morning at sunset

my stuff

I have some interesting stuff (don't we all?). Big things and small things, but not too many things. And every thing is a story. I have no trouble jettisoning junk, so the treasures I end up keeping undergo a harsh review. To me, it's art (in some way), or it wouldn't be here. Tell you what, I'll show you something once in a while; you make up the story. Then tell that story. Paint it. Sing it. To yourself. To us. But tell it.

Meanwhile, the boyfriend stands here waiting with his flowers. You'll see him again; he's very photogenic and holds a pose like a brick. Isn't he wonderful?

ghost dog

This painting came out of, well, I won't say nowhere. But I can say that this one came out of itself. That highlight in the eye showed up while I reloaded my brush; I saw it just in time to stop painting. To be honest, I'm afraid knowing when to stop doesn't happen nearly as often as it coulda/woulda/shouda, but when it does, it's a real thrill. It's as good as making the right mark.

Though I swear there is no velvet Elvis in my past, sometimes I like to mix color with a metallic iridescent. In this case, yellow oxide and some sienna with metallic gold. The resulting light shift gives it some life, some movement. And makes it almost impossible to photograph. "Almost" means I'm still trying.

Sounds like life.

riverbank

Once I stopped taking everyone else's advice, the art, the camera and even the unfriendly computer finally got all kinds of friendly. Relief with a capital R. Which spells "riverbank".

snow already?

This fox likes to nap in the clematis vine on top of the gazebo next to my studio; these photos of him are from the window up in the loft. He slept soundly through several hours of hard cold rain, wrapped tightly in his gorgeous tail. Slept so hard his snores rocked him to and fro. How nice.


Then it started to snow. You can see (click) that the fox was as thrilled as the rest of us at winter's early onset. He stood, stretched, and shook himself back into shape; then he hightailed it outta there. Btw, the dogs and the fox and I think it's pretty ironic that they call a tail a "stole" once they steal it. How nasty.

float this quote

I've added some more blogs I like. Susan Cornelis had this quote in hers the other day. It's worth repeating.

"When you start working, everybody is in your studio – the past, your friends, your enemies, the art world, and above all your own ideas – all are there. But as you continue painting they start to leave, one by one and you are left completely alone. Then if you are lucky, even you leave." -Philip Guston

As soon as I get back, I plan to post some pictures.
If there's anything cheaper than talk, it's plans.

holy boomerang!

Alleys are a walk through the backside of a town. It's a tour of things people don't want out front on the porch but generally don't mind allowing in their backyards. I've always been an alley-rat; no matter where in the world I am, it's what I want to see. Others can have the tourist Meccas. I prefer the souks out back, where the trash cans are lined up like ninepins (unless the racketycoons have been bowling for garbage the night before), and occasional treasures teeter on the edge of belonging. Whenever in whichever town, this is where the dog and I walk.

Along with its other face, Boulder's backside has undergone an, excuse the expression, dramatic shift. Some say good; I say not so good. During the past decade+ of mobiling upward, its trash has evolved from something typically smelly, to something to actually be considered, if not downright desirable. Why, it's a regular Ali Baba's cave out there.

So when I found the boomerang, the dog reminded me, "Life is about learning, grasshoppah. Rub the lamp."
How To Throw A Boomerang

four a.m.

Four a.m. is the Armpit of Time. It's the hour no one wants to ever see. It predates when most early-risers go vertical, and even the nocturnals have burrowed in by then, quick! before daylight nails their coffins shut. However, others do seem to like it, like hunters and fishermen. I suspect they prefer the cover of darkness for the killing. A few other people are awake, praying for the souls of the dying deer and the gasping trout.

Here is some other stuff which happens at four o'clock:
I am awake and I can't get up. After all, what if I can get back to sleep? Hey, it could happen. It won't, but it could. Meanwhile, the neighbor's dog is hollering, "HEY, I'M UP!", as he waters the bushes. If I didn't know and love the cur, I'd be beyond pissed. Speaking of dogs, my dog might, having scarfed his weight in plums fallen from the tree, be in the bathroom exploding with diarrhea. Knowing toilets are only for drinking, he's no doubt using the carpet. I love dogs, but I must say that their timing for eliminating toxins sucks. Also, the fact that he made it to the bathroom would impress me much more if it weren't my bathroom.

Four is even too early to put on the coffee. As if that would help.

how strange

My laptop took this bizarre picture of the windows in my studio. Totally unbeknown to me and without my permission. You think I'm surprised? No. Terrified? Yes.

reservations

I have reservations about poking my head out. But I don't know if you lose your place in the line to the loo if you don't ever pee in the pot.

Piss on it.

running backwards

For me, blogging is running backwards in wet sand. I fall down and I can't get up. It's not blogging that boggles me; it's computers. Okay, it's both. For whatever reason(s), I just don't seem to be able to even want to compute.

For now, I'm going back to the studio to do what I know how to do. Life is short, and I sure don't want to spend it hassling with computers. I'd much rather do what feels right, so I'm going paint. Period. To me, doing both is like patting my head and rubbing my belly. I'll figure out another way besides blogging to show my art. A yard sale comes to mind. That's not to say I won't use this blog as a place to post occasional blurbs, scrawls and brilliant bon mots.

I admire those of you who can do it all. Keep it up. Meanwhile, I'll be in the studio with all the dogs and their brilliant knowses.

rescue

Credit where it's due... the Obamas did rescue their new dog. Bo's name before it was Bo was Charlie and dog knows what before that. At only 6 months of age, the poor little guy is now in his fourth home. Hopefully, four, not three, will be the charm. I mean, how charming can you get to have your fourth home wind up being the dog almighty White House?

He says, "Works for me. Call me Bobama."

eugenics

Bo and The Godfather

One of the reasons I like having Obama in the White House is that I don't have to worry. I know I probably should, but what counts is that I don't feel like I have to. Maybe it's just the contrast; Bush scared the bejeezus out of me. I do keep my ear to the rail, but I haven't heard anything alarming thus far. Good reason, I guess, to pay attention, especially when the water is flat calm. Like, just before a squall hits.

Oh dear. Storm warnings. Right when I was having myself a sigh of relief, the Easter Bunny showed up with a purebred Portuguese Water Dog named Bo for Sasha and Malia Obama (beware the ironclad campaign promise). Being people of conscience, their parents had been looking forward to rescuing a shelter dog. In addition, the First Lady has planted an organic vegie patch out by The Rose Garden. That's what I mean; you can trust that they're good people. Anyway, before they could do the decent thing for some needy hound, Teddy Kennedy stepped in and offered a puppy from some eugenic breeder (probably one of those kajillion Kennedy cousins). Obama is wise enough not to mess with the double karmic load of Teddy being genuine American royalty plus a cancer patient. If you're the new President, you probably ought not to mess with that old political icon for any reason anyway. So the result is, even in this 21st Century, there's still a Kennedy in the White House.

The First Daughters looked at what the breeder had to offer and of course chose the dog who most resembled a stuffed animal. Eugenics gave the sweet little thing adorable curly hair, cleverness and a bouncy personality. Totally irresistible to the two girls, but just wait until the family, not to mention the whole White House staff, get a load of what "bouncy" means in Portuguese. A PWD is one of those kinds of dogs you should never let be in charge. As if there's a choice. I wonder if any human can truly outsmart a clever dog.

Then there's that pesky word "water". It's the PWD's middle name, for dog's sake. They have to have water and lots of it. They were bred for water sports. Last time I checked, there's no sizable lake, let alone the preferred ocean, at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. I can see how this is going to turn out; that clever dog will wind up living out his days surfing the sunny beaches of Oahu. By the way, I have no doubt that PWDs can learn to surf.

blizzard antidote

It's snowing at a rate of 2 inches an hour and blowing so hard, I can't see the fence 75 feet away. As of yesterday, we hadn't had a drop of anything in over 6 weeks. Nothing but winds over 70 mph and spot wildfires. Ah, yes... Springtime in the Rockies. So Mother Nature is celebrating with her typical attack of whimsy, blessing us with more than a foot of snow. It could be worse; this could be Fargo, where the Red River is flooding at historic proportions and it's blizzarding.

Happily, I don't have to go anywhere today except my studio, which is buried somewhere out there in the whiteout. However, to get out there I have to shovel-grunt-push a path in the snow. Maybe watching me struggle into my down jacket, boots, hat, scarf and mittens will amuse the dog enough to get him out of his bed and into the storm. By then, the snow will be deeper than his legs are long; no doubt he'll need a snorkle and doggles.

To soothe the shivering, chapping and cussing, I've posted this picture of another world where storms are beautiful in a very, very different way. It helps just knowing it's out there somewhere.

surprise balls

Surprise balls. You know I couldn't just let that one go. When a childhood friend emailed me her joy at the reminder of them but speculated about the possibility that they may no longer exist, the thought totally bummed me out. A world without surprise balls?! Oh, say it ain't so!... Okay, it ain't so. Like a lot of things you thought were done and gone, they can still be found by a good search engine. Whew!

For those of you who missed them, surprise balls are "the toy you destroy to enjoy". The very definition of delight for a kid. Made of paper streamers wrapped round and round, with goodies and toys tucked inside, treasures pop out randomly as you unwind the colored yards of crepe. By the time the ball is all unwrapped, the fun has just begun. Rings and things with plastic gems, small dogs and little men, tiny dinosaurs and wooden trucks, hot cinnamon hearts and candied nuts. And enough streamers to fly away with you. I remember feeling like I'd positively bust. My thrillometer pegged.

Sometimes, writing a blog can be like a surprise ball. When I start a post, I have an idea of the destination, but I try not to look where I'm going and frequently surprise myself. That last one about abstinence is a good example; I have no idea where it came from.

fortitude

I am an omnianimal lover. Obviously, dogs. And cats. Yes, even cats. Not a lot of them, mind you; just the ones who appeared to have a reason to appear and stay. There have been 3 of those. Also every other clever beast who swims, slithers, runs or flies by. We share this life with them, but what some of us are doing to some of them is unspeakable. Many species, given our roughshod bullying, are leaving. But there are others who will survive, adapt and refuse to leave us. Fortitude is one of those.

This cat, this dude, this Fortitude, is fierce and feral. He lives at the house on Sunset Beach. Rather, he owns the house on Sunset Beach. The setup is nice, or he wouldn't put up with the people who "visit". Besides, he has the routine down cold. He works it like this: 1st day--accept pity and food, 2nd day--take food, then put em in their place with a claw, 3rd day--run to greet em, get food, 4th day--disappear 'til day 5, 5th day--run to greet em and get food. Basically, good cat bad cat. From then on it's a piece of cake. Or maybe salmon pate. Sit in their laps and feel the love, man.

what a face

Jethro
Shepherd/Hound

A lot of dogs have memorable faces and names to match.
If you can't forget this one, he belongs in your family.
So click on him, and take him home.

P.S. Now that I've sort of figured out this trick, I promise I'll only harass you with the unforgettables.

driving home alone

Twilight finally gave up its ghost on that first evening of Daylight Savings. Ran out of savings, didn't pay the bill and the lights went out. It was Sunday, so the streets were dark and empty. No one around but me and my stealth car, Alma Negra. Not even anybody breathing in the back seat. The stark absence of the usual other life form, the dog, left the deep primordial hum of nothing. Yikes. It was the sound of my head. If you hold my head up to your ear, you will not hear the ocean; you will hear NOTHING. Come to find out, synapses are silent. From the outside anyway. For reassurance, I opened the moon roof (you pay extra for the moon, Alice). BAM!... There was the moon. Worth every silvery dime.

missed the bus

Not to be disrespectful, but I know people who'd die to be alive for blogging. They also happen to be the ones who would've done it best. Am I right, or am I right? Bet you know some, too. Blogging zombies. They sit on our shoulders while we post. We love them all.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xhUx3ENL-RQ

(sorry, no embed--copy&paste)

auspicion

I'm suspicious that yesterday was auspicious. In fact, I'm pretty sure it was. I met my doppelganger. "Huh?" you ask. "So?" you ask. All I can ask is, "Well, do you have one?" Here's a clue: if you have a blog and are on a list of like-mindeds, odds are there's a doppelganger out there somewhere with your face in their place. I've not had one before, one which I knew about anyway. So far, it's a sweet mindblow. As if to mark the occasion, a full moon popped up last night. The Maple Sugar Moon. Sweet, indeed.

value

Hey. Let's say you sell a painting. Maybe for a few hundred dollars. Maybe more, maybe less. Whatever. Now let's say you take that wad and give it to your local animal shelter. All of it. Just this once. The whole damn pie. A la mode.

I'm just sayin'...

time turned on me

I had a crazy friend (that "had" would take a whole nuther post, one which would undoubtedly be libelous and would definitely spike my blood pressure) who likes to pass as a tough ol' cowgirl. As long as she's on a horse and dressed in dust, chaps and a kerchief while swearing blue lightning, you'd have to think so. Well, don't be fooled; the kerchief is French silk, and she probably bought and trained the horse in Portugal. She comes, as they say, from money. In spite of that, she has an excellent sense of the absurd, communicates easily with animals (although she's beyond pissed at the coyotes who keep eating her cats), her photography is soulful and beautiful, and because those twisted sisters, the Muses, are sometimes amused by unjust excess, she also cranks out truly admirable oil paintings. She has a very very good eye. In her spare time, she runs her ranch at 10,000 feet which you can't get to in winter and is an international horse broker. Oh, and did I mention her mellifulous ability on her marimba? As you might imagine, she's adult ADHDXYZ and as crazy as a bedbug. In my judgment, it's one of her finest attributes, but the combination of money and lunacy could make anybody sorta, well, dangerous. On second thought, okay honey, you are one tough ol' cowgirl.

Don't worry; I'm getting to the point. That tough ol' cowgirl can talk out the side of her mouth. But I swear some of what she says and how she says it would make you more than happy to die laughing. Believe me, I've come close more than once. One of my very favorite expressions of hers is, "The damn fill-in-the-blank turned on me!" Now, she could be talking about a horse, a headache, the weather, her pick-me-up truck, a piece of fish gone bad, friends and/or relatives, or one of her bankers. Really any old thing at all. It's best when the offender is an inanimate object like, "That damn rock turned on me!". In that case, what really happened was a rockslide that sent a boulder the size of an outhouse crashing down onto the roof of her truck. In her world, whatever slows you down must be at fault. Animism is invaluable when apportioning blame. You'll never have to answer to a rock in court.

I thought of her when the Time changed to Daylight Savings. More accurately, I thought of her at 4 AM when I woke up and spent the next 3 hours trying to figure out what time it really was and how much sleep I had missed. You could say arithmetic is my OCD. But, given enough time, I can do it. How ironic, seeing as how it was Time that turned on me. By the way, I also burned some fat thinking about Father Time and Mother Nature. Remind me sometime, and I'll tell you another story...

march

I just noticed it's March. It's always been a favorite month of mine, when Spring comes around the corner. Hard to tell, though, when it seems like it's been here since sometime last year. On this third day of the month, the temps are strangely in the 70s, rain and/or snow hasn't fallen from the sky in over a month, and Daylight Savings begins this coming Sunday. It's confusing when the gummint keeps changing milestones like Time and the cost of a stamp. However, neither politics nor the screwed-up climate impress the local birds. The flickers are doing drumrolls by banging their heads on the metal chimney cap, and the male house finches are beginning to sing arias. The drumming and the arias are both love songs, full of enchantment and come-hither. Wow. Each to his/her own, I guess.

no big deal

The haircut is good, over, and it's always nice to see Gracie. I'm rarely hair-obsessed. Unless it's bad. I'm human; a bad hair day can spin me into apoplexia. But I cut my own hair for years. That's a person who might have something more on their mind than the thatch growing out of it. Or might be someone who plain doesn't give a damn.

Truth will out... I'm prone to get a wild hair now and then. I must confess to a time in the '80s when I had a burgundy perm. I looked like a raspberry. Scary thing is, it was very cool at the time.

coup de jour

I thought "coup de jour" was quite a good title for a post about my haircut later today. Wrong. It's perfect. The dictionary's third definition says, "Coup: a contusion caused by contact of the brain with the skull at the point of trauma. Compare with contrecoup." Of course, "contrecoup" is not in the dictionary, but I'm pretty sure it means, "No, I don't think I'll get my hair cut today after all."

I remember when mothers and hairdressers conspired to convince us that cutting your hair made it grow faster. That's why they had all the nuts; they had clever, squirrelly logic. It's sad to think that's all it took to get us into the chair. Gawd! Are kids these days as stupid as we were? Probably not. Come to find out, it was a luxury.

Will I or won't I? Should I or shouldn't I? Should. Shouldn't. Will... Won't..... Such a quandry! But for a good (enough) reason; my hair hasn't been cut, 'cept for one ill-advised just-an-inch, in almost 3 years. If I crank my neck back far enough, it goes past my waist. I'm in my second hippiehood.

But it's time to brush my teeth and go. Think I'll play some dirge CD in the car on my way over. The Dead comes to mind. Interesting aside: my hair cutter's name is Gracie. Mary Grace Murphy. Saints preserve us!...