Sore here...

Okay, I admit it. I've been feeling sorry for myself. This is never a good thing. And I have had such good reasons, like: it is cold, my eyes are still mega-sore, I am not sleeping well, Boo was sick, they took away that hour again, I have to mow the lawn, I'm afraid of my taxes, etc. etc. etc. This is a self-perpetuating state of mind. The more I engage with it, the more disgusted I am with myself, and the more I sink into the mire of ooey-gooey gunk. My friend Nancy called it dancing with the Tar Baby. Hard to sit one out, you know. Well, today may be the day to rise from my self-made pain. The pain in the eyes is dialed down significantly. Boo seems perkier. Sun is shining (although that can be deceptive, it's still CHILLY out there). I slept better. And I have decided to ignore the lost hour. After all, it is spring break, no one is expecting me anywhere, I have a week to adjust to getting up at 6:30 AM which is now 7:30 AM. Yes, we can rise above all this adversity. It is, after all, temporary. As usual. I may even dispel the mystery and figure out how much I owe the dreaded IRS. Ouch.

Are my molecules dancing or what?

I love that my molecules dance at the same frequency as sound. This means that I am tuned in to music at the cellular level, and feel the resonance all through my being. When I sing, I can feel the vibration in the mask, and stay on pitch. My ear is one of the best my piano teacher ever worked with. Like, I didn't do any of this. It is all a gift from HP. I got born with it, like my little toes that wiggle and my short, fat eyeballs. I just watched Impromptu, a smarmy period soap opera of Georges Sand's pursuit of a somewhat reluctant Chopin, while Lizst's wife procreates abundantly in the background, and launches her own abortive campaign. Whatever, I got to hear a lot of wondrous chromatic pieces hammered away on the Steinway, rubato, of course. And the young Hugh Grant did a great job of portraying the frail, shy guy that Chopin was. Judy Davis was at her bitchy best, and Julian Sand played Lizst, who was the very first rock star. Really, women threw themselves on the stage when he performed. Funnily enough, he ended his rather long life in monastic garb. Not sure if his life reflected his dress though. I hope to meet up with these folks in the afterlife. As with most artists, authors, and composers, they all appeared to be well marinated in wine. Spirits for the free spirits. It was all satire and sexual sabotage. Not much has changed, except that we are now an awful lot less civilized. Maybe it was the starched collars?

A good idea, in principle...

Reality is always a little more complicated. I have had three cable/satellite providers in my five years here in the little yellow house. We began as a "dish conversion" special with Comcast, then the introductory price went up, like a rocket. So we got Dish Network, and again, the wonderful bargain got really expensive, so we got Direct TV. Ditto. Now we are back to Comcast, who is doing the cable, phone and internet for a dynamite price that cuts my cost in half. For a year. And even then, it will still be $80 cheaper. Wonderful. Except I scheduled the installation for Saturday, and I had an event to attend immediately afterward, so I didn't get my inaugual introduction to the ins and outs of the new stuff. I managed to screw up the TV in the bedroom totally. Nothing worked in there. The internet thing had me totally confused. I finally got an email account set up, nervously as I did not want to lose the old one before I got my addressbook into the new one. I wasn't sure the process had worked, and finally figured out how to print out the damned thing, only to find them all there, after all. I am using the same browser, so I still have all my favorite places. Yay. I bit the bullet, put on my hair shirt of humility, and called for a technician to come unscrew what I had done, and show me how to work everything. It is all kind of perking along, just a little limping during the learning curve, and that is probably good for me. This is kind of a downsize thing for me, and I am not good at deprivation. Oh, well, someday I will laugh about it all. Just not today.

My head is bloody but unbowed, redux...

Because I was feeling kind of fragile, I wrapped myself in a super long, super soft white sweater and fluffy white scarf to go to the eye doctor yesterday. My dear friend drove me there with all the care she could summon. Another friend met me there and brought me a little tulip plant and a muffin. I felt loved and treasured, what a joy. And the second procedure was about how I imagined the first would be, and was not. The drops to constrict the pupil hurt a lot, the laser did not. I thanked the doctor, the nurse, the friends and I took my wounded eyeball home where I put on my warmest sweats, curled up with a cup of suisse mocha, my muffin, my puppies and my DVRed soap opera. Then, the anesthetic wore off, and there was another oh-my-God moment before the Tylenol kicked in. I guess you really cannot drill holes in an eyeball without some consequences. However, I woke up on my left side in the night, not even a twinge, and I could not sleep on my right side for a week after it was operated on. And it was all worth it to know that I will never wake up blind from sudden onset glaucoma. It was all a miracle to begin with.

Things change, Opus 94

Ouch! I saw my parent's yesterday, on the occasion of my mother's 89th birthday. Dad has lost his driver's license and his life is over. Mom is up on her cross again, nailed there by her own stubborn resolve that it is all up to her. Help? She doesn't need no stinkin' help. It all goes to show that what we have about us is refundable at any moment. What we have within us is a renewable resource, if we are flexible enough to let go, when needed, and create a new reality that incorporates the changes about us. The image I put up today was the view from our deck at the house on the edge of the world. I miss that view. And I would not trade it for the serenity that lives here in the little yellow house. Life on life's terms, folks. And if you cannot get over yourself after nine decades of one day at a time, well, how tragic is that. Praying for these fear-bound, angry people who served to usher me into this universe.

She puzzled and puzzed...

Here is the deep thought for the day - you can't be where you're going until you get there. Well, duh. But, gee, I hate that travel time. I am halfway to my final destination, when I can lay down any fear that my eyesight will be damaged by this surprising and exceedingly inconvenient condition that was laid on me at birth. I don't like waiting for anything, you know. Sometimes I eat nothing for dinner but dessert. That should illuminate things for anyone who was wondering if I had passed my sainthood test. Not there, not even close. And sorry to say, my eyes are no longer a matched set. The right iris, the one that got zapped, is wider than the left. In fact, the left looks more like a three quarter moon now in comparison. And the pupil on the right is more open, too. That probably means that, like the right eye, the iris in the left eye is convex as well. This is not good. So I pray that on Monday, when Dr does a look-see, he will decide to do the second procedure SOON. Even though it hurts, and is totally unpleasant, I will be thrilled to put my chin in the little rest and let him thump away with his fancy green light. Let us hope it only takes a few little knocks next time.

Terminal uniqueness...

I have always been different. First, I was the only girl in my generation, for 16 years, that is, until my youngest uncle began his family. And I was the tallest person in my sixth grade class, even taller than the teacher, Mr. Magill. Now, in my latter years, I am the oldest in most of my classes, even older than my teachers. Some could be my kids. And yet, I was unprepared for the experiences I had at the eye doctor's. First, there is this rare condition, an inherited anatomical anomaly that threatens to close off the drains for the interocular fluid, allowing the pressure to build up amazingly fast and produce blindness within 48 hours if not attended to. Except that I had little "dips" in the angles, sort of little troughs that helped keep them open. Nevertheless, pressure was building, so we scheduled the laser surgery. I had the first one (one eye at a time) yesterday. Now, I was led to expect that this was kind of a snap, a little zap that opened a hole in the iris to allow fluid between it and the lens and keep a space there, forever. My iris in my right eye was actually bowing out due to the pressure. Scary. I did all my pre-operative chores, getting my prescription for drops filled, and made a special trip to the drugstore for Tylenol, the requisite painkiller recommended, even though I had Aleve and Advil and Excedrin and ibuprofen and aspirin. Sigh. I took 2 Tylenol and headed out, chauffered by a dear friend as I would be pretty blind in one eye afterward. It took an hour for the drops that shrunk my pupil down to a period to work, then they plopped in the anesthetic drop, and we began the procedure. There were two lasers. The first produced a brilliant green light and served to charbroil the area where the puncture would go. It wasn't supposed to hurt. But it did. The second was supposed to hurt. But it didn't. Lucky me, I got extra pokes, lots of them, because my iris bled. This never happens. Except to me. Happy to say the Dr got around that pesky little drop of blood, and managed to consummate the procedure. And I came home with a post-operative instruction sheet that said use your drops, sight will return in a day or two, and otherwise, no restrictions on activities. Sounded like a walk in the park. Except I woke up in the night with scintillating pain. It felt like someone had shishkabobbed my eyeball and was turning it on a spit over hot coals. Nothing on my instruction sheet about this. I had left the Tylenol bottle by the bed with a glass of water, so I took a couple and propped myself up, giving it a moment before I decided if I was dying or not. And it subsided, slowly, but completely. Now I know to keep the Tylenol going on a regular basis. I am guessing that this does not happen to others who have this procedure, either. Just me. Must be another of God's little jokes. Good news is that, though my eye still feels like someone used it for a hockey puck, my vision cleared up and was perfect this morning, just 15 hours after the procedure. Bad news is that this was just the first of two operations. Don't know if knowing what to expect is a blessing or a curse. Probably, it couldn't get too much more complicated. Probably, the second one will go smoother. Please.

Tha little ofd lady valentine, ME!

All day yesterday I thought I should be doing something special for my valentine. What to do? I already had a fluffy white turtleneck sweater. My new Speedo had arrived, so I took it on its inaugural lap swim. Was that special enough? Since I got home and felt like I had broken my body, I decided no. I am not going to make my three requisite trips to gymlala this week due to eye surgery coming up, so I kind of pushed the workout a little. Then I was so sore, I couldn't think of much else than a hot soak and some aspirin. And today, I am tired from a long night of wrestling with Morpheus, a frequent occupation lately. Before I crapped out and laid down with my current novel for a little siesta, I took a trip to Safeway, and while there, plied the bakery aisles, looking for something bad for me, to soothe my sweet heart. Nothing leaped out at me. Then, as I threw yet another tub of Lite Cool Whip in my cart, there it was. This year, my valentine's name is Sara Lee. Lemon cake. Oh, joy in a yellow box! I had it for lunch, and then, for dessert, too. Do I feel guilty? Is the Pope Catholic? But it is a lovely, soporific kind of guilt. Now for that nap.

The current version. Sigh...

It has been cooled down, then warmed up again. Then the light got more intense with lighter values. Then it got kind of scuffed up, because it was too smooth and kind of trite. And here it is, for all that's worth. I have been slapping away at it for days now. I want to slap at something else for a while. The satisfying thing is that the idea somehow got out of my head and onto the canvas. Oh, the rudiments are always there. But the particulars are there, too. The creative process is very fickle. Seldom does it manifest completely as envisioned. Not that that's a bad thing. Actually, usually there is something accidental that is really brilliant, a bit of God's idea, on the canvas too. Happy accidents. Surprises. That's worth the whole kit and caboodle.

Homework...

So, Kevin says "draw a head". Could be from the handout he gave us, or from life. Well, the only live head I have around this house is mine, unless the dogs count, and I haven't seen any canine models yet in figure drawing, so, here I am. It was a quick study, and it really does look a little like me, though I don't think I look this young in real life, but hell, if I am going to go to all this work, I am going to freaking flatter myself a little. Otherwise, I'd take a photo.

Things change, Vol. XXXIV

I balked at the idea of spending big bucks for prescription glasses because I kept losing my cheapo readers. In the end, I was buying them three pairs at a time at Costco, and they just seemed to evaporate. But the world was getting really fuzzy, near and far away. Time for progressive lenses. Ouch. Telling the world you are getting progressive lenses is like telling the world you are pregnant. Everyone who has experienced pregnancy then is entitled to tell you their horror stories, bloody, painful births that they barely survived. And you stand there with your beachball belly, nodding and praying. Too late to do anything about that, folks. So, everyone, male and female, told me their woes with the progressive lenses. And, cheap little person that I am, I decided to do the 21 day persistence routine. I can get used to anything in 21 days, if I just keep pushing through the resistance. And, surprise! There wasn't any resistance. I felt comfortable (and really CLEAR) from the get-go. Just a little searching for the sweet spot at the computer, and need to remember to look down when negotiating stairs. And the piano will require the leftover pair of readers. Can's see the top of the page and the keys at the same time. But, otherwise, I am happy as hell being old four eyes here. Wish I had gotten cuter frames, but I chose ones that I could not see over or under or around. Later, I can get a cutsey-poo pair for social occasions. And, surprise! I have not lost them once! That is probably because I put the on in the morning (usually after a short period of what-is-wrong-with-this-picture), and they stay parked there all day. Really hard to lose them after all!

And now for something entirely different...

My daughter once noted she didn't like still life paintings because they seemed so contrived. Well, yes, there must be some artifice in setting the objects to their best advantage, for sure. I decided that it would be fun just to take little slices of my life and immortalize them on canvas. So here is my Walmart lamp, on top of my teensy rolltop desk, with books and a painting I did earlier in my opus, another still life of sunflowers. I's just the beginning, of course. I will be diddling with it for a while yet. But I am liking it already, very warm. I think the microwave may become my next subject.

Sometimes, you just have to give up...

I have been trying to make this painting interesting, change the values, change the pigments, make the cow cuter, painterly it up. Just isn't going to happen, folks. And that is what happens sometimes. I thought about doing something outrageous, like go purple or orange or real impasto. In the end, it is what it is, kind of vanilla. Oh, hell, vanilla is more amazing than this poor guy. So, back to the drawing board. I'm thinking a nice still life would be fun.

Sayonara, dear Speedo...

I suppose it is a monument to my diligence that I have successfully shredded my first Speedo. I levered myself out of the pool (had to swim in an inner lane with no ladder or steps to get out), and felt my bare bottom on the cement deck. Fortunately, my towel was not that far away, and no one looks at anyone at the gym anyway, at least not when I am looking at them, and when I slicked it off in the shower, I could see that it was all lacy across the rump. Good that I got an auxilliary suit recently, though it is a little tight still. Takes a while to break in a Speedo, I found. Just in case, I ordered another at swimoutlet.com, a roomier one, on close-out, too. I plan on wearing out bunches of workout stuff. Keeps me from wearing out, you know.

Progress, not perfection...

My second trip through the vicissitudes of figure drawing finds me more receptive to the teacher and less afraid of that great big blank page that stares at me first thing. I am a seat-of-the-pants kind of gal. I don't like looking for the large trocanter or the scapula. I just want to draw what I see. But Kevin, dear teacher, is right. If I can't map the underlying structure, I can't get a true rendering of the subject. This drawing was about as successful as I have been so far. There is a real assuredness of line that is really new for me. Proportions look pretty believable, if not exactly true. The attitude is good, too, because I am doing what Kevin has been trying to get me to do from the beginning, drawing from the inside out, mapping shapes instead of objects. My pencil just seemed to take off on its own. There's hope for me yet!

The Boo is not amused...

As I drove him to the vet this morning, I kept telling him how sorry I was. But he had these really gnarly wartlike things on his eyelids, and they grew all the way through so that his eyeballs were getting irritated, and they were growing, so time to do the right thing and get them removed. He reluctantly got into the car, actually. Then I had to drag him into the vet's, where he sat quivering and shaking. Well, can you blame him? Now he is home, at least most of him is here. He walked in, made a sideways trip to his bowl, then stood there as if he had forgotten where he was. Mostly, he just lays on the floor, with his tongue out, making burbling noises. We have a bagfull of medications, and he has to wear his new appliance for at least a week so that he doesn't open the incisions, which are sealed with purple sutures. How punk is that! I just hate seeing an animal suffer, but it beats having those awful things on his eyes, I think.

Pardon my insensitivity, but I'm not all that well yet...

I was toodling home from the gym today, all pumped up and full of endorphins, when I noticed a roadside shrine, you know, flowers and pictures and notes taped to a telephone pole by the side of the street. And that always makes me kind of sad/mad/scared. Especially this one, that is right around the corner from my house, on the street that I go up and down every single blasted day. Part of me wondered how anyone could get going fast enough on that street to kill themselves. So perhaps no one actually died. But then, I have never seen one of these monuments for someone who bumped their head or broke their pelvis. No, of course someone left the planet. Another part of me was really indignant that they should do that so close to ME. Oh, I am so not well yet. It is all about me, still. Ouch. It reminded me of that night a couple of summers ago, coming home from a dinner party and getting all balled up because that very same street was all blocked off with a feeding frenzy of emergency vehicles. How rude! And the next day, finding out a young woman lost her life there. They just recently stopped putting flowers at that site. What a life this is. And how soon it can be gone. Right around the corner.

The learning curve...

I figure one could sit at home and learn to draw from a book. Hell, we used to draw from matchbook covers, remember that? But there is something magical about sitting with a classroom full of folks, all doing their own things. I stood next to Tom when I drew these poses (same model, just both on same page). Tom elongates his figures. And since I tend to truncate them, this was a good place for me to be that day. I got these dandy drawings, much braver than many I have done in the past. Figure drawing is a different process, you know. It is much more physical, involving the whole arm and shoulder, because the objects are much larger and we are trying to fill an 18x24 page. That can only happen for me if I get really brave and trust my abilities. We are just three short weeks in, and we had two days of not drawing in that time, and I was sick for one day. So really, I have only been drawing for three sessions so far, and I am soooooo much more confident than I have ever been, and actually not unhappy with my product so far. It can only get better, right? Well, sure hope so. I intend to keep plugging away. And we are still in graphite. Wait till charcoal!

No other love have I.

So, I said to my self, I'm well now. Time to get butt to the gym. And self said back, not until you make the bed. And answer your email. And catch up on your Freecell games. And look! Pickle needs to be brushed. Surprise! It's lunchtime already! And then there's the soap opera to watch. Meanwhile, I was doing all this with my keys in my pocket and my scarf and jacket on. About 45 minutes into the soap, I snuck out the front door with the gym bag. Self was pretty unhappy. All the way there, she pissed and moaned. But I kept putting one foot in front of the other, always a satisfying activity, and before self knew it, we had finished the circuit of machines, at lower weights due to period of inactivity, but all the reps plus some. Then to the pool. Which was fully occupied. Oh, well, self said. We'll just do a hot tub today. We deserve to take it a little easy. After all, you've been sick. Except I noticed out of the corner of my eye that one lane became available, and before self could blink, I was in the pool. This is always a religious experience, going from the jacuzzi to the pool, but I told self, as I always do, it only hurts for a second. Or two. And those laps felt so good, so liberating, self was not unhappy. No, not at all.

A whole bunch of stuff...

There are many mandates in this life. You know: eat right, get plenty of sleep, drink water, exercise. I have a whole bunch of my own: say nothing I would not want to hear said to me, treat myself like I am an honored guest in my own home (which unfortunately does not come with maid service), never again eat anything I do not absolutely adore, never again go anywhere I don't want to go just to please someone else, read a lot, don't give up on my art even when it seems dismally ordinary and trite. I am feeling particularly burdened with all this stuff today. So I am exercising my right to just opt out, just for today. I am off to the gym, only because I have not been there for a week and fear that I will become a flaccid puddle. And to Trader Joe's, for fresh flowers and toasted slivered almonds, which I will put on everything I eat for a while. I am needing some pampering here. Yes.

My head is bloody but unbowed...

I have risen from my bed of pain, finally. It helped to just surrender to this measly little cold, and to the fact that I couldn't take any medication to stop it from running over me like a Mack truck. Perspective kept skewing on me, and I had to perpetually remind myself that this was TEMPORARY, would not require chemotherapy or radical surgery, and would just go away all by itself. And we are on the cusp of well here, for sure. How wonderful to be out of bed, bathed, blown-dry, dressed, made-up, and headed out the door for a meeting. I am taking a box of Kleenex with me (luckily, I stocked up recently at Costco - on any normal day my nose runs like a faucet), and a throat lozenge, just in case. And I am picking up a non-fat latte on the way, too. I have been an exceptionally good girl lately, after all. Well, I may be old, but I can be immature forever.

The rudeness of it all...

I taught my kids that life is not fair. Crappy things happen, often rather unexpectedly. The best we can do is not muddy the waters ourselves. So, I woke up thinking, this is Wednesday. Wednesday means I get up early, throw on my mufti of jeans and sweatshirt, and toodle on over to campus to arrive before 8 AM, after which getting a parking place is impossible this early in the semester. Then I hike across campus to the new student center, a regular Taj Mahal of a cafeteria, for a breakfast burrito and large coffee, then slowly and with much enthusiam consume them. I digest there for a while before hotfooting it to my locker, slinging my portfolio over my shoulder, and arriving early at figure drawing class to claim the tallest horse and the best viewing advantage. Except that this Wednesday, I was sick. I knew it when I went to bed Tuesday night. I knew it when I woke up later with a throat on fire and a forehead to match. Now, that's unfair. I just began this semester. Losing even one class session is hard for me. Besides, I can't take my usual barrage of cold remedies because of this condition I have in my eyes. They cause dilation of the pupil, which could precipitate an instant attack of glaucoma. So, against all my principles, I am relegated to SUFFERING! It is my ultimate goal in life to not SUFFER any more. Pain, yes, there will always be pain. But suffering is optional. There is always something to ease the pain. And I will take that path, whenever I can. So, I had to content myself with massive doses of vitamin C, orange/cinnamon tea, aspirin, several pillows, a gory mystery novel, two warm if damp puppies, and a new box of Kleenex. I suppose it could be worse. But most of all, I had to reschedule everything. I am now slated to be sick for two more days. That should do it.

Think about it...

Most of my life I spent avoiding change. Well, that was usually after I had changed what I could to get what I wanted. Now, just stay there! Don't move! This is it, my shining moment. Trouble with shining moments is they tarnish pretty easily. They get all glopped up with the daily slop of life. And when you come right down to it, nothing is scripted to last forever. It all comes to pass. Everything is temporary. Ah, but there are those moments when it has all come together, almost of its own accord, without any effort on my part, and that is a moment worth savoring. The high bloom, the one that happens just before attrition sets in, and it withers and dies. Happily, one can bloom again and again, if one keeps feeding one's garden with things like love and acceptance and gratitude and surrender. Always good to remember that, especially on a gray and scummy day when the trees are naked. Oh, but wait! The white camelia is blooming on the porch! Wonder-full.

Hey, I'm walking here!

Ah, the immortal words of Ratso Ritzo, as he pounds on the hood of a taxi crossing a New York street. Brilliant ad lib by Dustin Hoffman, it explained his character better than anything could. Though Ratso may have been the lowest creature on the socioeconomic totem pole, he still had the right to occupy his little bit of space on the planet. I relate. I have spent my life trying to not be a problem for anyone. It has made me kind of invisible, so that, when someone I am meeting is late, I am certain they have forgotten me, since that seems to be remarkably easy to do (and since I am always early, EVERYONE is late in my world). Well, no more Ms. Niceguy. The eye doctor told me he wanted to wait six months for the surgery that will prevent me from going blind should an acute attack of glaucoma hit me. Okay, I would have 48 hours to get the surgery if that happened, but suppose I wanted to go to Aix-en-Provence and paint Mt. St. Victoire for a month, and couldn't get in to the emergency room? And since just sitting in a dark environment too long could precipitate that attack, well, why tempt the Fates? Plus, I am lousy at diagnosing myself. I have dragged my sorry butt to the doctor so many times with fantasized symptoms, but also been hospitalized three times with serious illnesses I did not recognize. I don't want to spend the next six months in emergency with a headache. Also, I read that there can be damage happening with NO SYMPTOMS. Nightmare, that's what this is. So, see me! Take care of me!

Aren't they sweet?

The cows are done, like, over with, no more dabbing away. At least, for today. I like them much better and can find no glaring problems. I like to have the paint be the focus, the subtle shift of values, the texture of it. Magical what one can do with a brush and some pigment. In the end, there are layes and layers there, and most of the time, surprises happen, happy accidents that just make an image pop right off the canvas. I count on those. And in the process, with brush in hand, I am somewhere else, just an instrument of the divine, learning with every stroke. I am at my most content when doing this. Which is probably why my babies here look so peaceful, too. Oh, wait. Cows are always stoic. And curious. Hard to get a candid picture of a cow. What wondrous creatures, indeed.

Flying dreams...

You know how I feel about movies. They should be imaginative, have a message (even Disney does that), express an artform that goes beyond the mundane. They don't have to be particularly cerebral to do that. Avatar was a good example. A mainstream action-adventure with lots of amazing CGI images and 3D that knocked my socks off. And right there, a spiritual message, about the connectedness of things, and honoring the Mother. Touching. And just now, as I was noodling around here, Beethoven's 7th Symphony came up on the ITunes list, and I remembered one of my favorite fun cult movies, Zardoz. It is worth seeing just to watch an already over-the-hill Sean Connery cavort about in a red loin cloth and ponytail for two hours. And for the flying stone head that floatsthrough the clouds to that haunting 2nd movement of the aforementioned symphony. And for the amazing imagination it displays, bevies of immortals living in the "vortex", keeping the brutals at bay with slight of hand and superior intellect. It's message was that immortality is boring, life is ever so much more precious when it is finite. Think about it.

Funky Friday...

Winter is hanging low today, all gray and frigid. And it feels that way inside, too, after all the high drama of the dreaded eye exam. Honestly, I don't know how I survived all the years when that was the constant tone of my life, one adrenalin rush after another, blowing every little slight up into major insult, blaming everyone else, sulking or shouting, or drinking. Now, I just wear myself out, in very short order, too. However, I could use some roses. May just have to settle for mustard, which is already blooming everywhere this year. It is a pretty sweet world when yellow things can bloom in all this grayness.

A little hubris goes a long way...

You know, I take a lot of things for granted. My health, for instance. I am remarkably healthy and strong for a woman of considerable age. There are men at the gym who use the same weight I do on the circuit of machines (I check, you see). And though it has been a few years, like 25, since I could read a price tag in the store, I have gotten away with just over the counter magnifying readers. This is partly because prescription glasses always make me dizzy and nauseous in the beginning, and I have no tolerance for that. Mostly it is because I just don't trust doctors any more. They all seem to be in the pocket of the drug companies, here, have a pill. But I really like my vision, and it now happens that my middle vision is kaput, so off I went to the eye doctor. The real eye doctor, the ophthamologist, because I had some symptoms, like red eyes, and some pain, too. And, I have a CONDITION! My eyes have narrow angles between the iris and the lens, which can cause blockage of the little drains, which leads to glaucoma. Gulp. This is my family's fault, it is a genetic thing, and more prevalent in the far-sighted folk like me, who have short, fat eyeballs. The doctor recommends just waiting a little while, because it is not dire at the moment, but I will be having laser surgery to correct this, sometime in the future. It is miraculous that we caught it, because, if my vision were to go blurry suddenly, without treatment I could be blind in two days. And I really like looking out the window.

Cow for all seasons...

It was a kind of cold, gritty day, and I wasn't up to shopping or going to the movies again, or much of anything, really. I just kind of schlepped about the house, aimlessly, then decided to take a few jabs at the canvas I primed the other night, when I couldn't decide what to do with the first cow image, tighten it up? Rough it down? Well, here is today's cow, probably already overworked, I just kept digging at it. Honestly, if I have a style, it is mediocreness. I looked at other cow images, and none looked like mine. This is either really good, or really awful. I don't hate it. Not in love with it, either. Oh, hell, it could be worse. I'm putting up cow painting #1 for a while, and letting this one sort of lounge around, until it tells me what is next, if anything. Yes, that's a plan.

Celuloid moments...

The cowwoman has done a couple films lately. First, Sherlock Holmes as portrayed by a somewhat craggy Robert Downey Jr., looking like he was just out of rehab. Oh, wait - he WAS in rehab. Very athletic, action-hero kind of Holmes, lots of big bangs. And Jude Law, well, what can I say. Just eye candy for this old gal. And speaking of old gals, Nancy Meyers gave Meryl Streep the Diane Keaton routine in It's Complicated. Older, divorced-but-successful woman, romanced by older-but-usually-with-younger-woman guy. It was a divorcee's wet dream, an affair with her ex-husband who is now wed to said younger woman(that he left her for in the beginning) with titanium abs and five year old son. I think choosing his ex-wife was smart, actually. His current ball and chain was succulent, but apt to age badly, and hard in other areas that were decidedly less attractive. And Meryl, well, she is softened and real, no feral traits left. So let's hear it for age and experience. We are attractive in ways men never dreamed.

Food for thought...

When I was young, and dirt was new, we didn't think that much about food. My mother just made sure that we had meat, starch, and vegetables, pretty much in equal proportions, on our plate every night. Fried chicken wasn't comfort food. It was dinner. And no one thought about organic, or seasonal, or locally grown. Bread was Wonderbread, white and cloud soft. People who ate whole wheat were weird. Strangely enough, I ate pretty healthily. My dad was a butcher, and we had a lot of organ meats, like baby beef liver once a week, and kidneys or brains every so often. And our vegetables came from my grandparents chicken ranch, where they wasted not and wanted not by spreading the manure on their prodigious truck garden. We picked peas and green beans and corn then shelled and strung and shucked them. Digging for potatoes was like a treasure hunt, and oh, the fresh strawberries, boysenberries and raspberries! It was like rapture! Now, I have to worry about my carbon footprint. Grains have to be whole, and eggs have to come from free range chickens. I buy organic when it comes to salad food, but resort to plain old chemically produced avacadoes and cantaloupes, stuff with a rind on it. Hey, I'm not made of money here! I need that extra $30 bucks a month to get another pair of Calvin Klein jeans at Costco!

Out with the old, in with the new...

It was a prolific year, artwise, for this cow-waving woman. Stacks of watercolors now litter the studio. They represent hours of study and execution. Looking at them now, I see that I was trying lots of different techniques, experimenting with this new medium. I had lots of fun. My challenge now is figuring out how to frame them. I really want to hang some up on the wall, beside the oils that reside there now. And, of course, I am back at slapping away at a canvas, certainly a sweet way to spend a rainy afternoon here in the little yellow house. Good beginning for the New Year. Oh, and I went to the gym today, thinking I would be the only diligent soul to turn up there, but, oh, no. Lots of folks joined me, so many that I had to wait 15 minutes to get a lane for lap swimming, until the sweet ladies finished their aquarobics class. I am all toned, and righteous, too.

The new, new, new one...

It's been ages since I did an oil painting, and I just couldn't let the last of the year slip away without slapping away at a canvas. Now, this is rough, but the idea is there, and next comes some decisions about where to refine, where to keep it rough, local or non-local colors, all that stuff. So far, so good. Not terribly unhappy, not terribly thrilled yet, either. Artists are such tender little souls, you know. We are easily wounded by a look or word, and just as easily buoyed by a soupcon of praise. Always more to do. Maybe I'll start a second one. It seems like a good idea to keep two working, so that when one seems stale, the other one can be approached with new eyes. I like that idea.

Contemplating the inevitable...

On occasion, I am just kind of bouncing along, doing the day, the moment, trying to be present as the witness of my emotions and actions, feeling the inner body that Eckhart speaks of, that pulsing, vibrant lifeforce that lives within, and I remember. Death is coming. For this human, death is coming not so far around the bend. There are a few years ahead, but who knows if they will be good years. Makes me run to the gym with new fervor, keep what I have humming and working at full capacity. And yet, there is no exit here. And here's the challenge; I think that if I cannot conquer my fear of the unknown, if I don't enter the portal into the immortality of the Universe, let go of my ego and body and tiny self, I will have to come back to this big dirt ball and do it all over again. And who wants to do that? Not this being. This life has been painful as hell, not only the physical stuff, squeezing out a couple of human beings, enduring numerous supposedly necessary medical and dental procedures, but also emotionally, as in three divorces and a few breakups and other slights, real or imagined. And that doesn't even take into account a childhood spent tiptoeing around the emotional minefield of my FOO (family of origin). And in many ways, this time around was blessed. I have never known want of food or shelter. I have always been surrounded with many creature comforts. Next time, I could be born into an untouchable caste in a backwater slum of the Middle East. Or an urban ghetto. Lord knows what indignities await! So, I am working like a longshoreman here, mastering that dreaded thing called FEAR. Every day, in every way. Yes.

Remember, remember...

The holiday is history. I have such baggage around Christmas. It is a time of high drama, all of which I make myself. How much does everyone love me? Will they show up for me? Am I OKAY here? Today, I am realizing that, though I am better, I am still not well. So, a few reflections. Love is not measured in dollar signs. Time spent together is the most precious gift. It will not be long before my FOO (family of origin) is fragmented by the Great Beloved, which makes this time even more precious. It doesn't help that Christmas comes at the darkest time of the year, either. It took getting sober to see how much that affected me. Now, armed with foreknowledge, I can work through it without being bowled over. And yet, here I am, sitting in a stew I brewed up overnight. It helps to remember that after the dark sacred night comes the bright blessed day.

Oh, happy day!

Funnily enough, as fast as the years zip by these days, it always feels like forever until my sobriety birthday comes around. It is today, December 26, otherwise known as Boxing Day in other countries on earth, and this is number 20. That seems so very momentous, but it is really just 7,305 days, one at a time. And 4,000-5,000 meetings, because I do at least four a week, and often as many as seven. People ask "are you STILL going to those meetings?", and I say, gee, if I were a diabetic, would you ask me if I was still taking my insulin? To an alcoholic, meetings are what keeps the disease at bay, because it never goes away, it is incurable and chronic and deadly if it gets out of hand. I have seen many people who once had meaningful sobriety die once they started drinking again. And those who make it back to start over ALWAYS say that they stopped going to meetings. This is not a self-help program. Hundreds of other recovering alcoholics have stood beside me, showed me by their example how to do this work (and some showed me how NOT to do it, too, remember, if you can't be a good example, you'll have to be a horrible warning). And I used to think I was sitting in a folding chair at a meeting to save my own ass, but it turns out I have saved some others, just by showing up over and over and over again. Imagine that. So, WOW! 20 Years!

What I learned at the Dr.'s office today...

You know how it is - hurry up and get there, sit and wait and wait. And fill out the same forms I did last time, because they didn't get them into their "system". Sigh. So I picked up a Time magazine, and had a happy half hour to read the whole article about scientists who are studying dog behavior. There is this age old rivalry between cats and dogs, which is smarter. Dog people think dogs (duh), because they learn commands and perform on demand. Cat people think cats because they don't. Well, it's actually more interesting than that. Dogs were domesticated (from wolves, originally) because of trash. Yep. Smart wolves followed nomadic packs of humans to scarf up their leftovers. Smarter ones ingratiated themselves, and formed a symbiotic relationship. It was easier than hunting. And, of course, humans took their furry pals and bred them to their special interests. Oh, and that face licking thing? Think that is a show of affection? Think again. Pack members would lick the mouths of returning hunters to see if they had been successful, and the returning ones would obligingly throw up to share their kill with the pack. And it seems that dogs are so fixated on their masters, they can be taught behaviors that chimpanzees cannot. Even babies won't learn things dogs will. Perhaps we were meant to be, dogs and humans, a love affair for the ages. Now these researchers are seeking among the myriad of breeds for the most intelligent of the species. You have to agree, when it comes to expedience, dogs rule. Cats, on the other hand, never lost their hunting instinct, are capable of faring for themselves, and need you only peripherally, at best. Dogs like their creature comforts. Which is why you probably won't find packs of feral Pekingeses any time soon.

Loving my life today...

For some reason, I got up grateful this morning. Probably it was about tripping over the pile of shoes by the side of the bed. I seldom wear the same pair twice in a row. I also seldom put them away at the end of the day. Now, I don't consider myself a shoe person. My aim is comfort. No more stiletto heels with witchy points. Two inches is as high as I go these days, stacked heels or wedges. These here are the shoes du jour, my Bass distressed leather wooden-heeled clogs that I imortalized in oil painting class a while ago, ala prima (all at one sitting, about 2 hours), and with palette knife, which was a new way to do things at the time, too. I framed this and put it up here in the office/library/music/meditation/computer room in the little yellow house. I love this painting. Okay, the photo is a tad fuzzy, but the painting is as well. These are my favorite shoes. I have had them about 15 years now, and they held up admirably. I can slip into them, with a pair of my joyous socks on my tootsies, and head out in any kind of California weather, even rain. Another grateful moment; how wonderful are hands, that can pick up the Sketchers Maryjanes, the witch boots and the schlepp-around walking shoes all at the same time and hurl them into the closet? Pretty wonderful. Grateful days are the best.

Sometimes, it is just what I want, after all.

I just framed and wrapped this painting to give to a dear friend. It was done on campus, one of six I did that day, very quickly, very gestural, just on instincts. The paint did its thing, as it is wont to do, and the result was surprising, to say the least. And, on later perusal, rather magical. We were learning about mark-making, one of the techniques real painters use in their work. I liked it ever so much more than washes, and painting negative space, and painting skies, which was all I had done up to this moment in time. That day, I got on paper some of the most astonishing images. I look back at it now, and I am in wonder - of the process and of the end product. Surely, God painted this picture. I just happened to be holding the brush.

Bah, etc.

I think Christmas should be suspended for those over 10 years of age, around the time most kids have decided Santa Claus is just another action hero. Okay, I believed a lot longer than most, but I stand on my estimate of 10 years. The rest of us should just order Chinese takeout and crawl under the covers for the day, watch It's a Wonderful Life for the 50th time, and pop See's orange and raspberry creams into our mouths. Let the kids caroom around like Dr. Suess characters in Whoville. Then call Maids R Us for a quick cleanup the day after, and forget about the whole thing for another year. And if you are like me, and the kids are off on their own, well, no clean up! Hell, it's winter! It's dark! It's cold! An even better idea: let's all hibernate! Oh, I like that. On a more serious note, it is the winter solstice, which marks the return of the light, a deeply holy time of year. Okay, I can celebrate that, light a candle, say a prayer for world peace and another year of life on the Big Blue Ball. Namaste.

The final, final, well, final...

Okay, another semester bites the dust. This was the big final project for drawing class, a drawing of my living room (drastically picked-up and somewhat simplified living room). That's Days of Our Lives on the TV, of course, and Boo and Pickle are there, as they usually are anywhere I am. The elephant lives there, too, a small, tidy, easy-to-live-with elephant these days, but he has never really moved out, though he is considerably smaller. I had buckets of fun doing this drawing, and learned a lot. Like, I have improved my skills a lot in this one semester. I have become much braver than I have ever been before. And I actually got an IDEA (!) and worked it through to its consummation. That is probably the biggest thrill I have had in a really long time. Which means I really have to get out more often!

My recommendation to the world in general...

Everyone should know how to knit. Women, of course, but men, too. They do it in England, you know. Men, I mean. There is nothing so comforting, so meditative, so productive as taking a piece of string and two sticks and making a garment. Okay, mostly I knit scarves. I have, in the past, knitted sweaters and baby blankets and hats, you know. And I am working on a hat right at the moment. Cannot wait to see how it turns out. But the outcome is not the main object in knitting. It is just the whipped cream on the whole scrumptious sundae. The doing is so restful all by itself. It is an exercise in being here now. Ram Dass would be proud of me, to say nothing of Deepak and Eckhart. So, that's my two cents for the day. Back to knit one, purl one.

Time for another Pickle update...

I realize I have not kept up the Pickle Chronicles, so here goes. My Pickle is a year and a half old already. No, she shows no sign of being grown up. She still has ears that can suss out the tiniest disturbance in the sonic universe, and this little bark that is like a seal barfing. She is variously known as Pickle Fluffybutt, Pickle Wickle, Pickle Bigfoot, and Pickle Paininthebutt. Her habits are simultaneously irritating and endearing. Like, when I am here at the computer, oblivious to the world in general, suddenly there she is, with her big feet on my thigh, just wanting to be noticed. Like, right at this moment! Sometimes she has a toy in her mouth. Gee, I remember how cute I thought that was, the first time she did that. Throw my toy! I'll bring it back! Over and over and over and over and over again. Then there is the habit she has of taking paper things out on the back lawn and shredding them into tiny bits. I get lots of exercise picking them up, that's for sure. And sometimes, they are things I wanted to keep. She hasn't chewed up any books lately, library or otherwise. I know better than to leave them withing range of her sharp little teeth. Boo loves and hates her, and then humps her, which makes her presence tolerable for him. She hasn't sat on the doggie bed steps to keep him from getting up lately, or pushed them away, either. Maybe she is over that stage. Gee, I hope so, because Boo always calls me to mediate, in that whiney little way he has. All in all, Pickle is a perfectly wonderful little creature, well worth the time, energy and money. God knew what She was doing when She made my Pickle.

No more, please...

It is not true that one needs other people to create drama. I, myself, am capable of stirring up a whole big bunch all by my lonesome. Eckhart says drama is resistance to what is. And that is what surrender is about, letting the present moment be whatever it is, without labeling it good or bad. It just is. Yeah. So, I am working on it. Already, I have had a little hissy fit about reloading my printer cartridges. Insanity led me to continue to put them in when reality was clearly showing me it wasn't working. A trip to hp.com/support helped me see what was wrong, and you don't push them down, you push the UP. They are all loaded, and working. Which was going to happen with or without the swearing, stomping of feet, gnashing of teeth and other histrionics. I can only believe that I am used to my drama, that I expect it to overwhelm me, and do nothing to move out of its way. It's like paddling upstream all the time. Tiring, yes, and doesn't get me very far, ever. Nice to know there is still work to do. Gives me a reason to get up every day.

Almost there....

My pseudo-Cezanne is almost finished. Debating putting a chair back behind the edge of the table. Cezanne would do it, but he's not around at the moment. Fun thing about this guy, don't need to worry if things are wonky. He did that a lot. Hopefully on purpose, because otherwise, he wasn't seeing too well. I did some things he didn't, like crop the flower arrangement. Actually, that wasn't really my plan, I just sort of ran out of room. Hey, that's a really big vase. I think it makes the painting, though, and Cezanne loved patterned china things. And I just adore the bowl of pears. It came out really sweet, I think. So, back to the great big drawing. It, too, is almost done. Have to put the dogs on the couch, or at my feet, or both. Another semester. More successful conclusions. It is all happy and satisfying.

Me and my elephant in my living room...

Rough draft of my drawing final, where I am supposed to show my expertise in things like perspective and values and volume drawing. Gee, think this will do? Okay, I am a little, well, little, but I needed to be able to lean on my elephant. And my elephant isn't as big as he used to be any more. I've done a lot of work on my elephant. I'm doing most of the work standing at my kitchen counter looking down into the room. The light keeps changing, and cast shadows are going to be interesting. Probably need to do them all at once. So far, I'm pretty happy with it. And it could be much better. As always.

It never fails to amaze me...

You know I have been wallowing in the muck of self lately, and that I have sucessfully extricated myself, once again. One thing I know how to do well is bounce. Of course, if I stopped hitting walls that would not be necessary at all. Sigh. And that is not likely to happen in the near future, so, yay, I have risen from my bed of (self-inflicted) pain. I did it by connecting to Spirit again, and becoming a conduit for Its power to bring me peace and fulfillment. It is the only thing that can really. Cannot rely on people, places, things, or situations to do that. All that is external, and in the world of form. What I needed was some substance, and that lives within. And, in keeping with the usual routine, my heat dish died. Now, last time I was doing this work, it was my iron that bit the dust. No big problem as I use it as seldom as possible. But, folks, it is very cold here at the moment (okay, if you live in Minnesota, we are basking in balminess, but, then, you live in Minnesota, what do you know, anyway), and I find it difficult to be truly spiritual when my feet are cold. My bedroom has no built-in heat source. I need my heat dish! As luck would have it, I am prosperous enough at the moment to buy a new one, so I did. Except it is a much improved appliance. It is a tower, which brings the heat up to where I am, stretched out and propped up in bed. It has a fan, to waft the heat over me. It oscillates, so I can be warm from nose to toes. It has a thermostat so I can set it and it will turn itself off when the desired temperature is reached, and back on if it dips down. It has a REMOTE! Every so often last night, as I lay there in my little bubble of warmth, I told it how much I loved it, my new heater. It was the best thing that could happen to me, the demise of my heat dish. Except that, after assembling my new one and disengaging the old one from its extension cord, I found that the heat dish was miraculously resurrected. It was the cord that got fried. So now, I have a spare and portable heater to take with me wherever I am in the little yellow house, and save me beaucoup bucks in PG&E bills. Definitely an act of God. Pure grace.

Excuse my truth, please...

Wouldn't life be so much more simple if we all looked at it out of the same eyes, with the same attitude, the same experience, and a desire to understand one another? Okay, that's not about to happen. Nevertheless, I just have to expound on my lack of ability to step into another person's shoes, or head. Some people live in such different reality bubbles, I could not begin to fathom their processes. And yet, this statement is as true for them as it is for me. Whatever I think of the situation, it is what it is. Rather, it is what I think it is, because, heaven knows, it could be something entirely different. If I decided differently. Oh, hell, now I'm so confused, I can't remember the main point at all. If I even had one. It's cold, folks, and my brain is all frosty around the edges. Not that it works all that well when thawed. Working on becoming enlightened can be such a screwed up process. Actually, confusion is a good thing. It begs for clarity. Lay it on me!

Slip-sliding away, again. Sigh.

Confession: I have been all bound up in my painbody, again. It seems like I have spent my life looking in at it, not a part of anyone else's happiness, like Stella Dallas standing in the crowd, a forlorn baglady watching her daughter marry into high society. Ouch. It has never been okay to just be who I am. It was easier to be a victim, an sack of past pain. Now, I have worked hard to crawl up out of that hole. The 12 Steps have helped a whole bunch. But, every so often, I fall back into the hole. Now, crawling up out of it, again. I am not a victim of the ants that keep creeping into my kitchen every night. And I am not a pile of past pain. I am listening to Eckhart, again. I may have to do this for the rest of this human existence. So much for hubris, that idea that I knew something others did not. The holidaze have blown my cover. Nuts. Cashews would be nice.

Am I there yet?

Oh, save me from another Cezanne! This is my fourth, in a series of six. At least one has to be of my own composition. Can barely wait to see that one, that's for sure. When this is over, this interminably looooonnnnng semester, I look forward to getting out the oils and painting some cows. And some birds. Of my own choosing. School is wonderful. You learn so many things. One of them is what you don't like to do. Imagine that.