster, and the Hero’s permit wasn’t until Fall.

The Super Hero and his cattle finally reached the hill’s summit, the wind howling and the trees dancing. But this was no time for a parking lot party. Not with the storm beer barreling in on polka wheels. He could clearly see his 6 bedroom, 3 bath, bi-level ranch with wrap around cedar deck, hot tub, 30 x 30 pole barn, and exposed lower level complete with built-in bar, 55” flat screen, and leather-cushioned pool table waiting for him.

The prime cuts seemed to know they were home, too, as they poured through the stainless steel gates over to the Scott’s fertilized grass fields. The rain exploded above their heads, soaking both the Hero and his back-up, bringing nourishment to the countryside and fresh water to the hydroponics in the greenhouse beyond.

The Super Hero parked his orange SRT Viper GTS into the furthest stall of his four-car climate-controlled garage, and closed the door behind him. He took his Tony Lama’s off at the back door, did the Discount Double Check to find his keys, hung them on the  on the John Deere key rack, and entered his Home Sweet Home.

The cattle had been saved. Life was good.

And so would be the Rib Eye Angus with drawn garlic butter and the Blue Moon with the slice of orange. The only thing better would be a baseball double-headed on TV tonight, and a shot of bourbon. Both could be arranged.

 

P.S. He didn’t get it.

Calendar Girls

thMy Irish Wench Muse came to visit me last night. She was all full of her usual Irish self. I wasn’t writing or researching or hanging with my family, so I knew something was up.

“Read yer blog the other day,” she said, smiling, wiping the kitchen table off.

“Oh? Great! Which one?”

“The whinneh one.”

I should have been upset, but how can you be upset at your truthful conscience?

“Whiny? Why was it whiny?”

“A lotta ‘I wants’ and “I’ canna haves’. And no solution. What kenna blog is that?”

I sat straighter in my chair, watching her bend over a drop of gravy and start to scrape it. “Hey! All bloggers get down now and then. It’s part of the creative process!”

“Aye, and a lotta bees sting people when they’re nah looking, too. And they still manage to make the honey.”

I had to see where this was going and fast.

“Well, I didn’t see it as whining. I saw it as voicing the universal truth of too much to do and not enough time to do it all.”

“Nay — the ‘Universal Truth’ is more like ‘Leave your dog inside too long and he’s bound ta poop somewhere.’ That’s why you need a calendar, lass.”

“I already have a calendar at work. And it’s packed full.’

“Do you get everything done on the calendar?”

“Well, duh. It’s work.”

“Then, my darlin’ writer, you need a calendar at home, too. A Grand Poobah Calendar.”

Tickle me with an oak leaf. That’s how much sense she made. “A calendar I get. But a Grand Poobah Calendar? What is that?”

Viola finished scraping the drip and headed towards the crack between the leafs. A dangerous area. “The term is from one of those operas. The Poobah has all the titles and ‘na much else.”

I didn’t get what that had to do with me and my whining…er…woes.

“If  ya canna make time in your head, write it down. Make the time on the calendar,” she explained, pulling out a butter knife to scrape the caverns between leafs.

“But that means I’d have to be — organized! How can a pretzel be organized?

She shook her head between grunts. Must have been extra crumbs down the crack.

“How does the Gran’ Poobah get things done? Too many titles, too little authority. At least if he writes the bloomin’ things down he can see what he wants to do first. And he can pretend to do everything, even if everything is 5 or 10 minutes a day.”

Well, that made sense. I helped her scrape the bread crumbs out of the crack and she smiled her little Irish smile.

“You’ve just got to know how to do a calendar, luv. Jam them with all sorts of rot.  Then when you start the day, start crossin’ off. Lines through rot are good for the soul! Makes you pick and choose your rot!” She spit on a slide of old milk. ” You know, I may be a muse but I’ve got other ‘tings I have to do too. I canna babysit you all the time. ”

I nodded sheepishly.

“I’m yer creative Muse, ya know. A lot of work goes into finding projects for you and fillin’ your head with ideas and suggestions. Makes my brown beer turn green half the time!”

“Well,” I said, “you know I love your company. And your ideas. I wish I would have listened to you 20 years ago, before I had grandkids.”

She threw out a hearty laugh. “Darlin’ 20 years ago you had your own kids, and were just as busy! and 20 years before that! Where do you think all that stencillin’ you did at the B&B came from? Or those sky space paintings from yer youth? Or that story you wrote about you and that English guitar player — Paul? Or that story about the beep bopin’ alien growning his own…”

“I get it. I get it. Make a calendar. Put it all down. Bring your plans out of the 4th dimension in to this 3rd dimension so I can get a handle on it and do a little bit of everything instead of none of a lot. I get it.”

Viola nodded and stood. She was beautiful — green eyes, full figure, Irish brogue and all.

“Donna forget — I’m riding up to the cabin with you this weekend. I’ve got a great idea for a poem! Oh, and my sister from Italy is comin’ too! She noticed you have a bare wall downstairs, and she’s oh-so-up with Italian Frescoes!”

UhOh..

 

I Want It All

a4d9a6e95ab9b4ddaac67a2adb860cb5Are you your own best friend?
Or are you your own worst enemy?
Have you found a way to balance the two?

I have the world’s best intentions — I really do. And sometimes I’m even able to carry them out. On the other hand, sometimes my intentions last as long as a thought. Big burst of emotion/intention, then big hit of sidetrack/misdirection.

Now that I’ve finally found the loves of my life (except from 9-5), I am finding it nearly impossible to balance it all without falling asleep at my desk.

Everything is temporary, I know. My kids living with me for a few months has been the greatest gift I ever could have received. I spend my day thinking of what my GB and I can do when I get home. He is a bundle of energy (vs my total lack of it), so I try and plan accordingly. I also plan time for him to be alone with his parents. After all, they all WOULD be alone together if it weren’t for me. First act of balancing.

But spending the 5 hours (ideally) between work and bedtime have drastically cut the time I have to spend on the other love of my life: writing. Specifically (at least at this moment) my blog(s).

I know there is no comparison between flesh and blood and words on a screen. No comparison between talking to my daughter-in-law and responding to posts online. This time will soon be gone, and I’ll have evenings to myself once again. Every day is a new experience, a new adventure. Who want to miss that?

But I am a Sagittarius, and I want the glory, the excitement, the magic NOW. I am an adventurer, even though I may fall flat half way through my trek. And I (like all of you) are multi-dimensional. I love creating, researching, building, perfecting whatever it is that sets my heart a flutter. My blog (especially the Art one) is quenching my thirst for personal satisfaction. It is something I can call MY OWN. Not hunting or fishing like the boys; not going back to school like friends; not raising children like my kids and friends kids. It’s something created out of my soul and warmed by the sun and fertilized by the moon. It’s something that has turned from a fad idea to a real pursuit of the extraordinary.

I think I suffer somewhat from the life-is-running-out syndrome, too. I’m getting older:  there are fewer years ahead of me than behind, and there’s tons of things I still want to do. I’ve given up dreams of visiting the museums of Rome or wandering through the moors of Scotland. Discovering the planet China is off my list, too. But I can still do things that make me happy, that make me proud. I’m just running out of time to do them.

My circadian rhythm is so out of whack I doubt I could get it back in line with a baseball bat. I get home, am awake, creative, love the evening, the sunset, the kids, the night. Then I can’t fall asleep. Midnight, 1, 2 a.m. and I’m still cruising through the galaxy. I get up at 6 so four hours of sleep isn’t doing it for me. I’ve tried everything to calm down at night. My fear is that I’ll have to give up everything creative if I want to sleep. Or clean my house. Or even make it to work on time.

I admit it. I want it all. I’m too young to retire, too poor to quit working. All of you creative sprites know how it is when you just start getting into your project and you look up at the clock and it’s midnight. Einstein’s time travel continuum has struck again.

So. I ask you. Any suggestions on how I can do it all?

In this lifetime??

Sunday Evening Art Gallery — Intermission

Tonight’s Gallery is a break between worlds. A pause between dreams.

 

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I am so delighted with the direction of the Sunday Evening Art Gallery that I am taking time to make it whole and circular and ever spiraling.  I hope that every Sunday Evening I bring more magic into your life; more sights to share with family and friends; more ideas to bring creativity to your own life.

 

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I hope to expand my site http://www.sundayeveningartgallery.wordpress.com into a continuation of the uniqueness I find around me. That includes changing the domain name and making it a presence like no other.

 

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So for our intermission, let me share a few of my (amateur) photographs of the world around me.

 

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Let us wander the roads and lake shores together, setting our imaginations of fire, and find out what lies just around the corner…

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Where In The World Is….

binocularsI don’t watch “Are Your Smarter than a 5th Grader,” because I don’t want to embarrass myself about how much I really don’t know about the world.

When you’re in school, dates, details, facts, and equations fill your brain. Once you get that beloved diploma, though, most of that stuff falls out of your head like dried alphabet noodles.

I was creating a mailing list at work the other day and I had to add all the world’s countries as part of a dropdown menu. Of course, who doesn’t know where France and China are? Smaller countries like Laos and Thailand aren’t too bad either. But do you know where these countries lie?

Anguilla    Belize      Brunei       Gabon     Liechtenstein      Belarus

     Mauritius      Micronesia      Montserrat     Malawi       Togo

I imagine a lot of you do. I, on the other hand, barely know where Prairie du Chein, Wisconsin is (it’s in upper Wisconsin where the Mississippi and Wisconsin Rivers meet).

It gets worse.

I though Liechtenstein was a made up name from the movie “A Knights Tale.” And the Micronesia was an on-purpose play on the name Malaysia from the movie “Zoolander.”

I’ve spent too much time in front of the TV and not enough in an encyclopedia.

If I don’t have any idea where these countries (and more, believe me) are, I also don’t have any idea of their history, their culture, their arts and their food. Not that in the grand scheme of things I’m missing out on a whole new world of culture, but it makes me feel dumb that I AM so dumb at times.

Anguilla is a British overseas territory in the Caribbean.  It is one of the most northerly of the Leeward Islands in the Lesser Antilles, lying east of Puerto Rico and the Virgin Islands and directly north of Saint Martin.

Belize is a country on the eastern coast of Central America. bordered on the north by Mexico,  on the south and west by Guatemala,  and on the east by the Caribbean Sea.

Brunei is a sovereign state  located on the north coast of the island of  Borneo in Southeast Asia.

Gabon is a sovereign state on the west coast of Central Africa. Located on the equator, Gabon is bordered by Equatorial Guinea  to the northwest, Cameroon  to the north, the Republic of the Congo on the east and south, and the Gulf of Guinea to the west.

Liechtenstein is bordered by Switzerland to the west and south and Austria to the east and north. It has an area of just over 62 square miles.

Belarus is a landlocked country in Eastern Europe bordered by Russia to the northeast, Ukraine to the south, Poland to the west, and Lithuania and Latvia to the northwest.

Mauritius is an island nation in the Indian Ocean about 2,000 kilometers (1,200 mi) off the southeast coast of the African continent

Micronesia – is a sub region of Oceania, comprising thousands of small islands in the western Pacific Ocean. It has a shared cultural history with two other island regions, Polynesia to the east and Melanesia to the south.

Montserrat is a Caribbean island—specifically in the Leeward Islands, which is part of the chain known as the Lesser Antilles in the West Indies.

Malawi is a landlocked country in southeast Africa that was formerly known as Nyasaland. It is bordered by Zambia to the northwest, Tanzania to the northeast, and Mozambique on the east, south and west.

Togo is a country in West Africa bordered by Ghana to the west, Benin to the east and Burkina Faso  to the north. It extends south to the Gulf of Guinea.

 

So there you go. Countries that watch sunrises and sunsets just as we do; people who work off the land, have families, create art, and live and die by the cosmic clock. Cultures so far away, so removed from our everyday life, that we don’t even know they exist.

At least I didn’t. Until now.

Wonder what they make for dinner in Micronesia?

 

8 (more) Granny Rules

CAM00835 (2)I want to start this off by saying how lucky — and I mean lucky — I am to have my oldest son, his pregnant wife, and my 4-year-old grandbaby living with us for a few months. I will never have this opportunity again, so I don’t want to blow it.

Having said that, I have found that when family stays with you (even if it’s for a week or two), the rules as a Granny change. I find I’m not as freebird-ish as I want to be. I have learned that, much to MY chagrin, you have to be respectful of the parents’ wishes, thoughts, and actions.

So for you other present or future grannies and grandpas, here are some rules you should think about.

1.  Bed Time is Bed Time.

Oh, you may be able to squeeze an extra hour out on the weekends, but during the week, there is no watching TV in bed with Granny while eating an ice cream bar or jumping on the bed with the dogs. They need to calm down before sleep time. (So do you!)

2. Bed Time Snacks Are Different.

No more chips and soda before bed; no more cheese sticks and slices of salami, no more Hi-C or Hawaiian Punch cocktails. Pull that apple out from the back of the frig shelf, or pour a bowl of cereal. Act responsible. (Leave the ice cream bars for before YOU go to bed..)

3.  Ask your Mom/Dad

My grandson used to come over and get just about anything he wanted any time he wanted. Now that he’s under closer supervision, I can’t sneak him string cheese or pretzels and peanut butter  instead of dinner. I find myself saying, “Ask your Mother.” I feel like I’m shirking my Granny duties, but it’s better if the stomach aches come from them, not me.

4.  Kids and Pets

I tend to yell at my 3 stupid dogs a lot. I now have to clean up my language and not sound like a truck driver every time the dog pees or poops inside or wraps the leash around my ankle. My grandbaby adds to the furor by picking up my cats around the neck and parading around with them. When the cats have finally had enough, he takes it personally and starts to antagonize them. My language AND my reprimands are a little stronger now days. Not the Granny Way.

5.  Play Age-Approriate Games

Teaching a grandbaby how to use an axe to cut the string on firewood or mowing the lawn with a riding tractor (although grandpa rode on the tractor too) is not what a mother wants to hear. I am always honest with her — much to HER chagrin. While riding down the little hill on a Big Wheels looks as scary as a runaway train, a vigilant grandparent will be there every step of the way. Trust me — past times like coloring and playing with cars don’t hold a candle to a big squirt gun fight.

6.  Give your kids and grandkids space.

It’s fairly easy to trip over each other in one household. Fortunately my husband is gone in the evening and I’m gone during the day, so our 25 minutes of shared daylight doesn’t get in anyone’s way. But once grandpa is gone and I’m home alone with everybody, I tend to start feeling like a sticky note. I believe that evening times are Dad and Mom times, with a little Granny sprinkled in now and then for color. I usually wind up going into my room and writing/watch TV/fold laundry anyway, giving them plenty of time to cuddle as a threesome and talk about me if they want.

7.  No Hands.

And who better to teach a 4-year-old no hands on the roller coaster? Momma and I get sick just looking at them; then there’s Grandpa. And Dad. But Grandpa is the Instigator who looks fear in the eye and laughs at it. (He has a great laugh). If trying something off-center, try and pull one of the parents into it. It’s easier in the long run.

8.  Be honest.

Grannies are always honest…it just doesn’t always seem like it. Most times we are relegated to seeing our grandkids every other weekend, or, sadly, every month or every year. We have to make the most of our time together; after all, we don’t want our grandkids to forget about us once we’re gone. That’s why I tell my grandbaby (and my kids, but to a lesser degree), how much I love them, how much I miss them when they’re gone, how much I can’t wait to see them the next time. We plan things that might not come to fruition, but it’s the fun and love in planning that makes the difference.  I wear my love on my sleeve. And don’t regret the shredded mess at all.

 

We’re going to have another addition to our family in a few months. I have found as a mother myself that it’s easier to let go (to grandparents) by the time the second one comes along. Parents realize that their parents aren’t one step from the looney bin, they’re not Charles Manson followers, and the craziness that occurs is more in the mind than in reality.

Soon we will have TWO kids to spoil. My kids won’t be living with us by then.

Momma — watch out. Granny’s coming —

 

Sunday Evening Art Gallery Blog — The Universe

The surface of the Earth is the shore of the cosmic ocean.

Mystic Mountain

On this shore we’ve learned most of what we know.

Saturns Rings

Recently, we’ve waded a little way out, maybe ankle-deep,

Orion Nebula

and the water seems inviting.

Sombrero Galaxy

Some part of our being knows this is where we came from.

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We long to return, and we can because the cosmos is also within us.

Whirlpool Galaxy

We are made of star stuff.

Abell 1689

We are a way for the cosmos to know itself.

Pismis 24

Carl Sagan, 1980 Cosmos: A Personal Voyage

These, and literally hundreds of other images of galaxies, stars, nebulas, star clusters, planets, and more taken by the Hubble Spacecraft, can be found at the magnificent site http://hubblesite.org/. You must go visit some time. Travel through the universe. See where we’ve come from. See where we are going.

You may never want to come back.

READ THESE (gimmicky) GUIDELINES NOW!!

dos-donts-celebrities1The world is full of gimmicks — full of one-liners and sensational promises for everything from growing hair to making money while staying at home.  Just do this. Only $19.95. Follow these 5 rules and 10 guidelines and you’ll be smarter, prettier, richer, and so on.

Well, I want to cash in on that rigmarole, too. Every blogger wants to be popular. Well read. Recommended. Vital to the survival of the planet. Admit it — we don’t care about statistics, yet every time we get a new follower we do the Snoopy Dance.

So in that same (silly) vein, here are tried-and-true rules for you to follow if you want to be a popular, magnetic, P’s and Q’s type of over-the-top blogger.

DO…

*  Write about kittens/cats and puppies/dogs. No one can resist the cuteness of baby animals. Even if they poop in your lap or chew your new pair of shoes, there’s something cute about the whole thing.

*  Pictures. People love pictures. Nature’s a good one: flowers, trees, paths. Can’t beat Mother Nature for a Stress Buster. Makes ya just wanna go out and do the Sound of Music thing, doesn’t it?

*  Use pictures of food. Even if your recipe/story/antidote doesn’t have anything to do with the pic, who can resist an image of ooey gooey caramel or creamy, cheesy lasagna or a bead-sweating glass of whatever? Makes my mouth water just to think about it.

*  Quotes. People love stories that start or end with quotes. Surely Mel Brooks or Clint Eastwood carry the same charisma as Dali Lama or William Shakespeare. Try a “Roses are Red, Violets are Blue” kinda lead in. You’ll knock ’em dead.

*  Lists. People can’t resist lists. The top 5 to 10 of anything is enough to hold their attention. Now, no one says these lists have to make sense — no one pays much attention to the rules once they leave your blog anyway. But they certainly are eye-catchers!

* Talk to make-believe characters. People love being entertained. I know of a blogger who talks to cheeseburgers and gargoyles. Why not you? And, who knows? They may be more informative and entertaining the evening news.

 

Don’t…

*  Go overly long on the length of your blog. I know you want to unburden your soul, explore the possibilities, make new friends, share recipes, etc., etc., etc. But  you and I know that the attention span of most readers is less than that of a gnat. At 600 words you’ve still got an audience. By 800 people are starting to open a second window on their computer. 900 to 1000 words people are throwing a load of laundry in between sentences. Anything on it’s way up to 2000 words might well be voted “Novel of the Year.”

*  Steal — borrow. The Internet is full of ideas. Borrow what you like and make it yours. If you DO borrow directly from someone, give them the credit they’re due. Readers don’t necessarily care if your words sound familiar — they just don’t want to get sued for reading them.

*  Talk about the same thing over and over. If you are sharing pain, share it. If you are sharing music, or thoughts on television shows, share it. Then talk about something else. Show your progress. Your research. Your over-vivid imagination. People love getting lost. Let them get lost in your mind.

*  Make sure every sentence counts. You want to reach as many readers as you can with your message, no matter what that message is. Good bloggers are followed, not by the quantity they pump out, but by the quality. A story that makes you think, makes you feel, makes you chuckle, will stay with the reader a lot longer than one that flashes in the night.

And — (wait for it…) Who needs hot flashes in the night anyway?

The World is Full of A…Donkies

3328880852_4310e8f431_zI have known for a long time that the world is full of asses.

Now, don’t misunderstand — there are millions of people who have good intentions, good hearts, who go out of their way to help those they’ve never met. It’s part of being human.

I’m beginning to think being an ass is part of being human, too.

Sometimes one can’t help being stupid. Not paying attention, getting older, driving and texting — the reasons go on and on. I put myself am on that list now and then. Case in point. Asking the attendant if I could go in and wash my hands when they were clearly cleaning the bathroom. I knew I should have turned and just gone to another bathroom, but like a deer in the headlights, I stood there stupidly, asking a question that, if I were her, I’d wanna smack me.

But I’m talking about bigger asses. Not ones who are total horrid beings (like those who drag dogs behind their car or put their pit bulls in fights)…that’s for another story (one I’ll probably never write).

I’m talking about asses who on purpose do things that are stupid. Like they spend their lives thinking of ways to step out of the box and into the silly putty. People who on purpose take up two parking spaces. People who speed like crazy in driving around you only to put their signal on 500 yards further and stop and turn in front of you. People who spit out their gum on a busy sidewalk. People who throw their garbage out the car window. People who smash your cart to the side in the store so they can get to their side of the aisle.

What in the hell are wrong with these people?

Is it the thrill of doing something “naughty”? Were they deprived or beaten or super spoiled as a kid and now they need to check out the “other side”? Did they watch the movie Jackass and think it was funny?

I read on Yahoo today a story about two teachers who gave a “certificate” to a learning-challenged child that read, “8th Annual Ghetto Award” and the category was the “huh?” award.

Who does that?

I followed a well-dressed woman to the check out line a few weeks ago, and one of her items was not marked down like the others. Instead of talking it over with the sales person, she belittled her with snide remarks and complained about the store and customer service and demanded to see the store manager. She had the girl almost in tears. And for what? A few dollars discount?

Who does that?

I’ve known people who’ve had their work stolen word-for-word, theory-for-theory, and advertising-for-advertising, by others who wormed  their way in  by “friendship”, taking what they want, and throwing out the rest like the punchline of a joke.

Who does that?

I know people have their patience tested more than ever these days. Between being denied coverage by insurance companies, the price of everything going up, false advertising, hidden fees, rush hour traffic — all of it gets on our nerves one way or the other. But that is a universal burden, not an individualized one. It happens to everyone in one way or another. Why do some people insist on taking out their frustrations on someone they don’t even know?

How many times have you picked the wrong lane to drive in? The wrong lane to check out at the grocery store? Dressed for sun and the weatherman was wrong and it poured? How many times have you come home and found the dog couldn’t hold it and they pooped on the rug? Or the cat threw up on the sofa?

Shit Happens.   But does that give you licence to leave your mark on the world by keying someone else’s car or making fun of the disabled or showing your boobs to the camera?

Most people are able to get over it. When I hear of people being deliberately mean or deliberately stupid, they add to the stress I’ve already had to deal with.  Sometimes their meanness carries over into bullying or shaming. Having gone through that in middle school, I never had the foresight to realize that they were the stupid, messed up one, not me. Now days I’d blast them open a new….well, you know.

Ignorance is one thing. Stupidity is another. Neither one should be part of one’s life. Yet the media thrives on the latter, until we all are nauseated and infuriated at the same time.  To get your stunt in the paper, on TV, even talked about around the dinner table, is enough for some. And until the time stupid people stop doing stupid things, we will be dizzy with them and their tactics.

I guess it takes a world of asses to make the world go round. Or at least to make us dizzy.

 

Sunday Evening Art Gallery Blog — Glass Houses

…People in Glass Houses Shouldn’t Throw Stones…

There are all sorts of glass houses jutting out majestically from other buildings, upper floors, and lower levels. My choice this evening are glass houses that are just that — glass houses.

Standing free and glistening under sunrise and sunset.

~imagine~

Unique-Glass-House-from-Carlo-Santambrogio-and-Ennio-Arosio3-580x444

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glass-house

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beautiful-unique-glass-house-design-with-elegant-unique-two-different-shaped-design-even-sweet-wooden-patio-floor

Northfield, IL

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glass-houses-4

glasshouse1

Reiteiland House, Amsterdam

The TRUTH Behind Cats and the Strawberry Moon

hdAlright. Now that the Strawberry Moon thing is over, I can tell you the real story of my last blog.

You see, I was walking down the tractor trail along this huge, long cornfield. It happened that sunset and moonrise were at the same time that night, and with MR — I mean Mercury Retrograde (I can say it now) in full swing, I was prepared for anything.

Or so I thought.

As the huge moon crested over a barn in the far distance (a real Kodak moment), I started to hear strange sounds from the center of the cornfield. Now, mind you, the corn is really only stubble; 4-5 inches max. So I should have noticed something strange down the row from the get-go. But you know me — into the Goddess “thing” and blah blah blah-ing to the moon about writing and getting published and all that, I just didn’t notice.

I didn’t notice a gathering of moving things dancing in a circle.

Now, you know me. I’m more pretzel than logic, and my creativity takes me to places I’ve never been before. But I was standing on a dirt road all by myself a quarter mile from home, so I instantly switched to my logic gear (also known as survival mode).

I stood very still, trying to figure out what the commotion was. If it was a band of gypsies or satan worshipers, I was gonna take off faster than Dale Earnhardt. But the “gathering” wasn’t tall at all. Not like human beings. Not even tall enough to be kids.

No — the noise was coming from something no bigger than a cat.

Wolves, I thought. Coyotes. Eating, devouring their prey. Howling and growling and sacrificing to the Strawberry Moon. I felt adrenelin flush my whole body. Yet I had to know. Curiosity was suddenly my deadly companion. So C and I tip-toed closer to the group making all the noise.

All I could hear was, “Mrrrro brrrreeerrr Mrrrrro! Mrrrrro breeerrrr Mrrrro!” Over and over. Chanting. A mantra. Surely they were calling up the spirits of the Strawberry! I would be a gonner if I wandered any closer. But, you know me. I couldn’t resist.

Louder and louder they chanted. The moon kept rising, bigger, fuller, flushed with red, not unlike the Strawberry it was named after. The cold wind blew around me, bringing goosebumps to my under-dressed body. But the chanting got louder and louder.

What in the #($*#@ was going on?

Suddenly the chanting reached its pinnacle, and all in one voice they screamed, “MRRRRO BEEERRRRZZZ MRRRROOOOO!” The moon shook, the wind swirled in a final tornado, and suddenly 7 or 8 cats ran off into the night!

They had been dancing around something half buried between two corn stubs. I was terrified. But I had wandered this far — what could it have been?? Stumbling over the last few rows of corn, smashing a stalk or two (sorry, farmer John), I saw what the commotion had been about.

Half buried in the dirt was a little dark blue football, a big orange “C” facing the Strawberry Moon that now had turned orangy itself. And I knew.

Go Bears Go.

The Chicago Bears needed all the help they could get…

(I told you there was a story there somewhere….)

Cats and the Strawberry Moon

catI had a case of the crabbies today, par for most who have to work a whole week after only have worked 4 days the week before and none the week before that. It seemed a number of people I encountered today were a bit “off” as well. I would blame it on MR (can’t say…I promised), but I think it’s just a case of I-wanna-be-anywhere-but-at-work syndrome.

Tonight is/was the Strawberry Moon. You’ve undoubtedly have heard of it — a full moon, close to Earth, makes for one giant strawberry in the sky. So me and my adventurous self took a walk down a wooded path to the back gate which faces a huge corn field, and waited for the moon to appear.

I always think myself a bit weird to begin with, but pacing up and down the tractor road along side newly sprouted corn, waiting for a moon that could show up anywhere across the horizon was plenty weird, too. I’ve waited for moonrise before — I even blogged about one incident (Moonlight at Sunset, http://wp.me/p1pIBL-4e, if you want to go back that far)  eleventy twenty nine years ago (that’s how my grandson counts).

There was a tractor plowing/planting in the field, and I’m sure he caught sight of me once or twice. I didn’t want to have to explain what I was doing tiptoeing around his field (even though he’s a good guy and wouldn’t mind), so I occasionally ducked in the hedgerow lining the path. What a weirdo, too.

But all my weirdness was well worth it when the moon rose. It was indeed a strawberry color, huge and ripe and round and lovely to behold. It was at that moment that the crabbys disappeared…who could hold a grudge against the world with something so awesome in the night sky?

It’s these moments that make me feel so small, yet so immense. If there is no heaven, I want to be able to absorb these cosmic moments as often as I can. For nothing is as holy as a phenomenon in space.

I used to be an astronomy buff; I took classes at the Adler Planetarium in Chicago and even bought a telescope. My scientific side melded with my fantasy side, and a true appreciation of science fiction was born. I think it’s true for all creative people. Thinking of places you can go, things you can invent, spaces you can fill, all overwhelm the senses. Creativity isn’t pidgeon-holed into science fiction realms — I have seen pottery and jewelry and wire sculpturing that escape all dimensions. And all that creativity makes me wonder — what’s next?

When you see the immensity of the moon, something real and bright and ever changing, how can you hold a grudge with the world? Get out of your house, out of your room, out of your car. Go out and experience the Goddess in her every changing glory. Then bring Her energy into you and let it turn your imagination into reality. Be inspired.  Be creative. Be whole.  If the moon isn’t your thing, try the sun. Let the warm rays fill you with hope and strength. Or Mother Earth. She’s a phenomenon all unto herself.

Let go of the crabbies. They never helped anyone get anywhere anyway.

Since my thought earlier today was of writing a blog about cats, I leave you with the image above. Cats and Strawberry Moons have the makings of a wonderful story. Or necklace. Or painting.

Don’t you think?

Sunday Evening Art Gallery — Willard Wigan

Willard Wigan might not be a familiar name to many of us, but once you see his work you will never forget it.

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Willard Wigan is an English Sculptor from Ashmore Park Estate, England. His sculptures are typically placed in the eye of a needle or on the head of a pin. His sculptures are so minute they are only visible through a microscope.

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 On average, it takes Wigan about eight weeks to complete one sculpture in a process that is physically challenging. Because the works are microscopic, the sculptor has learned to control his nervous system and breathing to ensure he does not make even the tiniest movement.

When working, Wigan enters a meditative state in which his heartbeat is slowed, allowing him to reduce any hand tremors and work between heartbeats.

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To carve his figures, Wigan uses surgical blades or hand-made tools, (some of which are custom made out of a sharpened microscopic sliver of tungsten), which he makes by attaching a shard of diamond to a pin.

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Wigan uses a range of materials, including nylon, grains of sand, dust fibers, gold, and spider’s cobwebs.

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My mind cannot wrap around an artist who can control and create like this. A true direct connection between Wigan and the Divine is the only explanation I can muster.

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But then again, what is talent but honing that connection?

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Willard Wigan’s work can be found at his website, http://willard-wigan.com, and various sites around the Net.

He is so worth discovering.

Pokin’ Fun on a Friday

theMy good friend Andra Watkins (www.andrawatkins.com) just wrote a blog that cracked me up. Entitled “How to Have an Easy Career Like Taylor Swift,” her sentiments reflect the sentiments of anyone who’s had to work hard to make a living.

I dunno — maybe it’s just my snickety, granny personality clouding my “universal love and understanding” vision. Or maybe it’s just that it’s Friday. Go take a peek yourself, and see if you’re not smiling at the end…

 

How to Have an Easy Career Like Taylor Swift 

Dear Taylor Swift:
Congratulations! You’re in style, at the top of the charts and sold-out everywhere. I mean, you needed to be an octopus to carry your haul of gongs from the BMAs. There’s no blank space to your trajectory. I like nothing better than seeing a woman shake off the haters and live her wildest dreams.
Heaven forbid I’d ever be mean enough to attack a woman.
Especially one as powerful as you.
But Sweetie, I’m concerned. Power does strange things to people. It slants a world view. Removes natural filters. Causes bad blood. Makes some say unfortunate things
like their high-powered careers aren’t hard.

Read the rest:

http://andrawatkins.com/2015/05/27/how-to-have-an-easy-career-like-taylor-swift/

 

Thanks, Andra, for sayin’ it like it is!

Welcome to my 5th Dimension

greatestgifeverWell, I think I’m over my vacation. And I’ve gotten the Art Gallery stuff out of my system (at least until Sunday).  I’m following a few blogs that do “Wordless Wednesdays,” and I’m really enjoying their pictures. And I think — maybe I can add that to my blog, too.

In the next second I think — what’s wrong with me? What’s with this “over-achiever” thing I seem to be going through?

It’s worse than puberty. Or maybe just LIKE puberty. When you blossom into a young lady (or young man), your thoughts are obsessed with sex. Wanting it, thinking about it, dreaming about it.  Fifty years later, your obsession turns from what used to be to what can be. (And trust me — it’s not sexually oriented). Lost between a tedious job and dreams of retirement, your psyche reaches out to do MORE. Whatever MORE may be to you.

I suppose that’s where “too much of a good thing” comes from.

Like too much chocolate or too much lasagna (can there really be too much of either?), too much variety in a blog is not only confusing to the reader but to you as well. Most bloggers have a theme, a direction, a reason for sharing their thoughts. And those who identify with those themes/directions/reasons follow and share and (hopefully) get something positive out of it.

But when you go this way one day and that way the next and over there the next, there tends to be a bit of confusion on the direction part. I could have started my Sunday Evening Art Gallery as its own separate blog, but I found that I wanted to share these discoveries with YOU, my friends. Knowing how eccentric a middle-aged woman (say…62-ish) can be, you can maybe connect my looking for older age direction with odd, unique art.

Thin though that line may be, I’ve worked hard to keep it strong. Introducing another dimension to this already multi-dimensional blog might be the bonie that made the doggie fat. Too much of a good thing leads to a predicable end.

Getting fat and lazy. And that’s already a struggle.

So my friends-who-have-wordless-Wednesdays — go for it. I love trying NOT to say anything to your unique pictures. And I love the added dimension it gives your blog.

As for me — I’m already bouncing around in the 5th dimension. And there’s no no place out there for being wordless.

A New Gallery Is Open! Guido Daniele!

Flamingo1-226x340For all of you who enjoyed my Sunday Evening Art Gallery salute to Guido Daniele this past April (https://wordpress.com/post/20906013/3920/), I have finally added a boatload of additional hand images for your pleasure.

Sunday Evening Art Gallery  http://wp.me/p5LGaO-bH

Guido Daniele’s repertoire is far more than painted hands — his body art is fantastic. Do drop by his website sometime and appreciate his artistic flair:  http://www.guidodaniele.com/.

Enjoy!

Sunday Evening Art Gallery — Minerals

“Beauty” is not an adjective that first comes to mind when you think about minerals. Building blocks of rocks, the are the most basic of elements. And, as you will see, the most beautiful.

Luz Opal with Galaxy Inside

Luz Opal with Galaxy Inside

BismuthBizmuth

Botswana AgateBotswana Agate

RhodochrositeRhodochrosite

ScoleciteScolecite

Azurite

Azurite

CobaltocalciteCobaltocalcite

Lightning Ridge Black Opal

Lightning Ridge Black Opal

More gorgeous minerals can be found at http://www.boredpanda.com/amazing-stonesminerals/.

Sparkle away!

Reflections of Disney World Through Middle-Aged Eyes

0956dc8c1d8c51f1fab033809ce7a99fMy feet  are aching, my wallet is empty, and I have Wished Upon a Star. I’ve had an exhausting, sweaty, mostly wonderful time in the Big D; I’ve learned a lot and observed more. So here, for better or worse, are reflections about Disney and its mystique.

*   The Disney World transport system is a force come into its own. It’s slick, by golly. I hardly had to wait for a bus to go anywhere.

*  On top of that,  I have to stand up and cheer for the way the Disney System takes care of those with disabilities.  The buses are amazing; the entire fleet has wheelchairs down to a science. The drivers are patient and helpful; the rides in all the parks have special entrances and spots just for those who have to use a wheelchair to get around. Disability is just another word around there.

* The Fast Pass is the way to go. I can’t tell you the devilish delight I had passing those who stood in line for an hour and a half for a 1-1/2 minute ride. At 90 degrees, this quick fix beat melting into a puddle.

*  The biggest terrorist threat at the parks are people pushing strollers. Now, I understand that they, too, have little hot potatoes squiggling and crying and being totally unreasonable, but that doesn’t mean they have to run you down in order to get to the next ride/air conditioned show/home. I had my ankles nipped once and nearly pushed off the boat by parents who then look at me like I’m the alien. Steer clear if at all possible.

*  There is a total lack of modesty at the Magic Kingdom when it comes to Mickey Mouse Ears. I saw so many ears in so many colors and styles it made my head spin. Bride ears, groom ears, pink-and-white polka-dot Minnie ears, Minnie ears with Malificent horns, red velvet ears, sparkly silver ears, disco-flashing ears — the variety was endless. And that was mostly on adult heads.

*  It was great that there were 6 adults to one four-year-old. No one individual had the energy to keep up with the little guy. So, if possible, bring reinforcements.

*  I am the first to admit that I don’t get it. There were lots of people there with children under 3. I understand if the older siblings want to go on rides and meet Goofy, but it seems pretty goofy to me to take a 1-year-old on a spinning tea cup or a flying elephant. The kid doesn’t get it, won’t remember it, and will have sunstroke before noon. Plus — just the hassle of bringing your entire changing table everywhere you go. I don’t get it.

*  Every meal was $10+. No matter if it was breakfast, lunch, or dinner. Every small bottle of NesQuik was $2.79 and every ice cream bar $4.  I know a lot of people bring a lot of their own food, but practicality dictates it’s not worth it. Ask for ice water at any stand (it’s free), split meals, bring snacks. Share, share, share. It doesn’t take the entire bite out of the budget, but the sting becomes more like a sweat bee than a hornet.

*  I used to think I was a people person. Working in downtown Chicago didn’t bother me a bit. Alas, that was 30 years ago. My patience has, shall we say, waned a bit through the years, and my tolerance for stupid people has waned along with it. Sticking to the person sitting next to you on the bus ride back to the hotel just didn’t do it for me. I realize that, in an environment such as that, we all have our limits. I definitely am not a people person. And am glad for it.

*  I also noticed that obesity is rampant in America. I admit I add to that pool; being 20 pounds overweight didn’t help my sweat-energy factor. But there were a lot of BIG people out there — especially kids. I read a note online somewhere to not attack obesity when salads are $7 and burgers are $1, but come on. $1 burgers did not do the damage. Bad eating habits and lack of exercise did. Hopefully walking around the park for days was a start of a new exercise regime. It is for me, for sure.

*  Sun and chlorine are wonderful aging elements. I don’t think I looked this old when I started vacation. But a week in the pool didn’t do much to make me look younger.  Maybe all I need is some Wisconsin weather. And Wisconsin cheese. And Wisconsin beer.

*  And, lastly, bobbing around in the pool or waiting for the kids to get off the ride gave me a lot of time for thinking. For recalculating who I am and what I want from life. Most of what I wanted was right there. But there was something lacking.

When you’re traveling in a group, your say is only one fraction of the whole. In this case, my opinion was only 1/7th of the whole. And somewhere in that percentage I lost myself. Not on purpose — it was just the way of the percentages.

I found that I wanted to be seen and heard and felt in a whole new way. That sharing is all well and good, but I wanted to do something that stood up above and beyond my 1/7th. I’m working on that readjustment this Memorial Day Weekend. I’m working on the reality that I can be 1/7th of an opinion and be 100% of one, too.

You can too. Just find a way to be yourself.

Maybe that’s what the point of all those Mickey Mouse ears was!

Point Me Towards the Kingdom

wavinggifThere is an eerie sense of calm around the Goddess’s home realm these last few days leading up to my vacation at the world’s most expensive playground: Disneyworld. It’s that ethereal world one slips into right before something BIG is about to happen: a wedding, Christmas, or, in my case, vacation.

It’s like I have all the time in the world to do laundry, shop for food for my house sitter, change the kitty litter — you know what I mean. Seeing as I have a mere 35 hours, 42 minutes, and 56 seconds (minus 8 hours for work and 45 minutes travel time) before I’m up in the air heading to sun and sweat  and overpriced everything, I’d better get back into my reality pronto.

Since I won’t be able to hang with you all for a week or so, I thought I’d leave you all with some funny stories about — food.

Who doesn’t like food?

So this week, when you’re bored or hungry (or both), come and check out the following oldies but goodies:

Bread and Butter Badlands  http://wp.me/p1pIBL-CK   bread

A decadent descent into pushing away or towards the table, depending on your end goal.

 

Incredible Edibles  http://wp.me/p1pIBL-MKdog-cooking

What better business to start than opening a Culinary School of Leftovers?

 

When Is A Cherry Not A Cherry  http://wp.me/p1pIBL-AT  cherry

Not so much about food as it is about my sophomoric sense of humor with words.

 

Until then, just keep in mind — I’ll be singing “It’s a Small World After All” for the next three months after this trip…

Sunday Morning Art Gallery — Mother

For my Sunday  Evening Morning Art Gallery today, I’m going to do something  a little different. I am going to honor the most  famous — and probably underrated — mother in the world.

mary-baby-jesus



Mary, the mother of Jesus, is the best known female character in the Bible, yet very little is known about her. I mean, she doesn’t even have a last name!

mary india

Imagine her life. She was a peasant woman, simple, honest. She becomes engaged to a carpenter named Joseph. And while she’s planning her wedding — BAM! An angel appears and tells her she is going to keep her virginity yet be the mother of the son of God.

ballenger-black-madonna-and-child
She is a religious person, so she believes the angel. I can just imagine what her betrothed thought. It takes a lot of commitment to explain the unexplainable. There are varying theories as to if the two were or were not married when she delivered her son. Either way, there was a lot of shame and explaining to do before they reached Bethlehem.

Chinese Jesus

Yet this wonderful woman perseveres. Her and Joseph’s marriage date is lost in the dust of the past. But she delivers little baby Jesus in a barn somewhere, in a stable or a cave or a quiet building in the dark. And so Mary takes her first step into motherhood.

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Raising the Messiah couldn’t have been a cake walk. I’m sure he had his terrible twos/threes/fours too. She was poor, Joseph was poor. I imagine Mary made the best of things, though,  and loved her little boy with her whole heart. She changed his diapers, played stones-in-the-bucket and washed his cuts. She fed him and hugged him and sang him lullabies. And as baby Jesus grew, so did his mother’s fears.

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To have been given the blessing of having a child, and also knowing that he would be crucified for the sins of the world, must have been a burden almost too much to bear. Jesus knew of his calling from an early age; I imagine that brought about a bit of arrogance (in a holy sort of way) too, so his teenage years were probably a little testy between mom and son.

15th-of-august-indian-madonna

Eventually Jesus left the nest and went out to the world, leaving his mother behind. Some say she had other children. But she was, after all, the mother of the son of God, and sensed the tragedy yet to come. It’s not known when Mary realized her oldest was destined for a horrible death. Nonetheless, I can’t imagine living through those last few months of her son’s life. No mother can.

Mary

It is assumed Joseph died before their son started his fateful journey, so she was alone when her baby, her child, died on the cross. Like other women, she worked through her pain and loss and used her strength and faith to spread the message Jesus left behind. It is not clear when she died, and many religions profess she ascended into heaven full and whole.

madonna-of-the-rosary(1)

So on this day when we celebrate Mothers everywhere, let’s celebrate the Mother of them all. Mary. And let her normal, unusual, spiritual, female spirit guide us all. Let’s celebrate mothers who suffer and mothers who laugh. Mothers who cry and mothers who love. And mothers who love their children with every beat of their heart.

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Happy Mother’s Day to Moms Everywhere.

Passion on Hold?

To thine own self be true.Friday

~~William Shakespeare

 

That is no truer than this evening.

I have the weekend to myself. Hubby and boys are hunting, grandbaby up with the other grandparents. Lots of time to do my favorite thing in the whole world.

Write.

I have a lunch date tomorrow; washing the kitchen floor and doing some laundry are on the list as well. The rest of the time is mine, mine, mine.

It’s Friday night and I’ve already made my goulash for dinner (some sort of meat and some sort of noodle and some sort of sauce…catchers-catch-can, so they say). I brought out my laptop, threw some towels in the dryer, fed the dogs, let the dogs out, watched the finale of one TV show, caught up on two more TV shows, am looking out the window at the soft rain falling, and still haven’t written a word.

Do I sabotage myself all the time?

In my own defense — I did write a fantastic blog for this coming Sunday, and did some research on a wonderfully creative art and artist that I will keep for another day. So I have been moving forward, albeit in a crookedy sort of way.

I could blame my very busy, very mind-numbing day. I get home, I am tired, my dreams dancing and fading away into the sunset.  But the “why” doesn’t matter.

I believe that when you have the passion, the seed, the soul of creativity, it will never leave you. It is your source of joy, of your angst and your celebration. The mere thought of getting to do what you love lightens your day, and keeps you up at night. No matter what you love to do, you can’t wait to get back to it. Any side track, any sideways slip, any attack from kids and grandkids and friends in need/indeed are only temporary.

Love will find a way, they say.

Don’t worry if you get distracted. If your heart is in your Art, you will never wander far. Your breaks won’t last long, and your creations will be bigger and better and more fun than you ever imagined.

I’m turning the TV off right now….well, right after I finish watching my pre-recorded Bones.

(whispers…Ooohhh!! ! It’s a double Bones!)

 

 

Whooo Are You? Who Who..Who Who?

confusing body painting 2I was going to write about my life feeling like a tornado. But the thought made me dizzy, so I changed directions, and am going to talk about  —  I don’t know what to talk about.

More often than not my life is like that. I feel like I’m going frontwards, backwards, up the center of that tornado, and not making much headway. So I had a long talk with myself on the drive home from work today, and have decided that I’ve got to quit fighting with the world and to just be myself.

Now, I tell myself that every other day. I’m sure you do, too. And yet you go back to work, to your family, hiding the same thoughts, acting like a semi-obedient kid, counting the days until vacation, until Saturday, until retirement.

In my little one-on-one today, my good girl/bad girl really struggled to find a happy balance. Now, I am a happy person. I love my family, my paint-in-the-butt pets, my house and my habits. I’m not what you’d considered repressed — more like befuddled.

I never thought about retiring. I am too young to retire. Retirement is for old people. I know I wrote a blog about that some time ago, and the truth is that not much has changed. And that’s the problem. I haven’t noticed the clock moving backwards any, so all I have is the NOW and tomorrow’s NOW and so on and so forth. I told myself that it’s about time to stop wasting the NOWs wanting things that just aren’t going to change. There will always be worlds that fit like a glove, and others that fit like size 6 spandex. And not being “there” is alright all on its own.

My Goddess self said Knock It Off.

And so I have.

I really am going to (try) stop whining and get to gettin’ on. I have novels to finish, novels to edit, boho clothes to buy, and star roads to wander down. I suppose this wanderlust looks a bit like dementia, but since it’s purposeful, on-purpose wandering, I’m not too worried.

Have you gotten to the place in your life where enough is enough? I’m not saying I’m going to tell my boss off or spend lots of money on foofy things or start ordering from Amazon and Zulilly, but I am tired of feeling the victim of the world all the time. The bullying stopped by the time I was in high school. It started again about 10 years ago, but it stopped last November. So there’s no reason why I can’t live my life the way I want to. Who knows what that will be? I’d like to get to the point where I don’t feel guilty sleeping in on the weekends or having ice cream for breakfast. I want to write instead of do dishes and work on my blog instead of researching pin numbers.

It’s so much easier said than done, isn’t it? I know we all have different learning curves. Some curves have been much more brutal than mine, some easier. But we’re all striving to find out who we are.

No — we’re all striving to BE who we are. And it can’t be that hard.

I think if we were honest, we’d all be some jagged, bejeweled, bewitched, unpredictable conglomeration of blood and bone and pinky guts that is full of love and hope and magic.

I can be that. How about you?

 

Sunday Evening Art Gallery — Unusual Buildings

Architecture is a visual art, and the buildings speak for themselves.
Julia Morgan, Architect

Banknote Building (Kaunas, Lithuania)Bank Note Building, Lithuania

 

Umeda Sky Building, Osaka, Japan

 

Temple Sagrada Familia, Barcelona, Spain

 

Azadi(Ex Shahyad) Tower (Tehran, Iran)Azadi (Ex Shahyad) Tower, Tehran, Iran

 

The Agbar Tower,  Barcelona, Spain

 

Elephant Building or Chang Building, Thailand

 

Bahrain World Trade Center, Manama, Bahrain

 

Burj Al Arab Hotel, Dubai

 

Julia Morgan (January 20, 1872 – February 2, 1957) was an American Architect, and the first woman architect licensed in California. In 1919 William Randolph Heart commissioned her to build a country house that came to be known as Hearst Castle at his family ranch at San Simeon, California.

Hearst Castle pool

Hearst Castle

How Do I Write “It”?

dogFellow writers, readers, stencilers, painters, sketch artists, graphic artists, scrapbookers, sculpturers, jewelers, poets, screenplayists, and all other creative muses! Lend me your ear/ideas/thoughts/minds.

I have been writing since I wrote my first love story with Paul McCartney. I’ve written several novels through the years (sounds so impressive, although I’ve never been published).  Be that as it may, at this tender age of middle- pre-old age, I’m having a moral testing, so to speak.

My first novel had no sex and no real violence. The sequel had a little more sex, and just a wee bit of violence. The third one had a bit of creatively written sex, and off-camera violence. I’m not prudish — it’s just that the stories didn’t need gratuitous S&V.

Now I am working on another story. Girl goes into “another world” that’s not what it seems (of course). I’m thinking of having one of the heroine’s new friends murdered.  Her murder is important to the direction of the story.  I also want her to be murdered right after she has a baby.

Now (again) — I am not a murderer. I am the person who picks up the worms in the driveway after the rain. I love puppies and unicorns. And the thought of popping someone off unnerves me. I don’t want/need to be graphic — I don’t need to describe it in detail, if at all. But I want my character to be well loved for the few chapters she’s around.

Why is it so hard for me to murder someone? And how do I get passed this?

Do I name her after an old boss who I can cheerfully say I hated? Should I give her such a weird name that no one can feel sorry for her?

Pretend characters are just that. Pretend. A character. Made up. Make believe.

Then why do I feel like I’m murdering a friend?

Any advice you can share will be most appreciated. In the meantime, I’ve got to start sharpening my knife/hatchet/sword.

Who knows when I will pretend to need it.

New Gallery Open!

strange-trees03Good Evening Fellow Artisans!

A beautiful evening for beautiful images!

Last October I created a Sunday Evening Art Gallery in here called Trees (http://wp.me/s1pIBL-trees).

And since it is Spring, and trees are budding and blooming, I have opened a new gallery in THE Sunday Evening Art Gallery called….yes….Trees!

Come and see the diversity Mother Nature shares in the form of Trees.

https://sundayeveningartgallery.wordpress.com/2015/04/29/trees/

 

Sunday Evening Art Gallery — Louise Bourgeois

The itsy-bitsy spider

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Climbed up the water spout

Paris

Down came the rain

bilbO
And washed the spider out

national gallery in iceland
Out came the sun

San Francisco
And dried up all the rain

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And the itsy-bitsy spider

indoor spider

Climbed up the spout again

Kemper Museum St Louis

Louise Joséphine Bourgeois  was born in 1911 and passed away in 2010. She is widely considered to have been one of the most influential artists of the 20th century. In a career spanning seventy years, she produced an intensely personal body of work that is as complex as it is diverse .A French-American artist and sculptor, among her many works were large spider structures which resulted in her being nicknamed the Spiderwoman.  Louise’s gorgeous sculptures can be found at http://www.xavierhufkens.com/artists/louise-bourgeois, or search in Yahoo under Louis Bourgeois.

It’s A Small World After All

mickey_mouse_tired_wallpaper_-_1024x768In a couple of weeks my crew and I will be heading for the sunny confines of Disneyworld. Besides the fact that for the first time ever I’ve been able to pay for my vacation ahead of time, I am looking forward to visiting the world of Peter Pan and Lightning McQueen. The last time I paraded through those hallowed gates, the father of my grandson was barely older than my grandson is now.  Cosmic synchronicity aside, I am so looking forward to a week of not making my own bed and no extra charge for air conditioning.

Alas, the world of vacation in general and DW in particular is not the same as it was 22 years ago. This spritely body is not as spritely as days of yore. So I think I’d better update my To-Do List.

  • Be prepared for average day temperatures in the high 80’s and lows in the mid-60s. No sweats needed, as DW’s lows equal Wisconsin’s highs.
  • Bring a small, portable container of baby powder. No reason to stick together more than necessary.
  • Less is more. A week’s worth of underwear (Plus 1 method) is okay; 7 pairs of jeans, not.
  • Get a haircut now so that it has a couple of weeks to grow into something civilized.
  • Moving is relative. I can still cross distances as I did in the olden days. It just takes a little longer. Therefore, map out bathrooms and misting stations ahead of time. Note air conditioned venues as well.
  • Food rules from home count double here. No creamy, spicy, or burpy delights. Stock up on imodium and Pepto.
  • No need to try the lobster look the first day. Xtra duty sunscreen at 200+ suggested. ChapStik a bonus.
  • Reinvent your idea of what water play is. A 4-year-old does not hang around the shallow end of the pool for any length of time.
  • There are enough adults in the group that each one can schedule a time out. Use it. On yourself and others.
  • The Smartphone is the new camera. Keep it close. Preferably in your pocket. Also doubles as a patience-building tool, as in Jet Pack, Jewels Saga, and Swamp Attack.
  • Water is the lifeforce of DW. Pack many and refill often. Leave the imported beer until you get home.
  • You will undoubtedly leave one important thing behind. Put something to the side (that you can buy down there) and purposely forget it. Break the curse early.
  • Give up any idea of bringing a purse. No need to always take up two spaces. If it doesn’t fit in a fanny pack, you don’t need it.
  • Granola bars are your best friends at the park. Just make sure to get your system used to all that fiber about a week ahead of time.

I’m sure you have your own dots you can add to my list. Any thoughts, experiences, or reality checks are appreciated.

Let’s hear it for the Mouse.

What’s Your Sign?

th1A very good friend of mine (who happens to be an intuitive, too), once told me that there are signs from the Universe everywhere. We just have to look for them, and know when they’re meant for us.

Now, most of you know my pretzel logic view of the world — that somewhere between Jesus and Ra and Gandhi there is an answer for everything.

Chocolate is the answer to everything, too. But I digress.

Humans are eternally torn between what was, what is, what you can prove. Without proof, gravity would just be a guess. As would the formula for Coca Cola. So I get that. Other humans lay any and every thing that has happened on God’s feet. Little did you know that He picks the winning team at baseball games, the fastest time at marathons, and winners of spelling bees. He has very busy feet.

Today is not a discussion of theology, but more a discussion of philosophy. How to deal with that trait of hide-and-seek. Faith and choices and outright miscues. Whether you believe in the predictability or unpredictability of the Universe, there is a chance to connect with a higher power that helps nudge you along the way.

After years of believing, then not believing, then maybe-but-maybe-not believing, I’ve gotten tired living in the Maybe World. It’s straining, it’s taxing, and, honestly it’s quite boring. So I have decided that believing is an art of choice — nothing more.

Now that is no small bag of potatoes. We all choose what we believe in. Even if we haven’t the benefit of Catholic grade school or Sunday School.

But what exactly are “signs” from the cosmos? Signs from heaven? Signs from the beyond?

Scientists tell us there is no way we can get signals from beyond the Earth. Real, electrical, turn-on-the-TV type signals. Yeah Yeah. But I believe there are hints on what to do all around us. We just have to be able to SEE them.

Humans are always grasping for answers…answers to questions that have no answers, except in the land of Believe. Should I change jobs? Is there life after death? Should I give my brother a call? All three are on the same cosmic level. All three dwell in the realm of emotional believe. All have levels of action and non-action.

Whether or not you believe in an afterlife won’t change the fact that tomorrow is the deadline to enter your painting in the Art Fair or that submissions for the writing contest are in three days. The answer to all of life’s mysteries will not change the fact that you woke up with a headache this morning or you missed your kid’s soccer game yesterday.

But what if you’ve actually looking to make a decision way way or another, and are just looking for a little affirmation? Deep down inside you’ve already made the decision; Spirit has made that clear. You just need to bring it into this dimension.

So you walk to work and find a penny on the sidewalk. Or you drive down the backroads and a hawk lands on a post just as you drive by. Or you turn on the radio and your very most favorite song comes on.

Are these cosmic signs?

Or is it just that someone dropped a penny, a hawk decided that particular post looked like a good stopping ground, and the song you wanted to hear has been on the schedule for three days anyway.

What does it matter?

You can make these signs YOUR signs. Big deal if they’re not really cosmic. They are a light at the end of YOUR tunnel. They’re YOUR affirmation: not your mom’s, not your kid’s, not your BFF’s.

This morning on the way to work I spotted a bright blue opening in a sky of grey, bubbly clouds. At the time I was talking aloud about wanting to regain focus in a certain aspect of my life. And there was my sign. I don’t care about the meteorological reason for that peek of sunlight. I don’t care about the odds or the physics or the validity of the phenomenon. I am taking it as a sign that what I was thinking, what I was feeling, was right for me, and I’m moving ahead.

So open your eyes. And your mind. Don’t worry what’s real and what’s imagined. Take the unusual and make it a sign for change. Nature gives us hints on how to move forward all the time.  Just pay attention.

Now…I’ve got something BIG coming up on my plate…hope the sign isn’t something like bird poop on the shoulder or something…

Sunday Evening Art Gallery Blog — Nathalie Miesbach

To my young friends out there:

synergy

Life can be great, but not when you can’t see it.

gulf-of-maine

So, open your eyes to life:

fortuna-sandy-spins

to see it in the vivid colors that God gave us

the-persistance-of-play 1

as a precious gift to His children,

Antarctic Surveyor II

to enjoy life to the fullest,

Retiring BOb

and to make it count.

sandy06

Say yes to your life.

Nancy Reagan

the-last-ride

Nathalie Miebach is an artist whose work focuses on the intersection of art and science and the visual articulation of scientific observations. Her woven sculptures interpret scientific data related to astronomy, ecology and meteorology in three-dimensional space.

You can find more of her intricate work at her website, http://nathaliemiebach.com.

Enjoy your wandering.

Poetic Expression

magic bookThere is something about getting older that brings out the bouquet of life around me/us. I don’t mean the I’m-gonna-die-sooner-than-later syndrome (that we all go through no matter what our age), but a sense of looking around and taking more and more in.

Okay — part of the “take it all in” thing is that I’m moving a little slower than I was 30 years ago, so there’s more time to look around. More time to gauge my steps so that I don’t trip over something. Or step on something. Or twist my back avoiding something.

But it’s more than that.

I’ve always enjoyed poetry — I’ve written a number myself now and then. Lately I’ve been finding myself wanting a way to express a moment in time without typing a thousand words. I’ve had no formal poetry education; my expertise in writing has come mostly through trial and error and writing since I was 10 and being a proofreader for 15 years.

I find that sometimes a hundred words say more than five hundred. That, depending upon the word and its placement, thoughts and emotions can be inferred instead of spoken. Now, that’s no surprise to those who have mastered the art of poetic license, but it’s a surprise to me.

My friend Jane has been a poet all her life.  She loves creating effects with as few words as possible. And she is so wonderfully good at it. There are others whose blogs I follow, too:  Dawn Whitehand at https://apoemandadrawingaday.wordpress.com/, Catherine Arcolio and https://leafandtwig.wordpress.com/. I have my favorites, you have yours. Sometimes you find someone who writes just what you feel. Other times you are left wondering. And that’s a good thing, too. But that’s the beauty of poetry.

Life flies by so fast. Maybe too fast to read a three-page poem. But there’s plenty of time to read a short word or two about the world.

Try writing one yourself. You will be surprised how melodious it feels.

Wanderlusters Sign Up Here

CAM00498Do you ever feel you have a somewhat confusing relationship with your life? As I get older I find my emotional state doesn’t last long enough to hang a hat on, so I often can’t tell what I’m feeling.

I have to admit that I am having a ball with the Sunday Evening Art Gallery part of the blog. Every time I turn around I find one sort or another of Art and Creativity that makes me go, “Woah! What is this?”

I’m also blown away by good writing: insightful blogs, humorous blogs, books, poetry. I often want to cut and paste all the great stuff I’ve come across for future reference. But if I kept everything I found, I’d have to link three or four computers together for research.

There are so many branches of the Creative Tree of Life I’d like to climb. Don’t you feel that way sometimes? Maybe its rooted in in my monochrome job. Computer play I like. Computer data entry, I do not. But it pays the bills and the co-workers are fun and it makes my day. So I do the best I can.

Needless to say, most of my spare minutes (break time, lunch time, bathroom time) is devoted to playing in my mind. I look at the bracelet I’m wearing at work that day, something I bought at one of those over-priced jewelry parties, and say, “Man...I can make this!” I read about friends’ blogs on photography, cats, cooking, and I think, “Wow!  I can do this!” I read a great novel, something fast and fun and romantic, and I think, “Man…I can write this!”

And of course there’s always been the traveling thing. I’ve got friends who write traveling RVs blogs and others who pursue quaint castles and villas.  I want to visit all the out-of-the-way places. I want to visit the museums in Italy and the moors of Scotland and the ranches in Texas. I’d love to go to a Broadway play and go to the Cherry  Blossom Festival in Japan and drink hot chocolate at a Swiss chalet.

There’s always so much I want to do. So many worlds to explore, so many things to try. But because of time and money and Einstein’s Theory of Relativity, there’s so many things I’ll not be able to do.

I have managed to keep my fingers in the pies of creativity through the years. I’ve painted iron gates and stone walls and pots overflowing with ivy on the wall;  I’ve painted faux bricks around my dining room, and I’ve planted some awesome herb gardens. But my taste in activities has changed as I’ve gotten older. Maybe I’ve just worn out the old ideas — or maybe I’ve just run out of walls.

It could just be Spring Fever knocking at my door. Warm evenings and pink skies can do that to one. But sometimes I feel like a kid standing outside of Disneyworld. I want to ride everything at once. And I feel I’m running out of time.

Do you get struck with wanderlust like this? I know you have to pick and choose — everything from life to love to TV shows. We can turn this way, that way. But in the end we have to choose one over another. And when the choices are all so sweet, so enchanting, so revealing, it’s hard.

Let me know if you’ve had to choose, or if you’re still choosing your creative path. Are you are managing to do more than less, or if you are a one-thrill-at-a-time creator. Have you been tempted? Do you do a little of lots or lots of just a little?

Let’s all wander together, shall we?

Sunday Evening Art Gallery — Guido Daniele

Come in close

Because the more you think you see

The easier it will be to fool you.

J. Daniel Atlas, Now You See Me, 2013

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Parrot-un-black1-511x340

Guido Daniele is an Italian multimedia artist and body painter. He has worked in many different media and has also worked for two years in India, where he attended the Tankas School in Dharamsala.

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Cock-226x340

He produced a sequence of animals painted on the human hand, which he calls ‘handimals’.

Chameleon-509x340

The work is so intimate, so impeccable, it’s hard to believe it’s painting at all.

Tiger1-511x340

Guido Daniele was born in Soverato (CZ – Italy) in 1950 and now lives and works in Milan.

Mandarin-Duck-509x340

The beauty of Art is Illusion. What you see vs. what the artist sees.

And because you are on different sides of the canvas, you see different angles of the Illusion.

Elephant-on-brown1-499x340

So look closely. But not too closely.

For the magic is in the Illusion of the Art.

Dove-2-hands-white-on-black1-507x340

You can find more of Guido’s exquisite art at http://www.guidodaniele.com/

17-Swan-Regal-Swan

New Images in the Gallery!

219the jewel-H.M. Queen Therese of Bavaria Tiara   , née Princess of Saxony-Altenburg  (1792-1854)  Queen Therese of Bavaria'sEver wish you could be King or Queen for a Day?

I have added a whole world of crowns on my new site, Sunday Evening Art Gallery   (www.sundayeveningartgallery.wordpress.com). Come try on a crown or two. You never know how good you’ll look!

 

Crowns

Crowns

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Trial and Error is Better Than a Bottle of Whine

trialI had almost a whole blog finished this evening, one about deer ticks and broken teeth and watching Face Off. But when I reread it, all I saw was creatively written whine.  The beautiful thing about typing on a computer is that with one sweep I can delete it all.

But what about second thoughts? What if I destroy something that one day may be my Pulitzer Prize?

I imagine my friends in other arts have the same dilemma. Graphic art, photography, writing, pottery — there’s always those pieces that you gave your heart and soul to and it still sucks. So you redo it. Rewrite it. Re-form it.

But how many times to you redo it?

I would love to hear from my graphic artist friends or sculptor friends or my scrapbooking friends. How many times to you redo something to get it “perfect”? And if you DO redo it, HOW do you do it?

Writing is simple yet complex. Often my stories, novels, poems, and other ditties start out with notes or research of some kind. Not like the Encyclopedia Britannica, but I try and create an ocean of information so that I can eventually reduce it to a cup full of water. Quite like my research for my Sunday Evening Art Gallery. Writing about Doors? Collect images of 30 different doors so I can choose 8. Writing about Nail Art? Download 20 images so you can share 7. Writing about life in 1880? Better check out things like electricity, transportation, and currency, even if the reference is only a couple of sentences long.

I keep every other version of my creations, cutting here, adding there, rearranging when needed. As the years go by I get rid of the middle versions — I’ve either moved forward and created a masterpiece, or it just hasn’t “done it” for me. I have a computer full of half-formed ideas, research that goes nowhere, poetry that needs real work. I decide what I want to work on, what I still need to research, and what was a great idea at the time but now, no thank you.

How do you deal with developing your craft? Do you network? Do you draw a basic image and then play with that same image until you get what you want? Do you you have pages and pages of canvas that hold various versions of your final masterpiece? Do you have stacks of pottery that look nothing like what you wanted to create?

My notebooks are glimpses of my thoughts through time. I’ve kept some since I started writing in earnest years ago. It’s fun going back and seeing my thought processes through the years. Sometimes I go back and reignite the embers that once burned brightly. Other times I just smile and see why the ideas are still only in a notebook.

I think beginner crafters can learn from our paths of trial and error. The thrill of creating something unique is made from the sweat and love and honesty that comes from somewhere deep inside. Some pick one idea, one idea, and stick with it from beginning to end. Others have trial and error experiences, realizing a particular path was pretty much a dead end from the beginning. So we choose a different path. A different path in the same endless woods.

I feel so much better when I write about the Craft. If I ever unlocked the door to the Hallway of Infinite Doors, I would find worlds that I love almost as well — drawing, stenciling, jewelry making, gardening. I would never have a life because my life would exist in the next dimension — the ethereal one. The Creative Arts one. I only hope you feel that way about your Craft too.

Oh, btw — the tick bite wasn’t infected, my broken tooth gets fixed in the morning, and Face Off is down to its final three.

Life is good.

Sunday Evening Art Gallery — Nails

This is Cherry Blossom Season in Japan. Gorgeous trees blooming in brilliant colors of pink and rose and white.

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The Japanese are stars ahead in another flowering world as well — the world of Nail Art.

 

Japanese Style 012 wm

 

When I first came across this fashion statement, I had marveled at the shorter versions.

 

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But then they got longer…

stiletto2

And longer….

Japanese-Nail-Art-Traditional-Japanese-Art

True works of art.

Japanese%2BNail%2BArts%2B(11)

Some are hand painted, others glued wonders.

146683-stiletto-nail-designs

It made me wonder…….do you think they do the dishes?

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Do they type?

japanese-3d-nail-art-designs

I decided these questions are best left to the mystics. Or at least to the manicurists.

amazing-nail-art

 

 

Fashion Rule Number Two

CAM01211I didn’t think I’d be adding to my Fashion Advice Blog (my FAB blog…heh…) so soon. After all, I just packed two paper bags to give to Good Will.

But dressing this morning Lesson Two dawned on me:

Don’t let the crabbies dictate your outfit.

Now, being on a different shift than my other half, I’m often looking through my closet in the morning with the flashlight app on my smartphone. Yesterday I woke up crabby, and neglected — no, downright ignored — the outfit I had picked out the night before. I couldn’t fall asleep, I didn’t want to wake up. So why should I look fresh to the world?

Because of that frumpy choice I felt off-center all day. Even my bling of a necklace couldn’t push me left or right of the funk. By the end of the day, though, the temperature outside was near 60, the sun danced between the clouds, and I had a great time outside with my grandbaby.

Just think that I could have had that feeling all day long if I’d just dressed in what I had originally chosen.

We’re not big dresser-uppers at work; the younger generation does wear great outfits, but the middlers and post-middlers don’t often follow suit. Well, I want to follow suit. As I said in my earllier blog (Be a Fashion Plate — Not a Platter, http://wp.me/p1pIBL-ZR), I don’t want to be that monochrome person (paraphrasing, of course…)

This morning I was again crabby. Not the I’ll-knock-your-socks-off-if-you-talk-to-me crabby, just a why-do-I-have-to-do-this-five-days-a-week crabby. The sun was rising over the trees out my back window; the promise of 60 degrees in the air. So I went back and picked out yesterday’s outfit: a blue top and flowered skirt, and a pair of blue sandals.

And I feel young again.

Now, I hear many of you say, “I’m not a skirt/dress person.” During the winter I’m not either. But there’s something in a flowy skirt blowing in the breeze that makes me feel fresh. Different. Lighter. As if my cares have fluttered away. Lightweight pants and flowy tops can do the same. Or colorful scarves.

Kinda like church on Sundays back in the old days.

So that will be Lesson Two. Pick out your outfit the night before (when you still have some fun left in you), and don’t be swayed by the grump you can sometimes be. Lighten Up. Take a Chance. If you can’t do the night-before-thing, take an extra three minutes and do it right in the morning. Don’t go searching with the flashlight app. You may pull out blue bottoms and a different blue top.

Think of the horror of mass boredom you might create.

Be a Fashion Plate — Not a Platter

giphyFor all of you who are tired of making sure your blues are all the same blue and you wear only one pattern at a time:

This morning I complimented a girl on the color combinations of her outfit. She was wearing a purple t-shirt over a pink shell, with a bright green jacket. I didn’t notice her pants, because I’m sure they were the basic black/navy/dark brown. And that’s point number one.

I didn’t notice her pants because they were very basic.

Despite the fact that she was half my age and weight, she carried off the rainbow pretty well. And I told her so. (I like to give out compliments when I can.) That led to my second thought — if I were dressed like that, I’d look like I was heading off to the circus.

Tada dum. An instant putdown to a healthy thought.

Now, the outfit wasn’t offensive in any way. It wasn’t too short, too small, too tight, too sloppy. It was a play on colors I had not seen together. And — I liked it.

Yet I hide in my black-on-black and silver-and-black and pink-and-black. Summer may throw in some whites and greens, but it’s pretty much old lady old. Last year I wrote a blog called Old Lady BoHo (http://wp.me/p1pIBL-uu) where I was going to lighten up my wardrobe and wear flowy skirts and peasant tops and whatever felt good.

And here I am, writing this blog, dressed in black pants and a black-and-white mosaic shirt.

Woo hoo.

And I think — I can’t do this any more.

I know there are plenty of women who are perfectly happy in the monochromes of the world. But deep inside I am not. I think I’m so afraid of “stepping out of the (color) box” because I’m afraid of looking stupid, so I pass on a lot of fun, comfortable, ME things.

I’m not totally helpless yet — I do have tops with promise, and I have bought a few of those cotton dresses from India for summer evenings.  But I sure could use some advice — and a boost of confidence. I’m sure there are other readers out there who could use a boost in the wardrobe department, too. Or who have taken the plunge and never looked back.

I want to be that person.

I’m sure I’m not alone with this.

I know I can’t (nor do I want to) dress like I’m 20 or 30. I might have the legs for mini skirts, but my buttocks and stomach aren’t quite as accommodating — or forgiving. But there has to be fun colors and patterns out there I can put together and not look like the a haushalterin. But my color palate is like the image above and right. Always moving, always confusing

The first step is stepping over the conservative barrels your youth set out for us. Catholic schools are at one end of the horror spectrum, big city public schools the other. We have to shed this heavy coat of conservatism and find a middle ground.

And I really do want to start this today. I only have 20 or 25 years to get this right.

Better start sooner than later.

How about you?

 

Sunday Evening Art Gallery — George Rodrigue

Meet Blue Dog. Possibly one of the most iconic pop art figures created by artist George Rodrigue.

Are You Lonesome Tonight

 

Blue Dog Oak

 

Blue Dog has been everywhere from the permanent collection of the Smithsonian to the White House and all over the world.

 

Butterfly Blues

 

Born and raised in New Iberia, Louisiana,  George began painting during the third grade while bedridden with polio.

A Faster Breed

Rollin on the River

 

Later in life, his art studies at the University of Louisiana at Lafayette followed by the Art Center College of Design in Pasadena gave him a foundation that spawned one of the greatest success stories in southern art.

Mardi Gras 2010

 

Rodrigue was a gifted artist who started out painting the landscape and the rich history of Louisiana and the Cajun people. But that all changed when he found his model in his studio: a photograph of his dog, Tiffany, who had died.

Good Morning Acadiana

 

He Stopped Loving Her Today

 

“I’m expressing the feelings of mankind today through the Blue Dog,” George said.  “The dog is always having problems of the heart, of growing up, the problems of life.”

I Am an Artist

 

Space Chair

 

His heart was in his work, in his love of his blue dog and his beautiful wife and loving kids.

Are You Trying To Get On My Good Side

 

Blue Dogs on the Red River

 

More of George Rodigue’s amazing blue dogs can be found at https://georgerodrigue.com/.

Breezy Books Make Reading a Breeze!

I love a good book; I love good blogs and good company.51d0NQj9swL._BO2,204,203,200_PIsitb-sticker-v3-big,TopRight,0,-55_SX278_SY278_PIkin4,BottomRight,1,22_AA300_SH20_OU01_

I seemed to have found all three at Breezy Books.

I also love free books, and that’s what Maddie Cochere is offering. And, from the sound of things, that’s just what I’m in need of.

In Maddie’s own words:

I’ve always loved the name Susan, so I chose to use it for my main character. I decided to write about some of my life experiences from working in a weight loss center by day and playing racquetball at night, but I would have everything play out in a much more interesting way in Susan’s life.

… I completed the fourth book in the series. I know! Isn’t that crazy? But I was having fun – sailing along, writing, laughing, and self-publishing. My books are a fun, easy read. There is mystery, a little humor (sometimes madcap), and a little romance. They are pretty squeaky clean with nothing to make you blush.

I don’t know about you, but I’m tired of blushing and shifting in my seat every other page. Sometimes I just want to read something fun, something real, something that feels more like me than the color grey.

I’ve downloaded my free books — and can’t wait to start reading. And the great thing is that there’s more to come.

Come check out the Susan Hunter Mysteries!

https://breezybooksblog.wordpress.com/

Good Intentions Still Need a Disclaimer

peace lillyAs I sit and add images to my newly created Sunday Evening Art Gallery blog, my mind wanders back to a non-incident last week.

I know that, for the most part, showcasing others’ artwork is a step through the thornbushes, to be sure. The reward: fields and fields of fragrant, beautiful flowers. The punishment: thorns that can rip and make you bleed. And that, even with the best, most honest intentions, someone, somewhere, might get upset. Such is the chance I’m willing to take.

I placed a disclaimer on this wandering, unusual blog: not much, I imagine, in the scheme of things. But nonetheless, an attempt at honesty.

Here it is for you all as well.

DISCLAIMER

 

There are so many unbelievable, fascinating, beautiful works of Art out in the world. The intention of this blog, Sunday Evening Art Gallery, is to share this beauty with the Internet Public.

These are creations that most of us never come across. I know every time I find something new and unusual I can’t wait to share it with you. I am taken aback by the genius behind the art. And I believe their passion should be discovered and appreciated by everyone.

Whenever possible, I have listed the artist and their website for your further exploration. In other situations, the topic is so diverse that often there is no one source for the images.

At no time is it my intention to steal or claim as my own photography any image I put on Sunday Evening Art Gallery.

I make no money from this world; I claim only the photography that is mine. My intention is to share the websites of these gifted people so you may further enjoy the fruits of their labors.

If at any time you discover I have taken your image and not given you proper credit, please let me know. My e-mail address is humoring_the_goddess@yahoo.com.

I hope my intention of spreading the beauty I come across has lightened your day. There are so many hard-working, creative artists in the world whose creations most of us never see. I hope to make this blog a melting pot of the unusual, the unique, and the awe-inspiring.

I hope you come along for the ride.

 

Sunday Evening Art Gallery — Elizabeth Berrien

When you think of wire, what do you think of?

 

Blue Heron in Flight

 Blue Heron in Flight

 Barbed wire? Electrical wire? Telephone wire?

 

Amaranth Arch

Amaranth Arch

Elizabeth Berrien has a totally different view of the world of wire. And the Art World couldn’t be more thrilled.

Year of the Horse

Year of the Horse

Elizabeth Berrien is one of the world’s foremost wire sculptors. She pioneered her own form of textile-based, hand-twisted, non-traditional wire sculpture in 1968.

Owl spirit

Owl Spirit

Elizabeth Berrien’s wire sculptures are made “the hard way”. No gloves, no pliers, no chicken wire. Each sculpture starts by twisting together two or three strands. Then, one by one, dozens or even hundreds more strands of wire are spliced in.

Sierra Exif JPEG

Anthemm

Elizabeth continually digs and delves into the world of her subjects – whether real, or imaginary. She taps into the soul of animals, bringing that spirit into this world to create this awe-inspiring wire art.

wall art

Wall Art

You can find much more of Elizabeth Berrien’s museum quality wire sculptures at her website, wirelady.com.  Please pay her world a visit.

Are You Or Are You Not?

writing girlSome of the best advice, the best posts, are posted by others. If you are on Facebook, you know what I mean. The following post was shared on my FB by my very special friend and writer Jane O, who found this on Author’s Publish (www.authorpublish.com), who published it from an article submitted by Chantelle Atkins (http://chantelleatkins.com/), Chantelle also is a fun writer, and she hit the target with her article, “How to Know if You Are a Writer.”  It’s a little over a thousand words, but it’s soooo true! See how many are you!

They say that everyone has at least one good book in them. Does that make you a writer? Or is it more than that? Is it something you decide to be, something you learn to be, or something you have always been whether you liked it or not?

The following statements are what I believe marks someone as a writer. The following factors distinguish writers from other individuals. You don’t have to agree with every statement except the last one. It is the ultimate defining factor, but all the others are key factors that inform why I am a writer

You stare into space. You gaze out of windows. You fall into trances. You drift away. Reality jerks you back. People get impatient and roll their eyes. Get your head out of the clouds, they said when I was young. They told me to stop daydreaming. Don’t stop daydreaming.

Your concentration is variable. Sometimes it is like a dog with a bone, fixed and savage, eyes narrowed, teeth clenched, hands like claws, fingers pounding at the keyboard. Nothing can break you. You keep going until your back aches and your neck cricks and your bladder protests. Other times you are in and out, like clouds in the sky, drifting and aimless. This is because people want your attention and your mind is somewhere else. Sometimes it is because words, images, and voices are forming and joining in your head. You have to sit back and be patient. Don’t try to force it.

Real life gets in the way. This is annoying. Especially when you are on a roll. Housework, real jobs, phone calls driving places, and shopping can all interfere with your writing. You’ve got to do all these things, because real life dictates that you must. But these things are often a chore, something you resent and rush through. Just to get back to the story.

You can’t sleep at night. Your head is full of it all. All of the time. It is relentless. Their voices are getting louder. They are drumming at your door. Kicking their feet against the wall. Moaning and whining. They want their turn. When is it going to be their turn? They’ve told you so much now. You know what they look like. You know what they sound like, how they speak, what slang they use, what their mannerisms are. You know their stories and their dilemmas. You just want to get some sleep! But you can’t, not until it is done. Not until things are settled. They are in control and they know it.

Inspiration comes at strange and wonderful times. Dialogue springs into your head. Characters grow and change, becoming more real. They sneer and jostle and roll their eyes and seep inside your consciousness. Plot twists you never knew you were capable of dreaming up. Oh my God! Where did that come from? Who would have thought? But of course…that would be brilliant…that would work, that would tie in and make sense…and then…and then…You have to get home quick. You need a pen. A phone to tap into. Anything. You must not forget. You must not lose it!

You people watch. You don’t know you are doing it. It is not on purpose. You are often a loner, an introvert, someone who carries things around, cradles them inside until writing sets them free. You think people are not for you, not really. But they are. Because they are the life and soul of the stories. And they are everywhere, doing what people do. They are sloshing drinks and swearing under their breath. They are wiping oil stained fingers down their shirt. They are sighing in the queue at the store,  biting their lips with some secret unknown worry. They are shiny with sweat, frantic with unrealized dreams and potential. They have whiskered chins and nicotine fingers, fat thighs, and newspapers rolled under arms, they have backpacks and are going somewhere, but where and why? They pass you on the street, they look through you, they are chatting on the phone, they are always living lives, secret and unknown. They could be anyone. They could have a story.

You suffer from crippling self-doubt. It has plagued you for years. You don’t blow your own trumpet or beg for attention. You swallow the words you really want to say. You don’t know why you write, I mean, who are you? Who are you to write anything? Who wants to know? Who will care? But you do it because you have always done it. One way or another. Sometimes life gets in the way and people tell you to wake up and stop dreaming. Make money, work jobs, pay bills, care for kids. They wonder why you care about writing. What is that? It doesn’t get you anywhere. It doesn’t make you any money. But you know why you do it. You do it because you would go crazy if you didn’t. Because the voices would get too loud to bear. Because the people inside your head would feel lost and let down, be voiceless and alone. Because of all the things you don’t say in real life, all the things you have stood by and watched and heard and felt and thought, because all those things need to come out. All those things. They need to be heard.

You write. Ultimately it comes down to this one fact. This is the crux of it. If you are a writer, you write. Whatever it is. Poems, fiction, non-fiction, blogs. Whether you share it or not, whether you publish it or not, whether you think you are good at it or not. You do it anyway, there is no choice.