I know, This is someone else's blog, but I'm glad she'd blogging and it's worth a read... :-)
A Freedom Place: Stop Yankin' My Chain!: Letting go. Doesn't anyone have trouble with this? I'm sure my readers have no issue with attachment. In fact you're probably sitting on the...
Friday, May 4, 2012
Sunday, January 15, 2012
Rest and reflection
I hope to begin regular entries in the weeks ahead.
This is to be the first post connecting this blog to my Instagram feed. If you are interested in the instamatic effect of smart phones on our visual dialogue, perhaps you will download Instagram and add to the visual stream.
http://instagr.am/p/hbyuF/
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
This is to be the first post connecting this blog to my Instagram feed. If you are interested in the instamatic effect of smart phones on our visual dialogue, perhaps you will download Instagram and add to the visual stream.
http://instagr.am/p/hbyuF/
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
Thursday, June 2, 2011
Friday, May 20, 2011
Spring Shock
This spring is bringing with it a host of new activities, many spawned by the departure of an artist and the reflections on making and connecting that have happened the the wake of the memorial service.
We decided to make our home a more inviting place. There are many tasks to be accomplished toward that end. The first: stem the flow of water around the foundation wall into our basement. The second: establish a garden that gives us reason to be in the yard and spend time cooking together this summer.
The result is a kitchen garden with raised beds and corrected drainage on the southeast side of the house right off the kitchen. The water flow has been redirected into the yard, and it is truly a pleasure to behold.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad
We decided to make our home a more inviting place. There are many tasks to be accomplished toward that end. The first: stem the flow of water around the foundation wall into our basement. The second: establish a garden that gives us reason to be in the yard and spend time cooking together this summer.
The result is a kitchen garden with raised beds and corrected drainage on the southeast side of the house right off the kitchen. The water flow has been redirected into the yard, and it is truly a pleasure to behold.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad
Saturday, May 7, 2011
May Daze
I woke this morning to an email informing me that the "call" I was on this afternoon was cancelled. That is theatre speak for, "You thought you had paid work today, but turns out you don't." This resulted in a number of overlapping responses; can I sleep in? What am I forgetting? What would I have been planning had I not been expecting to work this afternoon? Does this mean I could paint this afternoon?
Then, the next wave; Will I need to recoup the income? Will this effect my art budget? I really wanted to buy that strange sculpture this month at Gallery Hop and the 4 hours of work was going to put me 4.00 closer to buying it.
I know, you are thinking, "Art budget? You have an art budget?!"
To that I say, "Don't you?"
Several years ago, we bought a house. Not long after, we went to breakfast. It was a special occurrence in those days of "just bought a house and we have uncertain income as freelancers". It was at breakfast that we saw it. The first painting we would purchase as a couple. It was a big decision the sale price was equal to 15% of our monthly budget. Spread over the course of a year, however, it would be less than we were spending on coffee.
So, over breakfast, it was decided. Art should be in our budget. It has been ever since.
That painting, by Liz Simmons, hangs in our den. Liz is still painting, and still works at a restaurant, like so many artists.
Oh, and she recently bought the house we rented while I was in grad school at UNCSA.
To see her painting, you'll need to read my next post.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
Then, the next wave; Will I need to recoup the income? Will this effect my art budget? I really wanted to buy that strange sculpture this month at Gallery Hop and the 4 hours of work was going to put me 4.00 closer to buying it.
I know, you are thinking, "Art budget? You have an art budget?!"
To that I say, "Don't you?"
Several years ago, we bought a house. Not long after, we went to breakfast. It was a special occurrence in those days of "just bought a house and we have uncertain income as freelancers". It was at breakfast that we saw it. The first painting we would purchase as a couple. It was a big decision the sale price was equal to 15% of our monthly budget. Spread over the course of a year, however, it would be less than we were spending on coffee.
So, over breakfast, it was decided. Art should be in our budget. It has been ever since.
That painting, by Liz Simmons, hangs in our den. Liz is still painting, and still works at a restaurant, like so many artists.
Oh, and she recently bought the house we rented while I was in grad school at UNCSA.
To see her painting, you'll need to read my next post.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
Sunday, December 19, 2010
mud, straw, sun
Adult friendships are built.
Adobe houses.
Brick by brick,
Organic, imperfect,
We are servants of each brick.
Scatter the seed and cut the straw.
Wait for rain to collect the clay at the outside bend of the creek
Form new bricks to repair the eroded corner
a neglected spot beneath a window.
What do I do now?
When disease washes a life away like an out of season storm,
I can't even find the foundation,
not even a mess of mud and straw.
My brain is silent. Coffee.
The thought of it brings the smell.
Patrick is downstairs. I wonder if he's looking for a sign.
A trail of code that might comfort.
I hear beans tumbling into the grinder.
I turn to look at the paintings in my studio
and I can smell Sui's Chinese pantry
The scent of hot, dry, wooden houses.
A particular Texas summer,
Clear and bright. Blinding sun.
Was it wool? I can't remember.
Flip flops and jeans.
The window unit rattles on.
The kettle whistle and coffee grinder
signal the four minute mark
I wonder at the time.
December, just north of the snow line.
My shoulder is tense from the cold and damp of this day.
Patrick brings up coffee.
Silent looks at the painting over the drafting table
"Don't Ask Me Stupid F@#&ing Questions" speaks from the wall.
Coffee.
He drifts back down the hall.
Again, the dryness of the summer sunroom fills my lungs.
I see him cooking in his yellow kitchen,
Incandescent, glazed in sesame oil,
Dusted with five spice powder.
"What are you making?" I remember asking,
Concerned for the future of the onions and potatoes in my bag.
"I don't know, ... weird Chinese food I think."
In one hand, a smoking, hand rolled cigarette punctuates the gesture.
Other cigarettes burn like incense in ashtrays scattered about the house
He's talking to me. Asking me questions.
Wearing Sui's sweater, but I don't know that.
She is not here in the dry heat, ...
I hadn't known them together really.
Just a dinner at a Chinese restaurant.
Some surprise that I could use chopsticks.
Her suspicion of me and Patrick together...
That was in the eyes. No language barrier there.
A drive to the airport.
I'm back in the doorway to the kitchen.
Patrick's on a volunteer trip.
Rebuilding palapas near an archeological site.
He said he'd call from San Antonio.
Days have passed.
There is no message.
That sweater barely covers his sides.
Steam billows up from the wok.
The sweater is taught between the shoulders.
It was July. It was hot out and in.
Sui was making her way.
I marvel at the bags and boxes in the pantry.
No Phone Call.
Chinese writing and strange illustrations.
He has no Idea what this stuff is.
Sky rise apartments in Montreal,
Government housing projects.
An architect on her way to a career in Hong Kong.
Biding time, both of us.
Adobe houses.
Brick by brick,
Organic, imperfect,
We are servants of each brick.
Scatter the seed and cut the straw.
Wait for rain to collect the clay at the outside bend of the creek
Form new bricks to repair the eroded corner
a neglected spot beneath a window.
What do I do now?
When disease washes a life away like an out of season storm,
I can't even find the foundation,
not even a mess of mud and straw.
My brain is silent. Coffee.
The thought of it brings the smell.
Patrick is downstairs. I wonder if he's looking for a sign.
A trail of code that might comfort.
I hear beans tumbling into the grinder.
I turn to look at the paintings in my studio
and I can smell Sui's Chinese pantry
The scent of hot, dry, wooden houses.
A particular Texas summer,
Clear and bright. Blinding sun.
Was it wool? I can't remember.
Flip flops and jeans.
The window unit rattles on.
The kettle whistle and coffee grinder
signal the four minute mark
I wonder at the time.
December, just north of the snow line.
My shoulder is tense from the cold and damp of this day.
Patrick brings up coffee.
Silent looks at the painting over the drafting table
"Don't Ask Me Stupid F@#&ing Questions" speaks from the wall.
Coffee.
He drifts back down the hall.
Again, the dryness of the summer sunroom fills my lungs.
I see him cooking in his yellow kitchen,
Incandescent, glazed in sesame oil,
Dusted with five spice powder.
"What are you making?" I remember asking,
Concerned for the future of the onions and potatoes in my bag.
"I don't know, ... weird Chinese food I think."
In one hand, a smoking, hand rolled cigarette punctuates the gesture.
Other cigarettes burn like incense in ashtrays scattered about the house
He's talking to me. Asking me questions.
Wearing Sui's sweater, but I don't know that.
She is not here in the dry heat, ...
I hadn't known them together really.
Just a dinner at a Chinese restaurant.
Some surprise that I could use chopsticks.
Her suspicion of me and Patrick together...
That was in the eyes. No language barrier there.
A drive to the airport.
I'm back in the doorway to the kitchen.
Patrick's on a volunteer trip.
Rebuilding palapas near an archeological site.
He said he'd call from San Antonio.
Days have passed.
There is no message.
That sweater barely covers his sides.
Steam billows up from the wok.
The sweater is taught between the shoulders.
It was July. It was hot out and in.
Sui was making her way.
I marvel at the bags and boxes in the pantry.
No Phone Call.
Chinese writing and strange illustrations.
He has no Idea what this stuff is.
Sky rise apartments in Montreal,
Government housing projects.
An architect on her way to a career in Hong Kong.
Biding time, both of us.
I hear our Border Collie on the stairs.
Outside the window it is snowing.
Moving slower than usual,
A syncopated, determined gate.
I turn to see her navigate the doorway.
My slippers are saddled over her shoulders.
Brimming with herd dog pride.
I realize my feet are still bare from my shower.
The lining is warm.
Patrick's phone signals an email's arrival.
It is Sui. I carry the phone into the hall.
He is there. We read it together. It says,
"Thank you.'
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