Still Here

It's been a while since I posted. I think I may be losing interest in doing a blog. Frankly, I've lost interest in alot of stuff. Maybe I need my meds changed or to evict a demon or two. Enthusiam has taken a holiday and so will I. I've much to blog about but not now. I'll be back later. Probably.

Patience

The virtuous stuff  that makes you patient, the stuff that sloshes around some place in our brains, waiting fluid, or whatever it's called, has been all but   neutralized by adrenaline within me. I hate to wait. I've been that way since I was a kid and life for me has been a series of speeding from one event to the next and having to anxiously wait at each stop anticipating when I could move on. I don't know why I'm wired that way. It really isn't much fun. I'm sure that life would be better if I'd take the time to slow and smell something. I don't want to. I'd rather move along and take the smells with me. I've grown better though as I've aged but my wife must continually tell me that we're not in a hurry.

I've been fortunate that I haven't been ticketed much for speeding. I usually drive over the limit wherever I go. However, I'm invariably slowed by something in the way. More often than I like, I get behind a school bus, truck or someone who doesn't care about my self-imposed life schedule. Traveling down the highway, staring at a semi's rear wall of sheet metal is such a joy and, if traffic is slow in my lane, I'll switch to find the new lane slowing and watching cars I was behind pass me. I must wait, until life lets me by.

The supermarket is no exception. I'll get in the shortest line and someone ahead will cause a delay as  other lines move on efficiently. I remember once I thought I was lucky and found a lady in the express lane with no one behind her. I stepped up to her just as the cashier anounced the purchase sum. I'd be on my way in just a few minutes. The woman pulled out a coin purse and proceeded to pay in change. As she  counted, each click of a coin against the counter pierced my ears and seconds slowed to match her pace. I was watching grass grow. It took forever. I've decided that whatever line I get in, no matter where, my presence will slow it. Fast food is for others. I must be cursed and I'm certain Providence is behind it all. Too bad I'm a slow learner.

We met the lady I've drawn in a small gallery in Hailsham, England. She was chatting with the proprietor and having tea. I was immediately struck by her bright blue eyes. Her blue tweed coat and beret seemed to make them glow. I asked if I could take her photo. She obliged and posed as you see her. Her name was Anne.

A delightful gal who we learned,  bicycled all over France in her youth. I'm sure she turned some heads and got a few jealous looks. She talked and talked, and talked some more until time started to warp. I had to get on to the next unknown event. We finally pulled away as her words clung to us and continued our meandering through the town. We saw her later, crossing a mall court to a shop. I'd have hated to stand in line behind her. She probably carried alot of coins.

Ups and Downs

.
All that I've found through the ups and the downs
Is that I'd have it no other way
Life in the raw is both fragile and strong
It's both lovely and ugly the same
Who can attest that when they're at their best
Oh their worst is still crouching close behind
It's coming to peace with the darkness in me
That allows the true light to shine

So let it go for we are still far from home
Though you try and try to escape
To live and to love will always be dangerous
But it's better than playing it safe

We are composed of a symphony of notes
Every life is music to His ears
I'll play my melody be it haunting be it sweet
Unashamed of what anyone might fear

So when the load breaks your back and your will
You must still keep your heart in the game
So let it go when it don't feel like home
When inside is your only escape
To live and to love will always be dangerous
But would you want it any other way?

Kendall Payne

People

There are only two kinds

of people in the world,

those who put people

in two categories

and those who don't.

_

Waves

the first wave buries you
maybe it was a word
or someone ignoring your cry for help
so you tumble on the sand
rolling in a watery grave
but you don't die
the second wave is lost love
broken promises 10 feet high and cresting
your heart pressed against the ocean floor
by blue/green hands
liquid fingers named pain and suffering
your skin turns to porcelain
your heart becomes a stone
you die inside
but your heart keeps beating
a drummer to remind you
of the loneliness
and cruel rhythm of this world
there is another sound
that awakens you
a voice still and calm
like the beating of dove's wings
in turquoise sky
the words are love
the message is hope
the Son of God
gathers the shattered pieces
of your world
and makes a new creation


but only if you ask.

Steve Malkowski
outcastpress.org

Smokin!

When I was in the eighth grade, my best friend invited me over for a private rendezvous in his tree fort. He had pilfered some cigarettes from his mom's purse and we had our first smoke fest. Our noses ran, our eyes watered and we coughed a lot, but we were cool. I deciced shortly thereafter that I didn't like smoking. Even though my folks did and I'd inhaled thier stuff since my birth, I still couldn't get used to it. I figured then I didn't need cigarettes as part of my persona. They weren't for me.

I've often wondered what prompted the individual who initially discovered tobacco, to decide that the smell and discomfort caused by the smoke was somehow beneficial. What was the attraction? Maybe they had bad BO and the nicotine fumes smelled better. Perhaps a more suitable fly and evil spirit repellant? Who knows.

And now, what is it about someone with one of those little white things poking out their face that convinces them they're visually in style? It really looks silly. Somehow, the masses have concluded that a cigarette, on fire, in your mouth, can improve your appearance. It's decidedly better than a finger up the nose. But really, what's the draw here? Freud would have much to say on the matter. I don't get it though. Why would someone who doesn't smoke, ask someone who does, for a teaching on using a substance that burns the eyes, makes them cough and smell bad? It's a peer pressure mystery.

Another puzzlement that has me thinking. Why do women smoke? Guys scratch and spit, squirt snot and fart, so it's not too much of a stretch to add a ciggy to the behavior. The image doesn't suffer. A gal however, that's got a nice do and duds, the right makeup with danglies and beads, who lights one up, just doesn't do it for me. As a matter of fact, any woman, gussied up or not with a cigarette isn't too attractive. There's an ample amount of unappealing that's been added. So ladies, if you smoke it ain't pretty. Besides, you stink.

Improvisational

I've not liked improvisational jazz much. I like a little, but if it gets too random, I stop listening. I want a bit of a melody line. It needs to resolve or it becomes musical chaos on key.

Ironically, I appreciate alot of abstract paintings that can look very chaotic. What appeals to me are the colors and how balanced the work is in design. If there is some emotion it also illicits, that's good too. But, some things just grab me and I can't explain why.

The impressionists had perhaps my favorite artistic style. They veered from the realistic, ad libbed the scenes and came up with great compositions. But they didn't go too far from the tune.

Minimalists, however are not on my like list. Their work looks to me like visual intellectualism. I find it dull, flat and boring. All head and no heart, like playing an uncomplicted melody over and over.

I was working on a drawing from a photo the other day and could not get a feel for it. The pose was just that, a pose. It looked stiff. I got frustrated and ended up with what I've drawn. It's a departure from what I usually do but I like it for some reason. I guess it's because it's improvisational. A bit of a jazz face.

A Realization

In the depth of Winter

I finally learned

That there was within me

An invincible Summer

Albert Camus

Boredom

I would often go to the Saturday Market in Portland. It was a great place to find arts and crafts of all kinds but I'd frequent it just to watch people. One day I bought a snack at the food court and settled in to observe. A hot dog stand was across the way and I noticed these two gals waiting for a customer. None came. They busied themselves with cleaning and straightening until there was nothing left to do. They finally nestled into the pose I've drawn.

Depression

My parents lived through the 1930's economic upheaval. It seemed to affect my dad the most. He talked about it quite alot and was always frugal in his spending. His father lost a grocery store and the large family of ten or so children lived at the poverty level for some years until the war. He was a hoarder of all things assumed to be of future usefulness. His garage was packed with cans of rusty fasteners, old spark plugs, wine corks, and a variety of rescued items from junk stores. His philosophy was, "Ya never know".

I've never experienced any kind of lack as my dad. He was, like most of that generation, an excellent provider and wanted to be certain that our family had what he didn't. I grew up with everything I needed. Most of my wants, as far as toys or whatever, were satisfied. Others in my neighborhood were like me.

I'm currently comfortable. The economic chaos hasn't affected me, and it's difficult to relate to those who are struggling. People can't understand another's pain unless they experience it themselves. I do have a concern though. I wonder about those who've lost everything. There is probably some young person, like my father, who will be permanently changed. I hope not.

However, it now appears that the financial situation is slowly improving. At least the number crunchers and economists say so. It looks as though we can look forward to another era of prosperity. But, "Ya never know".