Croning My Way Through Life
“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.
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?
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
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.
My 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..
Are 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??
Tonight’s Gallery is a break between worlds. A pause between dreams.
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.
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.
So for our intermission, let me share a few of my (amateur) photographs of the world around me.
Let us wander the roads and lake shores together, setting our imaginations of fire, and find out what lies just around the corner…
I 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?
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 —
The surface of the Earth is the shore of the cosmic ocean.
On this shore we’ve learned most of what we know.
Recently, we’ve waded a little way out, maybe ankle-deep,
and the water seems inviting.
Some part of our being knows this is where we came from.
We long to return, and we can because the cosmos is also within us.
We are made of star stuff.
We are a way for the cosmos to know itself.
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.
The 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.
* 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.
* 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?
I 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.
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~
Alright. 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….)
I 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?
Willard Wigan might not be a familiar name to many of us, but once you see his work you will never forget it.
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.
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.
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.
Wigan uses a range of materials, including nylon, grains of sand, dust fibers, gold, and spider’s cobwebs.
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.
But then again, what is talent but honing that connection?
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.
My 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…
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!
Well, 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.
For 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!
“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
Bizmuth
Botswana Agate
Rhodochrosite
Scolecite
Azurite
Cobaltocalcite
Lightning Ridge Black Opal
More gorgeous minerals can be found at http://www.boredpanda.com/amazing-stonesminerals/.
Sparkle away!
My 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!
There 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 
A decadent descent into pushing away or towards the table, depending on your end goal.
Incredible Edibles http://wp.me/p1pIBL-MK
What better business to start than opening a Culinary School of Leftovers?
When Is A Cherry Not A Cherry http://wp.me/p1pIBL-AT 
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…
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, 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!
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Happy Mother’s Day to Moms Everywhere.
To thine own self be true.
~~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!)
I 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?
Architecture is a visual art, and the buildings speak for themselves.
Julia Morgan, Architect
Bank Note Building, Lithuania
Umeda Sky Building, Osaka, Japan
Temple Sagrada Familia, Barcelona, Spain
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.
Fellow 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.
Good 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/
The itsy-bitsy spider
Climbed up the water spout
Down came the rain
And washed the spider out
Out came the sun
And dried up all the rain
And the itsy-bitsy spider
Climbed up the spout again
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.
In 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.
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.
A 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…
To my young friends out there:
Life can be great, but not when you can’t see it.
So, open your eyes to life:
to see it in the vivid colors that God gave us
as a precious gift to His children,
to enjoy life to the fullest,
and to make it count.
Say yes to your life.
Nancy Reagan
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.
There 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.
Do 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?
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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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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He produced a sequence of animals painted on the human hand, which he calls ‘handimals’.
The work is so intimate, so impeccable, it’s hard to believe it’s painting at all.
Guido Daniele was born in Soverato (CZ – Italy) in 1950 and now lives and works in Milan.
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.
So look closely. But not too closely.
For the magic is in the Illusion of the Art.
You can find more of Guido’s exquisite art at http://www.guidodaniele.com/
Ever 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
I 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.
This is Cherry Blossom Season in Japan. Gorgeous trees blooming in brilliant colors of pink and rose and white.
The Japanese are stars ahead in another flowering world as well — the world of Nail Art.
When I first came across this fashion statement, I had marveled at the shorter versions.
But then they got longer…
And longer….
True works of art.
Some are hand painted, others glued wonders.
It made me wonder…….do you think they do the dishes?
Do they type?
I decided these questions are best left to the mystics. Or at least to the manicurists.
I 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.
For 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?
Meet Blue Dog. Possibly one of the most iconic pop art figures created by artist George Rodrigue.
Blue Dog has been everywhere from the permanent collection of the Smithsonian to the White House and all over the world.
Born and raised in New Iberia, Louisiana, George began painting during the third grade while bedridden with polio.
A Faster Breed
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.
“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.”
His heart was in his work, in his love of his blue dog and his beautiful wife and loving kids.
More of George Rodigue’s amazing blue dogs can be found at https://georgerodrigue.com/.
I love a good book; I love good blogs and good company.
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!
As 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.
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.
When you think of wire, what do you think of?
Blue Heron in Flight
Barbed wire? Electrical wire? Telephone wire?
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
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
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.
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
You can find much more of Elizabeth Berrien’s museum quality wire sculptures at her website, wirelady.com. Please pay her world a visit.
Some 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.
St. Patrick’s Day. Far removed from the original in Ireland; far removed from it’s original form. But then again, so is Christmas.
When people think of St. Pattie’s Day, they think of drunken revelers starting at 6 a.m. and passing out by 3 p.m. Heck — that happens in my college town every year. It means corned beef and cabbage, potatoes, and — yes — green beer.
Since most of those foods weren’t even around back in St. Pattie’s day, let’s just take a moment to see what that phrase means. Erin go bragh. Ireland Forever.
There’s something sentimental about ‘ol Ireland; the green hills, the Gaelic charm. The lullabies and the Irish sayings. They all seem to hone in to the heart on March 17th more than other days of the year.
I am one-fourth Irish, and although I don’t fall down drunk on Green Beer, I do enjoy Reubens and Reuben Wraps and beer — green or not. My mother was Irish, and what a little firecracker she was. I’m sad I never took the time to get to know her heritage better. Heck — I’m sorry I didn’t get to know HER better. She was taken at 54, and I always wonder what life would have been like if she had seen her grandkids.
The Irish have had their sad side, too. The immigrants, the stereotyping. It happens to any race that is a minority. Fortunately, the Irish have moved from cursed to revered. So should it be for all races.
So on this Great Irish Day, raise a glass/mug of beer/soda/milk, and toast the freedom that was brought to us by the Irish. And the Polish. And the French. And the Chinese. And the Germans. And the Swedes. And the Hungarians. And the Japanese. And the Russians. And the Africans.
But instead of shouting “Erin go Bragh”, let’s shout something more meaningful.
Stáit Aontaithe Mheiriceá go brách.
United States Forever.
*
Open the door and you shall see
The most wondrous things from land to sea.
Your dreams await on the other side
Imagination beckons far and wide
What do you think awaits you there?
Come! Let us venture without a care
A chance to explore worlds never seen
Magic and reality and all inbetween
Open the door and you shall see
The most wondrous things from land to sea.
*
Happy Friday Creative People!
I have added another Gallery to my second blog, Sunday Evening Art Gallery.
It’s called Wine Glasses. Have fun drinking wine or water or chocolate milk out of these unique treasures!
And if you’d like to read the poem that went with this lovely blog, follow me …
https://humoringthegoddess.com/2015/02/01/ode-to-a-wine-glass/
Dare I whisper — Spring is (almost) here in Wisconsin!
With my luck, a snowstorm of epic proportions will fall on me for saying that, but what-the-hey — I think the medicinal qualities of semi-warm air is worth the test of a last, lone snowstorm.
I’ve been reading blogs and Facebook entries saying that Spring has already popped in some Southern venues. I’ve seen pictures of flowers and birds all around the Net. Well, I can tell mine is coming, too, for it’s Mud City outside my front door.
People in Wisconsin don’t have the same kind of Springs that other people have. Oh, we have flowers peeking up through the ground and birds singing their little hearts out…but we also have grills popping with bratwurst and people shopping in their shorts and sweatshirts.
My grandson and I practiced our first “don’t tell mom” episode over the weekend…he was riding his Hot Wheels down the hill/driveway, trying to make a sharp right turn at the bottom. There was only one tip-over in the mudsnow…he was getting the hang of it. Alas, he couldn’t continue down the straight part and turn left and downhill to splash in the huge puddle in the middle of the driveway, for he couldn’t get enough traction to speed through the mud.
That will come next week.
Why do we do such wild things the first day the sun shines and we don’t have to wear gloves? We wear a sweater instead of a coat, seeing as even though it’s 29 degrees in the morning it will be 48 by the time we get out of work. 48 degrees. That’s Popsicle weather for most folks. We drive with our windows down, turning on the heat only out of necessity. We sing Beach Boys and Bon Jovi songs at the top of our lungs, the cool…er, cold… wind barely tossing our hair. (It is fresh air, you see..) The snow isn’t even melted yet and yet we’re planning barbeques, Fests, and trips to the zoo. We are eating more fruit and veggies, hoping to take a pound or two off before we put on that bathing suit, and cleaning and oiling our lawnmowers — just in case.
I’m sure every area has its quirks when it comes to Springtime. Most of us have woken up in the dark and come home from work in the dark for so long that any ray of sunshine is a ray of hope for humanity. So any ritual to bring Gaia to her feet is welcome.
I think part of it is that we are celebrating another year of life. Another year of being alive. Another chance to make it right. When I drive with the windows open and smell Mother Nature’s scent, I thank Her for allowing me one more year of puddles and flowers, of sunsets and crickets, of bonfires and marshmallows.
So the second you sense Spring in the air, GO FOR IT! Walk out on the porch in your underwear or ride your motorcycle or go buy bulbs and seeds or bring out the barbie and cue something juicy. Embrace the change of seasons — and of life. And just say thanks. Again.
After all, you never know if they’ll have grills and brats in heaven…
Photographs and paintings often give us a full representation of the subject.
If we are all more than the sum of our parts, what are we if parts of us are missing?
Can we be ever-so-much-more by showing ever-so-much-less?
Or, more likely, what if we are more than just one thing?
The Beijing-based group known as Unmask Group has managed to not only honor the human form through sculpture, but added a new twist to its visual appeal by subtracting redundant parts from the sculptures.
I am amazed that so much can be said with so little.
Liu Zhan, Kuang Jun and Tan Tianwei met while at the Central Academy of Fine Arts and have been producing sculptural work together since 2001.
More wonderful art from the Masked Group can be found at
http://designcollector.net/sculptures-by-unmask/ and http://www.thisiscolossal.com/2012/01/dissolving-figurative-sculptures-by-unmask/.
See if you can decide which parts of you are shown, which parts have been cut away, and which parts have been melded with someone or something else.
To all you current and wannabe bloggers, I came across some interesting statistics the other day, courtesy of Statistic Brain http://www.statisticbrain.com/attention-span-statistics .
As far as us lovers of blab go:
The average attention span in 2013 was 8 seconds.
The average attention span in 2000 was 12 seconds.
The average attention span of a gold fish is 9 seconds.
I just imagine the statistics for 2015 are even more mind blowing. What does that hold for us chatterboxes? Are we full of hot air? Do we think we are Shakespeare when we are merely Rocky?
I tried to think of things you can do in 8 seconds. You can:
Glance over one’s resume
Count to 8
Delete your Facebook account
Deseed a pomegranate with a spoon
Speed dial Japan
Make a bologna sandwich
So what the article was saying is — keep your message tight, short, to the point.
Right — and Abraham Lincoln wasn’t really our president, either.
I looked back at my blogs. I’ve been chatting away since 2011. I must say I have cut back on my rhetoric. Back then, Dinner with the Queen (6/22/11) was 1015 words. Chocolate and the Tuscan Sun (4/23/11) was 1016 words. My last few blogs have been more reasonable. Incredible Edibles (686). Evidence was 452 words. BFFs was 564 words. Shhhh Kitty Kitty Kitty was 686 (am I pushing it here?). I am trying to heed the warning that these days it’s really easy to bore people. To numb people. I have them flip past your book/page/article and move onto the next. And the next.
Some articles I’ve read say you should be able to tell your story in two sentences. Anything else is wasted work. (Of course, that particular article was over 1,000 words long). I know we are all used to Yahoo headlines. After all, that’s how many of us get our news these days.
But how do you know if you’re missing anything of substance? How do you know if you’ll enjoy what you read if the story is only 20 words? How do you know what the person(s) is feeling or thinking or doing in less than two sentences? I think eating only one piece of chocolate is easier.
I could shorten my blogs to a couple of sentences:
Evidence: My cat steals things from my purse and leaves them on the dog’s pillow. She is naughty.
Incredible Edibles: Going to a Creative Leftovers School would be fun. You could learn what to do with leftovers.
They just don’t have the same panasche as the thought process of the sneaky fat cat or the truth behind impulse buying and portion control, do they?
I suppose that’s what Facebook and Twitter are for. Short, sweet spots of information. Glance and forget. Or glance and send to yourself so you don’t forget it. I have about 15 recipes on FB that I’ve sent myself so I wouldn’t lose them in the plethora of information spinning past me every day. Don’t ask me if I’ve ever gone back to look at them, though.
I think writing, like anything else, is done half way in the middle. Sometimes it takes paragraphs to describe scenery or someone’s evil thoughts. Other times, a few words will do. You will “get it” no matter which you choose. Just be careful the tone in which you convey your message.
You may be describing a decadent desert and someone will mistake it for porn. Worse yet, you may be describing porn and someone will think you’re talking about strawberry shortcake.
I find that I’m always on my way to talk about one thing when I get turn around and talk about something else. I usually attribute this to my adult-onset A.D.D. Not making fun of the condition; just acknowledging that I have most of the symptoms.
I am learning to work with my short attention span. Sometimes it’s waving my arms like an orchestra conductor, forcing myself to slow down and breathe; other times it’s doing the whirling dervish, looking for the TV flipper that I just set down somewhere. There are other odd things that contribute to my upsidedownness — hubby working a different shift, too many dogs underfoot, having to sit still eight hours a day in front of a computer screen. The winter blues are hitting all of us full force, too. Tired of below zero, slush and piles of snow, boring browns and blacks as wardrobe colors.
What’s a feisty granny to do when she’s lost her zest?
I’ve come up with a list of activities that will combine my inability to sit still with my desire to nap half the time. See if you can identify with any of them.
1. Multitask. Now, most of you already do that. But if you orchestrate your movements, you can flow from one room to another, putting things away, running a dust rag across the TV on the way to the bathroom where you pick up dirty towels, drop the towels in front of the washer as you continue towards the kitchen, emptying the dishwasher, taking a clean glass to your bathroom where you stop on the way to fold a couple of shirts in the laundry basket. By the end of the night you’ll have cleaned several rooms and burned off a few hundred calories!
2. Exercise Class. It’s never too soon to start an exercise regime. I’m not much of a class person, but I have an elliptical downstairs that I can move right in front of the TV. Maybe one day I’ll be able to watch all of Gone With the Wind on the thing.
3. Writing. Now, I know you wonder, “How can sitting and writing in the evening help with my antsy pantsyness?” Well, no one writes quite like me. I know Stephen King hides himself in a room for eight hours a day, others have great studies, library desks, even a comfy chair in a quiet corner. Not me. Half the time I’m plopped onto my favorite corner of the sofa, TV going on in the background (mostly Sirius radio), laundry rollin’ in the dryer, flash drives and laptop and spiral notebooks and my phone all within reach, a glass of milk, (sometimes a cookie), and a blanket for the chill. It’s amazing what I can get done with I just sit. What also helps is that I have ten things I want to do and only a couple hours a night to do it.
4. Be a Granny. Although this task is usually delegated to weekends, there is never a slow, dull moment when I get together with the world’s cutest 4-year-old. Often there are other grandparents around too, so we all can take a breather when duty calls. But I find trying to keep up — and ahead — of him, especially mentally, is the perfect outlet for my whirling dervish moments.
5. Research. I know when I say that word you think of putting together 30 references on the bottom of a 50 page research paper on the life of a paramecium. But that’s not true. No matter what your hobby/career/dream, there is always something you can learn from. Learn about. Some take notes; some have great memories. When people say you can’t be a writer unless you’re a reader, that’s true. Even if it’s Yahoo headlines. But your curiosity should take you places that inspire you. Surrealistic artists, wire sculptors, quilting patterns. Ancient ruins. Alien ruins. You can learn from them all.
6. Organize. Yes, I know that’s akin to cleaning, something many of us are allergic to. But especially now that winter is thinking about leaving, what better time to rearrange your closet or jewelry box or kitchen cabinets. It’s funny, but organization does bring a slowing of the heartbeat and the feeling of accomplishment. After all, how many bracelets or blue shirts can one have?
7. Music. This is my final go-to when I find I can’t slow down. A piano sonata by Beethoven can work wonders. So can smooth jazz or even a visit to the New Age station. No words, no pounding beat (I leave that for Saturday mornings). Just a steady rhythm, a mysterious melody, to a beat that slows down your racing pulse and forces you to relax. Dim lights help, too. Incense. Candles. Just don’t fall asleep and burn your house down.
We all have hobbies/careers/passions that make our blood boil and our ideas clamor to see the light of day. We have busy days, meetings, conferences, data entry and countless other responsibilities. If you are retired, there is still a list a mile long of things you want/need to get done. And the last thing you want to do during the evening or on weekends is to keep running at that breakneck pace.
Yet your love of your craft won’t let you rest, either.
Your best bet is to channel your energy into a positive force to be reckoned with. You may find yourself writing down thoughts for your next story as you mix cookie dough while watching “The Walking Dead” in the background, but, hey! Isn’t that what life is all about?
Get ‘er done!
I am not sure where the wanderlust for unusual art came from. It might be from stumbling across the Guggenheim Museum in Bilbao; it could be from looking at Mount Rushmore in person so many years ago.
But once I opened the door, I was Dorothy discovering the Land of Oz. Shapes and colors I’d never imagined appeared before me. More than that — creative minds reached out and touched the creative muse inside of me. Art that was just a little — different. Unique. Art that brought discussion and engagement to the world.
I found that once I stumbled around and discovered these unique creations, I collected more images than a normal blog attention span could handle. So what better way to show even more examples of the creative mind than to create a gallery dedicated to them alone?
The Sunday Evening Art Gallery is a newly created site that is an expansion of my Sunday Evening offerings. It is an expansion of my weekly gallery — a place where you can enjoy additional creations from magical minds.
Including mine.
I will be adding new galleries every week, so please come and visit often. If you know of other artists/objects/representations of any form of Creative Art, let me know that, too. I am always open for more magic!
http://www.sundayeveningartgallery.wordpress.com
1931-2015
His last Tweet:
A life is like a garden. Perfect moments can be had, but not preserved, except in memory. LLAP
Look at the sky. We are not alone. The whole universe is friendly to us and conspires only to give the best to those who dream and work. J. Abdul Kalam
No man is an Island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the Continent, a part of the main. John Donne
You can make it, but it’s easier if you don’t have to do it alone. Betty Ford
Alone we can do so little; together we can do so much. Helen Keller
A lot of us have creative dreams that we dream alone. We dream of being a better painter, ceramics-er, quilter, speaker, writer. But we sit alone, dreaming these pipe dreams, afraid to bring our full potential to the forefront.
Yet when we bring out work outside the silence of our own world, amazing things happen.
Bells ring, adrenalin bubbles, and ideas explode. When we share our oh-so-private dreams with others who also have oh-so-private dreams, we find incentive, hope, and support with another living, breathing, being.
And it’s great.
I know some of the greatest writers seclude themselves, isolate themselves, and write torturous and incredible passages; painters hide in dark rooms and airy studios and create gorgeous imitations of life. But sooner or later these masterpieces need a second opinion. An idea of where to go from here. A conversation of how to get their message out there. Feedback on their thoughts and ideas.
Tonight I had hot chocolate with my bff, an incredibly talented and outgoing muse. We talked about speaking engagements and radio shows and blogs and writing contests and it was exciting. Last week I met with two other wonderfully creative and innovative muses whose creative talents lie in the worlds of animals and graphic arts. Over the weekend, a couple of fantastic scrapbookers. Everyone’s fields are different; everyone is engaged in different parts of their lives. But all of us have the desire to do more, be more, to have fun and discover what’s waiting for us right around the corner.
Some of my best friends are people I met when I was a part of the Wisconsin Writer’s Association. Friends that are writers, poets, screenwriters. I miss the camaraderie conferences brought to my life. The natural support that comes from wanting the same things everyone at the table wants. I miss the support of those who are lost in their innovational sphere like I am.
When I get together with other creative spirits, something magical happens. It’s the opposite of what you first envision. Your thoughts clarify. You are free to boast about your accomplishments without feeling self conscious. You share thoughts on how to get your message across. What works, what doesn’t. What’s reasonable and what’s ridiculous.
Blogs are wonderful tools for communication, too. There are thousands of writers out there — thousands of abstract artists and thousands of jewelry makers and thousands of animal whisperers. Sometimes when you see the sheer numbers of those wanting what you want, it can be overwhelming, making you want to throw in the towel.
Don’t.
The numbers don’t matter. All that matters is that somewhere in the Internet world are others who are going through just what you are going through. You can’t be friends with them all. But you can connect with a talented few who are willing to take you along on their ride, and who want to ride along with you. People who laugh and encourage and feel just like you.
Don’t be afraid to dream and to encourage others to dream too. There is always so much room to grow. And nothing is more fun than growing along with others.
Make room on your island!
Australian abstract artist Dawn Whitehand starts off her “about” page this way:
I am an Australian artist, making unique mixed media sculptures from clay, found objects and textured materials which are based on organic natural forms.
I have always thought of myself as a traditionalist when it came to Art — Renoir, Rembrandt, Redlin — those people I can understand.
I never really paid attention to Abstract Art until I wandered into Dawn’s world.
Working from my studio on the outskirts of Ballarat at the base of a slumbering volcano, I am very aware of my environment, its constant changing, and its vulnerability. I am also very aware of the current global environmental crisis.
Within this context my art practice attempts to address these issues by making sculptural artworks that attempt to remind, though subliminally, the viewer of their innate connection to the Earth, and our reliance upon it for survival.
And I started to understand. A little. That all art doesn’t have to be literal. That trees don’t have to look like trees, and volcanoes didn’t have to look like volcanoes.
That Art, like Emotions, like Life, is different for everyone. Some just choose to share their unique view through creative arts.
The thrill of interpretation is the same thrill we take with each breath. And that there’s always someone willing to share their breath — and view — with you.
Dawn is a multi-talented spirit. She creates jewelry and pottery and custom-made art sculptures. You can find her art at https://dawnwhitehand.wordpress.com, and contemporary poems, art, and drawings at https://apoemandadrawingaday.wordpress.com/.
Stop by and learn a little bit of Abstract Art for yourself.
I love writing. I love writing everything — including parodies.
Most of you know I also love unicorns.
I came across this wonderful little ditty the other day. I wrote it as an invitation to my 60th birthday party. I believe instead of complaining, whining, and belittling the day we cannot do anything about, we should make a big deal of it every day.
So enjoy my ode to my birthday party two years ago.
Once upon a weeknight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary
Over a many quaint and curious volume of forgotten recorded TV shows
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping
As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my patio door.
‘Tis my dogs I muttered, tapping at my patio door.
Only this and nothing more.
Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December
And each separate dust bunny made a mess upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow – vainly I had thought to borrow
A DVD from my son’s room, but sorrow – sorry he had misplaced Avatar
Just a phase and nothing more.
Presently my channel surfing grew boring, hesitating then no longer
Dickens or Rennie dogs, said I, truly your forgiveness I implore
But the fact was I was napping, and so gently you came rapping.
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my patio door.
That I scarcely heard you. Here I slide open the door
Snow piled there, and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing
The dogs so quietly sleeping, sleeping down the bathroom hall
But the silence was now broken, and the dogs were gently snoring
And the only word there spoken was the whispered words ‘sixty oh.’
Merely this and nothing more.
Open here I flung the patio shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In stepped a stately unicorn of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least chuckle made she; not a minute stopped or stayed she;
But with the air of a know-it-all, perched above my breakfront door
Perched upon a duck decoy just atop my breakfront door
Laid down, and smiled, nothing more.
By the silly and irreverent decorum of the smirk that she wore
Though thy horn be sparkly and spirally, thou, I said, art sure no dog.
Smiling and bouncy ancient unicorn wandering from the snow piles
Tell me what thy lady’s name is on the night of the Walking Dead finale!
Quoth the unicorn, ‘sixty, oh!’
The unicorn still beguiling, all my weary bones into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a foot stool in front of unicorn and breakfront and door;
Then upon the polyester sinking, I betook to linking
Fancy unto fancy, remembering all my years of glorious tales
What this full-figured, laughing, ditzy unicorn
Meant in singing ‘sixty, oh!’
Prophet! said I, thing of beauty – prophet still, if real or fancy –
Whether astral traveling or whether sent by Gandalf
Are you telling me age has no meaning
Quoth the unicorn, ‘sixty, oh!’
And the unicorn, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the duck decoy just atop my breakfront door;
And her eyes have all the seeming of a family whose love is beaming
And the ceiling lamp o’er her streaming throws her shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that now is dancing on the floor
Now is singing ‘sixty, oh!’
Alas, writers always write faster than they think. And here it is, Sunday evening, and I’ve been doing a lot of thinking.
I so want to open an additional page on this website to highlight all the extraordinary images of Art I have come across through my travels. Images that add to the Sunday evening blogs I’ve been creating for you. But I’ve been dissatisfied with my progress, my ideas, my inability to put my thoughts onto the page in just the right way so that I can share them with you.
Like all of you creative muses out there know, you can’t put something out there until it feels right. Yes, there will always be something that needs to be tweaked; thank goodness there is no such thing as perfection. But it it doesn’t feel right *here* you shouldn’t put it out *there*. You need to take your time. You need to get it right.
So instead, I am going to offer some my own photographs on my Sunday Evening Art Gallery blog…photographs I took. I am in love with color, so that is what this gallery is called. Colors. I hope you enjoy them.
Art is Fun. Art is Intriguing. Art is a Happy Dance.
I have so enjoyed finding Art in different places, in different guises. I can’t believe the diversity of creativity that has been out there all this time… and I and am just now discovering it. I have gathered more images for my Sunday evening blog than I could thoughtfully put into my posts.
so…..
I am opening a new Sunday Evening Art Gallery page so you can explore more of the magic that lies right outside our door. These creators are marvelous. And I can’t wait for you to explore their worlds with me.
I am hoping to have the Grand Opening this Sunday, the day after Valentine’s Day. After I love the world, my friends, my family, and my readers.
Hope to see you there!
I know this is supposed to be a Goddessy blog, with Goddessy, middle-aged stories. And it is.
Maybe this is just a middle-aged reaction to thieves in the night. Thieves in the cold, crisp dawn. Thieves in the whisper of the early morn.
Last night I went to watch my grandbaby and his swimming lessons. Came home, set my purse on the sofa end table, loved and pet the dogs and cats, and went to bed. Somewhere in the late night I let them come and sleep with me for a couple of hours. (Mistake number 1). Now, I’m not a sleep-with-the-animals kinda girl, but when I’m overtired and I don’t want to hear the dogs click-click-click across the wood floor, I invite them now and then to sleep on the bed.
Hubby comes home at 4, feeds said cats and dogs, and kicks all animals out of the room, and things are quiet until I get up for work a couple hours later. (Mistake number 2).
I get up this morning to go to work, and look at what I found on the dog’s pillow! My glasses soft case, a bracelet, and my flash drive holder! My first instinct was to blame the dogs…they are big, naughty, lovey chocolate labs. They get into the garbage, run away helter skelter if not watched, and bug me 95% of my waking hours. So who easier to blame for the woes of my domestic tranquility than them?
Later in the day I tell hubby about finding my prized possessions on the dog pillows, and, low and behold, he said it was my cats. My little Tom and my fatty Mysty. I say, “wha?” He says, oh yeah, I hear them playing hockey with things I leave out all the time. Pens, pins, bracelets, all kinds of trinkets find their way off the tables and onto the floor courtesy of my kitties.
Humph!
Now, it’s only the two of us (humans) in the house; it’s babyproofed when my grandbaby comes to visit, but otherwise it’s a kind of pick-up-when-you-feel-like-it place. I lived a long time to be able to live this way.
Now I find I have to kitty-proof my house. Including zipping my purse closed, it seems.
What ever happened to the carefree days of middle age? Those days when your kids are gone and you are free to walk around in your underwear and drink milk straight from the jug? The days when you are free to leave your purse open without fear of some ransacking animal pulling things out of it and seeing if they bounce? Before you know it they’ll be pulling out my toothbrush and brushing their kitty teeth or using a fork to eat their cat food, ordering cat trinkets on HSN and ordering tuna pizza from Pizza Hut.
Now that I think about it, though, it’s actually kinda funny to picture fat cat digging around in my purse, pushing the lipstick and gum aside, just to find the empty cloth glass case, picking it up with her teeth, pulling it out, shaking it around, and fetching it across the room, leaving it on the dog’s pillows, setting them up for the fall.
I guess she’s not such a dumb cat after all.
I remember when I was a kid, one of my favorite past times was building castles and mansions with Legos. Little black and white Legos.
Amazing how those little blocks have changed the way the world looks.
Nathan Sawaya is a New York-based artist who creates awe-inspiring works of art out LEGO building blocks. Sawaya’s ability to transform LEGO bricks into something new, and his devotion to scale and color, enables him to elevate an ordinary toy to the status of fine art.
Today Sawaya has more than 2.5 million colored bricks in his New York and Los Angeles art studios.
He doesn’t use special space station sets or pirate boat sets that you buy off the shelf — just bricks.
His work is obsessively and painstakingly crafted and is both beautiful and playful. He is both inspired and an inspiration.
He makes me want to pull out buckets and buckets of red and white and blue squares, yellow four-pane windows, and little red doors.
He makes me want to pull out those buckets and sit down with my son and grandson and build towers and people and flowers and anything else my dreams desire.
You can find more of Nathan Sawaya’s wonderful creations at http://brickartist.com/.
You will be amazed.
You can teach an old dog new tricks – I’m living proof of that. I can’t tell you how many times this bell has run loudly in my head. And I’d like to think I’m humble enough to admit and learn from each and every experience.
Tonight I learned – re-learned – how important friendship can be.
My friends have always been important to me. That’s why I married my best friend. And my kids are my kids and I love them terribly. But they’re my friends, too. We have a history between us, one that leads to stories and remembrances and reprimands gone crooked.
But there’s something about best friends that aren’t necessarily related to you that can make all the difference in the world between sanity and insanity. Someone you can tell your wickedest deeds and funniest moments to who won’t look at you like you’ve got spinach between your teeth. Best friends listen to your rambling, your dreams, and your fears.
And that’s what I’ve always wanted to be. A friend.
I’m surprised how often we take advantage of our friends. Not in a mean way — more like in a carefree, careless way. How often we don’t call, don’t text, always thinking we’ll get ahold of them tomorrow. We don’t mean to be too busy – half the time I think about my besties but I’m just too tired to do anything about it.
Am I still their friend?
In a perfect world, I am. And in an imperfect world, I am too.
Tonight I proved to myself that I am a good friend. I am a good friend because I care about others – I care about the people who are talking to me. Who are laughing with me. Who are rolling their eyes at me. Over coffee and some overly-priced cupcake I shared my past, my fears, and my excitements, and allowed them to do the same. Sometimes my bffs confess all – other times they don’t share one little secret.
And that’s what best friends do. Listen, talk, say nothing.
This coming up weekend I’m going to get together with women who were my besties 20 years ago. Girls who were girls when I was a girl. Moms who were moms (or rather new moms) when I was a new mom. I haven’t seen most of them for almost 15 years.
Are we still friends? Are we still besties?
Time doesn’t change our past. The bonds we shared are still there 20 years later. Will we still find each other interesting? Fun? Will we talk till dawn or go to sleep at 10?
In the long run, it doesn’t really matter. Reconnecting to the tree that bore our fruit once upon a time is all that matters. There’s a good feeling in that.
In this world, life is short. My family, my friends, all have lost ones they loved way too soon. I miss my mom, my dad, my brother. My friends miss their dads, their moms, and their brothers. I don’t want to pass any more time missing people. A once-in-a-while call or a weekly get together — it doesn’t matter how you stay connected. All that matters is that you stay connected.
Give your bestie a call. Text them a “hello” message. Write on their Facebook page or meet them for coffee. You’ll be glad you did.
And so will they.
In hand-blown crystal glass I see
Reflections of how it used to be
The finest wines in heaven poured
In vessels fit for any Lord
Finely crafted of wood and glass
A stem created from materials past
To hold God’s work in one’s small hand
Is to drink His brew throughout the land
Creations from His thoughts to man’s delight
Turned into a display of shadow and light
So fill your glass with revelry bought
Whether water or wine it matters naught
Drink to love both present and past
And friendships made that ever last
Poetry by Claudia Anderson ©2015
Now Watergate does not bother me..
Does your conscience bother you?
Tell the truth…
…..Sweet Home Alabama, Lynyrd Skynyrd, 1974
I must admit that about the time Watergate came along I was working my first job as a linofilm typist, and politics did not really concern me overmuch. Today’s generation looks back fondly at Watergate just as they do the Battle of Gettysburg or the Boston Tea Party. Just another history lesson.
The suffix -gate derives from the Watergate scandal in the early 1970s, which resulted in the resignation of U.S. President Richard Nixon. The scandal was named after the Watergate complex in Washington D.C. What I find really funny, though, is that the “gate” part started a whole slew of scandalous escapades. “Gates” abound everywhere.
There are Arts and Entertainment gates:
* Closetgate (2006); controversy after the TV show South Park aired a parody of Scientology
* Nipplegate (also known as Boobgate) (2004); Janet Jackson’s famous “wardrobe malfunction” during half time of Super Bowl XXXVII
There are Politic gates:
* Billygate (1980); Then President Jimmy Carter’s younger brother Billy legally represented the Libyan government as a foreign agent
* Bridgegate (2014); New Jersey Governor Chris Christie allegedly ordered lane closures from Fort Lee, New Jersey, to the George Washington Bridge, because the Fort Lee mayor did not endorse him for his re-election
* Hairgate (1993); Controversy surrounding a haircut given to U.S. President Bill Clinton
There are Journalism and Academic gates:
* Hackgate (also known as Rupertgate) (2011); Allegations that the now defunct News of the World had hacked into the phones of celebrities, politicians, and members of the British Royal Family
* Reutergate (2006); The controversy over Reuters photographer Adnan Hajj manipulating news photos with Photoshop
There are Sports gates:
* Deflategate (2015); Did they or did they not under-inflate the footballs?
* Tripgate (2010); Strength and Conditioning Coach Sal Alosi tripped cornerback Nolan Carroll as he ran down the sideline
* Bumpergate (1982); During the Daytona 500 race, drive Bobby Allison allegedly modified his car so that his rear bumper would fall off, giving him an aerodynamic edge
Funny thing is that these scandals aren’t limited to U.S. soil. Just listen to the names and places:
* Portraitgate (2009, Ireland): Two oil paintings depicting Brian Cowen, Taoiseach (prime minister) of Ireland, in the nude, were briefly displayed in Dublin art galleries in March 2009 as an act of guerilla art
* Toiletgate (2006, Elista, Kalmykia, Russia); The allegations by Veselin Topalov and his manager Silvio Danailov during the World Chess Championship that Topalov’s opponent Vladimir Kramnik was visiting the toilet suspiciously frequently during games
* Pastagate (2013, Canada); Controversy in which an Italian restaurant was investigated by the Quebec government for using words that do not comply with their language laws, such as “bottiglia”, “calamari” and “pasta”
* Porngate (2012, India) Three members of the Karnataka Legislative Assembly in India resign from their offices after accusations that they watched porn during government proceedings.
* Bottlegate (2001, Ohio); Rowdy fans of the Cleveland Browns threw plastic bottles and other debris on the field after a controversially overturned call in the final minute of the game led to the Browns losing the game to the Jacksonville Jaguars
You get my drift. So I figured, if there’s so many scandals out there with gates on them, why not create a few of my own?
* Grannygate: Busted for keeping grandson up way past his bedtime and offering him sugared drinks
* Catgate: When coaxing live cats to lay on the toy train track didn’t work, I offered my collection of stuffed unicorns as test subjects
* Employeegate: There are enough infractions in this scandal that this blog cannot list them all. I am on double secret probation until I am 85
* Flippergate: numerous violations of the “put the TV flipper back on the end table where you found it” rule. The scandal is that I never remember the rule — until I lose the flipper
* Irishfestgate (2012); I boasted to my 6 foot, 225-lb. son that I could keep up with him beer-for-beer at Irishfest. Guess who won, and guess who was sick for two days
There are a whole slew of gates for those who are curious — check out http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_scandals_with_%22-gate%22_suffix. I’m sure if you scoured your past you’d find a lot of gates, too. But thankfully, since most of us are just regular guys/gals, the media won’t be knocking on your door — er, gate — any time soon.
Just be smart, and keep your gate locked.
Just in case.
Today has been one of those “squirrelly” kind of days. You know those kind — I’ve misplaced more things today than I have in the past week. I suppose it’s because I’m always in a hurry. Sagittarians never seem to finish their current project — they always find something more interesting to do, and leave things half-way done.
I decided the best therapy was to either come home from work, eat, and head straight for the bed, getting up only to let the dogs out; or to come to the library and use their WiFi to work on my blog’s photo gallery. I kidded my friends on Facebook that I’m always tired, achy, ready for bed (even at 10 in the morning), and yet all I can think about is writing and researching and brainstorming with friends. They all told me it’s Writer’s Syndrome.
I wish I could say I was in the middle of my breakout novel — that I was working on an article for work or for my friend’s website. But it’s not. I’m kinda done with the novel thing for a while; I’ve thought about working on getting my Gaia and the Etruscans published, but here in the middle/end of January that just seems like too much work. So I spend my time with ways to enhance my blog.
There is no doubt that that ambition leads to quite a bit of squirrelly-ness.
I come across dozens of articles a week that promise to help me build my reader base, get picked up by search engines, make money by blogging (or writing in general), enhance my blogsite…enough to fill Dumbledore’s Goblet of Fire. There are a million blogs out there; a million ways to build/entice/share/follow — so many that I’m dizzy talking about it. I follow about 30 blogs, and could easily follow 30 more, but with a full-time job I barely have time to read my own writing.
This past year hubby has gotten a new job that is from 6 p.m. to 3 a.m. Bad for him — great for me. You would think. It is turning out that he doesn’t mind these hours, and I don’t have enough of them. Ah, you say — hours and hours of alone writing time! Peace and Quiet! Inspiration! Musing! Researching!
It’s a nice thought, but for someone like me who can’t sit still for 20 minutes, it’s a circus.
During the day I’m busy entering data, my Muse coming and bugging me now and then with new ideas. She is an Irish Wench, you know, and has no problem speaking her mind. And often times her ideas are great. But not when I’m entering HTML code. So we make a date to meet after hubby goes to work.
By that time I’ve been up 13 hours, let the dogs out three times, washed the dishes, thrown in a load of laundry, wiped the dust off the TV, and set up my writing corner on the sofa. By then my ambition has waned. My energy level slips minute by minute, and what seemed so exciting at 11 a.m. now seems like a mountain I’m too tired to climb. I manage to get a little work done so that pulling out my laptop isn’t for naught, but most times my mind is a blank.
Then about 9 p.m. I get my second wind.
Now, I have to get up in 8 hours, and old people like me are supposed to get at least 8-10 hours a sleep at night. But the great ideas of my Wench sneak back into my consciousness and I’m up writing and researching and downloading until 11:30 at night.
No wonder I’m so squirrelly.
I’m really trying to get into a schedule, a pattern, where I can do a little of everything and still get to bed at a decent time. But it doesn’t seem to be working. I escaped to the library this evening just so I wouldn’t have to let my dogs out three times and give them cookies and push the cat off my lap and look at the dishes I didn’t do or walk around the laundry I conveniently forgot to do.
Sometimes all I want to do is write.
But sometimes wantin’ ain’t gettin’.
How do YOU do it??
As I work on revising my Sunday Evening Unique Art page to include all the great art I have found, I want to turn you onto another blogger and the fantastic art he led me to.
Live & Learn by my friend David Kanigan is a wonderfully creative world where he brings in poetry, quotations, photography — whatever his inspiration at the time. I asked (and he graciously agreed) to let me highlight an artist he highlighted a few weeks ago.
Brussels-based photographer Jeffrey Vanhoutte created this stunning project featuring an acrobatic dancer displaying various expressive poses that seem to be frozen in time.
The dancer throws clouds of powdered milk up in the air while fulfilling graceful and fluid movements.
A unique look at movement in motion. A spray caught in mid-air.
Movement is art — photography is art. This is a delicate combination of the two.
More of Jeffrey Vanhoutte’s black and white marvels can be found at http://www.ignant.de/2015/01/14/dancer-freezes-time-in-jeffrey-vanhouttes-project/ or at http://www.designboom.com/art/jeffrey-vanhoutte-freezes-acrobatic-angels-in-powdered-milk-showers-01-20-2015/.
You can find Jeffrey’s unique art at his own website as well, http://www.jeffreyvanhoutte.be/.
And do stop by David’s blog, Live & Learn — http://davidkanigan.com. Tell him the Goddess sent you!
One sign of getting older is that I seem to notice things I’ve never noticed before. I don’t know if it’s just swishing around past my prime, or rather just starting out in my prime, but I smell things no one else smells, hear things no one else hears, and notice actors and actresses being recycled through the years from one movie to another.
I love escapism. I don’t get to watch TV or movies as often as I’d like, as work and writing and yelling at the dogs takes up a lot of my time. But I find I wonder “how do they do that?” more often than not. And I’ll be the first to tell you that I am amazed at special effects. My simple brain cannot wrap around the fact that city landscapes and alien spaceships and Roman cities are nothing more than 1’s and 0’s running through a computer. I can’t even begin to understand how they made the German’s face melt in Indiana Jones and Raiders of the Lost Ark; Transformers destroying the city (and each other); Inception, where people run on ceilings and curl cityscapes back on themselves. King Kong. Toy Story. Avatar. The list goes on.
Special effects, computer generated imagery. Galaxies and Mordor and everything inbetween. And none of it is real. Yet one can’t help but get sucked into those worlds as if we really stepped through the magic portal. Our minds quit trying to figure out what’s real and what’s fake and just get lost in someone else’s creativity.
Even more mind-blowing is that the same part of the anatomy that everyone has — even me — is where it all comes from. One’s mind. Which resides in one’s brain. Which we all have (but not all use…ah…a blog for another day).
So it is with any step into creativity. We have all gotten lost in a good book, holding our breath as we turn the pages. We have all looked at a painting or a sculpture and marveled at its simplicity or complexity. Some are able to take the next step in their creative career — go to school, get published, get a job at Industrial Light and Magic. Some turn their love of acting into dinner theater or Broadway, or their skill at playing a guitar or piano into symphony orchestras or rock bands.
So why is it, if we all have the same equipment, we don’t understand the same thing? Why is it so hard for some of us and a piece of cake to others? I can barely do basic Math, yet accountants and computer designers see numbers as easily as seeing the sun. Mankind creates the most amazing, breathtaking, impossible things — all with that one little tool in their skull.
The “whys” of why some people develop the gift and others don’t I will leave to philosophy and a glass of wine. The point is, we ALL have the ability to use that hunk of grey matter to open those magic portals. Some can’t wait for their free time to jump into their next creative project; others see creativity as a waste of time.
Maybe it’s just that the same plug that plugs into the outlet of special effects is on a wall of infinite outlets that lead to infinite destinations. Maybe it’s just the luck of the draw that one plug leads to quantum physics and one to insanity. One to painting and one to crayons. We are all plugged in to different outlets. We can’t change where we are plugged in, but we CAN choose to follow the path of electricity to outlet boxes scattered all over the universe.
Working with the material inside the brain box is a lot of work. Some just catch on faster than others. But when you find that junction box where creativity makes you feel good, you want to stay plugged in. Some may be taken back by the jolt that comes now and then from creative satisfaction, while others find it a natural high they want to come back to again and again.
I don’t know where all this deep philosophy came from this fine morning, but I do know one thing — don’t give up. Make time. Let yourself be. Let it flow. And know you can come back to this feeling any time.
Whew … and to think … I had this cosmic burst before I had my morning coffee!
Usually I try and write something humorous, something out-of-the-box funny. After all, life’s too short not to laugh about it.
This tidbit is funny, but not for the reason you think.
I’m not a Jimmy Kimmel fan, but I have heard of his “Lie Witness News” segment, where he goes out on the street and asks passers-by questions that they should know the answer to. Of course, most of them don’t, which makes them seem stupid and makes us laugh.
But according to The Bert Show http://thebertshow.com/jimmy-kimmels-martin-luther-king-day-lie-witness-news-will-make-sad-america/ and other media reports, Jimmy went out on Martin Luther King Jr. Day and asked bystanders if they had seen Dr. King’s new speech from that morning.
7 out of 14 people said they had seen the speech and commented on it.
Seven out of 14. Fifty percent. Half.
Now, I’m not the sharpest tool in the shed. I had to look up the year Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. was assassinated. (1968…I was off two years..) And, okay, maybe I’m a little older than most of the people pulled off the street — as in, maybe half of them weren’t even born in 1968.
I wasn’t born when Lincoln was assassinated, either. But I do know he was assassinated.
This isn’t rocket science. Martin Luther King Jr. was a great man for many reasons. Maybe you agreed with his philosophy, maybe you didn’t. Maybe you are white or black or yellow or whatever other prejudices hang above our heads and don’t really have an opinion. But you can’t deny that the man made a change in the world.
And you should know the man died for his goals. His dreams.
I know this isn’t a true representation of America and Americans. And I know it was done for fun, for ratings. But the fact is that 7 out of 14 random Americans said they heard the speech.
THEY HEARD THE SPEECH.
I don’t know which is funnier. Stupid people or stupid liars. After all, they did find their way onto television…15 minutes of fame and all …
(picture: 1894 sculpture by Willian Wetmore Story, which serves as the grave stone of the artist and his wife at the Protestant Cemetery, Rome)
There’s a lady who’s sure all that glitters is gold
And she’s buying a stairway to heaven.
When she gets there she knows, if the stores are all closed
With a word she can get what she came for.
Ooh, ooh, and she’s buying a stairway to heaven.
There’s a sign on the wall but she wants to be sure
‘Cause you know sometimes words have two meanings.
In a tree by the brook, there’s a songbird who sings,
Sometimes all of our thoughts are misgiven.
Ooh, it makes me wonder
Ooh, it makes me wonder.
There’s a feeling I get when I look to the west,
And my spirit is crying for leaving.
In my thoughts I have seen rings of smoke through the trees,
And the voices of those who stand looking.
Ooh, it makes me wonder,
Ooh, it really makes me wonder.
And it’s whispered that soon, if we all call the tune,
Then the piper will lead us to reason.
And a new day will dawn for those who stand long,
And the forests will echo with laughter.
If there’s a bustle in your hedgerow, don’t be alarmed now,
It’s just a spring clean for the May queen.
Yes, there are two paths you can go by, but in the long run
There’s still time to change the road you’re on.
Your head is humming and it won’t go, in case you don’t know,
The piper’s calling you to join him,
Dear lady, can you hear the wind blow, and did you know
Your stairway lies on the whispering wind?
And as we wind on down the road
Our shadows taller than our soul.
There walks a lady we all know
Who shines white light and wants to show
How everything still turns to gold.
And if you listen very hard
The tune will come to you at last.
When all are one and one is all
To be a rock and not to roll.
And she’s buying … a stairway … to heaven.
Lyrics — Stairway to Heaven. Led Zeppelin, 1971
There was a Twilight Zone marathon on television over the New Year’s holiday. It was a delight in its black-and-white originality. Like the original Star Trek, the episodes are pretty dated; stiff acting and unrealistic props make the episodes occasionally uneasy to watch. But if you get past the technical blips of 50 years ago, you will see the beginning of real science fiction.
In 1955, Rod Serling branched out into television script writing with the TV business drama Patterns. Patterns earned Serling his first Emmy Award. His second Emmy win came a year later, with the 1956 production ofRequiem for a Heavyweight, starring Jack Palance.
What I didn’t know was that during the late 1950s, Serling fought the CBS network when they insisted on editing his controversial scripts.
In a television era today where the bloodier/sexier/bolder the better, it’s hard to imagine such censorship laid the early foundation of storytelling. Fortunately for us, instead of continuing to fight inevitable censorship, Serling turned from realism to the sci-fi fantasy genre in 1959 with the iconic series The Twilight Zone.
Side by side in the world with Isaac Asimov, Arthur C. Clarke and Ray Bradbury, Rod Serling was able to take the politics of the day and turn the truth into something real and foreboding. The themes that ran through The Twilight Zone continue to be relevant in 2015. Our horrors, our problems, may seem much more complicated these days, but we are not so different than those who feared the Cold War or alien invasions.
The real purpose of this blog was to read the “description” of Rod Serling’s leap to other worlds. It sums up the reason why writers write. No matter if it’s biography, science fiction, poetry, mysteries, or editorials. The reason we write is to escape into the “fifth” dimension. That world that exists beside us, beneath us, inside of us. Whether we can see it or not, the story is there. No matter where creativity lies, it’s waiting there for us. To open the door. To open the mind.
Listen:
Isn’t that ALL art?
Humoring the Goddess 
