Intoxicant Monday, Apr 2 2007

This exercise of writing and art I found in a grand book called,
~Kaleidoscope~ - Ideas and Projects to Spark Your Creativity, by
Suzanne Simanaitis. The questions are written by, Marney K. Makridakis.

The artist trading card is my own artwork. The answers to the questions
are my own thoughts, responding to the piece of art made about three years ago.

Intoxicant

What has the woman forgotten?

She has forgotten how to be herself, as she looks into the mirror, leaning
ever so slightly in distress. She doesn’t recognize herself. She only recognizes
the remnants of a torn person pieced together with broken threads.

What crime is she guilty of?

No arrest will take place. No warrant will ever be served. There will be no
judge, no jury. The sadness of the crime comes with guilt and no one will defend
her. The prosecutor of the mind is the only spokes person, accusing her of
losing herself during the long years. You see, members of the jury, she has kept putting
the needs and the wants of others first. Her needs, her wants have been put on hold and out of focus. She became empty. She didn’t have the time to replenish.

In what ways are you and she soul sisters?

We have both ignored the fleeting of time. The children grew up, grew out. The
house only remembers the sounds of breathing babies late into the night. We
sit each day on the park bench. It takes time and a season for us to speak. We get
to know each other on sunny afternoons through the summer and scattered days in winter,
in our posh rain coats with hoodies and insulted blue jeans showing underneath our
hiking boots covered in wet snow. We sipped coffee from a red and black checkered
thermos - it tasted bitter and warmed our bodies for a few short moments.

If you were sitting together somewhere, where would it be?

The mundane events of the morning prevented the walk and meeting with my
intoxicating friend. We sit on a wrought iron bench in the tiny village and
watch the comings and goings of strangers. Red geraniums in large clay pots keep us
company.

Later in the evening she took her walk in the summer shift and flowered flip-flops.
She poured the coffee into the thermos and decided not to drink it until she was seated on
the bench. The walk was humid and tiny beads of perspiration formed on her head and neck.
She sat contemplating whether to drink her coffee when she saw her friend walking
towards her. She was relieved and pleased. There was a tenseness to this day.

While sitting there what does she whisper?

‘I bought the book store - look right across the street.’ The sign still hung in the
streaky window, ‘For Sale’. I couldn’t say a word - I took her hand and squeezed it
ever so slightly. I felt tears sting my eyes.

Write down the recipe of ingredients needed to cook her laugh.

I pass her a letter written on linen paper. She reads it with a smile. It is a
recipe of sorts and not of the food type, with temperature guides and a list of
spices one never has in their pantry. It is a recipe to make her laugh.

1- Buy a book store
2- Gather old copies of tattered books with torn bindings
3- Add the smell of old pages
4- Knead with shelves, tables and comfortable chairs
5- Give the customers a window view of a wrought iron park bench
in front of a flower shop where red geraniums grow in pots and hanging baskets
6- Bake for the remaindar of your life or until satisfied.

What wish will she make on the stars tonight?

Darkness gathers around us and the last sip of coffee has grown cold. The night
air is cool and damp.The dark sky is clear as the stars sparkle more than nights past.
She speaks looking up - ’star bright …’ and stops …

2 Responses »

 

RSVP Tuesday, Mar 13 2007

 

This exercise of writing and art I found in a grand book called,
~Kaleidoscope~ - Ideas and Projects to Spark Your Creativity, by
Suzanne Simanaitis. The questions are written by, Marney K. Makridakis.

The artist trading card is my own artwork. The answers to the questions
are my own thoughts, responding to the piece of art made about three years ago.

What is this woman trying to tell you?

Wait a minute! I have feelings, too. I have dreams of plenty just as you.
What goes on here? What are you saying to me? - that I have become some
sort burden or am I the beginning of what will become excess baggage? We
need to talk about this - I would like to talk about this - you and me, us!
There is no us - is there? You have wasted just as much of my time!

Where has this woman traveled?

In her physical being she has lived in the same house as she was born in.
In the same tiny village and in the same tiny state. In her mental being
she has lived across the countries of Europe as a gypsy - wild and free.
In her dreams she dances around the camp fire - red cheeked and playing
the violin.

What is her biggest secret?

She longs to take a lover. A lover who acts upon the stage, while she
reads fortunes late into the night under the moon lite sky.

What part of you does she know about that nobody else does?

The longings - what I want be, how I want to really live. Actually the
~girl~ things one shares with other girls. We tell our secrets on the front
porch swinging in the faded green porch swing. It’s summer and the night is
hot, humid. I tell her I want to sell ruffled aprons and felt button flowers
hand made in tiny shop owned by me. I describe to her the fresh coat of white
paint I gave the kitchen this morning. I show her the yellows I chose for a
handmade quilt, I just started, called ~church window~. We laugh as I share
the secret of the dislike I have for the mirror that hangs in the foyer - it
belonged to my Aunt Teresa and I want to replace it with the over sized gold
fish painting with no frame. I love big floppy hats and flip-flops - the straw
purse with large plastic colorful flowers and we laugh, she admits she does too.
We share the giddy things and it is okay - we are best friends.

What did she dream last night?

She dreamed of receiving an invitation from 201 some name street, US of A.
The invitation required a prompt RSVP. This worried her, made her to feel
uncomfortable and unable to sleep the following night.

What was the last thing that made her cry?

That Wednesday afternoon the stranger was wandering the streets after lunch,
asking for change and carrying the cardboard sign upright written on with
a black crayon, ~WILL WORK FOR MONEY~.

What letter is she putting off writing?

The letter to her husband, asking why he left so abruptly in a car accident.
Why he left her with six tiny children. Why he took his love with him. And
where did he go.

The letter to all the men who abused her and the women who turned their
backs while the abuse went on.

The letter to God asking for answers and simply just asking.

What colors are her sighs?

The yellows and oranges of the sun.
The yellow of rick-rack splashed with orange paint.
The gold bead in the middle of a shiny orange button.
The orange thread sewed carefully through the holes of the yellow buttons.
The tinted orange shadow around her face.
The patterns of orange and yellow on patterned paper.

And the yellows and the oranges of the camp fire the gypsy dances around
while playing the violin.

3 Responses »

 

New York City Saturday, Jan 27 2007

 

‘ To live is so startling it leaves little time for anything else.’ ~Emily Dickinson~

Just last week, I drove to New York City for the first time - as I crossed the George Washington Bridge I was struck with awe at the city as night was pulling down it’s dark curtain.

Clarity comes as a single snowflake - twirling and falling directly from above in the dance of a minuet and is gone again as it hits the ground and I am once again stranded in my mundane thoughts to the beat of a military drum.

I have learned to cherish these moments of clarity and trust the times I receive them. 

One Response »

 

Chapter Three - A Dream Friday, Dec 22 2006

The couch was the color of an autumn mustard plant, firm yet comfortable to relax upon. The orange, red trim hit the back of my knees and felt slightly stinging like that of a summer’s last mosquito bite. Running my hand across the nap of the couch, turned the intense colors of fall from dark to light, even in the well worn places.

I sipped the steamy coffee and enjoyed the strange yet familiar taste of real cream. Being early isn’t always the best choice when one is waiting for another with no manners or care about time. I started taking in the other aspects of the room - the rich brown tapestry of the fern design hung precisely near a huge gilded mirror - the glitter on the ornamental egg surrounding the embedded cameo on the side table and the red flowers with bright yellow middles placed on the polished pine boards of the floor.

The waiting seemed endless and I found myself nodding, slipping down and resting the side of my head on the couch. I felt my body become heavy - I was barely able to move. I was fighting sleep and yet quickly found myself in that place somewhere between a dream and reality, like dusk, not yet dark with bits of flickering daylight remaining.

In the dream state I viewed not only the room from the large doorway but myself sleeping as well.

I watched with interest as the egg on the side table now sat upon the couch, the gilded mirror no longer had it’s reflective glass and only contained within the frame, the patina from the wall and a strange port size flower with a human head for it’s tight bud moving ever so slightly.

I heard the rustle of a skirt and the soft sound of a healed boot. When my eyes caught up with the sound - it was a woman with a lovely straw, wide brimmed hat. She was sauntering across the room. At once I became frightened and heard the beating of my heart in my ears - loud and throbbing.

The woman, perhaps in late twenties, held a pink glow through the black lace dress. As she adjusted the heavy gathers along the shoulder line her seemingly faceless shape caught mine. I could see the hollows where eyes belonged, blinking. Her dark eyelashes sweep down. The outline of soft, pink lips expressed a whisper saying , go. She repeated the word twice more.

The touch of a cold hand brought me back from my troubled sleep. Half embarrassed and half frightened from what I believed was a dream I hastily tried to straighten my appearance.

Ms. Abate observed me with a cool calculated smile.

‘Do you often fall asleep while waiting to be interviewed?’

I humbly apologized and explained I not sure what came over me - thinking it was the unusually warm day so late in the season.

Her smile returned as before and I would see it many times more  …

to be continued

One Response »

 

Chapter Two - The Jack In The Box Thursday, Nov 30 2006

 

~Defining Moments~

crow - large black bird having a powerful black beak

crow’s feet - wrinkle at the outer corner of the eye

crow’s nest- lookout platform at the masterhead of a sailing vessel

eat crow - submit to humiliation

*** utter a loud cry, express glee

How can I  describe those moments when I first saw his long, tall body sway into the room?

The young man with blue, black hair gazes along the low morning fog’s unequal lines. He waits for the call of the crows. He lures the large, black birds to a rusted trough full of various berries.

They fly to the high tops of the great oak where three are ready to eat. The great birds swoop down with large, powerful pointed beaks and steady their flight as they gather the berries.

The young man watches in awe. His hardened heart is jealous of the birds given gifts and talents. He desires to possess what he believes they have. He intends to capture, and take what does not belong to him. His almond shaped eyes are intense with anticipation, unkind. His large hands are clasped behind his back, his feet wide apart. His blue jeans tucked neatly into the brown worn boots. His self assurance is incredible.

The big birds have been arriving daily at an exact time. They seem to thive, grow even larger with each feeding of the berries. As they feed the juices drop to the ground. The dirt around the trough becomes the colors of dark blue and red. The dirt shines with movement as the light catches these hues.

The young man is trying to recall a nursery rhyme. When he closes his eyes he thinks of a Christmas toy he once had - A Jack In the Box -. The box itself was hand painted with delightful teddy bears poised in green and red sweaters under a candle lite tree. When the tiny crank was turned - a strange sounding music played to an unequal beat, and soon a teddy popped up from the box with Christmas pajamas and a stocking cap to a twanging sound.

The memory  of the toy deeply disturbs the young man. He closes his eyes to close the past in the square box he keeps in one corner of his mind. The flaps of the tiny box quickly fold in and over lap each other, tightly line themselves with just a dark slit showing, but dark enough to keep the memory at bay.

His mind travels back to the present and the crows. He is the hunter and relishes with great expections of the capture …

to be continued …

No Responses »

 

The Bee Keeper Thursday, Nov 9 2006

~The Bee Keeper~

What do you remember?

The bee keeper’s story

Sweet friendships were made

Borrowed companion of intuition

Equipment dressed in clothes

Bountiful instrument beneath

Queen in position of tremendous fruit

The muffin and the cream

Nibble the masterpiece hive

Psychedelic silhouette in latex gold.

One Response »

 

Lost Summer Tuesday, Nov 7 2006

I call this piece ~Summers End~ I seem to have lost summer between the end of July and the beginning of September. I never did go fishing. Summer escaped me with family problems, with an over whelming feeling of being tired, and my work load has been heavy. I haven’t worked in this ~Composition Journal~ since I can’t remember when … And yet today feels like summer, almost 70 degrees, and the Thanksgiving holiday is just around the corner.

This entry was written one year ago, today. I admit to the same thoughts again with the weather and temperature being the same. Within the piece of art work itself, part of the background is a page from a vintage book with the words written ~Postscript~, and ~Shall I hear more or shall I speak at this?~ I believe I will choose I will hear more. Incredible!!!

No Responses »

 

Trunks Wednesday, Nov 1 2006

~Soul Food ABC’s~

Sorting through some older sketches I came across this picture I had attempted, probably ten years ago. I counted the suitcases, trunks, plus the simulated hat box for a total of ten.

The sun, obviously coming from a large window, filters through the room and pleasant memories of a hot summer afternoon flow through my mind.

The chair looks comfortable and well worn, with plenty of space to draw your feet and legs up in. The pillow would be lime colored satin, cool to the touch. The door facing right when opened takes one to the beach.

This person, this woman has left an old life to begin something a new. She is not a sensation seeker. She is searching truths, preparing a place as she approaches the third act of her life.

We can open each container with the magical skeleton key and see the places she has been, the people she loves and some she doesn’t, her family is there, along side her lovers, the favorite things she dragged along condensed as she promised herself she would. One case contains her belief systems, politically speaking as well as the religious aspects. Another contains her favorite books, music and art. Speaking of which she carries artists supplies. Of all her dreams, hopes and aspirations she takes with her the fact she is an artist. The hat box, it speaks for itself and it was rather hard to pack just one.

Lastly, her clothes. She will be dressing differently now, more colorful and loosely fitted as she now dresses for comfort.

We will observe her unpacking, slowly, without rushing. She will share her stories with reverence. We will laugh and cry with her. Sometimes we will find ourselves exploding with raw emotion. We will be the silent viewer as she writes the third act, with poetry, of her life.

No Responses »

 

Chapter One - Cotoneaster Franchetti Wednesday, Nov 1 2006

The smell of coffee permeates my noise. This early morning I haven’t the patience to wait and throw another piece of wood into the stove hoping a higher flame will rush the process.

Walking to the window in my kitchen I spy the postman, route wise, I am the first. I throw on my sweather and go to get the mail. He waves me down and I am ignored as I desperately need that cup of strong java and not an interruption.

The air is crisp and I smell leaves mingled with the rotting of apples. This is a pleasant reminder autumn has arrived. My shoes stick slightly in the damp earth.

The postal worker, Andrew Donnovan, whom I’ve known for many years always remarks with a chuckle at the positioning of my cottage, as the back faces the road. He assumes this remark tickles me being the jolly old fellow he is. I always act put out and say I enjoy my back to the world.

Today, a package has arrived wrapped in brown paper. The return address is from a solicitor who I am not acquainted with. I quickly pile the narrow envelopes atop the package, to deter the questions I know are about to be asked. To my surprise his only remark being, lawyers are always causing trouble and receiving a pay check to do so. He tips his hat and says, Have a good day.

I rub my hands together and commence the ritual of pouring cream first and then finally adding the coffee. The bitterness stings my tongue, the warmness finds my stomach, and a comfortable feeling settles in.

The desk, my work place is cluttered as I worked long into the night. I shuffle papers and read bits of notes to acquire direction of a starting point. Memoirs, if it is about one’s life it should be easy like a list, each year being a number. But this is not so. It is more like the shifting of gears and one has to hear the years to know when to go on to the next year.

I sort the mail, the small package I am still holding in my hands. Staring at it the shape is that of a book.. I clip the string and a folded letter falls out.

I know this book - I have held it before - its cover is smaller than its pages. The title - there is none. The contents are carefully drawn renditions of poisonous plants. Holding the book close to my heart I feel tears begin to well up - they fall in a steady stream down my cheeks. I reach for the letter.

Dear Miss Porter,

It is with regret and grave sadness I write this letter. Our dear friend Miss Julia Lovelace … has passed away on August 13th. I was the one person requested to attend the burial. She died as she lived, alone. As her solicitor as well as her friend I was asked to pass on to you her journal. She also has specified there is a trunk and with its contents to do as you wish.

I am available Thursday, October 3rd and will meet with you at her dwelling if this is convient time. Please leave word with my office. Again, I am deeply saddened.

Colin Prichard, Esquire

My hand shakes as I fold the letter and place it on the desk. I open the book - the watercolors are faded now, still beautiful, a bit crude. I smell the herbs on some pages more than others. I feel her presence on the very first page.

… to be continued …

No Responses »

 

The Muse Box Thursday, Oct 26 2006

~Soul Food ABC’s~

Choosing the box became the simple part of this artist endeavor. I have had for many years a paper mache type box I have used it for storing sewing notions. It is square in shape and rather large.

My hands have touched the items many times and I found I used it more out of necessity, than choice . It became a place of many colors of thread, some white, various shades of crayon colors, a blue denim for patching my children’s jeans and variegated colors of autumn for a quilt, I have yet to finish. Various parts to the sewing machine laid in one corner - a pressure foot, a wide zipper foot, and a multi design foot - all pieces shiny and silver. Leopard skin handled scissors ~just~ used for fabric hid nicely along the side. And lastly, a tape measure wrapped securely with a rubber band - perhaps stretched and adding improper inches to one’s waist or hips.

All these items are now residing in a black box, it’s lid embellished in hot pink, which I received through the mail from a dear friend who resides in Paris. A very good home, indeed, for items that ~hold~ fabric together.

Sewing, thread and fabric hold all together and the box represents a type of foundation which is needed for heart and sometimes soul felt questions, plus statements of surrender. It could not be just any box.

The God or Muse box has a new face, a sealer for the foundation so to speak. It’s color, the golds of autumn, creamy in texture. It goes on smoothly and I begin to think of embellishment. A vintage theme, perhaps. I decide, no, as I add a second coat of bottled fall paint.

Roses are painted on the box and lid in textured paint, applied with the help of a stencil and randomly dry brushed metallic gold paint catch the light of day - it is finished, and I am happy with the results. As it drys I envision the box on my small desk and wonder do I place it on the right or the left side?

My thoughts are flighty when I create. I remember the antique journal covers I have collected over the past couple of years. I carefully cut the binding off one journal. Painting these covers with the same technique and materials as the Muse Box, I prepare a new journal for writing tied with sheer ribbons.

I have given the project the reverence it needs to complete the original intention - to give over my grievances to a higher power. This will new for me, this ritual of giving over.

You can feel it’s power as I write on fresh linen paper I find in the desk drawer. I roll the paper tightly and tie with thin ribbon. Now, I walk away … I have read somewhere before asking the questions is just as important as having the answers.

No Responses »

 

The Wicked Garden Friday, Oct 6 2006

A dead murmur thrives in the garden of poison. Thick withering blooms blister the clumped earth. Weeds rustle along the twisting path of cold stone. She works wildly pinching ad pruning into the late hours of the blue night. Her hands sparkle with frost. Her frozen breath lingers. A strange grey light surrounds her …

to be continued …

No Responses »

 

Thinking Friday, Sep 29 2006

Credits: Every Stock Photos, by Hugo

Looking over the summer, I find myself relieved it is fall. The days are shorter and darkness comes swiftly. It is the time of preparing a nest - pulling out scatter rugs, the extra quilt or flannel blanket, and putting up freshly washed curtains that drape upon the floor. Crock pot soups, and fresh bread fill the kitchen with a strong scent. Windows scrubbed free of summer rain let in the smell of wet earth and fallen leaves. The once colorful flowers in the garden are shades of brown and take on a picture of romantic ruin.

No Responses »