A Life with a View

Travel Tips for a New College Graduate II

2011-05-25T06:20:00.002-06:00

1. Opportunity will arrive at the most surprising times. When it does, run with it.

2. When opportunity eludes you, put yourself out on the edge. Take a chance.

3. It's at the edge where dreams come into reality, assisted by a secret formula of your own devising. It involves just the right ratio of imagination to persistence, and shoveling lots of dirt.

4. Never become too comfortable with your own success. Watch your back.

5. Don't be afraid to ask for help, but remember too many cooks spoil the soup...

...and that's why God created sushi.

Even so, the humblest meal, shared in good company, makes for a feast.

6. Imbibe with moderation.

7. Carry on the family traditions...

...but always remain true to your own unique vision.

8. Time doesn't wait around. It just keeps walking. The journey calls for appropriate footwear.

9. The pot of gold isn't at the end of the rainbow.

It's all inside your head. Make the most of it.

10. Maintain your skepticism.

Don't believe everything you read.

It's your life story. Write the very best one you can.

Oakley Chad Merideth

Bachelor of Arts in English,The University of New Mexico, May 2011
Summa Cum Laude

Bachelor of Arts in psychology, The University of New Mexico, May 2011

Cum Laude
National Society of Collegiate Scholars
Dean's List

Sigma Tau Delta International English Honors Society

Music Assistant, KUNM

Academy of American Poets Undergraduate Poetry Prize

English Teacher, Daegu, South Korea

The Whole Enchilada

2011-03-11T11:13:00.001-07:00

Bennie and I indulged ourselves in the Ichiban Super Premium Private Hot Bath (actually, Baths--his and hers, in the form of sea-colored, oversize ceramic teacups) at Ten Thousand Waves, a lovely Japanese-style spa just outside Santa Fe. We did this Tuesday evening...

I stretched out in my big ceramic teacup, gazing at the crescent moon, breathing in the mountain air. I felt myself swaying back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, hypnotized by the air, the soothing water, the moon. Life is good, Life is good, Life is good. The alchemy of the cedar-scented sauna transformed the tiniest care into drops of perspiration. We poured water over our heads in the sit-down showers, then returned to the teacups. A nice rhythm was established--from sauna to shower to sweetly swaying bath. And back again. Life is good, life is good, life is good. The occasion was a much-delayed (since January 2nd) anniversary celebration, a gift of our generous children.

Afterwards we drove to a little restaurant in town, famished. The manager, whom we'd never met, walked over to our table and told us he wanted us to have the blue corn chicken enchiladas, on the house. Now this kind of thing just doesn't happen--being offered free food, out of the blue, by a stranger, on a Tuesday night, in downtown Santa Fe. But it did. And the enchiladas were oh-so-satisfying. Bennie said, "I guess this is our lucky night." Yes, that night I fell asleep as my head touched the pillow. I dreamed of being swayed by 10,000 waves, in a sea-colored, oversize ceramic teacup, in the middle of the high desert, under a crescent moon.

Next morning we got the phone call. Daughter Flannery had been accepted into medical school at the University of New Mexico. It's been quite a journey for her, getting to this significant milestone in her career, a balancing act of the highest order...

Flannery in El Salvador, Summer 2010

At times the wait has been tedious...

Flannery with her brother Oakley

Presidential Scholars Banquet, 2008

There have been setbacks and challenges and long distances to travel...

After her first half-marathon, 2007

But Flannery began her training many years ago, in kindergarten. Early on, she was recognized for her strong citizenship...

Every Friday she came home from school, her arms laden with boxes of Power Popcorn, a reward for her "Positive Power."

With her dad, Golden Gate Park, San Francisco

And she has continued working to make a difference to this day...

With Alumni Citizenship Award, UNM, 2008

She has proven herself, time and again, to be a young woman of tenacity, brilliance, and genuine goodness--deep down, and outwardly, in her actions in the world.

She is richly deserving of having reached this latest plateau. Take a deep breath, my lovely, and enjoy the view...

El Salvador, Summer 2010

When her dad and I were offered free enchiladas on Tuesday night, it was an omen. THE WHOLE ENCHILADA, with the very best trimmings, was set to arrive for Our Person...

Chocolate Tortilla Ice Cream Enchilada with Strawberries on the Side

Dig in, Babe! It's on the house. (After all, you built the house.)

All my love,

Mom

Roll Over, Edvard Munch

2011-02-23T09:40:00.004-07:00

Edvard Munch, The Scream, 1893

Whoever doesn't recognize this painting, raise your hand. (I see one hand, but it's attached to the arm of the class clown, so I disregard that hand.)

Whoever has never related to the feeling in this painting, raise your hand. (I see no hands.)

A middle school art teacher in Santa Fe brought in a reproduction of Edvard Munch's powerful, iconic painting and assigned the students to render their own versions in watercolor. They weren't necessarily to try to reproduce the composition but to reproduce the emotion, and to include a figure. Here are a few of their paintings...

The colors in this one are more beautiful in person. Those rounded tan forms are actually gold metallic. This young artist has a wonderful sense of color and made the surrounding landscape loom so large behind the figure, perfectly capturing that sense of panic that has made Munch's painting universally accessible. The facial features being rendered in stark white contribute to the effect.

This one reduced the composition to the diagonal lines of the bridge and inserted the figure within those lines, even making the figure's head tilt, as though being pulled by the setting. An intuitive sense of how diagonal lines can make the viewer feel unsteady seems to be at play. Does that puff of blue mean the artist ran out of time, or simply knew when to quit?

Another less-is-more esthetic. The blue "river," pared down to a slice of color, seems to weigh on the figure's mind. Just what Munch had in mind. And what a remarkable capture of the screaming mouth--just like Munch's.

Here the landscape seems to be transformed into a cartoonish monster, or perhaps a house on fire. I enjoy the menacing ambiguity. What do you see?

Another truly beautiful palette, with the addition of decorative starlike designs, and an extravagant use of purple. And still, the figure is anguished in the middle of it all. Reminds me of how it feels to be sad on a lovely spring day.

The teacher shared with me that this student asked if he could draw a vehicle. The teacher said, "Yes, as long as you include a figure." What an inventive, contemporary take on The Scream. Isn't the shading on the side of the truck exciting? My mind reels with interpretations. Someone has just jumped off the bridge and the screamer is screaming for help, for example.

I wonder if this artist has a family member who's a park ranger, or has witnessed a park ranger calling for help in an emergency, or simply has invented another very personal, original interpretation of The Scream.

This artist paid a lot of attention to Munch's composition, with the addition of that big sun sinking behind the hills, just like we see here in northern New Mexico. Such a perfect detail to conjure that sinking feeling we've all experienced at the end of a less than good day.

I am thoroughly impressed by the work of these students and equally impressed by the assignment of this resourceful teacher. Middle school is a tough time. The hormones are kicking into high gear and the peer groups can be menacing. These paintings tell the story.

Join Wild Bill Tick Tock in Chicago!

2010-11-26T16:11:00.000-07:00

For four days, December 2-5,
the infamous Wild Bill Tick Tock
aka Bennie Merideth
aka Mr. A Life with a View
will be exhibiting his extraordinary timepieces
at the One of a Kind Show at the Merchandise Mart, Chicago.

Click here to download your complimentary tickets! If you're not in the Chicago area, feel free to send the link to anyone you know there.

Here's a preview:

(Be sure to enlarge the image above.)

The tops lift up to reveal a hiding place for the contents of your choosing...

Love letters?

Dental appointments?

Chocolate?

Einstein, 77" H x 8 1/2 " W

Another Roadside Attraction, 15 1/2" H x 6 1/2 " W

VISIT US AT BOOTH 8048.

More clocks can be seen here. If you can't be in Chicago, you can purchase clocks by email from the website.

Do your part in the important global movement to stamp out the proliferation of dull timepieces now!

A Typical Thanksgiving Day at Our House

2010-11-21T15:27:00.001-07:00

Flannery and I busily prepare the feast. An assortment of mouthwatering pies prepared from scratch will be set on the windowsill to cool in the crisp autumn air. Carrots, rutabagas, acorn squash, turnips, parsnips, brussel sprouts, cabbage, all manner of leafy greens, fresh from the neighbor’s garden, will be transformed by Thanksgiving Alchemy, into our delectable fat-free Vegan Stew. Bennie will shoot an enormous turkey on the back forty. Oakley will demonstrate, before our very eyes, his prowess in dressing a turkey, as he has for seventeen Thanksgivings past.

Each year the turkey’s attire is more festive than last. Oakley’s dressed turkey took top honors at the 1998 Macy’s Parade. Willard Scott was dazzled.

If our humble table doesn’t have room for each and every one of us--this year we'll be hosting a multitude--we will set up quaint picnic tables by the rushing river behind the house. If need be, we will eat in shifts, asking the heavens for a sign as to who should be first to dine, before drawing straws. Those coming up with the short straw may sit on the ground, on the sidelines, salivating. Babies shall rest comfortably in hollowed out logs.

Yes, Native Americans will be in attendance. They’re a very big part of the tradition.

Whatever your own traditions this year...

Out of Jail

2010-11-03T13:30:00.002-06:00

Have I really not been here since June 14? That's what happens when you're arrested for vandalism to public property and have to wait for the Man on the Ladder to post bail. This is the sad sequence of events:

I was visited at the gallery by two bloggers:

C. M. Jackson, of
States of Mine

Kate, of
Visual St. Paul

It was a fun time, until those two, inspired by my previous pos t, decided to paint the town red. Literally. As she was being handcuffed, Kate broke down, sobbing. She shared with me she hadn't quite gotten that post. She hadn't seen I was joking, poor thing. Apparently neither did C.M. My heart went out. I took the rap. I did the jail-time.

Here I am, almost five months later, a free woman, hardened a bit. I smoke Marlboros. I've lost my patience with the little niceties in life. I guzzle milk straight from the jug. I wipe my white mustache on my sleeve. I'm tough as nails.

So here's a recap of what's been happening since June 14 (aside from the rotting in jail):

The Man on the Ladder, who appears to be applying graffiti, actually patched and painted the entire exterior of our house. We now live in a house painted the color known as "La Luz," one of the seventeen shades of brown allowed by our neighborhood covenants. Every house in the neighborhood is an adobe or a pretend adobe, and the houses nestle into the high desert landscape quite nicely. Our new trim color is sage and I realize I don't have a picture of the new, improved exterior. One of these days.

Climbing down from the ladder, the man was joined by his cousin Paul, visiting from Chicago, in the very ambitious project of installing a cherry floor in our bedroom. Here they are, basking in the satisfaction of a job well done...

Notice they're standing near a wall they can collapse against. It was a big project.

I took this painting, well past the expiration date, from the gallery to hang in the new bedroom...

Gazing at it first thing in the morning lifts my spirits if I do say so.

We enjoyed our share of magnificent high-desert sunsets...

Paul snapped this one from our bedroom balcony. To see more of his photographs, go here.

I published a story in the summer issue of Dream Network Journal, an eclectic quarterly focusing on somewhat scholarly pieces about, yup, dreaming, as well as personal accounts of interesting dreams. Mine was the latter. A one-page reproduction of my painting "Wanderer" appears in that issue too. They're open to anyone's dream musing, particularly that of prisoners, so my work was accepted almost immediately.

Turned 57 last month. Shudder. Received some interesting gifts, among them a life-size replica of a severed human foot. I was told it came from the state medical examiner's office. No, I am NOT kidding. Don't have a picture of it. Yet. Snapping one's on my to-do list, and posting it too.

Here's my beautiful cake, created by Flan...

Chocolate buttermilk cake.
Chocolate ganache frosting.
Raspberry filling.
Crowned by sculptures of praline brittle riddled with cacao nibs.
Extraordinary!

Found good homes for a few paintings, among them this one, which was a bit of a departure for me, depicting semi-recognizable objects from the natural world...

Disappearing Beasts
acrylic on canvas, 36" x 24"
private collection, Tallahassee

Summer was good. Fall is too. It's good to be back in blogland.

Kindred Spirit(s) in Belgrade

2010-06-14T06:21:00.036-06:00

Graffiti Reflected in a Window in Belgrade
photographer: Bibi
graffiti artist: unknown?

my painting Claim the Moment
acrylic on canvas, 30" x 40"
private collection, Fort Worth

Daryl of Out and about in New York City noticed the stylistic similarity between the work of the Belgrade graffiti artist(s) and my own work. She brought it to the attention of Bibi, who had taken the photograph and posted it on her blog A Yankee in Belgrade. Bibi wandered over here and said, yes, Daryl's right. You have an artful cousin scaling the walls in Belgrade. I went to check out things for myself.

For the record, this is no coincidence. When a wannabe graffiti virtuoso, a tourist from Santa Fe, with more than a little fear of heights, who is clumsy and skittish when it comes to scaffolding, when that tourist visits Belgrade and is introduced to the national drink...

...well, how you say it? Magic happens. Inhibitions and phobias are quickly shed and artistic courage heightens exponentially.

Ziveli!

Gathering the Fragments, Beautifully

2010-05-23T12:11:00.002-06:00

Blue Ruins, acrylic on canvas, 48" x 24"
private collection, Arvada, Colorado

...Let’s buy some toy soldiers
and melt them with glass.

Let’s burn up the armies
that have never loved us. Let’s

give the sun all our money
and pay it never to return.

Let’s sing to the moon
All day and the stars all night

so that they never go dark. Let’s
laugh at the clouds until they rain

gray with anger and thunder
from gray embarrassment.

Let’s paint the hospitals with milk

and the funeral homes with tears

and the sky some color

other than blood.

Let’s place candles
in the bullet holes of the Earth

and snuff the flames out

only when we have finished
writing our poetry....

--from "Lorca in Fragments" by Oakley C. Merideth

A lyrical to-do list, Oakley, one in which the priorities make so much sense. First things first. Poetry before the political, always. Then again, the two do not have to contradict each other, when performed with grace. And this is such a graceful homage to Lorca. I always take pleasure in the way your poems move from one image into the next, a blossom of meaning opening, subtly, almost imperceptibly, the way a flower opens to the sun.

As I'm sure many of you know, last month was National Poetry Month in the United States. And, at the end of that month my son learned that his poem "Vulgar Latin" received Honorable Mention in the undergraduate Academy of American Poets Prize competition at The University of New Mexico. Two undergraduates were recognized--Oakley, and Katlyn McKinney, who took first prize honors (and a cash prize) for her poem "Water Passing." Both poets will receive an official acknowledgment from the Academy of American Poets this summer.

This news of Oakley's latest literary honor satisfies me. Even the fact that such a competition exists, one which encourages young people to develop their gifts, satisfies me. Our lives are often bereft of poetry. We hunger for it. And it is my pleasure to offer up this tasty morsel, Oakley's honored poem:

Vulgar Latin

Some days your mouth
is a birth canal,
stories spilling out
of a child you hardly remember, how
she came out of you
like a full moon
emerging from a broken window,
her face imbuing the drafty room
with a pale light.

She was a January Capricorn
born just an hour or two before
the first papers were whispering
their headlines onto the dark porches
where they had just fallen.

That was the morning
you began to speak a dead language,
your eyes sliding backwards
to peer curiously into your skull
and your tongue free

To form a word you had never encountered:
“Daughter.”

“Daughter.”
Two syllables that fell
onto the hospital floor
and spread outward across the linoleum
like ashes touching a checkerboard
of white and black water.

Some days you clutch
the nearest pieces of furniture
and whisper to yourself
while the rest of the house
is stifled by your voice.

“Daughter…”
some days you say the word vaguely
as if you were recalling the name of a ghost,
and then you stop speaking,
the utterance yielding to silence
like a piano drifting out of tune.

Pulled by the Red Thread

2010-04-21T15:25:00.001-06:00

Deja vu, acrylic on canvas, 30" x 40"
private collection, Dallas

"An invisible red thread connects those destined to meet, regardless of time, place, or circumstances. The thread may stretch or tangle, but never break." - Ancient Chinese Proverb

I believe this proverb is accurate, at least partially so. I'm not sure the thread is red. After all, it is invisible. And I'm not sure that the thread never breaks. If, for example, in a pinch you grabbed your invisible red thread and used it to floss your teeth, who knows what might happen? Would you meet the periodontist of your dreams? Or would you break your invisible thread, leaving your destiny dangling between your second and third molars? Despite my digression, I'm a believer in this thread. Aren't there people in our lives, people who entered under unlikely circumstances, people whom we can't imagine having never met? People whose lives have become so enmeshed in our own, it's as though their lives help us create our own lives.

Anyone who has known me for any time at all has heard the story of how I won a round-trip plane trip to San Francisco in 1982. That was twenty-eight years ago and I was twenty-eight years old. Imagine that. I was miserable where I was--Tuscaloosa, Alabama--and I read in the paper that Republic Airlines would be giving away round-trip plane tickets--I can't remember the number (50?) to the city chosen by each winner. All you had to do was show up at the airport on the appointed day--Sunday, March 7--fill in a little piece of paper, and drop it in a slot. Winners would be drawn from a box by a Republic employee. As I read the notice, I experienced a little tingle. You're going to win a ticket, a little voice whispered. Then another voice said, Dream on.

The anticipated Sunday arrived. I drove my Ford Pinto (that was the vehicle whose gas tank was prone to exploding in rear-end collisions) to Tuscaloosa Regional Airport. My spirits were high. The dogwood was blossoming. The kudzu was prolific. I rolled down all the windows and turned onto Airport Road. My heart sank. The road was lined with cars. I realized the unsettling truth: I would be vying with half the county's population for a handful of plane tickets. The odds were daunting. I kept driving past car after parked car lining the road. There were several Pintos, one with a crumpled rear end but no signs (thank goodness) of having burst into flames. I just kept driving past all of these cars, in a trance. A sensible person would have parked behind the last car on the highway and run straight to the airport so as not to be late. But I was in a trance. The little voice told me to drive. It told me I was going to win a ticket!

I turned left at the airport and pulled into the tiny lot, wondering how early the fate-kissed occupants of those parking spaces had arrived. Had they camped out overnight? As I approached the entrance, a car parked in the space nearest the entrance began, unbelievably, pulling out. You're going to win a ticket! the little voice said. Dream on, the other voice said.

I pulled into the magically vacated space, walked into the airport, shaking a little, and elbowed my way through the delirious throng to get my name in the box.

I was a little surprised to find my good friend Glenda standing a few feet away, and even more surprised to find her mother Louise standing beside her. Their faces were flushed with hope. I decided to stand with them. After all, it would be fun to be among friends when my name was pulled from the box. You're going to win a ticket!

A guy from the airlines stood at a podium and made a little speech (while everyone's gaze was fixed on the box), then he began drawing names. He pulled 45 names. My name wasn't one of them. Unbelievable.

Dream on, the hateful little voice said.

Name 46 was "LOUISE JONES." Louise Jones?

Glenda and I looked at each other with this shameful little look that said, How DARE she?

Louise made her way to the podium to claim her voucher. She was elated. How DARE she? Four more names were pulled. Glenda's and mine weren't among them. UnBElievable.

The general mood was grim. The crowd began pleading with the Republic guy in unison--"DRAW SOME MORE NAMES. PLEASE. WE WANT MORE NAMES. PLEEEEASE. PLEEEEEEASE. PLEEEEEEEEEEASE."

He relented and waved his palms at us, kind of preacherly, as though he had in his power to bestow blessings on the multitude. (He did.)

"OK, folks! We didn't expect this kind of turnout. FIVE more."

Everyone applauded. I inhaled deeply.

The Republic official began drawing names.

"LEROY SCOGGINS." Redneck clown.

"TANYA CULPEPPER." White trash bitch.

"BETTY SUE CULPEPPER." For God's sake, who rigged this anyway?

"REVEREND CECIL GRIMES." You have GOT to be kidding.

"GLENDA JONES." Glenda Jones??? How DARE she?

Glenda beamed and elbowed her way to the podium, an athletic little spring in her step. HOW? DARE? SHE?

The crowd moaned. There were tears in people's eyes. There were tears in my eyes.

"OK! OK!" shouted the Republic official. "ONE MORE. But NO MORE after that. Do we all understand??"

The crowd cheered.

The Republic official's hand moved very slowly over the box. He let it hover in a holding pattern. He felt like he was at the Academy Awards. I inhaled deeply. I closed my eyes. I felt like I was at the Academy Awards.

"SAN BELL."

You've won a ticket! the little voice shouted.

A month later Glenda and Louise and I boarded a plane to San Francisco. Technically we boarded a plane in Tuscaloosa, which headed a few miles west, touched down at The Golden Triangle Regional Airport in Mississippi, then turned around to fly east to Atlanta, where another plane took us to Denver, where we boarded another one for Las Vegas, where we had an overnight layover, complete with free accommodations and a complimentary meal in a casino, and a few quarters for the slots, before we caught a flight to San Francisco. The tickets were free, not efficient.

Me, Glenda, and Louise. April 1982.

Just outside the edge of the photo is the invisible red thread. I felt it tugging at my ankle as I climbed the stairs to the plane. In San Francisco the tug was more insistent. Although my friends and I had only a week to explore that city, I knew I would return. Less than three months later I packed my bags and returned for good. I brought no furniture. (I'd sold that to finance my move.) Just some clothing and a few linens, what I could squash into two large suitcases. My mother drove me to the airport. She was wistful and probably a little frightened, but she knew about the red thread somehow, and I knew she knew. The thread pulled me with urgency and I knew that somehow all would work out. It did.

My destiny wasn't in my hands alone. There were other people too, who held the other end of the thread, sitting on the top of a hill in San Francisco, as I boarded the plane. Soon I would be climbing into the air, looking down as the red clay fields of Alabama disappeared beneath the clouds, and an invisible red thread pulled me higher, 31,000 feet into the air, across miles of crops and forests and desert, across the Mississippi River and the Rocky Mountains...to San Francisco...where those who held my destiny's thread had been waiting for me...

How they knew to pull the thread at that exact moment, especially given they were yet to be born, is a mystery, an exquisite mystery...but I believe it had something to do with this one, who held a thread too...

Honest Scrap

2010-03-18T17:00:00.002-06:00

Jingl e has proffered me the Honest Scrap award. I'm now supposed to offer up 7 scraps of riveting information about myself. Hmmmmmmmmmm. Let me see. Long-time readers of this blog know my shoe size, the distance from my wrist to the tip of my index finger, the fact that I once worked in the home improvements section of a discount department store, and my favorite color--all of them. Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmm. Oh yeah, you also know I grew up in the circus and was born breech. I'm an open book. What else can I reveal?

When I was a kid I had a trick knee. If I knelt, it would lock. This meant that for the pivotal kneeling scene in my role as an angel in the Christmas play, I had a stunt angel.
I have won three prizes in my lifetime: a blue bedspread when I was in the fourth grade, a round-trip plane ticket to San Francisco when I was 28, and just recently, $1.00 at the grocery store in the Lucky Dollars event. Scratch that last prize. Everyone who purchased $10,000.00 in groceries during a six-week period was guaranteed a minimum prize of $1.00. What can I say? I may not be the luckiest knife in the drawer, but I recognize a deal.
Every time I purchase 28 pounds of bird feed at Sam's Club, I feel all warm and fuzzy. Not because of the hungry birds lining up at the feeders in my backyard, but because the CEO of Sam's owns one of my paintings.
I have a dark, deep, irrational, devastatingly embarrassing fear--please don't tell anyone--that one of my paintings is hanging in the Salvation Army Thrift Store in Bentonville, Arkansas.
The price tag on the painting is less than that on the 28-pound box of birdfeed displayed artistically beside it.
The birdfeed is snapped up by a savvy bargain hunter. "Hey, this beats Sam's Club! But get a load of the tab on that painting--$29.99! Who are they kidding? My parakeet could do that. Hell, my parakeet could do better than that!!
I have a proclivity to twisted, paranoid fantasies.

Now I'm to pass this award on to seven bloggers who are to reveal 7 scraps of truths about themselves. Do the math. That makes for 49 juicy tidbits. Let's go for broke. Anybody reading this who wants this award on their blog and is prepared to dish up the truths, just comment here, expressing your intentions. We're all ears.

The Sun Is Out

2010-02-17T11:56:00.001-07:00

Brilliant Corners, 36" x 24", acrylic on canvas
private collection, Albuquerque

The New Mexico sun is gracing us today and my spirits are lifted. We've been having a snowier than average winter thanks to El Nino--great news for the anticipated spring runoff of the mountain snowpack into the rivers and reservoirs. This magical springtime flow replenishes our desert water supply. And, yes, the fallen snow in downtown Santa Fe is stunning...

St. Francis of Assisi Cathedral
photo courtesy Henry Lopez, The Santa Fe New Mexican

One of the reasons I live in Santa Fe, however, is our 325 days of sunshine per year. I need those brilliant shafts to shine into the darker corners of my house and soul. When those corners are warm, I have a place to go. I can lean against the wall, close my eyes, feel the sunshine on my eyelids, and know that underneath all this...

...an unseen light is forming this...

There are brilliant corners in the dead of winter. When I close my eyes, I see them.

Awaken me from this nightmare....please.

2010-02-07T07:40:00.005-07:00

Dreamer, acrylic on canvas, 24" x 48"

private collection, Albuquerque

I must have exceeded my allowable technology celebration quotient (TCQ). Just as I was getting used to this dazzling new i-Mac with the 27-inch screen, the gallery i-Mac (with only 17 inches) began wearing its heart on its sleeve. Jealousy no doubt. Bennie called to tell me an odd arrangement of bars had begun stalking the cursor and icons. Turns out our video card is on its death bed and heroic efforts to revive would not be cost-effective. SO now we're making final arrangements--in lieu of flowers please send flash drives-- and shopping for another computer.

There's more. I went for coffee and came back to find my itty bitty i-Book, my oh-so-lovable hand-me-down from Flannery, was making asthmatic wheezing sounds, the cool-down fan whirring frantically. Turning it on its belly, popping out the battery and re-inserting it, calmed it temporarily--a kind of reverse shock treatment. The operative word in the last sentence is temporarily. The teeny-tiny laptop has now gone beyond the veil and reincarnated as a Dell. Shudder.

There's nothing like a technological setback, the frenzied backing-up of data, the ensuing selection of new software--decisions, decisions--to sap my urge to create. Or breathe.

Good news is: Despite downtown Santa Fe being its typically wintertime lackluster self, I have sold a couple of paintings--"Dreamer," pictured above, and this one, which you've seen...

A Good Omen, 24" x 36"
private collection, Arlington, Virginia

Here's hoping that's a good omen. Couldn't we all use one of those?

Thank You for Your Concern...As You Can See, We're Fine.

2010-01-11T10:53:00.002-07:00

Dropped out of blogging again and I appreciate your inquiries regarding the state of things here. As you can see, we remain sound in body and mind...

Friday will be Oakley's 21st birthday. He has matured into an upstanding young man. With the hair to prove it.

David is getting ready to apply for graduate school in neuroscience. His primary interest is in the burgeoning field of inverse relationship between shirt collar/frontal lobe dimensions.

Flannery continues to build her med school application while performing experiments of a highly classified nature at the Mind Research Network. She is looking for volunteers. Can I see a show of hands?

Aside from David's thyroid condition, we'd give life two thumbs up. WAY up.

If I only had a thumb. And I'm glad that someone finds this condition so amusing.

(The funhouse photos are the result of playing with the Photo Booth application on my new iMac, courtesy Santa Bennie.)

The Disappearing Woman

2009-12-11T11:00:00.002-07:00

When my sister Rhonda was 5, she got her head stuck between two wrought iron rails on our front porch. I don't remember what prompted her to put her head between those rails. Maybe she was playing "Jail." All the kids on Emmet Street loved to stand on our front porch, grab a couple of the rails, and chant, "Look, I'm in jay-yul! Look, I'm in jay-yul!" This was well before the days of video games and ipods. Our thrills were much cheaper. If a kid had two wrought iron rails to wrap their hands around, they were in business. They were in jail. Just like Otis on The Andy Griffith Show.

Maybe Rhonda was playing with the idea of her head breaking out of jail. Her logic must have been:

I think.
Therefore I am in jail.
I think with my head.
If I can get my head on the other side of these rails, I won't think.
I'll be out of jail once I get my head on the other side.

She did have a philosophical bent early on. It runs in the family. It's a wonder I didn't pull such a stunt. Then again, that's what little sisters are for. Did I talk her into this? I hope not, but I don't clearly recall. Although I don't remember who came to her rescue, it had to be our mother. She must have spent a good fifteen minutes lightly holding Rhonda's head, coaxing my sister to turn her head a quarter-inch this way, take an eighth step backwards with her right foot--good! we've got your right ear back--now a quarter-inch that way, step back--here comes the left ear! Having given birth to breech babies twice, my mother was adept at such maneuvers. The neighborhood kids stood in our front yard, silent, in open-mouthed awe of such magic.

Has Rhonda ever put her head through a pair of rails again? Has anyone who witnessed that scene--the breathless kids, their parents watching from the windows--dared a repeat performance? Hell no. And yet we all keep trying to get our head out of jail. My sister writes. I paint.

When a painting isn't going well, I feel like I've poked my head right through the canvas. On the other side of the canvas is a wall, a place to bang my head. When things are going well, though, I feel like a magician has sawed me in half. I gaze from my severed head at my hands. They belong to someone else. They know just what to do. They coax my head to the other side of the canvas. It turns just enough...this way, then that...the top of my head disappears. There goes my forehead. My eyebrows, nose, lips, chin. I am looking at the painting from the other side. I have eyes in the back of my head. Red paint splashes over them. I disappear.

I'm feeling no pain.

Travels with the Magician
48" x 24"
acrylic on canvas
private collection, Mercer Island, Washington

How do you get your head out of jail?

In One Dream and Out the Other

2009-11-21T14:18:00.001-07:00

In One Dream and Out the Other
mixed media on canvas, 24" x 30"
private collection, Wayne, New Jersey

A lot has happened in the past year:

I levitated about three feet in the air, circling the perimeter of a room in William Hurt's house.

I met up in the Yucatan countryside with the Oscar Meyer bologna boy (from those 80s commercials). He and I walked a while. We came upon Marlo Thomas and her sister. Then things got really interesting...

Hillary Clinton purchased a small artwork from my gallery, in honor of her birthday--she told me she wanted a special little treat.

Unexpected guests showed up at my house. I was chagrined when one of my eyebrows fell off.

James Spader did an extended and earnest sales presentation to me on paintings by African artists he represented.

I was at a family gathering. George W. Bush was present. I held a baby in my knee. Bush looked at the baby. "Looks like me," he said. HORRORS. When will I waken from this nightmare?

For almost a year I've had the extraordinary pleasure of participating in a small dream-sharing group. The oddest thing about our members is we've never met each other in person--we're a private online blog. And yet, I feel as if I've known these people for a few lifetimes. And I don't even believe in multiple lifetimes! Must be because our dreams bubble up from that timeless, unfathomable ocean we call the collective unconscious. Don't misunderstand me. We don't always dream in Jungian archetypes, or about movie stars or ex-presidents. Some of our most interesting observations have been gleaned from ho-hum subject matter. I often dream about pedestrian occurrences at the gallery. A troublesome client shows up wanting to consign a pillow and a sleeping mat "for free." The group decides this is a warning to me--don't let this high-maintenance person invade my territory, keep my boundaries intact, or she will be setting up a little rest area in the gallery!

The dream group is an ongoing adventure. A quiet adventure. An adventure of the best kind. It was founded by Laura Lefelar-Barch, a therapist in New Jersey. She has a Master's in divinity from Duke. She has an Educational Specialist degree from Seton Hall. And she is working on her PhD in clinical psychology. Laura has many balls in the air and she keeps them up, beautifully. She's married and the mother of four young children, including twins. She has a busy private practice and an even busier dream life! Recently she appeared on MTV's "True Life Monday" in an episode with real footage from one of her remarkable therapy sessions. (In case you could use a little help getting through the holidays without your inner self getting trampled in a Black Friday stampede, I believe Laura does distance therapy with Skype.)

I'm paying tribute to Laura today, because I want to thank her publicly for the energy and focus she has given to our dream collective. Laura is stepping down from our group--the thrust of her work is now less dream-centered--and encouraging us to forge ahead on our own. We've decided to do just that, thanks to Laura's empowering insights.

And it is my sublime pleasure to know that my painting "In One Dream and Out the Other" now resides with Laura and her husband Michael, who saw fit to acquire it as an anniversary gift to one another. That's what I call a dream come true.

Life Is Food

2009-10-14T12:40:00.002-06:00

Vessel, acrylic on canvas, 30" x 40"

Ever have a day when things connected? When the events unfolded gently, not with a lot of fanfare, but they nonetheless felt inevitable? Not life-changing events mind you, just quiet events that affirm being alive. Sunday was that kind of day for me. It was a glorious autumn morning. I was driving down Old Pecos Trail, under the big, achingly blue New Mexico sky. Yellow chamisa lined the sides of the road, interrupted here and there by purple wildflowers, whose names I don't know. The shaggy contours of the junipers, loaded with berries, looked about to burst with their own joy. I was listening to NPR.

The theme of the program was death, or more accurately, that border between life and death, the territory that is the closest we who are living can get to death without actually dying. One man told a story of jumping off a bridge. He had methodically decided that his death would be best for all. He had analyzed how his death would affect each person in his life and was convinced that they would be better off were he to take that last step into thin air, plunging into the water, and the death just beneath that water, below the bridge. So that's what he did. He took the plunge.

Only thing was the very moment he saw his hands leave the rail, he realized his was a huge mistake, he knew he loved life with all of his heart, he wanted desperately to reverse his action, to be standing on the bridge again, walking back into life and the people there, all the unfinished business, the sloppiness of it all. He hoped, probably more deeply than he had ever hoped, for a miracle. He wanted to survive.

That was his lucky day. A member of the Coast Guard had witnessed the jump and they were there in minutes, pulling him into their boat.

Other stories followed. The story of a neuroscientist who put a comatose patient into an MRI tube and instructed her to imagine she was playing tennis. The areas of the cortex that would light up when a person was playing an aggressive tennis game, or even imagining such a game, lit up brilliantly! Someone was in there, someone in love with life, as limited as that life appeared to those of us out here. There was an imagination at work. Then there was the story of the woman who was not comatose at all. She walked around. She spoke. She could play a game of tennis if she wanted to. A real game of tennis. Only she really believed she was dead. She could sit on chairs and touch tennis balls, but they seemed not real. They seemed illusory. It was decided she too was in there, but she had no sense of self out there. Unlike the comatose woman, she had no emotions to link with her thoughts. She had no purpose. I believe she was devoid of imagination and dreaming. She was among the Undead.

Later that evening in Albuquerque my family saw two vampire plays by Mac Wellman. In Dracula, a contemporary interpretation of Bram Stoker's tale, the director chose to "split" some of the characters--they were played by two actors. When a character would speak or perform an action, another actor, a kind of doppelganger, would repeat the words, and the action, but slightly differently, more softly, with less emphasis. I realized that we the audience were witnessing the in here and the out there selves. We were seeing our own divisions, our own apartness from life, our own Undeadness.

During the intermission we were asked to take our personal belongings and leave the theater, to have a cup of tea in the courtyard. When we returned to the performance space, we were to see the second play, Swoop, sandwiched between the two acts of Dracula. All of our chairs had been turned in the opposite direction for Swoop. Whereas in the first act of Dracula, the back row of chairs was highest up, and the front row, where I'd been sitting, was on a level with the actors, now the front row was highest up, facing a stage curtain several feet above. I eagerly went to the top level and sat down in the center chair. The curtain opened and I found myself staring directly up into the eyes of a vampire, who was looking back down at me. Perhaps that was a stage direction to the actor--look right down into the eyes of whoever is sitting in the front-and-center chair. That would be me! I loved it!

There were four actors in Swoop. All were characters from Dracula, including one character's split selves, who had moved through time and space to hover in the air seven miles above present-day Manhattan. They delivered powerful, far-reaching monologues on the absurdity and beauty of existence, what one referred to as "the blur." Their words swooped down at us, fast and furious. As Bennie remarked later, it was really challenging to follow the ideas and the images, which blurred together like gazpacho ingredients thrown into a blender. We were nonetheless compelled to drink in all that we could. We were hungry for the blood of it all.

As one vampire said, "It is a need to prey (and yes, I delighted in first hearing "prey" as "pray"), that so incessantly needles...needles some to madness, awful woes and bellowing, and some other, happy few, notably me, to my sustaining updraft, my hilarity. I look down through veil upon veil of wispy vapor and behold a city of food."

Yes, it's all about the food. Life is a feast, although not always what we'd hoped for. Sometimes it helps to have our chairs turned in an opposite direction, so that we look briefly, for one dark moment, into the eyes of he who would take our precious life, our blood, our food, from us. To know that the chair we sit on is real, that we have the choice to climb down from the drama, wrap a scarf around our vulnerable necks, and simply drive to a diner. For a bite. It's good to know the ones we hold dear are waiting in the wings for us, with a cup of tea, a bit of conversation over shared food, maybe even a lifeboat.

When Faith Moves Mountains and Other Geographical Experiments

2009-09-18T10:05:00.002-06:00

Slice of Time, acrylic on canvas, 24" x 18"

private collection, Littleton, Colorado

"Experimental Geography explores the distinctions between geographical study and artistic experience of the earth, as well as the juncture where the two realms collide and possibly make a new field altogether." The spaces where realms collide--that's where hope resides.

"Experimental Geography" is a traveling exhibition, currently at the Albuquerque Museum of Art and History. Nineteen artists or teams of artists from seven countries have presented their personal "geographical study and artistic experience of the earth" through various mediums.

There is a film documenting "A Project for Geographical Displacement," a project by Francis Alys, wherein 500 volunteers formed a line to move a sand dune near Lima. Described as a "human comb," these 500 human beings "pushed a certain quantity of sand a certain distance, thereby moving a sixteen-hundred-foot-long sand dune about four inches from its original position."

Such a tangible metaphor for hope. What hope, combined with sweat and teamwork, can accomplish, on a monumental scale. That's what I call faith.

Equally moving was the "NOTES FOR A PEOPLE'S ATLAS." These were small printed digital outlines of the city of Albuquerque, on which residents had been invited to "plot their personal knowledge of places, histories, and ideas on the map of their community." The most poignant one for me included only two large penciled-in dots, loosely marking two locations, a couple of miles apart. Each was accompanied by a message. One said, "where I was raped, age 15." And, in the second location, "where I got my life back together, 14 years later." For that young woman, getting her life back together must have been as monumental as moving a sixteen-hundred-foot-sand-dune four inches. Even so, after 14 years, it budged. That's what I call faith.

Old Man Gloom Dispatched by Fire and Ceremony

2009-09-11T11:32:00.003-06:00

Sparkus Illuminus (the Honorable and Exalted), the berobed, besceptered man on the stage is holding court:

"Santa Fe, it's time to consider the fate of Old Man Gloom:

Zozobra, for being a hideous 50-foot bogeyman who scares the innocent children of Santa Fe;
Zozobra, for being a menace and making our dogs howl at the moon;
Zozobra, for haunting our dreams and upsetting our peaceful way of life;

I ask the citizens of Santa Fe:

Shall we now send Zozobra to a fiery death?
Shall we burn him?"

The mob of 20,000 gathered at Fort Marcy Park, comprised of upstanding Santa Fe citizens, visitors from New York, Oklahoma City, and Albuquerque, young parents holding their toddlers on their shoulders, white-haired seniors, teens (LOTS of teens), Dems, Greens, and Republicans--roar in unison, "BURN 'IM!!!"

It's unanimous. Sparkus Illuminus proclaims Zozobra's fate:

"I declare that on this evening, September 10, 2009, that Zozobra, otherwise known as Old Man Gloom, shall be dispatched by appropriate fire and ceremony.
With the execution of Zozobra, we release all anxiety, suffering, heartache, and gloom of our fair city.
Bring on the Glooms and Firedancers!

Zozobra's fate is sealed. The Glooms (ghostly, sheet-wearing schoolchildren) and Firedancers in red costumes, bearing torches, solemnly proceed to the platform. At 9:00 on an evening in early September, Zozobra, a towering paper marionette, is consumed in flames to the delight of our people. For an evening, we watch our troubles go up in smoke.

In past years I have written notes about a particular personal trouble I wanted to release. I have deposited that note in the Gloom Box (the contents of which are burned with Zozobra), along with other people's divorce papers, bankruptcy papers, mortgage notes, medical diagnoses--you name it--and felt the thrill of seeing all things troubling from the past year reduced to a puff of smoke, a spectacle of fireworks.

There's a time to let things go, to get over it already, to move on. Other troubles await us, but for now: Viva la Fiesta!

(The video is from a TV station in Albuquerque. You can't fast-forward through the opening commercial. But once you get to the Zozobra coverage, you can fast-forward through segments. If this ritual interests you, you might want to do that, to see the sentencing of Zozobra, some of the firedancing, some of the burning, some of the pyrotechnics. I'll warn you though. It's nothing like being here in person.)

Running with the Wrong Crowd

2009-09-06T12:34:00.004-06:00

There's a line a blogger crosses. From Bad Blogger to Dirty Rotten Blogger. A Bad Blogger posts sketchily, willy nilly, in fits and starts. When she returns to blogland after an extended absence, people say wry things like, "Oh my, you live and breathe." But the Bad Blogger at least has the decency to put in an appearance for solemn occasions such as blogaversaries. The Dirty Rotten Blogger does not.

I've crossed the line. Friday was my second blogaversary, not to mention my 56th birthday. And I refrained from commemorating. I morphed from oaf to scoundrel. I'm a Dirty Rotten Blogger. Maybe that's because I'm in the Terrible Twos. At least in blog years. Maybe it's because I've taken to running with the wrong crowd.

These kids are a bad influence.

Foreground: daughter Flannery.

Back row: David (Flan's boyfriend) and son Oakley.
Their deviousness is outdone
only by this one...

This one is bad to the bone.

He cooked TWO birthday feasts for me,

the first one two days before my birthday.

I came home from the gallery,

walked up the back steps to find

the bad one holding hands with Cinde, Bob, Christy,

and Russ. Their heads were bowed, their eyes were

closed, and they were chanting OOOOOOOOOOOMMMMM.

"What's going on here?" I asked in indignation.

"SURPRISE! HAPPY BIRTHDAY!"

Then there's that thug Otto...

Otto, my Stephano-Pirovano-designed

dental floss dispenser,

a gift from the dastardly Christy.

My birthday cards and letters, from various low-lifes:

My mother (who surreptitiously slipped me cash,

then brazenly sang Happy Birthday on my voice mail).

The infamous Sometimes Saintly Nick

(alias Alex the Blogging Cat).

JS (knee-deep in "discernment"--

an Episcopal euphemism for parole--she emailed me her first,

highly subversive sermon).

Paschal (who penned a wicked acrostic based on my name).

Belinda and Armand (from L.A.--lower Alabama--

can't get any lower than that).

Cinde and Bob, who harbored on their premises

Christy and Russ, accessories to the birthday perpetration.

The Out-Laws (disguised as the in-laws).

The Bad Influence Kids.

Bad-to-the-Bone.

Notice all of the cards are rallying around

the large bottle of Reposada,

a gift from Flannery and David.

(I told you they are a bad influence.)

The chocolate from Bad-to-the-Bone is hidden,

as are the various items of intimate apparel.

My birthday roses, grown by my neighbor Cynde

and arranged with greenery from her garden,

in a French tin pot, adorned with a white satin bow.
She's the scourge of the neighborhood.

Four pots of Russian sage,

foisted on me by my in-laws.

They wrote the book on Bad.

A selection of headily fragranced incense

and a heart-carved case to keep it in.

A gift from my insensitive lout of a son.

(That's the hem of my skirt in the foreground.

Not that you were asking.)

My Bradley mixed-media ceramic mask.

Gifted by, you guessed it, Bad-to-the-Bone.

My brand new great-niece Allie Rae,

whose timing could not have been worse.

She arrived home from the hospital on Friday,

my birthday,

my blogaversary,

the official opening day of Santa Fe Fiestas,

the official kick-off of Santa Fe's 400th Anniversary.

Some people are dirty and rotten from Day One.

But I adore the headgear!

VIVA LA FIESTA!

AND WELCOME ALLIE RAE!

Indian Market Discovery

2009-09-01T14:18:00.002-06:00

A Good Omen, 24" x 36"
mixed media on canvas
(my painting)

Santa Fe recently celebrated our 88th annual Indian Market, the largest juried Native American arts event anywhere. With over 1000 artists participating, our little downtown district was packed with vendors, buyers, and unsuspecting tourists who just happened to stumble into town during the most exciting event of the year. It's always a busy weekend at the gallery, kicking off with a reception on Friday night. Often I'm so tired from minding the gallery, which remains open into the night on Saturday, I don't take the opportunity to stroll through the Market. This year was different, however. Family members were visiting for my in-laws' 60th wedding anniversary--that celebration occurred Sunday evening--so naturally, they had to be introduced to Indian Market.

I'm so glad I visited the Market. There in the Emerging Artists section, I happened on the exciting ceramic sculpture of Chippewa artist Patricia Bradley. Truth be told, my daughter first spotted these evocative masks sporting the semblance of animal ears, face paint, headdresses, and various sculpted wrappings--around the forehead, over the mouth, over the eyes. "Hey, Mom, look over there at those AWESOME masks!"

Lil Brother

Princess

Dreamer

Animal Guidance

from a series of 25 mixed-media ceramic masks
modeled on the faces of the artist's children

They were powerful and carried a wild, joyous energy. I fell in love. With the art and with the artist, who struck me as a straightforward person, open to possibility. Flan snapped up what I had decided was my favorite mask. It was the only piece loosely modeled on Patricia's own face; several strokes of red paint were dashed across one eye, warrior style. I have to hand it to my daughter: she has quite an eye and she knows what she wants and when she sees it, she takes it. She's a warrior herself.

The next day I returned and saw that Patricia had sold a number of her pieces, but her tabletop sculptures--faces emerging from a mass of fired clay, with coils of metal emerging from the backs of the heads and pieces of found metal sprouting from tops of the heads, a fusion of smooth and rough, playful and sad, Earth and Spirit--remained unsold...

Sun on My Face
mixed-media ceramic

I was mesmerized again. Patricia smiled at me in this open, disarming way and asked, "Hi, what are you doing back here today?"

I confessed that I owned a gallery and that I would love to show her art. Without any pretense, she said, "I would love to leave all of this work at your gallery."

And that's just what she did Monday morning.

The whole process felt effortless, as if it were meant to be.

Place of Enchantment

2009-08-06T11:14:00.001-06:00

I always got a kick out of driving a car with a license plate bearing the slogan "Land of Enchantment." I was disappointed when the state of New Mexico changed the design a few years ago. We still have a distinctive license plate, but it no longer proclaims our state nickname. And "Land of Enchantment" is simply perfect.

Where else will you witness a scene like this?

That's what Bennie and I saw Monday evening, as we drove north out of town, past the village of Tesuque, and turned left, headed for that dramatic structure nestled back into the mountains. The short journey through pinon-studded high desert was enchanting, in and of itself, but the real enchantment lay ahead.

We parked and descended into the soaring space of the Santa Fe Opera House, an open-air venue. Four tall diaphanous curtains swayed on stage. The murder victim sang an aria from behind those curtains, which served as portals into truth and the subconscious. Beyond the stage, the almost full moon revealed itself, time and again, from mountains of cloud cover. The cloud forms mimicked the actual mountains beyond. It was a magical backdrop for "The Letter," the world premiere of the opera based on Somerset Maugham's play.

The occasion was Bennie's birthday.

When we returned home, we found the Spirit chairs illuminated by the same moon. Someone was singing an aria in the distance, in the direction of the foothills. The sound was faint, barely discernible. At the same time, it seemed to come from that very chair.

Just another night in our back yard, a Land of Enchantment.

Dreaming It Forward

2009-07-29T15:00:00.001-06:00

Magician, 36" x 24"
private collection, Washington, D.C.

This past Thursday I participated in a global healing event. What did I do? I slept on it.

I got the idea from Laura's blog From the Couch. She got it from 350.org.

The event will recur on the 23rd/24th of each month, culminating on the night of October 23. The idea is to go to bed with the intention of dreaming of "global healing for Mother Earth with dreamers from around the world."

Here's what I dreamed on July 23rd:

I am eating a chocolate cake which is sitting on a table. I am nibbling, taking one small bite from the cake, then walking away, returning to the cake, taking another bite, walking away, returning, eating another bite, etc. The giver of the cake says to me, "San, could you leave a little for me? I'd like some too."

I then find myself teaching in a classroom. My students are young people. I am taken with how fresh they look, how eager their faces appear. They are hanging on my every word. It's bit unnerving; I feel my presentation is kind of dull--I am referring to a textbook which doesn't inspire me. I am also becoming aware that a noise from outside the classroom is drowning out my voice.

I walk down the hallway to the room where the sound is coming from. I open the door and find a bunch of old folks square dancing with their music turned up really loud. A couple come to the door. Her hair is in disarray. Both of them have their mouths open in surprise, surprise that their music could be heard from outside the door. They seem, however, happy to turn it down.

As I turn to walk back to my classroom, I have an idea for a writing assignment for my class. I will show them two pottery disks, one of them shiny new and unblemished, the other with a complicated weathered surface. I will have them write about which disk is more beautiful, and why. I feel excited. I know the students will be inspired and I can't wait to read their work.

So, now I ask for your interpretations of my dream sequence...

detail, Way of the Sea, 60" x 48"

Recovering from Vacation

2009-06-28T10:30:00.000-06:00

A few things I did on my summer vacation to Chicago and Michigan:

On the plane from Albuquerque I sat two seats behind actor Gary Farmer. An odd coincidence, as I was already planning on his being the subject of my Meme of Fame 4/7. (I'd last seen him a couple of summers ago when I helped him hang a large painting on the wall of his now-out-of-business gallery, a block from our own. There you go: Meme of Fame 4/7 is now complete.) We exchanged awkward pleasantries in the O'Hare terminal, then went about our separate misadventures.

Farmer and Johnny Depp in Dead Man.

My spouse got his suitcase locked in a turnstile at the El station. The turnstile would not budge. My spouse therefore became locked in the turnstile. He would not budge. An attendant had to disengage the luggage, and thus my spouse, with brute force. The attendant broke a sweat wrestling the steel bars in their death grip. We haven't a clue exactly how it all happened. Just lucky I guess.
My spouse excused himself for a restroom engagement during a performance of The Enigma Variations at the concert pavilion in Millennium Park. He simply vanished. It was truly enigmatic. Then again, I might want to disappear after that turnstile stunt. Come to think of it, I never saw that man before in my entire life.

Everyone was whispering,
'Where did Bennie go?'

I went searching for him...

...only to find him napping on the sculpture terrace
of the new wing of the Art Institute.

In Michigan I was caught trespassing on the grounds of a private residence I'd mistaken for a funky collectibles shop. I mean, how many antique birdhouses, disintegrating farm implements, and sculptures of giant hands cradling the planet Earth does one family need? Shove your rusty hay rake. Take your vintage sausage grinders. Please.

And call your dog off.

Upon arriving at the steps leading down to Cherry Beach at Lake Michigan, a panic-stricken family was coming up, slapping at their arms and legs. They shouted warnings of a proliferation of giant and hungry flies. They weren't kidding. Here's Bennie coming back up the stairs, pursued by a swarm of famished flies.

Don't let the smile fool you.

Those insects mean business.

Arriving at Club Lago on West Superior in Chicago, salivating in anticipation of fried calamari and linguini, we discovered a big sign at the entrance, explaining that the restaurant was closed due to damage incurred by an exploding chimney next door.

They say they'll be back.

And so will we...

We just love vacations.

It's a Wonderful Life (100 Ways)

2009-06-11T05:52:00.005-06:00

No doubt you've seen this meme around Blogland. I started noticing it last winter and promised myself I'd participate. One of these days, I said. Today's the day. Warning: It's loooooooooong. Bennie and I are about to leave for a little vacation to Chicago and Lake Michigan, and I didn't want to leave you bereft of reading material. Feel free to drop in and read a few items, then come back and read more. And more. And more. It's a list of 100 things a person might have done in one's life. The idea is to copy and paste the same list, then put in bold the things you've done already. And you know me. I have to illustrate my memes.

1. Started my own blog (Truth be told, I found this blog in the parking lot of Denny's. Possession is, however, 9/10 of the law.)
2. Slept under the stars (Yup. In the Rockies, in Yosemite, on the beach beside the Pacific, and occasionally on the trampoline in my back yard in New Mexico. Long story.)

Camping in the Rockies with Trudy.

3. Played in a band (No, but I used to sing in a church choir. They took anyone who could "make a joyful noise.")
4. Visited Hawaii (We went there on our honeymoon. My favorite memory is sitting in the shade of a huge banyan tree, eating breakfast and drinking Kona coffee. At the time I didn't realize that the banyan tree was an omen of the roots we would be putting down, far sooner than we realized. Our firstborn would arrive a little over 9 months later.)

5. Watched a meteor shower (And I once spied on an asteroid taking a bath.)
6. Given more than I can afford to charity (Do you realize what gallery ownership is about? Commercial landlords are my least favorite charity, but they've twisted my arm to contribute to their cause for better than 24 years now.)
7. Been to Disneyland/world (When the kids were little, we traveled down the California coast, stopping along the way to camp on the beach, winding up at Disneyland and Universal Studios.)

8. Climbed a mountain (The closest I've come is hiking down the Vernal Falls trail and back up in Yosemite. That hardly qualifies, but doing that with one child in a stroller and another by the hand does qualify as an adventure, don't you think?)

9. Held a praying mantis (Why would I want to do that? Aren't they the ones who mate and tear their partner's head off?)
10. Sung a solo (Yes, when Oakley was a toddler and had stitches put in his head, I sang solo after solo, my face as near his as possible, unnerving the ER physician. "Well, somehow we got that done," he said, "despite the singing."
11. Bungee jumped (Are you f'in' kidding????)
12. Visited Paris (Oui.)

13. Watched lightning at sea (From the window of my motel room.)
14. Taught myself an art from scratch (The fine art of answering memes.)
15. Adopted a child (Only if you count our dog Trudy, adopted from the shelter in 1999.)
16. Had food poisoning (I must have, but I honestly can't recall an incident. And I've eaten in divey border towns as well as at Denny's. Guess my immune system is cast iron.)
17. Walked to the top of the Statue of Liberty (I'm more of a sidelines kind of person. I've looked at it from afar, from the Staten Island Ferry.)
18. Grown my own vegetables (A few tomatoes, some green onions and jalapenos, and some actual corn. My husband is the gardener. I'm a sidelines kind of person. But the garden's on my land too. Possession is 9/10 of the law.)

Bennie's High Desert Garden

19. Seen the Mona Lisa in France (From the eighteenth row back, in a frenzied, picture-taking mob of Japanese tourists. And it may not have even been the actual Mona Lisa. To protect the real deal, they trot out replicas. You never know if what you see is what you get.)
20. Slept on an overnight train
21. Had a pillow fight (I was the featherweight champion of that train.)
22. Hitchhiked (Once while walking in my own subdivision, I got lost and flagged down a guy to ask directions. He drove me home. )
23. Taken a sick day when you’re not ill (Unless you want to include mental. Every day is a mentally ill day, for me.)
24. Built a snow fort (What's a snow fort? Why not a sand castle?)

25. Held a lamb (chop)
26. Gone skinny dipping (If a hot tub counts.)
27. Run a Marathon (But I've cheered my husband over the finish line.)

28. Ridden in a gondola in Venice (I am going to get to Italy. One of these days.)
29. Seen a total eclipse (Of business in 2009.)
30. Watched a sunrise or sunset (Every morning and every evening, from our deck.)

31. Hit a home run (Who? Me?)
32. Been on a cruise (Only up the Potomac. And around San Francisco Bay. And on the Staten Island Ferry.)
33. Seen Niagara Falls in person (I've flown over Wichita Falls.)
34. Visited the birthplace of my ancestors (I'll get to the Garden of Eden. Watch me.)
35. Seen an Amish community (I saw that movie with Kirstie Alley.)
36. Taught myself a new language (I know some Spanish. Enough to make my way around a hotel room in Chihuahua.)
37. Had enough money to be truly satisfied (OK, I can pretend, can't I?)
40. Seen Michelangelo’s David (I will. I will.)
41. Sung karaoke (Not on my to-do list, but I admire it in others.)
42. Seen Old Faithful geyser erupt (in song, in a karaoke bar, in Oakley, Kansas.)

43. Bought a stranger a meal at a restaurant

(Never mind. That's my husband and my son.
But if he puts his hand in that water,
I'm going to act like I never saw him before in my life.)

44. Visited Africa
45. Walked on a beach by moonlight (On the Atlantic, the Pacific, the Gulf of Mexico, the Caribbean. Now, to make it to the Mediterranean...)
46. Been transported in an ambulance (No, but I did have to climb into one and be checked out by paramedics after a car accident. That was close enough.)
47. Had my portrait painted (Sketched. Twice. Never painted. Unless you count my very abstract Self-Portrait.)
48. Gone deep sea fishing
49. Seen the Sistine Chapel in person (I will. I will.)
50. Been to the top of the Eiffel Tower in Paris (As opposed to the Eiffel Tower in Las Cruces?)

51. Gone scuba diving or snorkeling
52. Kissed in the rain
53. Played in the mud (I recommend combining Numbers 52 & 53.)
54. Gone to a drive-in theater (When we moved to Santa Fe, we were delighted to discover the Yucca Drive-In. We saw The Lion King there with the kids. Sadly, the Yucca closed soon thereafter. Now, tell me the truth. Does that sign really look like a yucca?)

55. Been in a movie (When the kids were little, we wrote, directed, produced, and acted in our own action/adventure video. Sadly, it was a bomb at the box office. Never even made it to the Yucca.)
56. Visited the Great Wall of China
57. Started a business (We've had our gallery since 1985. And as a kid I had one hell of a profitable lemonade stand.)
58. Taken a martial arts class (But in San Francisco I rented a house from a guy named Bruce Lee.)
59. Visited Russia (No, but if I ever make it to Alaska...)
60. Served at a soup kitchen (I've prepared food for a homeless shelter, but I didn't serve it.)
61. Sold Girl Scout Cookies (But I've bought, and eaten, them aplenty. Chocolate mint rules!)
62. Gone whale watching (Never. One for the bucket list I guess.)
63. Got flowers for no reason
64. Donated blood, platelets or plasma (I should. I'm O negative, the universal donor. And I've been on the receiving end after a spell of anemia. Talk about a precious gift. Even better than flowers for no reason.)
65. Gone sky diving (I won't. I won't.)
66. Visited a Nazi Concentration Camp (I probably will one of these days. It must be a profound experience.)
67. Bounced a check (After we sold our house in California, we deposited the proceeds in a bank in Santa Fe. The teller put a hold on the out-of-state funds. She meant to put a 10-day hold, but she typed an extra zero and held up everything for 100 days. Yes, there was a whole lot of bouncing going on.
68. Flown in a helicopter
69. Saved a favorite childhood toy up until my late 20s (Make that late 50s. I still have the little stuffed white dog with black ears I used to have to hug to fall asleep. (Bennie isn't too jealous.) My own daughter held that dog and now it's in storage for a grandchild down the way. And I have a collection of Troll dolls from the 60s. Remember those wild-haired things? And Flannery now decorates her kitchen with my Deluxe Dream Kitchen circa 1962. And I have my original Barbie Doll and my Ken Doll (who's actually developed a bald spot and a resemblance to our friend Eric)...and...

70. Visited the Lincoln Memorial (Jefferson too.)
71. Eaten caviar (I personally don't see the big deal. Guess I'm a phlebian.)
72. Pieced a quilt (But both my grandmothers passed down to me some lovely hand-made quilts of their own creation, including one made by my great-grandmother. I live in a passive solar suffused with sunlight, and so I have to keep my beautiful, fragile quilts hidden away most of the time.)

Young Flannery, practicing head lifting,
on a quilt made by her great-grandmother.

73. Stood in Times Square (I even walked around the place.)
74. Toured the Everglades (As a young adult, with my parents.)
75. Been fired from a job (That's the disadvantage of being self-employed. I can't fire myself!)
76. Seen the Changing of the Guards in London (No, but I used to work at a gallery across from the Sir Francis Drake in San Francisco. The doormen wore Beefeater Guard outfits. I watched them go off duty.)
77. Broken a bone (My toe. Three times. The third time was the charm.)
78. Been on a speeding motorcycle (How do you think I broke my toe? Just kidding.)
79. Seen the Grand Canyon in person (Everything, I mean everything, it's cracked up to be.)

80. Published a book (No, but I've published my writing in literary journals.)

81. Visited the Vatican (But I will get to Italy. One of these days. Keep reminding me.)
82. Bought a brand new car (Not anywhere near what it's cracked up to be. I'd rather save my money for paintings.)
83. Walked in Jerusalem (Little Jerusalem, aka Ave Maria Grotto, a replica of the Holy Land near Huntsville, Alabama.)

84. Had my picture in the newspaper (Several times. The first time was when I was a third-grader, touring the phone company. I've been a publicity hound ever since.)
85. Read the entire Bible (Not all of it, but I did walk in Little Jerusalem.)
86. Visited the White House (Only the areas that used to be available on public tours. I'm still awaiting that West Wing invitation.)
87. Killed and prepared an animal for eating

A sampling of wild game. Hunted, killed, dressed, baked.

88. Had chickenpox (And measles and mumps. I grew up before those vaccinations existed. Did I mention I'm old?)
89. Saved someone’s life (Only my own. I make it a practice to stay out of the trajectory of falling meteorites.)
91. Met someone famous (Just this past Sunday Jane Lynch, of Christopher Guest movies fame, and 2 1/2 Men fame, popped into the gallery.)

Charlie Sheen's shrink. A juicy role.

92. Joined a book club (Several friends and I used to meet monthly at each others' homes for a potluck and book discussion. We were in far-flung locations. Los Alamos to Eldorado to Chupadero. The commute became a grind and we wound up reading our books in solitude.)
93. Lost a loved one (Yes. My father, all of my grandparents, all of my uncles and aunts, a cousin. Some friends. It's a hazard of growing older, losing people.)
94. Had a baby (Two times, and by natural childbirth.)

95. Seen the Alamo in person (No. But I've seen Los Alamos in person. See #92.)
96. Swam in the Great Salt Lake (No! I'm too afraid of turning into a right-wing Republican. There's definitely something in the water up there.)
97. Been involved in a law suit (Small claims court. Twice. Sued a shipping company and a landlord. And I've filed a complaint with the Office of the Attorney General of California. Don't mess with me, people!)
98. Owned a cell phone (Aren't I special?)
99. Been stung by a bee (And I once accidentally stepped on a dead wasp with bare feet. I still got stung. The nerve!)
100. Ridden an elephant (It's a crucial part of my morning routine, right after coffee.)

Living Large: Meg Wolff's "Becoming Whole"

2009-06-08T14:27:00.000-06:00

This book calls for a grand backdrop, a vista of possibility.

Those of you who've been reading my blog for a while know that I'm a friend of Meg Wolff. I've yet to meet her "in person," but I know her rather well. I enjoy her blog, and she frequents my own, always leaving generous, supportive comments. She and I exchange emails from time to time, and on my 55th birthday she had a cake delivered to my place of business! I think that qualifies for friendship.

For some time, a neglected item on my TO-READ list (which curiously gets longer, never shorter--when I last unfurled it, my list was rolling down Highway 285 towards Clines Corners), has been Becoming Whole by Meg Wolff. I am very pleased to report I have not only read Becoming Whole by Meg Wolff, I am going to recommend it to you. But please do no ask me to loan you my copy. It is one of those inspiring reads that I will want to keep handy, the kind of book I can open randomly, to any page, on a dark day, and find something uplifting. Apparently, I'm not the only one who feels this way. Becoming Whole is highly recommended by two of my heroes in the world of healing, Christiane Northrup, author of Women's Bodies, Women's Wisdom, and Bernie Siegel, author of Love, Medicine, and Miracles.

Becoming Whole is Meg's startling, honest account of her journey through an entire decade of dealing with cancer--bone cancer, then further down the way, breast cancer. It is a descent into a personal hell few would emerge from. Along the way, Meg relinquishes her left leg, her right breast, her hair (of course), her self-worth, her confidence in her own body, and ultimately her connection to the Earth itself. She observes the heart-wrenching pain of children frightened of losing their mother, and she fantasizes about buying presents for them to unwrap on the birthdays she will not be a part of. Meg and her husband become strangers sleepwalking through a life that has been reduced to endurance. She privately selects a future wife for her husband, a mother for her children--a beautiful, kind friend who is going through a divorce.

Sounds like a difficult read, no? Yes, part of it is. The candid descriptions of various medical procedures--from chemo to radiology to amputation to partial radical mastectomy--the various, grisly wounds inflicted on this beautiful woman's body--these descriptions are in themselves very painful to read, as are Meg's observations of the emotions she experienced:
For weeks after the surgery, I was conscious of my deformed body. Everyone I encountered seemed to present the image of what a human being should look like. People should have two legs; women two breasts. I watched people move effortlessly as they crossed the street, or walked along sidewalks. I noticed mannequins in dress shops and photographs of women in magazines. Soon I realized that I must not watch television or read magazines, because they stressed the importance of women's figures, and insisted that these images were what women should be. I no longer measured up.

One cannot read Meg's story without feeling anguish, and even more so, anger. Make that furor. Furor at the arrogance of many of her doctors, furor at the fragmented vision of contemporary medicine, which focuses on poisoning the body in the name of curing disease, a medicine which can identify sickness but not health, a medicine in which doctors do not listen to patients. (Unbelievably, Meg suspected her cancer years before she received a diagnosis. Both times. She was condescended to, receiving the message she was a hysterical worry wart.) A medicine which breaks the essence of its own Hippocratic oath--Above all, do no harm. A medicine which all too often is detoured into costly, dangerous procedures because of the profit to be obtained. As Meg so succinctly puts it when one doctor insists she endure a bone marrow transplant procedure, which now, years later, is known to have killed women rather than saved them:
I had enough experience with doctors to spot a medical salesman when I saw one, and Dowd and the cancer institute physician were more entrepreneurs than healers. They saw my expensive health insurance card and knew that I could pay for the treatment. Something told me that that's what mattered most to them.

And so Meg begins to trust that soft-spoken, wise voice within, to trust the healers who are themselves humble and respectful. Sometimes these are traditional doctors of medicine. Other times they're alternative healers or macrobiotic chefs or massage therapists.

And that turning point is the juncture at which Meg begins to embrace life rather than seek to prolong it. She subsequently "just says no" to tamoxifen treatment, despite a doctor's urging that this is her last hope to eke out a little more time in this life. Her intuition tells her tamoxifen will kill her. Or at the very least render her helpless:
Who would take care of me when I had a stroke? Would Dr. Wingate take responsibility for me after I had become incapacitated and lay dying in some nursing home? Whose life was this anyway?

Indeed.

That was better than ten years ago. Meg has taken ownership of that life, and of the body inhabited by that life. She has been medication-free for all of those years! All of her medical tests indicate that her body has been restored to perfect health. Meg herself is the proof. She attributes her vitality to having undertaken the macrobiotic way of eating and living, a way of living which is balanced and attuned to nature. A way of "living large." MACRO biotics. Get it?

Maybe not.

That's why Meg has written Part Two. Part Two is devoted to a thorough explanation of the hows and whys of macrobiotic eating, pages of meal plans, and delectable, exotic recipes. Think of a a graceful dance between yin and yang. Think of the color balance in a beautiful painting, or in fresh foods arranged on a plate, bursting with life force. Think of an opening to life itself, saying yes! to all that matters and brings pure joy.

Does Meg feel bitter about all of those years lost to cancer and dead ends, the tragedy of Part One? I'll let her answer that question:

One day that spring, while cutting vegetables by the open window of my kitchen, I suddenly had a strange and surprising thought. I had cancer to thank, and all the trials and tribulations that accompanied it, for helping me to banish my fears, find my voice and mission, and find--really find--happiness.

This book is for anyone who suffers from dis-ease, physical or emotional. Anyone who has ever looked back at a wrong decision and thought, Hey, I knew better than that! Why did I listen to an authority figure rather than my own wisdom? Anyone who feels remorse or anger or bitterness. Anyone who's lost confidence and feels powerless. Anyone whose connections have disappeared--with family, or the body, or the Earth. In short, anyone. Becoming Whole is available at Meg's blog.

From Rags to Bitchin' (Meme of Fame 3/7)

2009-05-31T12:36:00.000-06:00

Bleeding Heart, acrylic on canvas, 24" x 48"
private collection, Lafayette, Colorado

OK, for starters, this time I have an excuse for not posting in a while, not visiting your blogs, and not responding to your generous blog comments. My sister had a total hip replacement and I flew to visit her and my mother. She's coming along, but what an ordeal! The surgeon delicately described the situation in the vicinity of her pelvic bones as "a train wreck," but he does avow she is on her way to being far better off than before the procedure. Yes, the indicators are this is the case. Please nonetheless send healing energy in this direction:

What we're aiming for is for things to stay in place long enough for Donna to heal, regain some strength, and be back on her feet (literally.) I have faith. She's tough and determined.

I am now going to pick up where I left off in the Meme of Fame series, although in today's installment I have altered the name of the (somewhat) famous party so as to avoid litigation.

Kevin L, Marty Award Winner, Best New Menswear Designer on the West Coast. Purchased a series of small male nudes from our San Francisco gallery, along with one in-your-face, larger-than-life, male nude. Kevin was up for the fashion award when he bought these. Confided in me he was pretty sure he would win and wanted his house to look fabulous for the celebration party. He won. The house looked fabulous. The revelers adored the colossal painting of the naked man.

Then things began to reverse themselves. Kevin's clothing company's earnings began shrinking. Kevin had an artistic soul which yearned for an outlet other than sweater vests. Kevin himself crashed and burned out at the age of 30. Put his house on the market, told me he wanted out of the "rag trade" and to move back home to southern California and pursue a career in photography. His real estate agent said the big naked man had to go before he began parading prospective buyers through the house. Kevin asked me to buy the painting back. I refused. Where the hell would I hang such a thing? In the children's playroom? I advised Kevin to store the painting until his house was sold, then haul it to the new location. (I'd been trying to get rid of that thing for better than a year. It was a beautifully accomplished painting, yes, but the market for male nudes is limited, let alone six-foot-tall male nudes.) Enough time had lapsed since the transaction that Kevin didn't have a leg to stand on. He pitched a hissy fit, tried to read me The Wright Act. I stood my ground, much to his annoyance. He stalked out of the gallery and I've never seen him since. His parting words: "Your shoes are fabulous, but your attitude is sheer frump." *

And for the record, Keven did re-invent himself as a photographer, and he still does a little fashion designing too. I've seen his stuff in the big department stores and it does have flair. If I were a man, I would wear it. Truth be told, I have worn it. I've been known to rifle through Bennie's side of the closet, searching for his one shirt by Kevin. It's, if you can imagine such a thing, inspired by bowling shirts AND the paper cutouts of Henri Matisse. High-brow culture meets low-brow culture. And the buttons are to die for. Kevin, he always had a way with buttons.

*Not really. I made that up. But, God, I wish he'd said that. How I wish he'd said that.

13 Easy Steps to a New You

2009-05-15T11:41:00.000-06:00

Self Portrait
mixed media on canvas
private collection, Richmond, Virginia

Ever look in the mirror and hate what you see? Ever feel like re-inventing yourself? Maybe as a rock star, movie star, or porn star? Come on. Admit it. You've always dreamed of being a spy.

Or a country western singer.

You know, deep down, who you are. Deep inside your restless soul a NASCAR driver is revving the engine.

It's really not that difficult to take on a whole new identity. No, I'm not talking about internet fraud. Or the Witness Protection Program. I'm talking about actual transformation of body, mind, and soul. Last month I stumbled on some powerful tools of transformation at Akelamalu's place. I've been trying them out, and they really, really work. I feel obliged to pass them on. Take them. Please.

Here you go: 13 safe, affordable, and highly effective ways to become The New You. (Just respond to the prompts in parentheses, and, like that, you're starring in a soap opera!) If you need to, bend the rules, alter the prompts. That's the name of this game.

1. My rock star name.
(first pet, current car):
Fluffy Lexus.
Hey, that sounds more like my porn star name. Purrrrrrrrrrr.

2. My gangsta name.
(favorite ice cream flavor, favorite type of shoe):
Moose Tracks Stiletto.
That's no gangsta name, sucka. That's a gangster name. But I'm down with it.

3. My Native American name.
(favorite color, favorite animal):
Cadmium Red Deep Dog.
Now that be the shiznit of gangsta names.

4. My soap opera name.
(middle name, city where I was born):
Gail Albertville.
Gosh darn, that sounds so innocuous. I was hoping to be the hot villainess everyone loves to hate. If I take my last name and pair that with the second name of the next to the last city I've lived, then count back three cities prior to that, and plug that one in the middle, we get:
Merideth Montgomery Francisco.
That's more like it.

5. My Star Wars name.
(the first 3 letters of my last name, first 2 of my first name):
Mersa.
Or, we could take the name of my first crush, then pair that with something that's always above my head, plus an action I performed this morning with my dog Trudy. And we have:
Luke Skywalker.

6. My Superhero name.
(my second favorite color, favorite drink):
Teallatte.
Teallatte is the nemesis of Moose Tracks Stiletto.

7. My NASCAR name.
(first names of my grandfathers):
Tom Lewis.
Second names would have worked better:
Newton Powell.
Or maiden names of my grandmothers would've been best:
Carter Lackey.
Never mind. That's my country western singer name.
What about the second name of my husband and the second name of his father and the second name of his father?:
Joe Joe Thomas.
Or, better yet, let's skip this identity altogether. Who the hell said I wanted to be a NASCAR driver?

8. My dancer name.
(the name of my favorite perfume/cologne/scent, favorite candy):
White Diamonds Godiva.
What do you take me for? A lap dancer?

9. My TV weather anchor name.
(my 5th grade teacher's last name, a major city that starts with the same letter):
Kilcrease Kissimmee.
Roll over, Rob Marciano.

10. My spy name.
(my favorite season/holiday, flower):
Autumn Iris Christmas Rose.
I'm a double agent.

11. My cartoon name
(favorite fruit, article of clothing I'm wearing right now):
Pineapple Pantyhose.
Sponge Bob Square Pants' main squeeze.

12. My movie (or porn) star name
(current pet, laundry detergent of choice):
Trudy (2x ultra) All

13. My hippie name
(what I ate for breakfast, my favorite tree):
Moons-over-My-Hammy Sweetgum
...only if I was conceived in a Motel 6 next door to a Denny's in Tampa...
I wasn't, but...
Plain-Nonfat-Yogurt-with-Fresh-Strawberries-and-Organic-Almonds Eucalyptus
...is a bitch to remember. Soooooo...
...my inner (Southern) child will always answer to:
Grits Magnolia.
Handy. It's also my prize-fighter name.

Debbie Does Art (Meme of Fame 2nd Installment)

2009-04-21T14:00:00.001-06:00

A bubbly 60-something blond woman, quite pretty, a little on the plump side, stood by the gallery door fingering the merchandise with her graceful hands. "Oh, how CUTE!!!"

The little bottle vases hanging on the door were cute indeed, but take it from me: the gushers do not buy. They expend their energy gushing, lead you around the gallery, toying with you, fingering the merchandise, gushing. They gush over your outfit, gush over the art, gush over your perfume. Oh, they might ask if the chairs in the back room are for sale, or the sales desk. (No, I'm not kidding.) They want to know the source of your accent, how long you've lived in Santa Fe, and "Where's a good place to eat around here, one with no tourists?" Then they walk out the door, headed to the next shop. And there you are--penniless, defeated, drained of life, drowned in bullshit.

This particular gusher was accompanied by four teenagers. One extremely good-looking fellow who looked like a very young Robert Downey Jr. One totally likable overweight guy who proclaimed the art in the gallery "awesome" (without gushing). With earnestness he confided he wanted to be an artist. Two gorgeous blondes, one friendly, one dripping with cynicism. The older woman--let's call her Debbie-- announced she wanted to buy a bottle vase for each of the girls. They just had to pick a color. The friendly girl happily chose a magenta. The cynical one frowned and said she didn't want one.

Debbie was becoming less bubbly. She INSISTED the young, cynical blonde choose a color.

"But I don't know what color I want to paint my wall," whined the blonde.

"For cryin' out loud, pick a color and let me buy you a bottle vase. It's not a big deal!" I was beginning to like this Debbie. She was evolving from gusher to customer. She was putting her dainty little foot down with Ms. Cynic. I was totally in her corner now. She was going to make a purchase! Ms Cynic relented and picked a yellow.

While I was totaling up the bottle vases, Debbie began walking around the gallery. She started gushing again, this time over a painting of chickens in a chorus line. " THAT IS SO CUTE. THAT IS SO FUNNY. I JUST LOVE IT."

I hung the painting in the viewing room for Debbie. I talked up the marvelous qualities of the festive headgear of the party girl chickens. Debbie was beside herself. I asked her if she wanted me to wrap the painting for her to take, or would I be shipping it.

"NO. I would hang it in my kitchen and I would never pay that for something to hang in my kitchen." She had gone from gushing to cantankerous in the blink of her big blue eyes.

"Okay," I said. " What would you pay?"

She low-balled me.

I tried to meet her offer at a respectable distance.

She wouldn't budge.

I tried again.

She was unflinching.

I coaxed.

She refused.

I cajoled.

She began walking away.

"Well, I'll think about it," she said, in a huff, swinging her hips, headed towards the door.

I'LL THINK ABOUT IT is the death knell for an art sale. Art purchases come from the heart, not the frontal cortex.

I ran after her.

(This is a trick I learned through the years, a skill I've lovingly honed, a skill to which I attribute my longevity in the business. That trick is: When they're walking away from the deal, run after them, pleading. It is such a tremendous ego boost to certain people. I mean who doesn't enjoy someone running after them, begging? Especially when family members are watching?)

"OKAY. OKAY. You are tough! You are tougher than me! You win! Have your price!" I said.

"She's tough," I reiterated to her youthful entourage. They looked at the floor.

She beamed and handed me her credit card. I have a habit of reading the name of the person on the card. It said Connie Stevens. Yes, the Connie Stevens. That tough kitten had been around the block. Connie signed her Visa receipt with a flourish, said she wanted to return to the hotel but that someone would pick up the painting later. I wrapped it in bubble wrap and printed a bio of the artist. I placed the bio in an envelope with the name CONNIE in large letters, and I embellished it with a big red heart. I wonder if she appreciated my little gesture.

Later that day I entrusted the painting to the Robert Downey Jr. lookalike. He told me he was Connie's nephew and acknowledged it was "pretty cool" to be Connie Stevens' nephew. I acknowledge: It was pretty cool to sell a painting to Connie. I only wish she'd ponied up a bit more.

Connie, circa 1963.

Connie, one tough kitten.

Connie, the businesswoman. She now owns a beauty products company and a spa, and recently directed her first film. She also heads an organization which awards scholarships to young Native Americans. And she will gush whenever and wherever she pleases, thank you.

Happy Springtime from the High Desert

2009-04-18T09:49:00.001-06:00

Yes, we got more snow yesterday and last night. Flannery, who's home this weekend (Oakley too!), stood in the back door and took this picture earlier this morning. You may be able to tell that the sun is just starting to creep across the field. The shaggy contours of the junipers are starting to reveal themselves once more as the spring snow melts. Such is the speed of transformation in the high desert. Just last week I had the gallery door wide open and the happy tourists were walking by in their shirt sleeves. Today I imagine they're bundled up in down jackets and snow boots. The lucky ones anyway, those who looked at a forecast before they packed their bags.

I'm enjoying a quiet day at home with the kids. A fire crackles in the woodstove and I lift my French roast in a toast to (what I hope is) the last snow of springtime.

Meme of Fame (first installment)

2009-03-29T17:24:00.002-06:00

A Typical Day in My Glamorous Past

Several months ago Bruno tagged me with the 7 Random (or Unremarkable) Things About Me meme. Yes, several months ago. I'm a master of procrastination. Having done that meme a few times already, my cache of about-me things was spent. You already know, for God's sake, the distance from the top of my wrist to the base of my forefinger. You know about my lackluster childhood in the circus. You know my shoe size. What else could you possibly want to know? So I thought, hey, I’ll do what Moody did a while back. I’ll turn it into the 7 Famous People Who Almost Knew Me meme. After all, I've been within spitting distance of Robin Williams. (No, I didn't spit on him.) I've urinated in a public restroom in Berkeley in the stall next door to a National Book Award-winning poet. (Her urine did have a bouncy anapestic rhythm as it hit the water.) A highly respected actress known for her eclectic supporting roles has sat beside me, and we've chatted amiably--in a punk club in the Tenderloin district of San Francisco. No less than Gene Hackman, I kid you not, has parked in my loading zone, right here in Santa Fe. Twice.

But did I follow through with my intention to post the Meme of Fame? Hell no. Too busy hanging with luminaries. Oh, and did I mention I procrastinate? Then too, there's the narrowing factor. Too many lucky famous have crossed my path. Whom will I omit? Whose feelings will I hurt? But now Paschal has had the same idea. And he's tagged anyone reading his Seven. How can I not follow through now?

I will do my damndest to pick and choose seven of the most fortunate individuals of fame who came that close to knowing me.

1. Summer, 1986. I'm minding our gallery on Union Street in San Francisco, six months pregnant with my firstborn. An attractive middle-aged woman, elegantly dressed in a tailored suit adorned with a sparkly brooch, comes in. We strike up a conversation. She asks me about my due date and tells me about her own "babies," who are big kids now. She then takes interest in an oil painting of a pink bathrobe on a clothes hanger. "I really love it," she says. "I'll admit I have something of an aversion to the associations I have with the color pink."

"You must mean...the wimp factor?"

"Exactly. But something about this painting appeals to me. A lot. I'll be back with my husband. He's a television actor and is in a meeting right now."

"Oh, have I seen the show?" At the time I really did not watch TV. I didn't know what else to say.

"Probably," she said. I was so out of the popular culture loop, I didn't even recognize the words spelled by the configuration of stones in her brooch. HILL STREET BLUES. (If you're old enough to remember that show, you know it was a hugely popular police drama and was produced and written by Steven Bochco, who has subsequently produced a string of quality hits such as L.A. Law and NYPD Blue.)

Hill Street Blues cast, circa 1985

That afternoon the woman did return with her husband, James B. Sikking. (When I began watching Hill Street Blues shortly thereafter, I realized Jim played the commander of the SWAT team.) After several minutes of his interrogating me about the artist, he agreed that, yes, the painting was worthy of being purchased. As I was writing up the sale, Bennie showed up, did a double-take at the tall gentleman standing beside the desk, and said, "Oh, I know you, don't I? You're on Hill Street Blues, aren't you?"

The Sikkings became wonderful clients of the gallery. That same day they purchased a small surrealist etching by a German printmaker. The etching was called "Schwanz Pot" and depicted, yes, an intriguing penis-plant growing in a flowerpot. This was a gift for Mr. Bochco. "That is SO him," Florine said. (Another time Florine and Jim honored us by coming to our gallery on their anniversary and purchasing a realist painting as their gift to each other. How is that for sweet?)

Several months later I was home with my new baby Flannery. My parents were visiting. Bennie called from the gallery to say "a few Hollywood people" were, as of that moment, riding in a cab to the studio of an artist we represented. Since we lived near Bill, the artist in question, he suggested I meet them there--after all, my mom and dad could babysit. Correction. He had already informed the Hollywood people I would meet them there.

I began to panic. Not a thing to wear. I was getting my body back into shape and nothing fit. My maternity clothes now swallowed me whole, but I was way too fat for my pre-preggers skinny jeans. When I did pull together an outfit that was vaguely passable--cotton knit pants with a coral top and a sage-colored cotton sweater to wrap around my various lumps, the only pair of shoes that would go with it were these jobs I'd grabbed from the sales rack at Mervyns. Brown sandals with, God forbid, synthetic wedge soles. And talk about a horrific hair day!

Clipping my frumpy, growing-out-perm into a sad clump on the back of my head, I climbed into our VW Golf and raced to Bill's studio. Jim and Florine had arrived and they'd brought Bruce Weitz and his girlfriend Valerie. (At least I think that was her name.) By now I was a fan of the show and so I recognized Bruce right off. He looked much more elegant in person, without that most unflattering knit cap. Everyone looked casually elegant. Even Bill had gotten cleaned up. I was the odd one out, me and my marked-down footwear.

Bill began trotting out his paintings. Everyone oohed. Everyone aahed. Milk began leaking from my nursing breasts. I pulled my sweater as completely around my post-partum body as was feasible. Bill trotted out more paintings. At one point a huge dog ran into the studio, pursued by the tenant from downstairs, Kathy. "Bad dog, Bubbles! BAD dog!" Jesus Christ, was Bubbles sporting a kerchief around his affected neck? I'd never seen Bubbles in such a get-up. I'd never seen Bubbles come bounding into Bill's studio for that matter. What a transparent ploy on Kathy's part to get a glimpse of the Hollywood people. How embarrassing.

Suddenly Jim focused on a charcoal study of a piano that rested on the floor near my feet. "Tell me about this," he said. For one godawful moment, I thought he was asking about my brown sandals.

"Well," Bill said, "That's a study for an oil I'm getting ready to paint."

"I like it," Jim said. "Do you like it, Florine?"

Florine liked it.

So it was agreed that when Bill completed the oil painting, the Sikkings would buy it. We talked about palette. Jim is partially colorblind, so we wanted colors he could perceive. Lots of Matisse, Nice-period blue. We talked about dimensions. We talked about price. We came to terms. Jim and Florine would now return to the gallery and put down their deposit. Bruce and his woman would tag along.

Done deal.

"San, could we get a ride back to the gallery with you?" By now the milk was ready to splash onto my brown sandals.

"Sure," I said, then added casually, "Of course I'm in a Volkswagen Golf. It'll be a little crowded."

"Great! We can sit in one another's laps."

F'in' great. When would this sad ordeal end? I pictured my desperate folks at home, wearing a groove in the parquet floor of our bungalow on 30th Avenue as they walked in circles, passing a starved, red-faced, screaming Flannery back and forth. The milk spurted.

As we walked to the VW, Florine was chatting with Valerie. "When I came into that gallery last summer, she was pregnant and she was just radiant!"

Wow, I thought, what she means is, "What in the hell has happened to her now?" (Now that I'm older than Florine was then, I realize she was empathetic to my situation and was wanting to make me feel better. She'd been there. She knew. She is a genuinely kind woman.)

Everyone packed themselves into my little car and I headed down 19th Avenue, through Golden Gate Park, through the Presidio, and towards the Marina. Coming off the Marina Boulevard ramp, I had a little trouble merging in the mid-day traffic and got honked at by an irate motorist. Well, several irate motorists. I couldn't help myself. I uttered the s-word. I was chagrined to have done so. My passengers remained unperturbed. Then again, they were used to L.A. motorists. They were used to Hollywood directors.

When we arrived at the gallery, I'll admit, despite myself, I felt a measure of pride walking in with the Hollywood people. A little crowd gathered on the sidewalk in front, murmuring "That's him, isn't it?"

And, "Look. That's him too!"

And, "But who in the hell is that one in the bad sandals?"

Just kidding.

(OK, I've written this much already and I'm still on my first Famous Person Who Almost Knew Me. Whatta ya say I make this a series? More to come...six more...at least...I'll get around to it...)

Right.

Feel-Good Friday--Bob's 500th Post!

2009-03-27T11:03:00.000-06:00

I just got back from the 5ooth Post bash for Bob T. Bear, (esq). He's asked me to spread the word: you're invited! Go ahead. Run over to Bob T. Bear, (esq.)'s Diary. Delectable cakes are waiting to be eaten. (I believe Mummy is pulling the second batch out of the oven right about now.) Ginger beer to go around! Chocolate of course. And biscuits. (What they ever-so-oddly call cookies in the UK.)

And how could I forget the joke competition and the pole dancer? Warning: You have to be 21 in bear years to watch the dancer. But, hey, who's counting?

Shake the World

2009-03-20T15:20:00.002-06:00

OK, so I got this email from one R. Bryce Milburn. Did any of you? I was expecting one of those messages with a subject line along the lines of "My Beloved Child of God," one that begins something like this:

I am Mrs. Rose Mkama from Benin. I was married to Manfred The CEO Veekrol Benin Sarl, a seasoned Contractor In West African Region...

You know the rest. Wire ten thousand (10,000) dollars within ten (10 days) and you will have a fortune at your disposal. Spend it on the world's less privileged, yourself included.

This, however, is what R. Bryce Milburn had to say:

My name is Bryce Milburn and I work for Shake the World, an independent film production company, and we are working on a new interactive not-for-profit documentary that will showcase simultaneous events taking place all around the world at the exact same time. We are having everyone from all around the world record themselves or whatever they want on april 11th, 4pm pacific time for one minute.

Cool, huh? If you're interested, go to Shake the World Pictures for further instructions. If they ask you to send money, tell them you already gave. To the grieving widow Mrs. Rose Mkama from Benin. If they just want you to send a video of yourself doing whatever at 4 p.m. Pacific Time on April 11th, by all means, be my guest.

Get your teeth whitened and do your Pilates, folks. Hollywood talent scouts will be watching.

Just kidding. But I kind of like the idea. It's world-shaking.

Where the Woolgatherer Lives

2009-03-01T10:54:00.001-07:00

Where the Woolgatherer Lives
acrylic on canvas, 48" x 36"

Don't you love the sound of the word woolgathering? And don't you love to do what it means? Daydream. Stargaze. Muse. Waste time. Build castles in the air. Contemplate the light falling in a corner. Imagine if. If I had a billion sheep. Weave wishes. Spin fantasies. Count sheep. Gather wool.

Where'd they get that--woolgathering? I looked it up on The Hindu:

This is an expression that has been around for several centuries. As for its origin, it comes from the world of sheep farming. In the old days, when farmers allowed their sheep to graze, they always sent a couple of women or children along with the animals. When sheep grazed, sometimes tufts of wool got caught in the bushes and on the branches of trees. It was the job of the women/children to gather the wool and hand it over to the farmer. The original `wool gatherers' were actually gathering wool! Since the job of wool gathering didn't require much concentration, it was possible for the individual to let his mind wander — in other words, he could afford to daydream! Hence, the activity of `wool-gathering' became associated with daydreaming!

Woolgathering has a bum rap in western culture. Spend an afternoon contemplating the light falling in a corner and what do you have to show for it? After the sun goes down, a dark corner. And yet...I read somewhere that the theory of relativity was revealed to Albert Einstein in an intuitive moment as he regarded birds migrating across the winter sky. Is that a myth? I dunno. But almost everyone who's taken a junior-high science course knows the story of James Watson going to bed wondering about the architecture of DNA, only to dream of two intertwined snakes. He got his answer (Elementary, Watson. It's a double, my dear, helix!) after counting sheep.

The approach to the place where I gather wool.
(A double helix. Kind of.)

I propose a World Woolgathering Commission whose function will be to encourage the gentle art of woolgathering in every corner of society. Artists will be commissioned to stalk mayors and governors and senators, catch them in dreamy moments of staring idly into space, then capture their likeness in bronze or marble or paint. These likenesses will be erected in public plazas from Grand Rapids to Mumbai to Hobart, Tasmania to inspire all citizenry. Every nation's Gross Domestic Product will include hours logged woolgathering. Particularly dedicated workers will receive daydreaming plaques. These plaques will decorate the new heart center of every home--the WC, or, Woolgathering Center. Televisions will be banished from the WC. As will computers and vacuum cleaners and file cabinets. Small businesses will be granted tax credits for bringing the dreaming infrastructure of their facilities up to code--workstations will be positioned so as to allow employees ample time to regard the hummingbird feeder just outside the window. Every county fair's main event will be the Pie-in-the-Sky Bake-off. Schoolchildren caught woolgathering during lackluster blackboard presentations will be singled out and recognized for their efforts--in the form of a huge glitter-encrusted gold star bearing the daydreamer's name. The star will hang from the classroom ceiling, maximizing serious stargazing opportunities for all students.

No child will be left behind. No wool will be left ungathered.

Feel Good Friday: More Juicy Lemons, Superior Scribbling, & My First Award from a Non-Human Blogger!

2009-02-20T13:23:00.004-07:00

Lori of the tranquil Skoog Farm Journal has seen fit to bestow this Sweet Tart of an award on me--the lemonade stand. A few months ago Suki honored me with the same and I passed it on to several bloggers who are adept at transforming those mouth-puckering lemons that life throws their way into delectable, thirst-quenching lemonade. And today I would like to add another name to that list: the lovely Kaizabella of Finding Mad Dog. The "mad dog" in question is her birth father, who, you guessed it, would prefer to remain lost. I will also invite any other reader who would like this one to grab it by commenting. Pipe up and it's yours. Yes, I mean you!

Then lovely Mary Ann of Blue Sky Dreaming wandered over with this adorable thing. The Superior Scribbler Award. I'm to pass this on to "five others whom I have found to be thoughtful, creative and most importantly, entertaining." Only FIVE? Then again, so many superior scribblers already have this award. So I'm going to pick five relative newcomers to my blog, five bloggers whom I'm becoming acquainted with. And if you already have the award, my apologies. Here are the five, who now have their work cut out for them. They are to link back to me, and pass the award on to five others, linking to them of course, who will link back to them, and link to five others, and on an on an on and on...before we know it, every single writer in Blogland will have the Superior Scribbler Award. What the hell? We are one superior, scribbling bunch. The five:

Clarissa Alverson, who writes The Curious Hazards of Being Human. Uplifting, heartfelt reflections on what else? The curious hazards of being human. It just gets curiouser and curiouser.

Janette of Contented Colour. The title of Janette's blog says it all. A color-infused spot in Blogland, a place to wrap oneself in a comfy blankey of color and feel...well...content.

Adaelamoon of Ruminations. Gentle ruminations. Blessings counted.

Sally of Being mum, being me. A single mom writes about her frustrations with a quiet hilarity. Yes, there is such a thing. Didn't you ever stifle a laugh in church? That's quiet hilarity. Mum's the word.

Paisley of Ever After: Dead Weight. She's on a healing journey. And sometimes has to summon that healing phenomenon--the good, healthy rant. Damn, I respect that.

And since--who's counting?--a sixth blogger should receive this. Leslie's Textures Shapes Color. A feast of all three. Touch the surfaces. Bask in the color.

And now (drumroll), my very first award from a non-human blogger. And a royal non-human at that. A beautiful princess dragon who lives at Dilly's Castle. In her most gracious (and pwincessy wagon way), Dilly had this to say about me: "San be luvly kind laydy, do pwitty payntins, lots luvly cullers." Wow, Dilly, you make me feel like a pwincess too! The award is described thus: "This blog invests and believes in PROXIMITY --nearness in space, time and relationships! In other words, blogs that receive this award are exceedingly charming. These kind bloggers aim to find and be friends. They are not interested in prizes or self-aggrandizement." And I'm to pass the award to two bloggers. I offer you two exceedingly charming bloggers:

Karen of Threadstory. An artist who assembles the bits and pieces of life into dazzling quilts.

Carol of RoseCreekCottage. A wise woman who counts her blessings and transforms them into things of quirky beauty. Ragamuffin dolls, for example.

And since...who's counting?...a third exceedingly charming blogger is Kate of Kate's Corner. Delivers the mail by day. Shares her art journals by night.

And, please, even though this award is to be passed to two (only 2?) bloggers, everyone who visits this blog is a friend. Please, please, if you want this award, just say so. Own up to your "exceeding charm" and grab it! On your mark. Get set. Go!

Letter to My 13-Year-Old Self

2009-01-29T07:28:00.001-07:00

My Forgotten City, acrylic on canvas, 24" x 48"
private collection, Tulsa

Let's talk about algebra, 13-year-old San. I know. I know what you're thinking--will you be using algebra when you're a grown-up? The answer is yes. I am...sit down now...I am 55 years old. I am 55 years old and I am using algebra.

You too are using algebra. And I'm not talking about your homework. I'm talking about a lifelong equation that doesn't quite get solved. You and I holding down opposite sides of that puzzling equation, our life. We are solving for the variable x, and x is us. For starters, and here I'll quote from something called Wikipedia (something we have in 2009, like a World Book, only it doesn't take up good shelf space--you can actually look up stuff on a little screen that sits on your desk--kind of like interacting with a TV that has a trillion channels):

A variable is an attribute of a physical or an abstract system which may change its value while it is under observation. Examples include the height of a child, the temperature across a state, or the input to a function. This concept is relevant to and applied to almost all areas of mathematics, science and engineering.

You and I are a variable. You are slowly becoming me. (Truth be told, the process isn't that slow.) And every action I take, even writing you this letter, is somehow informed by you. I wouldn't be here had you not chosen to become me. Thank you, 13-year-old San, for granting me this bottomless moment called now.

More from Wikipedia:
In mathematics and computer science, a variable is usually represented by one or more words or symbols, such as "time" or "'x'." These abstractions are often assigned definite values later in the equation or program, but unknowns are often integral to an interface even without such a value.

Damn. That was a mouthful, but is it ever the truth! Unknowns are often integral to this interface, the common boundary of this body that you and I share somehow. I believe there's just a smattering of cells in this 55-year-old body that you have in your 13-year-old body. I mean these cells, all 100 trillion of them (if you can imagine that--I know I can't), constantly break down and are replaced. I know you are learning such things in biology and are a bit freaked out by the knowledge. It still freaks me out a bit too. I look in the mirror and yes, I've changed in outward appearance, and yes, that makes me feel a little weird but not nearly as much as it would make you feel had you a picture of your 55-year-old self to view. I am not enclosing a photograph.

You must be curious about the future. I'll tell you a little about what I know:

Remember that summer afternoon when you were 9 and Sharon Huckabee climbed on Mama's clothesline post and stood there for the better of three hours, intent on flying? You refused to come in when Mama called you in to supper. You were concentrating on Sharon Huckabee's heels. You just knew you were seeing them levitate ever-so-slightly off the clothesline post. You so wanted her to fly, but Mama made you come in and you just knew you missed out on seeing Sharon take off and fly over Tom Megan's blackberry bushes. You didn't miss out on a thing. Sharon never flew. Sharon will grow up and become a State Trooper. After twenty years of public service she will open a travel agency. She has always wanted to fly off to exotic places, so she decides she might as well help other people do it. Something called the internet kills her business just as it is taking off and she is arrested for check kiting. Now she's serving time in the State Pen.
Sharon didn't fly, but you will. You won't be climbing on a clothesline post, but you will be soaring. You will travel to places you never imagined. Let me rephrase that. You will travel to places and they will never be quite as you imagined. What places? Strange, sometimes wonderful places. Marriage, for one. Motherhood. The death of friends. (I said sometimes wonderful.) Yes, friends will die. A couple won't even survive high school, and somehow you will. I don't say this to scare you. You are already serious as the preacher, always worrying about death. I say this to acknowledge it will happen, but it's something you do bear. Death is in the equation, kind of like a helium balloon. It lightens each side when things get too heavy for the Universe to bear.
There are some people you won't mind seeing lifted off into the great beyond on their helium balloon. Remember Mrs. Gilchrist? Remember when she told you your portrait of Molly Mastin was "horrible"? Well, she lives a long time. Into her 90s. But when she lifts off, you won't feel in the least bit sad. A fifth grade teacher doesn't have any business raining on a little kid's art parade. Especially a kid who will grow up and sell her paintings to a bunch of sophisticated people from places like Seattle and Chicago and Los Angeles. Yes, I mean you!
Speaking of bad adults, watch out for that junior high librarian. Next week you will be re-checking a book. She will casually ask you, "Did you see the movie?" "Yes," you will reply. "Oh, I get it. You're going to do your book report from the movie." What a clueless bitch. And I do mean clueless. In three of so years, her husband will be lifted off on his helium balloon. And we will learn she is pretty much helpless outside of a junior high library. I mean she doesn't even know how to write a check! I tell you this because this is a pattern I've begun to notice: Often the meanest, pettiest people are the most helpless. Remember that and try to ignore their meanness. Most of all, try to let go of what little meanness you're holding on to. Believe me. It will lighten our equation considerably.
Never ever let a mean-spirited, petty person, especially yourself, stand in your way of flying. It's really pretty simple. You just start walking with a confident stride. You can start anywhere. Right now. Start walking down the hallway. Pretend you have little springs under your heels. Pretend I have little springs under my heels and that I am at the other end of the hall walking towards you. Yes, I see you now and I am walking towards you. The closer I get, you begin to feel your heels rising ever-so-slightly, both of them at the same time, off the floor...Now they are a quarter-of-an-inch in the air. You are starting to fly, San...get ready to soar...

The New Year's Baby and the Dalai Lama

2009-01-05T08:00:00.000-07:00

Canyon Spirits, acrylic on canvas, 30" x 40"
private collection, Shorewood, Wisconsin

I'm walking up a flight of stairs to the front door of a house. It looks a bit like a brownstone in Manhattan. It's my understanding that I am there to retrieve a baby. When I walk in the door, I see that a man is in the room. My first thought is, 'Why is a guy here?' Then I see that the man is the Dalai Lama and I think, 'Well, at least it's the Dalai Lama.' The Dalai Lama is busily engaged in making a bed. He lifts the edge of a sheet, snaps it into the air and lets it drift downwards, back to the bed; its own momentum makes it lie smooth, wrinkle-free. The edge of the Lama's red robe flies as he strides from one side of the bed to the other, tucking in edges, his full attention given to the perfection of his task.

I walk though an open door at the back of that room, turn left and see another staircase. I walk down one step and there's the newborn baby, looking comfortable, not crying, despite her precarious position on the second highest step of what appears to be a set of dark stairs leading to a basement. She's snug in a blanket wrapped tight around her tiny body. I think to myself how dangerous it was for someone to have left the baby there. I pick up the baby.

Then, maddeningly, I wake up.

The last week of 2008 blessed me with a series of dreams. This one was the most memorable and I have pondered it much. During that week I was setting my goals for the new year. In my head only. Busy-ness kept me from writing the goals down or praying about them or reflecting on them with any depth, or even thinking through a plan to bring them into reality. My goals, my hopes for 2009 were like a newborn baby--they were alive, their blood was flowing, they were still breathing, but like the baby in my dream, they were in a precarious position, almost forgotten, incapable of climbing up those dark stairs and walking to the kitchen for a glass of milk.

Intentions are the beginning of any accomplishment, but if they're abandoned on a dark stairway, some unsuspecting person, even the Dalai Lama himself, unknowingly, may trample on them. Hopes must be rescued and brought into the light. No matter how warmly we wrap them in the depths of our heart, protection isn't enough for them to survive. They need to be fed.

Here's where the hard part comes in. We have to do the work. Observe the Dalai Lama making a bed. Things have to be lifted up and set in motion with a little effort. Momentum will carry them for a time. Then they must be completed. Attention to detail is involved. And yes, grace. Grace is as nearby as the next room, but you may have to climb some stairs to get there. And don't be afraid to ask for help.

Christmas Wishes

2008-12-18T12:18:00.008-07:00

May your holidays be blessed...

with interesting visitors...

...lots of sweetness...
 
...and faithful old friends.
 
Wishing you a little fun...
(Bennie's cousins long ago, Michigan.)

  Wishing you a little adventure...

...but PLEASE no mishaps...
...no, that's not Tiny Tim's crutch...

...it's mine.
(My parents' house, Christmas 2000, 
the Christmas of the broken toe. )

Wishing you your own kind of miracles...
 
time to chill...

...to kick back.
 
Wishing you lots of snow...

...well maybe not this much.

May there be a snowman on your tree...

...and one clearing a path for you.

May your eyes be open...

...WIDE open to wonder.

Wishing you bear hugs....

...little gifts that fit you...

...some surprises of course.

May you experience childlike joy...

...no matter your age...

and I really mean that.

Wishing you peace in your world...

and in your heart.

LOVE FROM SANTA FE,
San

Feel-Good Friday (on Thursday): A Sleighful of Awards!

2008-12-11T15:19:00.010-07:00

(Photo "courtesy of" aka "stolen from" How Stuff Works.)

So shoot me. I'm a slacker. Several have bestowed lavish awards at my feet. And I've just kicked back and basked in their radiance, never acknowledging them, let alone passing them on to worthy recipients. I am going to try to remember which awards came from whom and if I falter, please assume the generous spirit of this season and forgive my forgetful heart--it's in the right place--I just can't remember where I put it.

Sandi of Holding Patterns passed this lovely thing to me on August 29. I had to go to her blog and do a search for awards to find it. There she was, apologizing for being behind in acknowledging her own awards. Thanks, Sandi. That made me feel even better than the award:

Since this is such a shimmering photograph, I will now pass it along to some shimmering photographers:

Anna of A. Bananna (Great shots of the desert and her own photogenic brood.)
Randy of Santa Fe Daily Photo (You might say I'm rather close to his subject.)
Anna of My Only Photo (In her own words, "photography spiced with stories, essays, opionions, and snippets of knowledge.)
David of authorblog (Needs no introduction. If by chance, you've been hiding under your mousepad, then climb out and click over to his place. Not just dazzling photos but tips on making them.)
Hilary of The Smitten Image (Yes, I'm smitten.)
Celine of Indica-in-Q8 (Interpretations in word and image of the mysterious landscape of Kuwait.)
Lori of Skoog Farm Journal (If this one doesn't make you want to move to the country and take up farming and the slow pace, well then, at least slow down long enough to linger in this peaceful space.)
Daryl of Out and About in New York City (If this one doesn't make you want to move to a huge, exciting city and hop on a bus, then at least hop over here and take Daryl's tour.)

Then along came Spark of No More Casual Nonchalance and gifted me with this bit of whimsy. I was contemplating whom I might pass it on to, thinking Fe of Coyote Road would be a great recipient. While I was dragging my feet, Fe up and gave it to me. Thanks, Spark! Thanks, Fe!

I pass the I HEART Your Blog award to:

Todd of Peace through Pottery. (A blog with lots of heart, plus he's thinking about buying a house in my neighborhood--I HEART that idea!)
Diane of Forks off the Moment. (Diane lives her life with passion and gets us all fired up too.)
Moody of Life in the Land of the Rising Sun (As lived to the hilt by a contemporary American Renaissance man relocated to Japan.)
Bruno of Morning Java with Bruno LoGreco (Generous, inspiring tips from a life coach. Don't miss his series on weathering this daunting economic cycle.)
Maggie May of Nuts in May (The oh-so-identifiable-with ups and downs in the life of a wife, mother, and grandmother.)
Lee of Chrysalis Dreams (Expressions of faith in God, friends, and her own lovely self.)
JS of Influx Transposer (Expressions of faith in God and family, with the occasional rant to the Almighty.)
Cath of Cath's Cradle (A gently tilted look at life.)
Jeanne of Life or Something Like It (A head-on look at life--or something like it.)

Recently Suki of Paint, Poems, and Ponderings posted the lemonade stand to her blog and said it was offered to anyone who felt like making lemonade. I grabbed it. And I pass it on to the following bloggers, who have the extraordinary gift for turning those life lemons into magical elixir. (The secret's in the saucy attitude):

Meg of Becoming Whole
Jo of Celebration of Life
Whim of The Babblings of a Whimsical Brainpan
Indi of The World According to Indigo
Casdok of Mother of Shrek
Mima of Mima's Doings
Aims of Big Blue Barn West
Peg of Angel Voices.

And Kim of Creating Space as well as Suki of Paint, Poems, and Ponderings honored me with this award, which I find rather elegant (and flattering):

The PREMIO DARDOS award is "given for recognition of cultural, ethical, literary, and personal values transmitted in the form of creative and original writing." Thank you, Kim! Thank you, Suki! I now pass this award to:

Fe of Coyote Road
Michelle of House of Lime
Katherine of Views from Raven's Nest
Paschal of murat 11
Doris of Poetic License
Carol of Carol for Peace
Jeff of A Word in Edgewise
David of authorblog
Sandi of Holding Patterns
Akelamalu of Everything and Nothing
Spark of No More Casual Nonchalance
The Elementary of Crumbs from the Corner.

And now an award I am tempted to re-name the In the Nick of Time Award, since it's time-dated:
When Ora Lea at One American Dreamer graciously awarded it to me, she warned me I'd better post it soon. And I believe that was a couple of months ago!

Then, the ever-generous Fe of Coyote Road sent this joyous little butterfly winging its way to me:

Since I keep thinking of fabulous bloggers whom I've left out of this awarding binge, especially the many visual artists who visit so often and are an enormous source of support and encouragement, and since I now have a checkbook to balance, I am going to leave the Butterfly Award up for grabs. It's here for the catching. So grab your butterfly nets and make a comment if you want this one. It's yours. (Don't forget to pass it on.)

Everything About Me but the Kitchen Sink (That Too)

2008-12-01T13:42:00.001-07:00

A Wall with a Past, acrylic on canvas, 24" x 24"
private collection, Mercer Island, Washington

This tag is courtesy Kim of Creating Space. She's requested I divulge seven "unusual" things about me. Here the problem is not coming up with seven offbeat traits/events. It's deciding which to leave out. Oh well, here's a sampling of my quirks:

1. As I've mentioned (numerous times), I was born breech, entering this world ass-backwards and I've been doing things in a roundabout way ever since. Example:

2.

I once dislocated my toe while helping my son learn his spelling words. Don't ask.

3. My eyes are afflicted with a corneal disorder which affects 1 out of 2000 Americans. My uncorrected eyes see something (beyond a certain distance) like this:

Marcel Duchamp
Nude Descending a Staircase

I only wish I could paint what I see.

4. On the Myers Briggs Type Indicator, I am a INFJ, which purportedly occurs in 1% of the population. Kindred spirits include Geoffrey Chaucer, Fyodor Dostoevsky, Eleanor Roosevelt, Carl Jung, Mother Teresa, and Martin Luther King Jr. (As best as I can surmise, these findings were gleaned from the online test-taking results in the hard drives of these folks' discarded i-Books.) Wow, I guess I'm the underachiever in the group. That makes me even more unusual.

Then again, I've not lived a life completely devoid of attainment. Examples:

5. I was the valedictorian of my high school class, graduating with a grade point average of 97.425. I was also one of the Top Ten Magazine Salesmen in our senior class's primary fundraiser. For this I received a goldtone trophy in the form of a comely young woman. (Yes, I still have it. It resides in a place of honor in a cardboard box along with my Proficiency in Two Foreign Languages Award, My Best All Round Girl Award, my aforementioned Valedictorian Award, and an assortment of letters from various dignitaries, among them a state senator and the President of the company my dad worked for, congratulating me on a job well done.) For the record, I honed my art sales skills selling little prints in white plastic frames door-to-door in the fourth grade. I sold the hell out of stuff like this:

6. A small photograph of my own painting Heart's Destiny appears in the current issue of The Santa Fean. The feature is called "Fall Art Openings." And no, the photo wasn't taken at an opening. Get this: the photographer wandered into our gallery one afternoon just after Bennie had sold Heart's Destiny. A mood of festivity prevailed, so the photographer snapped a picture of Bennie, the buyer (the woman on the far left), a friend of the buyer, and yes, the painting. How's that for uncanny timing?

Where was I? In the studio painting of course.

7. AND my kitchen sink was immortalized on the cover of a literary magazine called...what else? The Kitchen Sink.

Oakley took the photograph.

I now tag 7 highly unusual (in the very best of ways) people:

1. The Moody Minstrel (who resides in The Land of the Rising Sun)
2. Ron (who Vents)
3. Lee (who dreams Chrysalis Dreams)
4. Jo (who Celebrates Life)
5. Peg (who hears Angel Voices)
6. Todd (who makes Pottery for Peace)
7. Paschal (aka murat11).

Your turn to confess.

Is Every Day Dia de los Muertos?

2008-11-01T08:29:00.001-06:00

Wanderer, 40" x 30"
acrylic on canvas

This morning when I was soaking in the lovely hot tub, I saw the spirit of a teenage girl sitting in the spirit chair. Her name was Michelle, she lived a quarter mile from my house in Westacres, and she was in my grade. I think she was my first "crush." I remember going tobogganing with her and several friends at night in the eighth grade. After the toboggan runs we all met up at the community clubhouse for a dance...we danced to the Monkees and Beatles, drank hot chocolate, and I couldn't stop thinking about Michelle. A few years later, probably when I was a student at Oakland, I heard she had died in a car accident somewhere in the east. It made me sad. I never did find out for sure. Still, I think she was in that chair this morning--looking very young and pleasant. Don't know what to make of it...

These were words I received in an email from my husband yesterday, Halloween. Last year I posted the story of our "spirit chairs," one of which is the focal point of my blog header. From time to time wandering spirits do take a load off here. Hiram and Lily have frequented them. And now Michelle has come calling. Last night Bennie and I lit candles in our living room and sat for a time in their quivering light. We talked about the spirits, the few times we or our family members have had visitations from dear ones.

When my father was diagnosed with cancer, he woke from a nap to find his own deceased parents, and my mothers' parents, and her brother who had died in World War II, standing at the edge of the room, very still, all of them looking at him, smiling. He described them as looking young and healthy and very happy. He was completely unnerved by the experience. And my mother-in-law, on her fiftieth wedding anniversary in 1999, saw her own mother Mildred sitting in a chair, dressed in fall colors and a fall hat (even though it was August and Mildred had died in 1985). Mildred too was smiling and radiant. Bennie asked me last night, "Do you believe that experiences like this are in the mind?"

I don't know. Some would say that any experience is completely in the mind, that as we go about our ordinary activities, we are journeying from one place in the mind to another, passing through a world we've imagined.

Passing Through, 30 " x 40"
acrylic on canvas

The chair I sit on is an arrangement of subatomic energies, ordered just enough to provide the illusion of solidity. I can't "see" those energies, but they're there.

detail from Passing Through

What else is out there, all the time, that I can't, or don't, or won't see?

Six Unremarkable Things about Me

2008-10-20T06:31:00.001-06:00

Laura, the dream-loving therapist of From the Couch, has tagged me with a meme. I'm supposed to divulge six unremarkable, ho-hum things about me. Easy.

Here goes:

1. At the age of 1 1/2 I ran away to join the circus.

2. My newfound family was just your average family. Loving. Somewhat dull. They used to say that Uncle Roscoe had been fired from one too many cannons. I always wondered what that meant.

3. Save for an unfortunate incident involving an irate bearded lady, a cotton candy machine, and my upper torso, it was an uneventful childhood. I emerged virtually unscathed. (I stand before you today a typical menopausal woman.)

4. I spend my days in recollection. One of my sweetest memories is that of the day I met my future husband. It was love at first sight...
...of those clown pants.

5. We had two rather ordinary children....

...who shared a penchant for impersonating Cherokee Indians...

and bringing home stray animals.

6. To this day, I enjoy simple pleasures. Friends. Family. Walks in the countryside. I now live in the high desert of New Mexico,

a sparsely inhabited, unremarkable place where the license plates say Land of Enchantment.

Go figure.

Marie Larson 1926-2008: A Legacy of Light and Shadow

2008-10-13T13:21:00.002-06:00

"Aunt Marie is one of those people that just does everything perfect!" 8-year-old Oakley was beside himself with delight. Marie Larson, Bennie's aunt, had just moved to New Mexico from Michigan and had purchased a modest little condo in Albuquerque. She had invited us for New Year's Day dinner and had made an Oakley-friendly meal--roast beef, baked potatoes, green beans. Plus her condo was such an interesting place to be. It had nice tall ceilings with vigas, and saltillo tile floors, and for those places that were lacking in architectural charm, Marie had shopped salvage stores for corbels and mounted them in doorways and beside the kitchen cabinets. Although the art this dazzling painter made was very much classic representational, she had an eye for the "found" art object, and her walls were decorated with a vintage snowshoe and sled. Her furnishings were a mixture of simple comfortable contemporary seating and dark walnut antiques, set off by elegant candlesticks and a big jar of her own paintbrushes. We all laughed at Oakley's comment, understanding immediately the truth of it.

Marie's relationships with some of her family members will be remembered as less than perfect. She and her husband divorced rather bitterly when the children were small and apparently, she never completely recovered from the hurt of it. According to her children, she wasn't the perfect picture of the nurturing mother. She freely discussed the perhaps exaggerated shortcomings of their dad in their presence, and sometimes these shortcomings she applied to the entire male sex. She wrote off men as romantic partners as a waste of her time. It was a way of simplifying her life raising two children on her own in the 60s. It was not unlike the way she distilled a composition into the essentials of light and shadow.

She had a gift for portraying the human figure and face. She inevitably tapped into her models' vulnerability and sadness. It was as though the sadness at her own core opened a door into the hearts of her subjects.

She preferred to paint and draw rather than to cook, and at an early age the children learned to get their own meals. Bennie remembers his cousin Paul reporting long afternoons spent as his mom's captive model.

The Marie that Oakley and Flannery and I knew was the more public Marie known by her art students. A Marie who laughed. A Marie who offered encouragement. Once we drove down to Marie's place on the evening of July 4. I made food and we grilled steaks on her patio; afterwards we watched the fireworks from there. Although whatever food I brought was so simple I don't even remember it, Marie said, "Well, I just don't see how you have the time to work and cook." She always expressed appreciation for simple gestures. And as recently as this past spring, I received an email from a former student who was trying desperately to track her down. She wanted to visit her and catch up. (I have met other students of hers, some of whom have become clients of our gallery, people on whose lives she had a dramatic and positive impact.) By that time, however, Marie had moved back to the Midwest to be closer to her children and was living in an assisted living facility. Yesterday she quietly passed on with them nearby. Paul says it was a beautiful fall day and a feeling of peace pervaded the room.

I believe the last time I spoke with Marie it was the occasion of one of her last outings after a serious heart attack. Oxygen deprivation had left her with on-and-off memory loss and she had become quite frail. Soon she would be returning to the Midwest. Paul had come out from Chicago, and he and Marie met Bennie and me at a restaurant. I'd just had my hair cut and one recalcitrant curl kept falling over my forehead. The first thing Marie said to me: "There was a little girl who had a little curl right in the middle of her forehead. When she was good, she was very, very good. But when she was bad she was horrid." We all laughed and had a delightful meal.

I treasure that memory of Marie's remark. It does apply to all of us. We are all part good/part horrid. We can hope that our legacy of good will outweigh the horrid. I believe that in Marie's case that is very much the case. Marie's artful hand fashioned a life pared down to the luminous essentials. And that's good.

(Note: All paintings and drawings in this post are the work of Marie Larson.)

Return of the Prodigal Blogger

2008-10-01T08:11:00.000-06:00

Return of the Prodigal Son, Rembrandt van Rijn
oil on canvas, 262 x 206 cm.
Hermitage, St. Petersburg

I know. I know. I've been a bad blogger. I ran away for better than two weeks and didn't so much as leave a note. Thank you for your notes, however. I'm touched by your concern, and in some cases, your gentle chiding. One blogger assumed I was on a top-secret mission with the U.S. government. OK. You were somewhat close. I've been coaching Sarah Palin on foreign policy. Did you happen to catch that brilliant performance with Katie Couric?

Of course I'm joking. I was actually in Paris observing my painting "Heart's Destiny" being installed in the dazlling new contemporary wing of the Louvre.

Looks great doesn't it? I'm not too keen on the ostentatious frame, but what the hey, it's the Louvre, right?

You don't buy that either? Seriously, I've been doing what I usually do when I disappear from Blogland. I've been holed up in my studio, doing battle with the canvas. And Bennie, God love him, has been selling them faster than I can produce. Even "Heart's Destiny," which I blogged about in late April, is finally being shipped, not to the Louvre, but to a collector in Durham, North Carolina, an employee of Duke University. If you happened to have read my earlier post, you may recall that I said the painting was "my painted acknowledgment of the way our lives are often altered for the better when we follow our heart’s urgings." Although I didn't meet the buyer of this painting, she left me a very kind note telling me she was "thrilled" to own my work. I was very attached to this particular painting--it had great emotional resonance for me. As I'd told another blogger, another artist, I was afraid I had jinxed the painting's sale by own desire to continue to look at it. I'd actually felt slightly sad on seeing Bennie take it down to prepare it for shipment.

And then yesterday I had the opportunity to speak with the buyer on the phone about a logistical matter regarding the shipping. At that time she told me she had cried when viewing the painting. (Bennie had mentioned this. I just didn't quite grasp it until I spoke with her personally.) It seems she is in a difficult time of transition in her personal life and "Heart's Destiny" simply spoke to her about her own heart's destiny. And it did that when she first stood before the painting and regarded its surfaces, before she knew its title had anything to do with hearts or destinies. As I have written before, there is such an inevitability in the process by which a painting comes to reside with the right person. Such exchanges are what keep me going back into the studio.

And, equally thrilling for me was the placement of "Desert Spirits" in the permanent collection of MOMA in New York.

OK, you're on to me. I'm a very poor liar. Truth be told, "Desert Spirits" is now residing in a lovely home in Las Cruces, New Mexico. A home in which I am invited to visit and stay in the guest room, with the understanding that it is unfinished due to the owners' recurring purchases of my art. "I'll sleep on the floor," I said.

It is this particular couple's third acquisition from me, and they told me my painting would be replacing a series of original Dali lithographs, which would remain in the room, only on an opposite wall. This I'm not joking about. They actually laughed and said, "Now, you can tell people your art has replaced Salvador Dali's."

So that's what I'm doing now: I am telling you: My art has replaced Salvador Dali's! And I trust you are rightfully impressed. I know I am. I'm impressed, again and again, by the faith and generosity of those rare souls who purchase art at whatever level is affordable to them. I am including those who buy from the toniest showplace in Manhattan, those who buy from smaller galleries such as Bennie's and mine, those who buy from art fairs and flea markets and their next door neighbor. People who invest in hand-made things that have no function other than as a resting place for tired eyes--these people are unusual. I mean, you can't climb behind the wheel of a painting or a sculpture or a piece of pottery, and drive it down the freeway, cutting off those you want to impress with your flashiness. Art is much more personal than that. It seldom impresses anyone other than the buyer.

Transactions like this, like so many things, good and bad, like breakdowns in home appliances even, tend to come in threes. Last, but no less exciting for me, Monique, my brilliant French economist, whom I wrote about this past summer, chose to purchase a second painting from me.

Flow, acrylic on canvas, 48" x 48"
private collection, Arlington, Virginia

Monique called me when her painting arrived. In that lovely French accent she said, "Eet eez more beautiful than I imagined. Even my 5-year-old gasped when I unwrapped it."

The 5-year-old and the 7-year-old were having a grand time stomping on the bubble wrap too. I heard the mini-explosions in the background, the whoops of delight bouncing off the walls. Monique was shouting, "You weel go to bed at 5:15 EEF you don't deseest in making that racket!"

"Not you, San! Theez eerascible keeds!"

Dear friends, I hope you will forgive my prodigal disappearance. I am happy to be back.

Shall we kill the fatted calf?

Shall we stretch a colossal sheet of bubble wrap from one end of cyberspace to the other? Shall we dance on it till it explodes?

Shall we go with the flow?

Minding My Zs and Qs

2008-09-15T13:52:00.001-06:00

OK, wrong game, but the closest I had in the image files.
Monopoly. Thanksgiving 2005.

Flannery was way ahead in this game. (Scrabble). Bennie and Oakley threw in their tiles. "You win," they said in sad capitulation. I was ready to follow suit, but Flannery simply adores playing to the bitter end, especially when she's a clear winner. Being a dutiful mom, I decided to see us through to the end of play. Mistake.

It was my turn to empty the last two letters from the little felt pouch. And wouldn't you know what tumbled out? I got Z. I got Q. Ordinarily I treasure these premium letters. They're worth 10 points apiece. But when you have next to no vowels, and there are no remaining tiles to draw, the words keep diminishing in length thanks to the dwindling number of tiles. There's just no place to play anything, let alone Z and Q. And at the end of the game, the points of the tiles lingering on your rack are subtracted from your score and added to your opponent's. A double whammy of defeat. Curtains.

I began to resort to pathetic two-letter words like "ef," the phonetic spelling of the letter "F." (Yes, that's allowed.) There's something so cold and detached and Cartesian about spelling out one letter with two letters. It feels twice-removed from reality. Wasteful. And you get only two miserable points. I wandered into the kitchen and devoured a sorrowful spoonful of Cherry Garcia right out of the carton. Out on the arroyo a coyote howled and pounced on its prey. Every carnivore between here and Highway 285 howled. "YOUR TURN MOM!" Flan's voice was annoyingly sweet. I imagined her eyes gleaming in anticipation. She was into the kill.

I wandered half-heartedly back to the Scrabble table. Now my opponent had gotten really fortunate. She 'd gotten rid of two letters. Her last two letters. I and L. Clearly, my verbal prowess was plummeting in my dotage. I was outshone by a whippersnapper. Oh my God, I had just actually thought the term whippersnapper in reference to my firstborn. I was thinking like a geezer. I felt ill.

ILL. Flan had attached her I and L to the L of my GLADE, spelling ILL. What?? I took off my glasses, cleaned them, and put them back on. There it was--floating before my eyes--Flan's I was completely unattached!

In a frenzy, I pounced. I played my Q, my U--hoping against hope, I had refrained from making TUB a couple of moves earlier, knowing I'd need U to accompany Q if any miracle opportunity presented itself--and my Z. I made QUIZ! The Q was a double letter and the whole thing was a double word. I racked up 64 points in my last turn, seizing victory from Flannery's ILL. Talk about ILL-gotten gains!!!!!

I wasn't ready for geezerdom just yet. I was HOT.

I was so dazed by it all, when I went upstairs for bed, I felt compelled to run back down to Flannery's room and say, "You knew I had that Q and Z. You deliberately put down that I so your old mother could win, didn't you?? You felt sorry for me."

She took my hand and said, "Mom, I wish I were that nice."

Flannery with her new Scrabble coach, Dr. Nola Fay Merideth-Jones.
I'm a grandmother (kind of).

Let Me Eat Cake

2008-09-08T15:15:00.003-06:00

I've never had a cake delivered to my place of business. Until Friday. Yes, the day after my birthday a gentleman arrived at my desk, carrying a large bakery box. He said he was looking for "Sam."

"Could you be looking for 'San'?" I asked, my hopes rising.

Peeking into the box, he said, "Yes, it's for San. From Margaret."

WOO HOO!!!

I myself lifted the lid of the big white box and caught a glimpse of one of the most beautiful birthday cakes I have ever seen.

What was most beautiful was that figure 526,600, which of course referenced my birthday post the day before--Wildest Gift: 525,600 Minutes, in which I celebrated the gift of another year totaling that many minutes. Now what's wrong with this picture? Correction. What's very, very right with this picture? The cake decorator granted me an extra ONE THOUSAND minutes!!! This celebration just gets wilder and wilder.

And if there's anyone who's looked Wildness in the face, who's embraced Wildness, who's danced with her, and had Wildness whisper her secrets into the ear, that would be the big-spirited giver of this cake, my lovely blogging friend Meg Wolff. Meg also understands deeply the gift of being granted time you didn't know you had.

Look at that beautiful, radiant woman and try to believe that in 2003 her doctor told her to put her affairs in order because she was dying of cancer. Meg had already given a breast and a leg to cancer and it was beginning to look like the rest of her body was now being taken over by that iron-fisted, take-no-prisoners dictator Cancer. But somewhere inside, Meg heard another, softer voice, a voice that was a bit wilder than the voice of the dictator. A voice telling her her work wasn't done here. She had heard this inner voice, the voice of her gut, before. And I quote from Meg's blog:

I had this "red flag" experience when I was diagnosed with breast cancer and a bone stem cell transplant was recommended by the oncologist. Immediately, I had a stabbing gut reaction that this wasn't right for me. I had a sense that it would kill me. I went for a second opinion and the same treatment was recommended. I went to my doctor and told her I felt uncomfortable with this recommendation and she said, "Go with your gut, go with your gut, go with your gut." She recommended yet another oncologist who said, "I am in on the research and in the beginning it looked very promising for breast cancer treatment, but as time and studies went on, we saw that it wasn't as effective as we first thought so, I don't recommend it for you. Your gut feeling was right."

So, again, Meg trusted her inner voice. She believed it. She had more living to do and she would become whole. She might be missing a body part or two, but she would integrate the healing of her body with her life's work. That would make her whole. After all, there are plenty of people walking this earth, people whose bodies are perfect specimens, and still, they feel something's lacking.

To recognize one's calling in life is a huge leap towards wholeness. And that's exactly what Meg did. She followed her calling to learn about macrobiotic diets, to read all the evidence that eating a toxin-free, primarily plant-based diet of whole grains and fruits and vegetables and legumes, had helped people nurture their bodies and spirits back to health and wholeness. She read their stories and she believed them. Those stories became Meg's story! And she's made it her work to tell the world that story. She has authored two books about her cancer experience and her recovery, one of them a loving photographic depiction of her body's journey after cancer. She travels to teach workshops and sign books and give lectures and encourage people. I encourage everyone to go to her blog becoming whole and read Meg's story, read her generous advice on healthy living and eating, look at her books and consider ordering them. I encourage everyone to do so, but in particular, I would encourage anyone who is suffering from chronic illness or chronic pain or even the common cold or everyday burnout, to get to know Meg. Just this past week I received emails from two bloggers who have dear friends with serious cancer prognoses. Why didn't it occur to me until now?--they should go over to Meg's place!

Since listening to the voice of inner Wildness whispering in her ear, Meg's primary job description is hope bringer. And occasionally, she orders up cakes.

Wildest Gift: 525,600 Minutes

2008-09-03T21:00:00.007-06:00

If all goes as planned, come tomorrow evening at approximately 6:30 pm, I will have been granted another 525,600 minutes of this wild gift (wild card?) called my life. Multiply that sum by 55 and that'll be the total gift so far. I'm pushin' 29 million minutes. And a dizzying, unpredictable jumble of color it's been! Tomorrow also marks my first blogaversary. In blog years, I'm merely pushing 526,000. A baby.

Last birthday I gave myself this blog. This year I've given myself a playlist. It's way down at the bottom of this post. Warning: it's LONG. It's a jumble. The transitions are jarring. If you're not familiar with how to listen to a playlist, you just click the big arrow like you do on a you-tube video. This will turn the jukebox on. Then you can click on any selection to listen to it. You scroll down on the bar to the right to see what the selections are.(BREAKING NEWS: I've squashed in the edges of the playlist gizmo, so that everybody--I hope--can work the scrollbar.)

I have a few dedications for my blogging friends:

Seasons of Love, from the muscial Rent, is for everyone who said goodbye to dear ones this past year. I know there are many who did, but I am thinking in particular of Doris (River Poet), Patty, and Mima. I also dedicate this song to the memory of John Smeltzer.

Joan Osborne's Spider Web is for all of the visual artists who visit this blog, including but not limited to Chewy, Paula (self-taught artist), Paula (second studio), Kim (creating space), Kim (stillmeadow quilts), Babs, Lynette, Celine (of the stunning travelogues), Daphne, Debi aka emma tree, Daryl, Andrea in Canada, Andrea in Paris, Bridget who contemplates the moon, Lori (Witzel and Skoog), Corrine (that jafabrit), Heather, Kate (of the corner by that name), Kate (who smudges), David Mc, Todd, Suki, the Blue Sky Dreamer, Tammie, and Randy. No doubt I am forgetting so many. That's the hazard of pushin' 29 million--the memory starts to slip a bit. And while I'm at it, I want to send this one out--I always wanted to say that--"I want to send this one out"--to Paschal, who gets "it."

Another Joan Osborne song, One of Us, is for Sometimes Saintly Nick. That one also goes out to his spiritual cousin Carol, along with Cat Stevens' Peace Train and the Temptations' Wake up Everybody. I might as well add that I prefer Harold Melvin and the Blue Notes' rendition of Wake up Everybody, but I couldn't find that version. While I'm on the social consciousness theme, let me dedicate Everyday People to Sandy Carlson because she lives her life with humility and concern for others.

Many bloggers find themselves in periods of transition and questioning. Truth be told, every one of us finds ourselves in such periods. Often. A few bloggers, however, have chosen to share their adventures in uncertainy with the rest of us. Theirs is a rich gift to this community and I dedicate Alanis Morisette's Hand in my Pocket to those bloggers, including: Lee, Lime, Raven, John-Michael, J.S., Paula (self-taught artist), Spark, Doris (River Poet), Mima, Aims, and Whim.

Some of us find ourselves challenged by our own bodies. And several bloggers have chosen to take their physical limitations and transform them into miracles of inspiration. There are many, but the people whose names are coming to my mind now are Meg Wolff, Whim, Sandi, Jane, and Mima. Natalie Merchant's Wonder is dedicated to them.

Everyone gets their heart broken sometimes. You only have to listen to the radio to know this. So many of the best songs are about lost love. There's a boat load of lost love numbers on this playlist. They're for everybody because there's nothing quite like wallowing in misery, listening to Patsy Cline or Johnny Cash or Wall of Voodoo sing their hearts out about the cruelty of love, to make a person cry. And we all need a good cry sometimes. (It's my party and I'll cry if I want to.) At other times, we just need to get mad as hell. Whatever works. The following songs are dedicated to the human race: Ray Charles' Hit the Road Jack, Aretha Franklin's Respect, Blues Traveler's Runaround, Peter Sarstedt's Where Do You Go To My Lovely (for the romantic in all of us), Cake's I Will Survive (an absolutely kickass cover of the Gloria Gaynor disco hit), Scar Tissue by Red Hot Chili Peppers, Johnny Cash's Ring of Fire, Wall of Voodoo's kickass cover of the same, and Patsy Cline's Crazy. So much love lost. So few tracks on the playlist.

Then, we move on down the playlist of life and have our lucky times in love. These must be fewer and far between, given the scarcity of songs about the lucky times. Or at least good songs. There are a few. I'm sending The Proclaimers' 500 Miles out to Jo, because Jo is finding her luck in love with the kind of man who will not only walk 500 miles to get to her heart, he helps her tear out her plumbing and invites her to hunting camp. 500 Miles is dedicated to everyone who is in a happy relationship. A few other names that spring to mind are Maggie May, J.S., Indi, Jeff, David, Bruno, Daryl, Jeanne, Todd, Sandi, Ellie, and Cath. Come to think of it, there are many more. More than the number of songs would suggest.

For Moody, my friend in The Land of the Rising Sun, I dedicate The Vapors' I Think I'm Turning Japanese and Sakamoto Kyu's Sukiyaki. Why? Because I'm the birthday girl and I can do anything I want!

Maybe I'll be wistful. One of the most wistful songs I have ever heard is Israel Kamakawiwoole's version of Somewhere Over the Rainbow. Thank you, John-Michael, for identifying this singer for me! I had wanted to play it on my blog when Flannery graduated from college. That didn't happen, so belatedly I dedicate this song to my Flan. It's also for Rubye Jean of the blog by the same name, and her lovely daughter Anna. And speaking of Anna, there's another Anna (in the UK) who has a baby and an Angel (in Canada) who's expecting one. Somewhere Over the Rainbow is for these mothers as well as Lime (Michelle), Kim (both of them),Babs, Lynette, Shrinky, Rhea, Jennifer H., Heather, J.S., and Sandy Carlson. We are all hoping our own children will live bigger, more joyous lives than our own. Not that our own lives aren't joyous mind you. It's just that we as mothers want things to go even better for our kids. Flan, I'm counting on you to find your spot over the rainbow, the spot where your heart, mind, and soul meet.

(While we're at it, let's send The Chi-Lites' Oooh Child out to all parents, including those of us who are nurturing our inner child, the little kid in us who wants to color outside of the lines. Lee, I'm talking to you!)

To my other kid, the infamous Mister Mokes, I dedicate two versions of The Rainbow Connection. Kermit the Frog's and Me First and the Gimme Gimmes'. Oaks, I'm counting on you to find that rainbow connection, you of the prodigious way with words, you of the truth-seeking heart.

Kermit the Frog's song goes out as well to Bob T. Bear and to Alex the Blogging Cat.

Linus and Lucy is for Meanie the Baby Dragon aka Chuck and his dragon cousin across the ocean Dilly.

For Bennie, the love of my life, I offer a wild jumble:

X's Breathless (I guess that's as close to a 'Listen, they're playing our song' as we have). I thank you for sharing the last 13 million minutes with me. It's been breathless!
Rock the Casbah & Private Idaho. Because they too are representative of our courtship era.
San Francisco, as covered by Me First and the Gimme Gimmes. Truth be told, I find this band a little pale in comparison to their Eighties predecessors (after all, they only do covers), but it seems appropriate to acknowledge the fact that I met you in The City by the Bay and the Scott MacKenzie song just falls short. I mean, name one time you saw a single person walking down Sutter Street with actual flowers in their hair.
Speaking of covers, speaking of San Francisco, nothin' says lovin' like a Mel Torme cover of the Turtles' Happy Together. I will never forget the night you took me to see Mel at the Fairmont. We were struggling young art dealers. Even so, you insisted we have a glamorous evening in the Venetian Room.
The Proclaimers' 500 Miles. You've walked that far. And more. With me and for me. And you've run that far. You are a distance runner on all the levels.
Booker T. & the MGs' Hip Hug Her. Because.
Mulatu Asttatke's Yegelle Tezeta and two selections from Satyajit Ray. Because those names are as challenging to pronounce as our love has been unpredictable. Both, however, once mastered, flow beautifully.
Tom Waits' Rain Dogs. For many years, I associated Tom Waits' voice with morning sickness. Remember? We were playing him in the gallery during my first pregnancy. 11 million minutes later, Tom Waits' voice has assumed a silken quality in my ear. I associate Tom Waits' voice with the wildest, most sublime gifts you ever gave me--our children.

And now it's time for me to blow out my candles while Frank Sinatra sings Happy Birthday. Everybody, make a wish. Get on your mark. Get set. BLOW!

Belongings and Belonging

2008-08-30T06:44:00.002-06:00

Last week we loaded the Tacoma and drove Oaks down to UNM for the ritual unpacking of the socks and stereo gear. We helped him set up housekeeping in Hokona Hall on a co-ed floor. Unpacking a person's belongings provides a clue or two about that person. And my son is no exception. His belongings speak, if not volumes, at least a few notes hastily scribbled in a note pad:

Oakley is a person of character who reveres his ancestors. The first objet d'art he found an honored place for (atop one of the stereo speakers) was my dad's Roll Tide elephant keychain.

That takes a little character--to set up a University of Alabama mascot in University of New Mexico Lobos country. I was touched. I could feel Pa-pa smiling down.

My son appreciates the playful...

...and the less so.

Don't ask. All I know is the black comforter and sheets I purchased at Linens 'n' Things coordinate rather nicely.

Oakley's taste in clothing is diverse...

...as is his taste in books.

And the first book cracked by my son this semester was the menu at the Route 66 Diner.

As you can see, it's one of those provocative books that leads to questioning: Shall I have the Fender Bender or the Pile-Up? Root beer or malt? Fried okra and french fries or coleslaw and mac and cheese and potato salad on the side of my chicken chimichanga? And on that chimichanga--red or green? Room for dessert? (Puh-Leeze. That's a no-brainer. Do I look like I'm observing Lent months in advance?)

Route 66 is a retro comfort food place where the excess of the portions is outshone only by the expanse of the Pez dispenser collection.

(Chewy, this photo's for you.)

Flanny joined us for dinner and afterwards we took an after-hours tour of her workplace, the Mind Research Network.

(This dazzling photograph was downloaded from the website of the MRN.) The building looks like a giant sculpture set under the turquoise New Mexico sky.

When we entered the vestibule, we were greeted by a Japanese rock garden. This split rock...

...continues on the other side of the glass, as does the garden. A subtle reminder that this is a place where breakthrough research occurs. And it occurs in a tranquil setting. Overlooking the raked sand and the flowing arrangement of rocks is a minimalist painting in shades of blue. The effect is calming.

Inside the lobby is the graceful curve of a contemporary stone sculpture....

...and a vibrant large-format abstract painting.

The forms in the painting echo the roundness of the sculpture and the rock garden. Even the night janitor's barrel echoes the roundness.

Flanny's office is upstairs.

Isn't this a great space in which to discover new frontiers in the human mind?
Isn't this a great space in which to conduct biomedical research?

Flannery, engaged in biomedical research.

And speaking of the biomedical, I've read that a sense of belonging, a feeling that one has a place in a family or in a community or in a social network, an awareness that one fits in somewhere, is an actual physical nutrient. This belongingness nutrient helps our bodies negotiate treaties with those hormones that trick us into feeling combative when we are really just feeling fragmented and overworked and stressed. When we belong to others, we're soothed. If that's the truth, that means that on this particular evening I got my fix. I loaded up on...

fried okra

green chile

and belongingness.

In my book that's a feast.

Dreaming Hill

2008-08-20T10:51:00.001-06:00

"Dreaming Hill," acrylic on canvas, 48" x 48"
private collection, Rock Springs, Wyoming

...We are such stuff
As dreams are made on; and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.
--from Shakespeare's The Tempest
The knowledge of contemporary quantum physics was presaged by Shakespeare. Illusion is the constant. Our "little life" in waking reality is just a variation of our dreaming life. The only way to discover anything is to keep observing/keep dreaming. Just know that your very act of observation changes the reality of what you are observing.
After we shipped Jo "River of Now," she and I were emailing. I told her I had a few days in the studio and was working on a small painting and a large painting. "I would love to see what you're working on," she said. I took this as friendly curiosity. After all, Jo had invested in one of my paintings and it's always fun to see what an artist whose work you've collected is up to.
So I sent her images of the two paintings when they were complete. "I envy the people who buy these," she said. "I love 'Hill of Memories.' I can't get it out of my mind.'" I smiled when I read this. The painting was called "Dreaming Hill" and was informed by the dream I had had of Jo and her sisters, also by the conversations Jo and I had been having through email. There were little bits of glowing light set on pedestal shapes, little eggy shapes with spirals etched deeply in the painting's surface. When working on this canvas, I began to feel as though I was in a ceremonial cave, a place where dreams are made. The work "underneath"--in the land of dreaming--was changing the curvature of the land above--the land of waking reality.
After a while another email came in from Jo. "I'm sorry. I called 'Dreaming Hill' 'Hill of Memories', but when I saw it, it brought back memories for me. I can't get it out of my mind." Again, Jo and I had connected on a level that is deeper than the waking life. There is no way I was consciously aware of the memories of which Jo was speaking, but somehow the magic that had been created under my little dreaming hill had altered the curvature of the land above. And so began the dialog which led to Jo's second acquisition.

I was so excited by this transaction, I had to prepare a little ceremony, complete with burning sage, to calm myself down. I am always deliriously happy when people choose to purchase my art. But the timing of this transaction was pure magic. The stuff that dreams are made on.

Feel Good Friday: Talk to the Animals!

2008-08-15T13:07:00.007-06:00

Elephant Brand, mixed media on canvas

private collection, Iowa City

The maniacal, not-so-borderline nut case Crazy Cath of Crazy Cath's Reflections went on one of her award rampages. Seems she grabbed a slingshot (I mean blingshot), loaded it with first one award, then the other, and proceeded to shoot, willy-nilly, into the vastness of cyberspace. Lucky me, I got caught in the crossfire. This award that looks like an itty bitty TV struck me right in the crown chakra. Yes! Cath has honored me with the Must See Blog Award.

I haven't been the same since. Talk about the big head. Now I have the gift of tongues. I find myself fluent in baby dwagonese, bwogging cat lingo, gween wagonese, and Bob T. Bearalect. I beg of you. Do not envy me. It's a curse to be so talented.

You haven't really plumbed the depths of mental hell until you've began to think in dwagonese. You wook at a bwog and wead evuhwy r and evuhwy l wike a w. Itz scawy. Itz cweepy-cwawly. I am despewate. I am a wag. A wimp, wifewess, dishwag. In a moment of wunacy, I have decided to pass this Must See Bwog Awawd on to my bwogging animal fwiends. Maybe they will begin to talk wike human beings for a change:

THE ENVEWOPE PWEEEEEEESE.

OK. Duh winnuhs of the Must See Bwog Awawds (dwumwoll):

Awex duh Bwoggin' Cat of Alexicon: A Kitty Kat's Life with His Hooman. Spiritual nememis of wetired minister Sometimes Saintly Nick. Goes through all the jokes people send for Nick to put on his bwog Nick's Bytes, cweans 'em up wif his paws, and duh ones dat are too waunchy (wevolving awound duh theme of wawdwobe malfunction), he puts on Nick's othuh bwog, the UCC on the Net.

Bob T Bear, (esq) of Bob T Bear (esq.)'s Diary. A debonair British dude about town. Wooks kickarse in a red Pendleton coat. Filmmaker. Horticulturalist extraordinaire. (His secret's in his fertilizer.) Creative challenger. Statistician of the Daily Serprizity Score. Tabulator of the Gills/Simpsons/Tesco frequency. Lyric poet whose obsession is poo, which rhymes with loo. I told you he has a knack with fertilizer. Nemesis of:

Dilly, of Dilly's Castle, a bootiful gween wagon. Gwaceful. Pwetty in pink. Pwincessy. Pwissy. When Dilly picks up her awawd, I know the first show she will tune into on that pwetty wittle tv (except she calls it a tewwy). Miami CSI.

Dilly fancies wedheaded dudes. And dudes who can dwaw weally well.

And a dwagon who can dwaw weally well is Dilly's soul mate. Dat would be Chuck aka Meanie the Baby Dragon. Chuck dwew Dilly's potwait as a medieval dwagon-wady.

Is Chuck in wuv with Dilly? I hope so! Dwagon wuv is the tweetest. But I digwess. Chuck is getting the Must See Bwog Awawd for his timewy weporting on newsworthy events. Duh Enquiwing papawazzi know where to go for the weally big scoop.

And now you do too.