Tote that barge, lift that bale!

My little community college is erecting a behemoth of a student center. It is at least as big as our new library, and that's four freaking stories tall. Yesterday, I sat on the patio of self-same library for a few, soaking up the vitamin D, and watched the workers. Now, the frame is all up, the walls are (mostly) bricked in, and the roof is about half shingled. It seems to me that it hasn't changed at all from the beginning of the semester, in January. I saw about 10 guys, in their little orange vests and white hardhats, just ambling about. None of them stayed still for very long, but none of them did anything as well. They shuffled from one end of the room I could see into to the other, several times, sometimes actually carrying something, a bucket, a tool belt. The one working the backhoe stood and watched his pal write things in a notebook. One guy climbed up to the roof, apparently just to look at it, because he immediately climbed back down. Funnily enough, he was the biggest of all of them, up there on that scaffold. Now, I know the economy sucks, and, if it were me, I wouldn't be in a hurry to finish a paying job either. But, guys, you've got to look busier! I know someone was working as I could hear an electrical tool buzzing somewhere in the guts of the monster. I figured that was where the foreman was at the moment.

Fun at the supermarket...

After my favorite Sunday morning meeting, the one where there are two speakers, and no one opines from the floor, thus saving me from hearing, yet again, what those really tiresome folks think, I headed out to Raley's. Now, usually I shop at (soul-sucking) Safeway, or Trader Joe's, or Costco, or Walmart, but today, I needed 1)AA batteries, 2)baking soda and 3) new garden gloves, not a long enough list to send me 6 miles up the freeway to Walmart, or down to Costco, and none of those things sit on the shelves at TJ's and I didn't trust Safeway to have good gloves at a decent price. Besides, Raley's has a nice public bathroom, always a relief. And I did find everything I needed, plus organic bananas and some nice Mandarin oranges for my nightly salad. Also caught up with the latest dirt on the beautiful people. Brangelina seems to always be on the verge of breaking up, and, let's be honest, don't we all wish they would, after being so nasty to that sweet all-American Jennifer, who by the way is never going to marry again? Britney has another baby bump, or a fondness for 31 Flavors. Unfortunately, the line moved too fast for me to get any of the juicy details. I had uncharacteristically remembered to bring in my green grocery bag, and found that Raley's gives a $.05 credit! How sweet is that! So, I toodled on home, put a battery in my wall clock, put a dish of baking soda in my waterheater closet (it's not a gas leak, I had that checked - something died under the house, I think), and am about to travel to the backyard, to sweep up the patio and pull some very big weeds, before putting up the market umbrella and unfolding the chairs so I can sit and admire my newly mowed pseudo-lawn. Ah, Sunday.

Rustling here...

Spring, ah. Return of life and all that stuff. What it really means is that the backyard is a jungle, again. And I always swear I will not let that happen, no no, not again! However, it rained, then I got sick for a week, and here we are. Happily, the lawnmower did its chugging best, and most of the really tall stuff is down to manageability, yay. Then I folded up the last of the piano box and crammed it into the recycling can. It begins, that good old ritual of spring cleaning. And nice as it is to feel so righteous, it is even nicer to have everything (well, some things) tidier, too. And isn't the mustard spectacular? It is everywhere now. I stopped by the side of the road on my way west the other night, to breathe in our sweet air, and shoot some lovely pictures for my collection. I am so blessed to live here in this amazing place.

Not so funny, no, not at all...

I am thinking of inside jokes, mostly because, in the process of sloooowwwly converting my vinyl into MP3 files, I was listening to Prokofiev's Classical Symphony, a little 12 minute marvel meant to emulate Mozart or Haydn, and considered a tiny gem in the musical lexicon. It rigidly adheres to the classical framework, while also kind of doing its own raspberry at the rigidity, too. Now, I hate inside jokes, actually. They are mean-spirited, even when I am one of those in the know. There was a time when I would just play along even if I was so far outside the know I couldn't find it at noon in the Sahara Desert, because not being "in" seemed to negate me as a person. It is a testament to my recovery process that I have no problem asking "what?" whenever I am out of the loop. And in that question is always a kind of "shame on you", I fear, like how nasty can you get, leaving me out here all by my lonesome. I'm not all that recovered, after all.

Photography, anyone?

I started taking photos with an eye to producing reference pictures for paintings. Then some images were just so fresh and sweet, all by themselves, I wound up framing them and putting on a little show, in a podunk bakery in Duncan's Mills, out in the middle of nowhere, but still, MY SHOW. I don't ever know if what I am doing is any good, really. I only know that, sometimes, something happens that I just love, like this yellow iris that was just minding its own business in our garden. I walked by it and its sisters for years there before stopping to focus my lens on it. Now, it is immortal! Well, at least noticed. I took a bunch of my images to the Digital Imaging class, heart in mouth, and hoped they were at least okay, and found that I was in the ballpark, for sure. An eye for photography is a gift from HP, for sure, and isn't it interesting that I can compose through a viewfinder, but have such a difficulty in my paintings that I just ordered a book about it from Amazon.com?

Happy accidents...

When I took my first art class, a defensive measure to counteract the mega-algebra Math 151 (two semesters in one, how smart am I), I thought I was taking a drawing and composition class. Surprise, it was design and composition. And the teacher was a ditz, and we did very little of either. Actually, I painted, a lot. That worked out just fine, was easy and fun. Now I have started my digital imaging class, which I thought would involve photography. Not so. Don't even need a camera to do this class. It is actually a photo montage kind of thing, very Dada. Not my favorite art style, one of those reactionary things that says anything new and different is also good. But I am up for this, mostly because one of my bugaboos in painting is composition, and arranging objects sounds like a good thing to do to learn about that. And I just love this teacher. I think I may be up for the BIG Photoshop class after this. We use Macs in this class, and I was surprised to find I enjoyed getting up to speed on one. I like the way the windows whoosh away, just get sucked off the screen. But those little symbols they use instead of alt and ctrl are a bit too cutesy-poo and smack of condescension to me, like we are all kindergarteners and can't read. Of course, they had to make their product different. And confusing.

Sunday thoughts...

It was one of those spring days that look lovely out the window, but in reality, there was a frigid wind that blew into all my orifices once I set foot out the door. This did not make me happy. Screw gratitude parking on days like this. I cozied up to the Center for Spiritual Living and went in to hear all about forgiveness, always a good thing. Saw a lot of dear and old friends I had not seen forever. Then sojourned down the 101 corridor to speak at a noon meeting, where once again, friends popped up. A quick trip to Costco yielded Sumatra coffee and one of those jumbo hot dogs with lots of relish and gourmet mustard, which I managed to scarf up on the short drive home. I then got out my vinyl and took my new turntable for a spin. First recording was Eugene Ormandy's 1960ish recording of Tchaikowsky's 7th Symphony. Wait, you say? He only wrote six, right? Right, but someone found the sketch of this one, at least the first two movements, then students filled out the requisite third and fourth, and voila! Listening to it, it is so obviously Tchaikowsky, so like him, and really brilliant. And kind of poppy and there is a scratch or two. Gee, this record is over 40 years old! What do you want, anyway? I'm actually rather proud that it is as good as it is. And precious. My youth in a cardboard sleeve. I get all gooey listening to it. And I remember a day when my husband yelled "come quick!" and we heard the self-same first two movements played as the 2nd Piano Concerto! I never want to forget that day, and how in love I was with this music. Still pretty wonderful, too.

Red-faced me...

My techie guy came by yesterday to solve my little sound problem with the computer. At his bequest, I had uninstalled the software that came with the new turntable and tried, once again, to get back my audio, alas, at no avail. So, he noodled around, looked perplexed, then decided to update my operating system while he mulled, and we schmoozed, and the dogs played with him. Pleasant moments here in the little yellow house. Finally, the update was finished doing its thing, and he noticed that there was no little light on the speaker, like there should be, if it was plugged in. Oops! Must find a way to keep dogs from under the desk. Was I embarassed or what! No wonder the troubleshooter kept folding on me. Anyhoo, he reinstalled the turntable, which he kind of lusted over, it is that nice. And sound does its little fanfare when Windows welcomes me every morning, and its little raspberry when I mess up. I especially missed that. Wish all problems were that simple.

Healing moments...

Well, just spent a happy quarter hour perusing celebrity mugshots and reading all about the style smackdown between Suri and Shiloh. Oooh, how purient am I! And what a sad comment on our society that this is the stuff that fascinates. Toddlers in designer garb, and SUNGLASSES! You've. Got. To. Be. Kidding. And I think it is a tie between Nick Nolte and Sam Shepard as to the most degrading mug shot. That Culkin kid looked the most stoned. And Robert Downey Jr. just looked fierce and pissed off. In fact, so did a lot of them. Isn't rich and famous enough? Oh, right. That's all about things and illusions. Real connections, now that's where it REALLY is. Bunch of lonely, angry, disillusioned folks out there, some of them beautiful and famous. And screwed up. Happily, so am I, but in a different way. Things have their place (like my new piano, which gives me much joy), but they are just things, and (like my old piano) temporary. What is real and enduring us who I am beneath all this, spirit. A wounded one, to be sure, but at least I know where the wounds are. And I know I can heal. Slooooowwly. And soberly.

Sifting through the pits...

So much for my bowl of cherries. Nasty cold blindsided me Monday, and kept me curled up in a feta position on my memory foam all day. Didn't even eat anything, that's how lousy I felt. I managed to rise up from my bed of pain and make the first session of my eight week class, thank HP, because otherwise I would have had to drop it. Not one that can afford any absences. And once again, today, I made it to Art History, to catch up with those slippery Egyptians, Khufu, Khafre and Menkaure, try to get back in the saddle. Meanwhile, back at the ranch, you would think that having two dogs would mean some puzzlement over the messes all over the house, but not so when one of them is the Pickle. Honestly, I chose this little hellion because of the ten serene years I have spent with her big brother Boo, thinking that this puppy would be mellow and sweet as he is. Alas, not so. If it is down there, Pickle will find it. Stuff out of the waste paper basket all over the living room floor. Stuff out of the pocket of my book bag all over the office floor. Stuff off the coffee table all over the bathroom floor. And let's not even mention all the stuff that winds up on the back lawn. I am fond of baskets. I have lots of them. Most are in various stages of being shredded, slowly, by teeny tiny teeth. You can see the wheels turning in that tiny mind, just waiting for me to turn away. And my attention has not been on her nearly enough lately, as I wend my way back to health. Oh, well, it's temporary.

Disappointments and frustrations...

So, that was the subject of my thought for the day. How apropos. Now, I love my new piano, all put together, plugged in. The first night, I sat and played and played and played. It had been a busy day, I was kind of buzzed, and it felt instinctual to play. The next day, I struggled. Is that an E or an E flat? My fingers stumbled along like a toddler on a mission. True, I was all stiff from sitting on the floor putting the damned thing together. But one should be able to expect to get BETTER, shouldn't one? Alas, not I. So I decided to hook up my new turntable that I got to turn my vinyl into MP3s and CDs. It was easy. And there was this little pink paper that said I would need to reset the default playback device after installing it, and I did that, and the sound worked just fine. Until I turned it on this morning, that is. No sound. I tried doing the thing over again. I hit the "troubleshoot" button, but it just keeps fluffing me off, saying the device is working just fine. It has been a while before I added anything hardware-wise to this system. I had forgotten that almost nothing has ever worked right the first (and second, and third) time. So, my records are here, in their boxes, waiting. Hysterical e-mail to techie person has not yet been answered. Back to tripping over my own fingernails. Chopin, roll over, baby! I'm coming back. Soon.

Wow, that was fast...

Just checked my e-mail, and piano is due to arrive TOMORROW. I thought at least two weeks, isn't that what always happens when you are excited about something? Wait, wait, wait. I just ordered it last Saturday, and if it arrives tomorrow, that's just five tiny days. So, time to flex muscles, and move the roll-top secretary desk to the back room to make room for the new baby piano here in my office/study/den. Really, I don't know what the hell this room is. I just know I spend more time in here than in any other in the house. And it is the perfect place for the piano. The one that is coming TOMORROW!

Another spoonful of guilt, please...

I was perusing my daily New York Times headlines they so sweetly e-mail to me everyday so that I will not miss anything important, like I did when Luciano Pavarotti died, and had the privilege of getting that gut-wrenching stab of culpability so reminiscent of my days as a Catholic. First, this delightful, insightful and frightening article about a $30 throw pillow caught my eye. The writer's decision about whether to buy or not to buy became an issue of immense economic importance. This pillow, already 40% off, represented the economy as a whole, and every structure from the Home Expo that offered it for sale to the Chinese foam factory, to the shipping company and draying company and import agent and fabric designer and sales clerk were sinking or swimming based on the outcome of his mulling. He didn't buy it. I wouldn't either. And in the end, it is a wonder that the designer pillow industry has been able to survive, at all. What kind of world is it that supports $30 throw pillows? And then there was the article about baby strollers. Some sociological person has done a study about the efficacy of forward-facing strolling vs. face-to-face strolling, and found that caretaker and child interact significantly more when the child rides backwards. And, of course, this is integral in the development of all sorts of skills for the baby. Well, both my children rode facing away from me, head on into the world. So I begin my day knowing I have not only deep sixed the economy, I have also damaged my children for life! Oh, hell, I will survive this. I always do. Maybe I will buy something today. For my kids.

Trills, mordents, rests and eighth notes, oh my!

Well, I did it. Twelve years ago I sold my piano, a Yamaha baby grand. I couldn't watch it being carted out my door for the last time. I was moving into a house on a steep hill, with beaucoup stairs, and there was no way we were going to get that sucker up there. The proceeds allowed me to live there, as well. I got more for it than I paid for it, so it was almost worth selling it. But my heart kept aching for a piano, and lately, I am thinking that my days here on the Big Blue Ball are numbered, and putting things off is not such a hot idea any more. So, I got my tax refund and I sold The Peanut Gallery, and I ordered a digital piano from Costco.com, just like that. I tried the one they had on the floor the other day, and it plays just like a regular instrument, with hammer action. And it is small, which is good, because so is my house, but, with digital enhancement, it will sound just like my grand did. How sweet is that! Someday, I hope to have another swell instrument, but for now, this is fine. I found all my music in the garage yesterday, and am happily perusing the Web for more. Abundance! Gratitude!

The time is now...

Gee, I really hate losing this hour that is flying away tonight. The older I get, the longer it takes to get used to little changes like this. I sort of have this internal clock, you know, one that knows what 6:20 PM is supposed to look like, and tomorrow, it will totally be 7:20 PM, and just not look right. I could move to Hawaii. They don't do this little dance with the clock. Oh, wait. I already did that. OK. Now to find all the clocks in my life, and there are bunches of them, like at least a dozen, when you count the coffee maker, the microwave, the stove, two VCRs, the wall clock here, two computers (which think the clock changes at the end of the month, so will have to be reset when they, um, reset), the alarm clock, the iHome dock, my watches (three of them, I like variety) and the clock in the car. Okay, that's FOURTEEN clocks. Like I need all these clocks, really I didn't ask for them, they just came attached to stuff. I am just praying I don't have to find any manuals to accomplish this. I want this watch I saw in one of my Woowoo catalogs, you know, one full of angels and zen stones, stuff like that. It had no hands, and just said NOW. Which is what it always is, anyway.

Okay, this is just tooooo cute!

So, here I am, decompressing from this morning's madness midterm in Art History, kind of diddling around on the computer, and I keep hearing this little knocking sound on the carpet beside me. And there's Pickle, wagging her tail and chasing little pinpoints of light that are shimmering in from between the blinds. She is as happy as a pig in s--t, this little dog, who very well may be part cat, because I think this is cat-like behavior. I wouldn't know for sure, never having had a cat stick around long enough to find out. Anyway, this is joy in a flufly little package, just leaping about, not caring if she looks silly or not. I want what she has!

May I gripe?

Ah, a trip to the post office, guaranteed to bring out the worst in just about everybody. The guy behind me was pretty steamed, for sure. There were 18 people in line in front of me, and two clerks working. One was the Business Line guy. People were coming in with packages piled too high to see over, and he was slooooowly stamping and weighing, weighing and stamping. The other clerk spent 15 minutes schmoozing with this couple, who had one, count 'em, one package to mail. To the moon, presumably. Eventually, another clerk arrived, and he spent 10 minutes getting set up, counting his bills one at a time. while we all shuffled our feet. And his very first customer wanted something he didn't know how to do, so he spent another 5 minutes talking to the other clerk, and neither of them were helping any of us. I would have left, but it was worth $90 for me to stand in that line, to return an item I didn't order and didn't want, so I counted my blessings. After all, as dorky postal employees are, we are fortunate to have a postal system that works as well as it does. And I am GRATEFUL, goddamnit. Really I am. And what do I expect at the post office, Einstein clones? Like, get over it.

Wet dogs and rubber boots...

Well, it's raining, again. And don't you just love it when they say it won't help the drought conditions? Like, it's going to hurt them? Doom and gloom, everywhere. I am pretty cozy here in the little yellow house. Wish I could say that is where I will be all day, but not so. School today, and hairy midterm looms, so I had best show up. And later, some shopping. I broke my only hand mirror the other day and have been using an itty-bitty compact to check the back of my hair before heading out the door. I would be horridly upset if I walked out with my hair all mushed in, looking like a senile old lady. Walmart seems to be my best bet, as I also need mouthwash and dog biscuits and probably a DVD or two. Oh, there's bound to be more stuff I need, just eludes me at the moment. Then home to study like a good little student. Happily, we already had a quiz on half of this material, which I am sure I aced (we get it back today). So, all I need to do is buy my green books (which used to be blue, go figure), fire up my ball point, and off we go.

A little bitty birdie...

When I lived in the house at the edge of the world, we had lots of hummingbirds. In the medicine cards, they are JOY. One of my favorite things, joy. This is incredibly loose and certainly will need some fine tuning, or maybe not. I can never be sure. Just had lots of fun with my tongue tucked between my teeth, brushes in hand, slap-slapping away. Never know what is going to emerge from the canvas. Surprise.

Day two, bird number one...

New and improved bird. He is kind of doing that coy thing, looking at us over his shoulder. The branch got some details, the values got pumped up, the feathers got a smidge more definition. It feels pretty done now. Time to order frames!

A little birdie told me...

Pictures of birds are big right now, so, I painted one. Probably it is not the right kind of bird, but I like it a lot, so there. It is a hoary repoll, a Canadian bird. Well, we have a lot of Canadians here, like William Shatner and Michael J. Fox, I can import one if I want. Besides, it was just so very cute, and fun to paint. Don't know if it is done, that will take some time to decide, as usual. I'm off to the art supply store for some more small canvasses. I am just a painting fool these days.

Mea culpa...

Okay, I adhere to a diet of natural foods, not necessarily organic, but at least complex in their carbohydrates and not endowed with additives. Bread is something I eat sparingly, and it is usually 7 grain or oatnut or my very favorite, Health Nut. And, suddenly, out of the blue, came this CRAVING for sourdough, made from (gulp) refined white flour. Garlic bread, made with this marvel of the culinary universe, is beyond heavenly. Certainly this cannot be a terrible sin in the nutrition lexicon of nonos. Yet, it seems devilshly wonderful to have one meager slice with my homemade split pea soup, made with turkey bacon and olive oil, with onions and carrots straight from nature. I didn't even butter it! And I have this feeling that I just got away with something my mother forbad me to do. Of course, Safeway would not let me buy a single slice. There is a whole loaf of badness waiting for me. French toast made with sourdough! Grilled cheese sandwiches! Sinning was never so delicious.

The day after Wicked...

For over 2 months, my daughter and I have been waiting to go and see Wicked, wonderfully musical and irreverant and sexy retelling of the story of the Wizard of Oz from the viewpoint of Elphaba and Glinda, the witches, bad and good. Now it has happened, and as usual, I have my post-excitement hangover. Honestly, at my august age, you would think I would have become more inured to ecstatic moments, but no, I am still all stirred up and have a way to come down afterward. Actually, I am not sorry about this at all. I think an attitude of wonder is a swell place to dwell, where the world can still amaze me, the natural as well as the artificial. And musical theater is a sincere artform, for sure. The sets were ingenius, the lighting was amazing, the songs fun and touching and, on occasion, brought tears to our eyes, the cast talented up to their ears. Energy abounded in the dancing and some characters got to fly, even. I knew the music by heart because daughter-mine gave me the original cast recording for Christmas (and the play was the second part of the present, how sweet was that), and she had to keep me from singing along. I am doing that here in the privacy of my house, serenading my dogs, today. Warm and fuzzy day in the Big City with Little Kiddo, one for the memory book.

Things they made me do in school...

Check these out. One is an abstract, obviously, but notice the palette of hues, they kind of resonate with one another, don't they. These were assignments I had to do for class, both with different aims. Both are destined to be painted over, as neither is up to what I could consider signing. Both were a lot of fun to do. I got really into slashing the brush over the canvas, which I stretched myself, by the way. And the still life was about spots of color. Really, I did my best there, but I was sick one day we were working on it, and it is really big, and, well, I could have done a better job. Whatever, I got an A in that class, because of my dedication to doing whatever I was told to do. That is the benefit of being a grown-up in school. There has to be some benefit to going to school in your sixties, doesn't there?

Friday morning, barely awake...

It was one of those nights of inner storms. Dear Eckhart (Tolle) would be ashamed of all the addictive thoughts that marched through my head like a crazed army, creating chaos as the trudged along. I slept late, until a well-meaning friend, who knows better than to call me before 9 AM, rang me up. My phone plays Vivaldi, and it is kind of sweet to wake up to the strains of Spring, from the Four Seasons. Nevertheless, I could have used another hour. And Lord knows, the dogs would wait for me. They were both overjoyed to see me when I rose. They always are. It's their job. So, I have imbibed my first cup of Sumatra, a stack of lovely lacy thin pancakes with peach preserves and whipped cream with chopped nuts and cinammon on top, and read my e-mail. Wonderful article in my NY Times movie review section on David Cronenberg, who made two of my all time weird favorite movies, Videodrome and Naked Lunch. Have I mentioned I like quirky movies, things like Local Hero and Bagdhad Cafe? I love that the Coen Brothers came to the attention of the mainstream, yet loved it when they were obscure and I stood pretty much alone in my adoration. In high school, I started fashion trends. Why wait around for others? Mine always looked good on me! And I admire those on the avant garde in all aspects, like I was a Steve Martin fan long before he hit the mainstream with Roxanne. The Lonely Guy, The Man with Two Brains, comic genius, so much better than Adam Sandler or Jim Carrey, so much more cerebral in a nutso kind of way. Like, well, ME. I am here because I am not all there. And I am very proud of that fact. Why should I hide my head, or troop off to the funny farm? I am not any more nuts than the average American. And I can rein it is when I need to. And let it out, when appropriate. And I can laugh at myself. Thank HP. I would be in big trouble if I didn't do that, regularly.

Getting with the program...

Did I mention that I joined Facebook? Or does one really join? One really just sets up a home page and waits for others to find one, doesn't one. Well, I did it because I like to be a peripheral part of my kid's lives, nothing obtrusive, oh, nonono. But I feel comforted when I know they are just plugging along, situation normal, not sick or broke or too discontented. So my profile sat there, and I was thinking that I was probably the only 60ish kind of person in the community, and suddenly, a whole bunch of friends found me, and I have a dozen and a half people writing on my wall! Even my former boss is on Facebook, probably doing the same thing I was, lurking in his kid's lives. Gee, I never knew how much fun I could have on my computer! And I am happy to relate that some of my friends are YOUNG. I don't discriminate, not at all. And I hope you don't, either. Everyone comes with a gift to bring to the table. Sometimes it is hard to see. Remember, if you can't be a good example, you'll have to be a horrible warning. That's a gift, too.

Old dog, new tricks...

I am sitting here in my sweats, face naked, only a moderate case of bedhead, thinking about the day four years ago when I moved in to the little yellow house. I had the house for a couple of weeks before I had to move, so I was slowly doing all those things one must do in the beginning, you know, lining shelves, buying a refrigerator, things like that. And so that Boo would not get hemorrhoids sitting on the cold tile floor (it was January, after all), I bought him a blue brocade and fleece dog bed. He totally ignored it. That (*^%&! bed has sat in the same place in a corner of the kitchen lo these many years. Usually, it is a repository of dog toys, which have proliferated mightily with the advent of the Pickle. But lately, Boo has deserted me in the night. I thought he was sleeping on the couch, and he would, if I didn't have that room barricaded off since I found little yellow spots here and there. Now, he is sleeping in the dog bed. And I am worrying that he is sick. Truly unusual behavior for the Boo. He throws out all the toys first, climbs in and curls up. And he even does this sometimes during the day! I suppose it is a little nuts to worry that your dog is sick because he sleeps in the bed you bought him to sleep in. What can I say. I never said I wasn't a little nuts. Apparently, it's contagious, since Boo seems to have caught it.

Tripping down memory lane...

Once upon a time, I lived in the Big City, right across the street for Golden Gate Park. I used to take my little one to the playground there regularly, and every so often, on a pretty day, we would walk down to the Academy of Sciences, where there was an aquarium, a planetarium, and a museum of natural history. Many a happy moment was spent strolling down that concourse and into that big marble building that looked as permanent as the Rock of Gibralter. Except that the last time I was across the street, at the De Young Museum, in their new observation tower, where the Academy had crouched so stately, there was nothing but a big hole. Well, they finished the new one, and it is a pip. Because it is still a major whoppee, I got tickets in advance and took my little guy, now 6 ft. 5 in. tall and 40 years old, for a day of exploring and saying "wow" a lot. Little kiddo and her beau joined us later, after we had done the rain forest (there are more than 5,000 species of butterfly in the rain forest - wow), and were beginning to check out all those fish. Upside down jellyfish were pretty spectacular, as were the little moon jellies. The freshwater rays were bespeckled, and the big black one with white spots kept lording it over the babies, chasing them away. I loved the shrimp, some of them smaller than my fingernail (probably why they are called "shrimp", you think) and all brightly colored and just amazingly delicate. Then we came to the lumpsuckers. No, I didn't make that up, there are actual creatures with that name, and they look like tiny hippos. They don't swim very well and tend to perch on the rocky bottom like strange little fat birds. Oh, and there was the fish that guards the shrimp' hole, and the pipe fish, and the sea horses, and the decorator crab. I came away just in awe of the variety of life we have on this little dirt ball we live on, and how precious it all is. In the end, we found the penguins behind a big window at the end of the natural history museum, and a bunch of us humans were all fascinated by this one little guy, who kept coming up to the edge, looking like he was about to dive in, only to sidle away and hop to another rock, before hopping back and perching on the very edge again. He knew he had us, this rapt audience, and continued this for about 10 minutes before finally diving in. We all applauded. Humans are so easily amused, you know. All in all, it was a fine outing, nostalgic as well as new and exciting, and next time, I hope to do a planetarium show. It is in a huge orb, very futuristic, and I bet that is really scintillating. I may be old, but I can be childish forever.

Aaaarrrrrgh.....

Computers are lovely creatures, when they work. I bought tickets online to the California Academy of Sciences for this Saturday. They just opened their new facility in Golden Gate Park, and frequently sell out, so I was making sure my 60 mi. trip into the City would not wind up a bust. I opted to print out the tickets right in my own little office, and save a wait in line. Hey, it's cold out there! Well, tickets were a PDF file, and Adobe just refused to let me accept their #$&$% license agreement and kept closing on me. Advice from my techie kind of guy led me to scan with my 2 dynamite anti-everything-bad programs. One did just that. The other kind of stared me down and refused. Well, I remembered techie guy told me I would have to register and pony up for that one, so I did. $55. And it refused to install itself. HOW FRUSTRATING! I should note, however, that in the process, I was led to the Adobe page, where I updated to the newest version, and was able to PRINT THE TICKETS! Now, all I have to do is get this @#%*^% program to install, and all will be well. I hope. Until next time. Yes, there is always a NEXT TIME,

Stump rules!

Last night was the second night of the annual Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show, the 133rd. Westminster is the second oldest sporting event in the nation, only the Kentucky Derby is older, and every year, I settle in with my dog(s) and wax all gooey over these amazingly beautiful animals. The last group to be judged was the Working Dogs, and, oh boy, there was Stump! Stump is a Sussex spaniel, and looks like a cross between an Irish setter and a Basset hound, very much a unique little guy, but of course, he isn't, since he was the best of breed. Stump won this group 5 years ago, and I really rooted for him to be Best in Show, but, alas, not to be. And here he was again, 10 years old (like my Boo, who really is totally unique, you know), strutting his stuff, bold as brass. And he won Group, again! I scared the hell out of Pickle, who was nesting at my side, by jumping up and down and yelling a lot. Yay, Stump! And then, the best thing happened. Stump was named Best in Show! Talk about comebacks! That made my day. Hell, it made my year! There's hope for all of us. Stump is not glamorous like the standard poodle that won Non-Sporting Group, or perky like the Scottish terrier, or elegant like the Scottish deerhound. He is kind of pudgy, droopy, jowly, sort of like ME! Except that he is low to the ground, and I'm not. So, here's to Stump. My hero.

Another little one...

Say hello to Baby. Cannot seem to get off this cow thing. Also cannot say I am thrilled with this, but it is done for the moment. Onward. Must meditate on what to do next. I am thinking flowers would be nice. Or vegetables, fruit. A portrait of Pickle? That's a possibility, too. Anything, just not cows. But, then, you never know. Life has a way of surprising me, just when I didn't expect it.

Necessary evils...

I had not really spent my Christmas money. I was mulling about it, maybe an old upright piano? A whole bunch of professional, highly saturated pigments? Really, the pleasure of deciding how to spend money is just as sweet as the new object at the end. And then, I had a flat tire. Again. The same one that went flat a month ago, on Christmas Eve, and how inconvenient was that? Do you know how hard it is to find a station that offers air? Most of those compressor thingies were broken or the coin slot was jammed, and there I am, driving on a mostly flat tire, flipped out. Yes, I have AAA, and if it was entirely flat, I could have called them. But no, it was just mostly flat. How annoying. I have a couple of long drives scheduled later this month, and a moderately long one tomorrow night, when I am scheduled to sojourn out to West County, to regale the alcoholics with my AA story at the 8 PM meeting, so I called my favorite tire shop this morning, the ones that patched this tire up last year, and, with assurances that they could get me on the road in time for my noon class, they put my little puddlejumper up on the rack, and lo and behold, all those tires were looking, well, tired. So, baby got new shoes for Christmas. Not that I resent it, oh, nonono. I worry a lot about the state of my tires, not unreasonably, either, because I know NOTHING about them, and have had the delight of many a flat in the past. I just hate stopping doing what I think I should be doing to take care of this stuff. In the end, though, I get to do what I do without a thought or frownline. And I got these really nifty metal caps. Sort of looks like a new car, too. Makes me want to wash it, again.

One tricky pony...

Sure am tired of this #$&*$@ horse. Have been around the block and back again, deciding on colors, strokes, blah, blah, blah. Now have deepened values, given it a kind of glowy thing. I went online and looked at a bunch of landscapes to get this far with it. And I like it, sort of. I thought it needed more value contrast, lights to darks, and it does pop now that I have darkened both the background and the foreground. Not necessary to paint in every blade of grass or every leaf on the trees. In fact, I like it best when most of these details are muted and fuzzy and just insinuated. The horse, well that's another matter. The horse should look like what it is. I think I got that down pat. Great learning experience, this oeuvre.

Friday thoughts, redux...

Every year, I do a spending chart in my Lotus 123 program (never learned Excel, never will). I chart what I expect to receive, which I usually know right to the penny, then what I expect to spend. At the end of the month, there is always money left over, and, by carrying that forward, by December I should have about $5,000. This was the same last year, and the year before. Has it ever happened? Not that I remember, and I definitely would remember having $5,000 in my bank account. Whatever could the problem be? So, I am making it a priority this year to keep track of what I spend, when I spend it. I allow $125 a month for groceries. I am, after all, one little person, how much could I need? Haven't the foggiest if that is what I actually need to spend. And I give myself a $60 allowance for gas. That's probably very generous, now, but not too long ago, I'm sure I spent more. And there is the big $450 I allow for "miscellaneous". This is to cover trips to WalMart for cryptogram puzzle books, Tshirts, DVDs, stuff like that. And Costco, for books and printer cartridges. Not to mention entertainment, movies, dinners out, etc. Well, we are about to find out where all that $$$ has been going. Of course, now that I am watching what I spend, it is likely I will spend less, because I don't want to embarrass myself by not keeping my original spending plan. Whatever, it's a good thing, right? And the new month has not even begun, and I spent more than half my grocery allowance. Probably it was those yogurt almonds that threw the plan off. Oh, well.

Equine splendor...

Gee. I hope I am done with this image. All those subtle colors and feathery hair flying and white on white on white, I am practically snowblind here. I think it came out swell, though and, if I can resist the temptation to keep pottering at it, will grace my wall soon. Challenging, to say the least. But I also feel ever so much more certain of my abilities after tussling with this image. Whatever comes next, it will much darker in value than this was. Cannot wait to see what that may turn out to be.

Moving forward, or not...

Some of my first drawings were of horses, really complicated drawings done from illustrations in My Friend Flicka, or Thunderhead, the sequel. So, I thought I would try one again, and here it is. Can you tell that the reference photo is kind of washed out in color, so that the hues are all kind of mushed together, and I cannot tell whether it should be warm or cool or whatever? And I am sure you can see that I am equivocating in that regard. I think in the end, I will tend toward warm, and put in more oranges and yellows. Or not. Fun to be drawing a horse, again, 55 years later.

The evolution of Sweet Thing...

Well, I decided that she looked a little too smooth, sort of like an illustration you would see in a child's primer, easy to recognize, but not exactly exciting. And I am not sure she is done, but she is more what I had in mind. I want my paintings to reflect my process, my brushstrokes, my color sense, and, yes, my drawing ability. Not that it is such a big thing, being able to draw - it is an inborn talent that I only discovered in the last few years, after not knowing a thing about it for 61 years. That's a long rime for a talent to be hidden. But, there is was, along with the shame of not being able to tell left from right, or getting lost if I go out a different door at Macy's. It's just part of what went into the recipe that became, well, me. I like Sweet Thing much better now, her personality is kind of shining out of the canvas. I brought home some art books to study, (Childe Hassam, John Singer Sargent) and some of their ideas wound up in this painting. Ever the student, that's moi.

And then I did THIS...

I named her Buttercup, now that she is all warmed up. Poor thing was all cold, blue and purple. Even the red part was cool, alizerin crimson is on the blue side. Nothing was working in this painting, except I liked the composition, and it was rife with possibilities and I didn't want to paint over it. So, this happened today. This is the beauty of oils. You can just keep changing and changing and changing them. It is also the curse, because nothing is ever really done, never, ever. Give me a couple of brushes, some pigments, and enough time, and I could paint until my last breath. And how would I know what doesn't work if I didn't try things, anyway? Funny thing, art. It appears to be delightfully malleable.

Sweet Thing got a makeover...

Usually, I don't like to finish things too tightly, but Sweet Thing was looking a little flat when I took another look at her this morning, so I could barely wait to get at her again this afternoon, when I had finished with my morning errands, did a meeting, took back my library books, got new ones, got myself a pizza for dinner, important things like that. And she is more three dimensional than she was, highlighted, lowlighted, sculpted, actually. Well, I suppose it is good to know how to do that. And now I do. That jawline got big, then it got small again, it was pink, it was yellow, it was all over the place. I am satisfied with it now, as I look at it reproduced her on the page. Not what I thought I was doing when I started, but SURPRISE! Isn't that what it is all about, anyway? Like, do we really ever know what is going to happen next? Even when the brush is in my hand, I still don't have a clue, and that's a good thing. Makes life ever so much more interesting.

This may be the last cow,,,

Here is Sweet Thing. I diddled her up this afternoon, and she is pretty much done, for a few days, anyway, till all the very thick paint I dabbed here and there is dry, and I can go back in to touch her up. I am feeling complete with cows for a while, and thinking I will work on some horses, next. I used to draw horses when I was a teenybopper. Well, didn't we all have a phase like that, where Black Beauty and Flicka beckoned? And I was fortunate to have a boyfriend that had horses, and I rode all over our rural county on a strawberry roan who couldn't get out of second gear, ever. It was an exciting moment when I urged him into a gallop, much less a lope. Well, onward, another opus coming, I am sure. Had a great time with this one, that's for sure. And honed my ability a lot, too. Confidence just oozes out of me. I am ready for anything. Right.

A bit crushed here...

Verrrrry excited to go to see Wicked in the Big City with Little Kiddo (her treat, my Christmas present) on Feb. 22. Sorry to say, it is same day as Oscars, and I have a long string of years piled up behind me of watching them, since back in the 50's, actually. Our show is a matinee, and probably I could scoot home in time to catch some of them, but it will not be the same. Sigh. However, so happy that Richard Jenkins has been nominated for The Visitor. He made a real impression on me in The Witches of Eastwick, where he played the long suffering husband of that prudish woman who got all hot and bothered about Darrell and his playmates, and beat her to death with a fireplace poker before hanging himself. Actors like Richard give stellar performances all the time. They are just small parts, in inconsequential movies that escape the Academy's notice. And I don't think it hurt that this was a year bereft of a lot of really scintillating cinema, at least in my humble opinion. Whatever, I am always comforted when excellence is recognized, even when that actor involved is pocked and bland in visage as oatmeal. Gives little old lumpy, dumpy me hope.

They just keep coming, those cows...

Gee, I like this gal. Every painting teaches me something new. I learned here that I like warm colors a lot more than cool ones. And I can paint grass, trees, and weeds without pickiness, just kind of insinuate them onto the canvas. And the animal is pretty loose, too, just value on value, yet she is really, well, real, isn't she. Now, that's really amazing. The final test is whether or not I like the result, and, so far, I think I do. I noticed a couple of holidays I will have to cover up, but, all in all, it's pretty finished. Guess this is progress, because I am 99% sure of that this time. Don't want to do too much else here. It all seems to be working. That's progress. I think.

The impertinence of it all..

If you have been alive and reasonably awake in the past few years, you may have noticed that Jane Austen is enjoying a major comeback. I suppose it may have begun with Emma Thompson's spirited (and Oscar winning) script for Sense and Sensibility, followed by Gwyneth Paltrow's suitably charming meddling rendition of Emma. The A&E mini-series starring Colin Firth as the haughty Mr. Darcy certainly fanned the fires, and droolingly handsome as he was, I fell just as hard for Matthew McFayden's Darcy, bumping so fiercely as he does up against Keira Knightly's passionate Elizabeth Bennet. Anne Hathaway simpered in Becoming Jane, and some enterprising young woman wrote Mr. Darcy's Story. Having read Pride and Prejudice for the very first time last summer, I happily picked up this tome, and have now read it, twice. And I own The Jane Austen Book Club, now one of my top 20 favorite movies. So how thrilled was I to happen on this mini-series on Ovation TV, a new discovery of mine in the panoply of stations my provider, um, provides, called Lost in Austen, about the Austenphile Amanda Pricein modern London who changes places with Elizabeth and proceeds to "cock up" the whole story, resulting in Jane being married to Mr. Collins, Bingley becoming a drunk, and Darcy in love with Amanda. I know Amanda's affection for Austen, for the mannerly life, where passions are suitably restrained and even the most vile of insults are grammatically correct and lined in velvet language. Our world has become so brash, so in-your-face. Civility has evaporated, probably in the steam of our cinema and the blistering of our popular music. Let's face it, Rock 'n Roll was spunky compared to Hard Rock, which was downright raw, and Rap and HipHop, well, they are barely sentient. We are devolving into knuckle-dragging numbness. No wonder we are fascinated with the innocence of these people, in their high collars and top hats or empire gowns, for whom the touch of a hand or glimpse of the loved one asleep is electric. The drama is all in the intrigue, who will wind up with who, who will make the advantageous match and transcend her humble position. Take me back to the time when a furtive glance could make one drip with desire.

And the cows go on...

Gee, this was fun. Loosey goosey painting playing with just a little non-local colors here and there, see what happens if I do this. Do you suppose Matisse did that? Or Van Gogh? Well, Van Gogh probably saw things the way he painted them. Poor guy was so manic when he painted, he often couldn't stop to even pick the paint up with the brush. Some of his floral works look like he squeezed the paint right out of the tube onto the canvas. I haven't gotten there, yet. Still, somehting to think about, yes? Can't wait to see what will happen next in the cow opus. I am as surprised as anyone when the painting is done. Hell, I never know what is going to happen next, anyway. Why would I not be surprised?

Winter in my little corner of the world...

I took this picture on my way to dinner at the Chinese restaurant up the street. This field is right in town, or city, I guess. It used to be a town, and the little clubhouse across the street from this field was in the middle of the country when I was a girl. My grandparents used to take me there when they went square dancing. Remember square dancing? You're probably old like me. Anyway, the mustard is just beginning to show its stuff. Later is will blanket most of the west county and be breathtaking. I just love that yellow things bloom in the winter, the darkest season. Daffodils cannot be far behind.

I never saw a purple cow...

New day, new painting. Now, this cow is probably beige. She is in shadow, so it is hard to tell, and the reference photo picked up all the colors you now see, really. This is just a bare beginning, about an hour of dab, dab, splash, splash. You can see what I like doing best, modeling this magnificent beast. I think it will wind up pretty loose, and pretty wild in the end. Time for a new idea, I think. Don't know where this one came from, it just emerged from the canvas, from the very first stroke of the brush. Wonderful when that happens. Pickle was kind of miffed, and kept hitting me in the calf with her big puffy ball. Not one to give up easily, my Pickle. I love her, but I love painting more. I see real possibilities in this one. Happy, happy, joy, joy!

Another one for the opus...

Here is completed Peanut Gallery. As usual, I will stroke my chin hair for a few days, deciding what needs to be fine tuned or punched up of just fixed, but I think the final idea is on the canvas. And I am anxious to start my next one, a lovely white cow all backlit and full of non-local colors, you know, colors you would not expect to see there. Like Matisse, with his green-faced woman in the hat. I am pickier than Matisse, for sure. No squeezing paint right out of the tube onto the canvas. Yet. That may come, later. I think I am proud of this little rendering. It wasn't all that easy, and I had to paint over eyes several times to get them looking right. And the temptation was there to make these guys really cutesy-poo. I think I resisted it pretty much. I hope. They are really cute, of course, in a real cow-way. They are Brown Swiss babies, and that is just about the most delightfully pretty cow breed there is. Even the adults are pretty amazingly cute. Very happy with the result, actually. That little old artist, ME!

Welcome to Spring...

Semester, that is, though the weather thinks it is, too. Honestly, it is about 80 degrees out there. The kids were all in tees and flipflops. Listed under things-that-are-dumb-to-do-on-the-first-day-of-classes are attempting to park in the parking garage anytime after 7 AM, and buying your textbook at the bookstore, even if the line outside is tiny or even non-existent, because the line inside is hella-long, even though there are 11 cashiers cachinging away. I parked across the street, which still seems to be insider information and had many available slots, then braved crossing Mendocino Ave it's plethora of drivers who hate that crosswalk flasher, and inched past the smarmy bible guys (thy're green this year, eco-friendly drivel?) So, after the happy quarter hour stuck in a parade of other hopefuls in the garage and another half hour in the bookstore, I went to the library coffee shop for my first chai baba chai of the semester. New person, it was lukewarm. I did get to peruse the year in review in People magazine while sipping away. Teacher was late to class, and, once again we got the syllabus read to us. College or no college, they are taking no chances that anyone is going to misunderstand the requirements of being an adult. They were all there in black and white, some even in boldface. I am home now after a quick trip to the Central Library, where I was graciously treated by the librarian, who accepted my replacement book for the one Pickle gnoshed on the other night. Now have nothing to do except slap away at my Peanut Gallery painting, still fine-tuning that sucker. Retirement rocks!

The peanut gallery...

Another cow picture, new little ones, and aren't they cute. Challenging, these little faces, but not necessary that they be perfect, just important that the viewer see them as little cows and I think it is successful in that regard. And I don't want them to be too cutesy-poo. Coy is not attractive in my book. Coy is about cheap greeting cards with butterflies and daisies. There is more to work on here, but the idea ia there. Very satisfying to get this far in an hour and a half, yes?

Good idea, in principle...

I decided to quit buying books and actually go take them out of the library. This is especially attractive now that I have learned how to reserve them online. How slick is that! And I save $$$! Could it get any better?! So I went online, and got immediately bumped off. The next day, I was downtown, so I meandered over to the main branch and selected my mystery novels in the old fashioned way, and found that my card had expired. No problemo, they updated their records, and I was all set to go. I reserved three books by this author I came upon recently, who writes terse mysteries about a lawyer in New Jersey (wonder if he knows Stephanie Plum, who lives there, too). They have been coming in, one at a time, and I picked up two of them a couple of days ago. One is new, and due back in 7 days, so I read it first. Last night, I was getting ready to crawl into bed, so I threw the book and the remote onto the bed, and sojourned out to the office to shut everything down, and kind of decided to check the e-mail on last time, and when I got back into the bedroom, Pickle had embossed the book with her teethmarks. It was still readable, if somewhat unpalatable for anyone who does not adore Pickle. Sigh. This morning, I checked the local book vendors, and they didn't have this one in stock, so off I went to Amazon.com, to order it with 2 day delivery, $28.00. Ouch. I could have bought 5 paperbacks for that amount (at Costco). Mea culpa, mea culpa. Dog does what dog does. Though this is the first time she has done this one. Atleast it was the new one, that is still available in hard cover. Sigh.

What I did while I was doing nothing...

I think that since I don't work for any one else, I am not doing anything. Here is what I did today: took Boo to vet, went to post office to send back book I got by mistake, came home and made the bed, checked and answered my e-mail, wrote a course description for a friend who is conducting a drawing class, wrote in my blog, went to the library to pick up the books I requested online, made some applesauce, made lunch, did two loads of laundry, loaded and ran the dishwasher. I think there were a few other things, too, I just can't remember them at the moment. Oh, I took out the garbage, as it is that day again, then went out and brought the cans back in once they had been emptied. And I talked to a couple of friends on the phone, finished a mystery novel and began another, the one that is new and is due in a week. I have to run now, I want to clean the bird's cage before I put her to bed, so I can crawl in with the Boo and the Pickle. It is so wearing, not working.

Boo and Pickle go to the dog doctor...

I was being a good little dog mommy and paying Boo's license fee for the year when I noticed this sentence "Be sure to attach rabies certificate". Did I have one of those. Indeed I did, and I even found it. It was three years old. Oops. So, I made an appointment for 9:20 AM this morning, which meant I had to set the alarm, something that doesn't happen very often at all in the little yellow house, no, not any more. Both dogs were suitably alarmed when it went off. Now, Pickle has never ever been left all alone, without Boo, so she had to go with us. I couldn't find the brace, so had to take them on separate leads, with Pickle on the short one, of course. Boo got the extendable one, which allowed him to climb into the car first, thus showing Pickle how it is done. Right. She wanted to go anywhere except into the car. Finally, I picked her up and dumped her in. On the driver's seat, where she dug herself in and refused to budge. I had to pry her off to scoop her into the passenger seat, with Boo, where she hunkered down and didn't move a muscle till we arrived. Then I pried her off again. She remembered the vet's office, and pranced right in. Then they took Boo away. She cried and fretted and worried. Okay, I am at fault, as usual. I need to take her with me more often, so she gets used to the car, and being away from Boo, who I am sure could use a break from the little brat. She climbs up onto the bed, and it is a queen-size, not small, yet she will sit right on top of poor Boo. And she still does that thing she does, sit on the bed steps to keep him from getting up. Life in the little yellow house just naturally revolves around the Pickle.

The cows keep coming home...

Another cow picture, this one I am not sure of, it is kind of strange in that there are two distinct breeds of younguns here, a beefmaster and a black baldy. They lived together by the road beside the river in this diverse herd that had all kinds happily co-mingled. I was struck by the red one, so very vivid, and stopped on day to shoot a rather blurry photo of him as he gazed at his little partner. One is big, the other is dainty. One is red, one is black, yet they just seemed to love one another. Don't know if the composition works, or if it is any good, but there is a truckload of paint on this canvas, trying to get it to where I like it. Dab, dab, smear smear. Happy hours spent in communion with the Universe, where there is no mind. How could it get any better than that? And there is something in the world that was not there when I got up this morning. There is something so satisfying in that idea.

Stick a fork in her, she's done!

Ah, splendor in the grass. She's no Mona Lisa, but she's all mine. The cow series is officially launched. Another one coming up this very day. Once I lay a palette, I feel an obligation to keep slapping away until it is all used up. Probably a vestige of my very Scottish mother's upbringing. Maybe if I get some plastic wrap, I can keep the paint from drying up into little nurdles? You think? Not sure I like this one, and that is often the case with these oeuvres. I have to look at them for a long time before I get to appreciate them. For now, she gets to live on the kitchen table, where I can look at her several times a day and consult the jury about her current state of being, and whether she needs more picking at. Okay, with that dangling participle, I am through ruminating and equivocating. For now.

Here we go again...

Another year, come and gone. Another, beginning. A moment of reflection, please, my own personal that was the year that was, so to speak. It was a pip, 2008. I had a straight A semester in the spring, courtesy of having fulfilled my math requirement the semester before, four semesters in three, too. That always spins my beany. Then little kiddo, my daughter, graduated from law school, magna cum laude, to the tune of Star Wars, how inspiring it was. Pickle came to live with Boo and I. Pickle changed everything. It became The Year of the Pickle on June 4. And to this day, she dominates my attention. And Boo's. In September, I sold my first painting, to a complete stranger. How sweet it was! Soooooo validating. I became a professional artist. And later, I was commissioned for two paintings, so I have now outsold Van Gogh, who only sold one painting in his lifetime. And, on the 26th of December, I celebrated 19 years of sobriety. That's XIX in Roman numerals, and looks terribly important on the chips I have accumulated to surround me for this next year. So, onward into the New Year, which will find me back in school, though only for 2 classes, gearing up to graduate with my AA in May. That's something, I think. And I am ready, if I choose, to go on for a BA in art. Maybe. We'll see. This year, I would like to study with an artist or two, one on one, and work on my style and technique. Sounds like a plan, for sure. Stepping into this year withsobriety, hope and faith, glorious good health (and I get Medicare this year, that's a blessing, for sure), two adorable dogs, a happy little yellow house, an income that just arrives every month without an ounce of effort, how could it get any better? Well, the lottery would be nice. And maybe a nice man to do things with? You never know. It could happen.

Where do paintings come from?

Okay, it's just a beginning. If I were really brave, I would name it "Impression, Cow", sign it, frame it, and offer it up. Actually, one of my current favorites, Dana Hooper, would say, YEAH! DO IT! I think. Whatever, I just love the cow, don't you? It gives us milk, cheese, yogurt, ice cream, to say nothing of steak, hamburger, and leather shoes and things. Cows are blessed creatures, for sure. I hope to paint big bunches of them in the future. Meanwhile, this is Cow #1. Probably she is out of proportion. Probably she is terribly imperfect. Lord knows, I am good at imperfect. It's part of my charm! And probably, she is not really done yet. Probably.

Bah, holidays!

Funny how perspectives change. Holidays used to be the blessed off-work time. Now, when every day is off-work time, holidays are a pain. They disrupt my ROUTINE. I need my ROUTINE. Little boxes of time and little circles of travels. Stores should always be open. Mail should come, at least six days a week. My soap opera should be on five days a week (and what is this everybody-loves-everybody stuff that happens at Christmas, where is the vitriol I so dearly love?). Okay, some things endure. The leaf-blowing brigade showed up, on CHRISTMAS DAY. Is it too much to hope those folks who hired them had out-of-town guests who were awakened by the din? Oooh, mean-spirited me. Good thing that I am working on Step Six, getting ready to give my cherished character defects over to HP. Yeah, that'll happen. Hey, progress, not perfection. Perfectly human, that's moi.

BFF, redux....

This is what happens when an image looks kind of fuzzy to me after perusing it for a while. I put the paintings on the kitchen table, which I walk by fifty times a day, and sort of stroke my chin every so often, wondering if they could get better if I went back into them, added some value here, took some away there, warmed it up, or cooled it down. The little ones are so much more vivid, and truly, new life is always ever so much brighter. These little white-faced fellows just seemed to punch a hole in the world with their color. I am happier now, even if they are not perfectly like the photograph. I like mine better. No offence, HP. You do a good job, too. And I am so grateful to be able to do this at all. The moments I spend painting are the most wondrous time for me. Everything is good then, the idea just flows from my head and heart onto the canvas. And when it is successful, when it is realized (made real and concrete), there is no greater joy.

It's just another day, just another day...

Ghosts of Christmas past are floating around my dear little house. I am working on getting de-cluttered and spiffed up a little, for company coming over tomorrow. Cooking out of an actual cookbook, please, no applause! The actual celebration with the FOO (family of origin, to the unitiated) was last Sunday, where I received a lot of good stuff, including aforesaid cookbook, and Italian tome that actually has the recipe for pannacotta, my very favorite Italian food, right up there with gelato. So I hit Safeway for extra heavy cream, and fat free half and half. I figured mixing the two together would be okay. Yeah, I'm changing the recipe. Somehow, that always happens. Everyone will be happy, in the end. Next, I plan on setting up the nifty docking station for my (recharged and ready) iPod, and doing a quick dusting and other ablutions to get all festive for the Big Day, which is, after all, just another day. Right.

Final product...

Here is completed painting. I think. I am never sure when things are done. Usually I just get tired of dabbing and quit. And it is almost time for my soap opera, anyway. It got brightened up, and colors intensified (I had underpainted in yellow ochre, and proceeded to work wet-in-wet, which made mud in some instances), and I put in the high and low lights for some good value contrast. Oh, hell, I just changed it a little. Enough, I hope to make it really succulent. I showed a picture of it to my Dad yesterday, and he said "Gee, you haven't gotten very far along, have you." And I replied, well, if you want reality, here is the reference photo. I think paintings are so much more fun, though, don't you? It's like a new reality emerges from the canvas, one ever so much better than the real one. And isn't that what we are all looking for, a sweeter reality? And the hours I spend doing this stuff, well, it's out of time and mind, the true state of being according to Eckhart Tolle, my current spiritual guru. Those times are joyful beyond imagination.

Painting, in the kitchen...

It is really cold, so I made myself a cup of chai after I put away my Trader Joe stash, and I looked at those organic peppers in their little celophane package and thought, gee, I think I will immortalize them before I cut them up for crudites today for my folk's pre-Christmas Christmas. So here is the beginnings of the painting, done on the kitchen counter because the studio is Arctic-cold at the moment, and I got my PG&E bill, and am conserving heat by keeping that door closed. I am not unhappy with this little slaphappy work. It is quite joyous, actually. I need to work a little more on it, but not too much. I feel that my work is more, well, ME, when I leave it a little rough. Okay, a lot rough. It reflects my inner process when it is messy, like finger paints, elemental, you know? I was running a lot on instinct, and not sure whether I liked it when I quit, to make some dinner (I was already in the kitchen, how convenient is that!), and then didn't feel up to bringing all the paraphenalia out again after. Maybe this afternoon, after the get-together of the whole family. Yes, I will need to have something to slap away at, then.

Winter has arrived...

Temperatures are in the 40s, all day long, and nights are below freezing, like 30 degrees. I know those hearty folks who live in places like Maine or Wisconsin are tittering up the sleeves of their Land's End polar fleece longjohns, since they live in below zero weather most of the time (and why would they want to, one wonders). Well, their blood is as thick as maple syrup, where ours runs fast and thin as cabernet sauvignon. I'll match my shivering with theirs, any day. And the cold is brittle, easily broken into shards that penetrate any tiny crack in the covers at night, and I wake up with a cold elbow or ankle. I am sleeping in my cotton knit pjs that fit tightly and do not ride up, with a sweatshirt and socks, under a sheet, two blankets and four quilts (electric blankets are bad for you, you know), and still prone to a cold rear end, which is the only part of me that seems to stick up like a mountain and attract the frigid air. I eye the dogs enviously, covered as they are in all this luxurious fur. And, while I am certainly as PC as anyone, I could use a nice coat of that stuff now. Happy to have sweats to wear all day, and no where I have to be, and a heat dish that travels to wherever I am.

And now for something completely, um , the same....

So, this is the second painting of the same scene, similar in many regards, toned down in values (as is the original now). I didn't know if I could do this, replicate a painting. My friend the professional artist does it all the time, bigger, smaller, even a miniature sometimes. Mine is close, but still an original, and I am happy about that, because each painting should have its own personality, and be its own thing, don't you think? I had a lot of fun doing this exercise, and as I have said before, and will undoubtedly say many times again, fun is good. Fun is what makes my heart sing. I want to keep having fun till Gabriel blows that horn. Yes.

Exemplary me...

Gee, guess what! Social Security gave me a raise! I can only surmise that the SS Human Resources fairy has been watching me and has seen what a wonderful job I am doing at being retired, and deemed me worthy. It is noteworthy, too, 5.7%. Actually, they give me a raise every year, but this is the most significant, and very much appreciated, as Medicare will be deducting beginning in July. That's right, the cowwoman is turning 65. In honor of this occasion, I am in the process of slowly letting my hair go natural, gray, that is. Time to enter my silver fox stage. And I am ready. Of course, I will not eschew skin care products that promise miracles, overnight. After breaking out from 13 to 55, I have clear skin for the first time in my (admittedly long) life, and I want to keep it as long as possible. That extra SS $$$ will help in that endeavor, for sure. So, God bless America!

Oh, dear...

I have caller ID. Better than that, I have a phone that announces who is calling, out loud. I don't even have to get up and look at that weinie little screen, which is good because half the time I cannot find my glasses, anyway. Well, this one 866 number has been calling and calling, so I answered it, to tell them I am on the DO NOT CALL list, and it was my Discover Card person, telling me that they are sending me a package with my credit report to review and make sure no one has (gulp) stolen my identity, and with just a few questions, they will open my account. Now, I asked if they were charging me for answering these questions, and they said ohnonono, all I have to do is review the package then call them back if there are no problems. THEN, they charge me. I am no good at following through with that stuff, so I said no thanks, don't call me anymore. Click. Now I am all worried. Suppose someone has indeed stolen my SS# and is out there happily ringing up charges? Never mind that my card is securely in my wallet, or that I nver give out my number (hey, I wear big girl shoes, after all). Fear, that is what these people sell. And, though I didn't give them any $$$, I seem to have bought some, anyway. Back to my Eckhart Tolle CD, where fear is only an illusion. I think.

The cowwoman paints some cows...

Here's what I did this afternoon. Very loosy goosey little rendering, on a canvas a friend retrieved out of the trash, a kind of very blue and green waterfall. Gee, this was a lot of fun, really just slapping paint around. I like Van Gogh, and Monet, it is all about the brushstokes, the light, and the moment. And, I really like fun. Fun works for me. Trying some different stuff is good, too. This is different. We'll see if it flies. I think I will put it in the auction next year, see if anyone bids on it. I always think that if I can do it, anyone can. Funnily enough, that is not true. A lot of people can't do this. Grateful.

Friday thoughts...

I was not sure I could do it, but it is now done. I did another painting of the same scene, and it is very like the first. I guess I am more artist than I thought I was. And what fun it was, yesterday, splashing away at the canvas. I am truly in that spirit place when I paint. So, I took my laptop into the bedroom, set up my lap desk, and wrote a chapter of my novel. Just like that. Not very good, in my opinion, but a steady flow of words worked their way onto the page, without much effort. Wow. Later, an e-mail from my son informed me that he was born in the same hospital as our new president. How about that! And I should have known that, if I were a political animal. So I went online today to read a biography of Barry, and sure enough, he was born in Hawaii, and the only game in town there for newborns is Kapiolani Maternity Hospital, where I gave birth to my firstborn. We gave him a Hawaiian middle name, Lopaka (Robert), so he could always remember his heritage (he has an English middle name, too, so he has the distinction, and choice, of not two, but three possible names). Ah, I remember Christmases in Hawaii, sitting on the porch at the Moana with Diamond Head off in the distance, eating turkey and cranberry sauce in 80 degree balmy weather. Which was better than Thanksgiving at the Kahala Hilton, with winds whipping palm trees through plate glass windows in downtown Waikiki. This first thing I remember about moving there to live, after visiting a couple of times, was the tsunami evacutation info in the telephone book. What had I signed on for here, anyway? We had some dillies of storms while I lived there, but no tsunamis. What can I say, I am blessed in so many ways. Wow, there's a potpourri of stuff for today. Back to reality, where my most daunting task is to tame my bedhead so I can be seen in public. Some life, huh?

I am so going shopping!

I sold the new painting, and got a commission to do at least one more. I had to adjust the values a little, make it darker, and I did that, even though I liked the luminous quality a lot. Well, it is definitely in the eye of the beholder, especially when that beholder is holding a checkbook. I got paid for the first one, and am beginning the second. I am tempted to do one just for me, in the colors I like. We'll see. Certainly, the oil was easier than the watercolor, faster, and much more rewarding in that regard. What a blessing to get paid for doing something so very joyous. I get to practice that presence that Eckhart Tolle is telling me about, too, being behind the mind, and just doing instead of thinking it to death. Time just flies by, and suddenly, it is time to eat again. That is always a happy time for me! Off I go to slap paint around, and be the very best little artist I can be today. Joy!

If at first you don't succeed...

Okay, trying again. Fourth attempt at rendering this view for my client. In oils, this time. Part of it is in my imagination, part in the pictures she took, and some of it is in her mind, which I don't know, so I am only guessing. I hope this works better than the last attempts. Sure is fun to do, this painting stuff. Imagine doing it for $$$. That's frosting on the cake, for sure. Challenge here is color, and you know how subjective that is. I consider myself a colorist, and I like to try new and exciting things as I paint. Unfortunately, not everyone likes that particular tack. Oh, well. I will keep trying, that's for sure. I love getting all messy with the paint. How sweet it is to spend an afternoon mucking around like this. Makes me remember kindergarten and fingerpaints. I thought it couldn't get any better. I was wrong.

Would you hang this on your wall?

I just finished this watercolor of a sunset at Sea Ranch. It is a commission (yes, Virginia, someone likes my work and wants a painting, by ME!). But is it good enough? How much should I charge for it? Should I frame it first? We didn't go over these little details up front. I was so excited that someone wanted a painting of mine, I forgot to do those little things. Well, it will all work itself out in the end. Because this is all pretty easy, more of a just-tuck-your-tongue-in-your-cheek and go splash, splash, splash process, I think it is without merit. Oh, well. It is what it is. As usual.

The FOO

I'm surprised no one has come up with this anacronym, FOO, or Family of Origin. Seems appropriate for most of us, foo, as in fooey. Okay, it's phooey, but same thing. Someone once said at a meeting that we can never be fully recovered until we have dealt with our FOO issues. Nuts. We can never be fully recovered, period. And the FOO will always be with me, till my dying breath. Some of it was good. Christmas, for instance, when mother morfed into this Betty Crocker/Martha Stewart clone and baked and decorated and wrapped presents that were piled higher than the tree. They were Depression kids, my folks, and believed that they were doing better by their kids by giving them stuff. Never mind the other 364 days of the year, when tempers seethed and frequently flared up, resulting in bruises and wounds that would bleed and fester well into my fifties. One of the consequences I have been noticing is my competitive instinct. You had to compete, for attention, for appreciation, for the biggest serving of dessert. We played a lot of board games. Talk about murderous. My mother put Risk away forever. My brothers and I nearly killed each other trying to take over the world. Until they moved into a smaller house, my folks had a game table that we all gathered around, with our stash of pennies, nickels and dimes that we all kept hidden somewhere in their house (mine was in one of those L'Eggs eggs) and played poker or Tripoli at Christmas. Lots of shouting. And I noticed that the competitive gene has been transmitted to my kids, too. Well, they too originate from the FOO. Sigh.