Inquiring minds want to know...

I was watching Pickle, enconsed on the bed as she is every morning, and watching me shed my PJs and pull on my outfit du jour. What must she think about this process? How lovely it must be to have only one outfit to worry about. Actually, she always looks worried as she watches me. And I got to thinking about what vulnerable creatures we humans are to need layers of fabric to stave off the elements. And how vain we are to have so many fashions to choose from. I have often noted that fashion is a real racket. If you subscribe to it, your clothes are out of fashion even before you walk out of Bloomingdale's or Nordstom's. And so many fashions are geared to skinny littlewaifs with no breasts or hips. No one seems to be creating for big girls like me. So I keep my wardrobe down to basics. Kind of preppy for dressy events. Lots of waffle weaves for casual. Jeans. Lots of jeans. Cords, too. Sweaters, I love sweaters. Okay, I have a lot of clothes. This is a short life, and I don't like to worry about what I wear. And I don't like to wear the same thing twice, ever. Sad, isn't it. And Pickle only looks worried because she has these furrows in her brow, anyway. I am heading for the day when I can just throw on my sweats, and not worry about what anyone thinks of me. That makes a lot of sense to this old gal.

Grace notes...

I think birds are God's grace notes. You know, those little extra trills that are not necessary, really, but seem to bring a lightness and beauty that would not be there without them. We had a flock of mourning doves that lived across the street from us in the house on the edge of the world. Every so often, they would brave our proximity and feast at our bird feeder, and usually manage to knock it down, too. Their sweet cooing gave every day a grace, for sure. They mate for life, these birds. Kind of special, that's for sure. Oh, they are not nearly so brightly colored. There are hints of pearly violet and blue in their gray feathers. I just gave them this with a little more intensity. I think it works. Yes.

Kind of amazing...

I was channel surfing in the great electronic sewer that is Sunday evening and came on this PBS documentary about dogs. Now, I know all these very different appearing breeds all came from the wolves that were smart enough to ingratiate themselves to men in exchange for leftovers. This program actually went as far as stating that dogs assisted us in becoming civilized, by so enhancing our hunting skills. Gosh, in school, they taught us it was the end of the Ice Age and hence the emergence of stable climate zones for growing our own food. Well, perhaps the canine species gave us our leg up. And dogs are so attuned to our species, they will learn things that even chimps will not, just because they want so to please us. In one experiment, foxes were bred through three generations for tameness. And another amazing thing happened; they became multi-colored and got different attributes, like curly tails, too. And, since we share a lot of ailments, dogs and humans, scientists were able to map a genome in the DNA of boxers that caused a particular heart ailment, which could then be used to find that same genome in human (and much more complex) DNA Now, that's thinking. All this just proved to me once more that dogs are special creatures. Owning one makes a person much less likely to have a heart attack, for instance. And their special appeal to humans may be that they are like children, always. I mean, look at Pickle. She will never grow out of her baby face. Hopefully, some pretty awful Pickle habits will be outgrown, though. But if not, she can always turn that wide-eyed Pickle smile on, and melt my ever so protected heart.

Troubled waters here...

Oh, not in the painting. That is smooth sailing. But I am all turbulent here. Much happening that is tragic all around me. Climbing up onto my tiny island of sanity, painting and just trusting HP to take care of all those other folks who are ill or sitting in a big pile of troubles of their own making, letting it all be what it is supposed to be, knowing I could not change it with all the power available to me. Meanwhile, I actually had a few moments feeling guilty because I don't have the trouble these other folks do. I am like this swan, filled with grace. For the moment, anyway. I know that things can change awfully fast. Not today, okay, HP?

Creation du jour...

I smeared a whole bunch of yellow onto this canvas last night, then dredged up this image today. I love the way objects just kind of materialize out of the ether onto the surface. No big hassle here, it just appeared there, the little red finch. Birds have this innocence about them, and a curiosity about the world, too. It was kind of gray outside, and the leaves were hip deep on the psuedo-lawn before I went out there to rake, in between sessions with this bright and sunny little guy. I am kind of blown away at the ease I am feeling with the paint these days. It is no longer my enemy, and while it has not lost its ability to surprise me, often delightfully, it obeys me most of the time. No joy greater than going to bed at night knowing there is something new in the world that I made that day.

The cowwoman makes a mess...

Homely little painting of rather prosaic bunch of humble flowers in juice bottle. Hmmmm. I just didn't know what to do. It was too cold. It was too warm. It was blah. Today, I took a small brush into it to flesh out the flowers a little, then scumbled the hell out of the background, color on color, until it popped a little. Not a star in the firmament of my opus, but not a total loss, either. Every canvas is about learning something new. This one taught me to not give up too soon, just keep plugging away at it. There is always hope when you can paint over it, and paint over it, and paint over it.

Mea culpa, mea ultima culpa...

I have made the return journey from the fuds. Unfortunately, it required a little bit of rule breaking. Not God's rules, not even my mother's rules, oh, no no no, MY rules. I try to be oh so circumspect here in the little yellow house. Only fresh foods. No preservatives! No trans fats! Whole grains! Locally grown, organic even! Seasonal! Okay, tiny concession to Italian sausage (chicken at least) and Cool Whip. I'm not perfect, after all. But on my way home from my very righteous meeting yesterday afternoon, faster than you could say non-complex carbohydrates, my little black Focus just turned into the drive up at the new In and Out. The guy outfitted with the soda jerk hat assured me the line was short at that time. I kind of gasped when I saw about twenty cars in front of me. Turned out this is short for this place. They took my order when I was about ten cars away, and the line just plodded along and a mere seven minutes later I had my order: hamburger with the works, fries and a vanilla milkshake. Now, I doubt there was any skim milk in that sucker. And those fries, fresh as new mown hay! And the hamburger, on a soft as cotton white-bread bun, ah, heaven! To be fair, this was dunch. Or maybe linner? I didn't have any lunch, because my stomach hadn't transitioned to the new time yet. And I didn't have any dessert, either, unless you count the milkshake, which was a beverage. Right? Mother always said moderation was the key. And fast food, once a season, seems pretty moderate to me. Is it winter yet?

Down in the fuds...

I just read an email from yet another of my geriatric set, about the joys of growing old. Not in that picture today. My sponsor calls this the fuds. Yeah. Well, it is raining, and although the powers that be gave me back that hour they so rudely usurped last spring, an eager newcomer woke me up at 8 AM, thinking it was 9 AM, and I had not slept well during the downpour in the wee hours. So, not a happy camper here. Yet, as I gaze through the blinds at the front yard, it does look rather festive, decorated as it is with golden leaves on the now greened-up psuedo-lawn. And I will go fetch that newcomer at 1:30 to ferry her to the 2 PM meeting, because that is what we do, help the alcoholic who is suffering. Must be hell to not have a car in this weather. So, grateful for my Jolie, little black puddle-jumper that she is. And I will pull on my boots and look tres sophisticated in the skinny jeans that fit again. And I am thinking of having lunch out at the new In and Out that opened where the old Lyon's was torn down. I watched it rise from the ashes, as it were, wondering if it was yet another County bureaucracy, and thrilled to find it not. Actually, maybe I will put the fuds on the back burner, and sojourn over to TJMax to paw through the racks for a while. That always bucks me up. Or I could consider painting my walls pink, as in this photo that got taken when I accidentally put a pink filter on. Don't know which button to push to do that again, but it was fun while it lasted.

It's not easy being me. Sigh.

Okay, long time, no blog. No paint, either. Like, the more time I have, the less I accomplish. Life kind of blindsided me, again. Dear ones are going through rough seas, and I feel like I am floundering here in my powerlessness to heal them. I do know that it is essential that I not sink, in case someone needs me, I need to stay afloat. So now rising up out of my doldrums. There is a canvas all primed in a perky yellow waiting for my attention on the kitchen counter. And I just popped one of the leftover Halloween candies, Butterfinger, my favorite, in defiance of the waistline fairy who waggles her finger at me all the time. Take that! I will work out especially hard for that little transgression. Actually, in my tiny life, nothing is very wrong at the moment. Laundry could use some attention, likewise the happy mess that I live in. Ah, but she who dies with a clean house has lived a pretty little life, you know. I'd rather go to the movies. Oh, and this image is a detail of the fourth painting I ever did. They do that in art books, you know, show details of famous paintings. I am amazed by the attention to detail I had in that early time. I had tamed the paint, I see, got it to spread out in the way I wanted. And I wish this were the whole thing, actually. It is more interesting than the original. Live and learn. Change and grow. Hope lives.

Sturm und drang for a rainy Friday...

One of the things I have let go in my recovery, well, for the most part, is the adrenaline rush. Gosh, I miss it sometimes. I have been remembering the 1989 World Series, because of the phenoms our SF Giants are this year. I was sitting up in the nose bleed seats at Candlestick Park, over right field, when they won the pennant that October. And my brother was in that same seat when the earthquake sent parts of the overhang raining down on him at the first game of the Series. It took 4 hours to get through the pitch black city, a trip that usually takes 30 minutes. We were all shaken up, literally and figuratively. And what I hated most was those newpeople who descended on us in a feeding frenzy of adrenaline, sitting in front of collapsed houses in the Marina, or in front of the Cypress structure that pancaked and killed 50 some odd souls. I just wanted them to be GONE, go home, let us repair and heal. No one commented on the miracle that just a few souls met their maker that day. A temblor that large in India or South America would have killed millions. We do a really good job with our infrastructure here in Earthquake Country. Funny how these things come to mind again. I learned later to just check in on the disaster once in a while, and do what I have in front of me in between. I haven't even watched any of these last few games all the way through. I did catch the 8th inning last night, and will admit, I got to savor some of that old juice again. Felt kind of good, actually. Like revenge for that 1989 Series, when the As swept the Giants in four games. Oh, and here is a messy little pastel I diddled up while watching my soap opera today. Now, there's a bunch of folks who feast on adrenaline.

The boys of October...

My days as a sports fan(atic) are over, I think. As a kid, it was always the NY Yankees and the Brooklyn Dodgers in the World Series. I always rooted for the Dodgers. I am an underdog kind of gal. Which is why I was a San Francisco 49er fan for decades. They would limp into the playoffs in the 70s, only to lose in the NFL championship game, to Dallas (and my Dad says that if they gave the world an enema, they'd put the nozzle in Dallas). Heartbreak, year after year. Then Bill Walsh, Joe Montana, Steve Young, and voila! Triumph! Only to sink again into obscurity. Sobriety cured me of my need for this adrenaline rush. But I sort of jumped up and down (in bed, scared the hell out of the pooches) when the SF Giants felled the mighty Phillies last night. I followed them before, back when Jack Clark was on first base, and Robbie Thompson on second, and Matt what's-his-name on third. That was back in the 80s, I think. They always dropped the ball in the end, too. Heartbreak. But I may actually watch some of the Series this year. Sort of in a nostalgic way. And I know little kiddo and her fiance are really excited about this surprising event, too. So, Go Giants! Whoever you are.

This blog entry is rated PG42...

...which means it may be TMI for persons I gave birth to. You know, getting old is both a good and a bad thing. Good in that I am still vertical, and pretty strong and flexible for an old chick. Bad in that lots of little things nip and niggle, a lot of the time. Let's talk for a moment about my bladder. Not a subject I am particularly fond of, but one that is in the back of my mind all the freaking time. The poor old thing hasn't been itself since the birth of my last baby at 35. Muscles were not all that toned at that time, too busy being a middle management phenom and wife/mother/stepmother/daughter superwoman. So she sat on top of my bladder the whole nine months. I had a major infection early on, and had to be ever so careful after that. We have been around and around with each other, my bladder and I. For a while, when I was heavier, there were little accidents. God, that was sooooo embarassing. Till I mentioned it out loud at a round table of like spirits, and found that mine was a tiny problem in comparison. Losing weight and working out have helped. I had an ultrasound (and that was really RUDE), and found that it was not emptying completely, which is why I have endured many, many infections. Now I have learned to wring it out like a sponge every sitting. That has helped, and I am accident-free for the most part. Night time is interesting, though. Five or six trips to the pot are not unusual. It makes for a lot of sleeplessness. Which is why everyone knows not to call me before 9 AM at the earliest. I tried the medication, oh, yes, indeed. But it aggravated another of my most irritating aging symptom, dry mouth. I probably drive people crazy, because I chew a lot of gum. It is the only thing that keeps my mouth moist enough. And I have dry eyes, too. Drops and hot compresses help. Also eye goo every night. But, my nose runs like a faucet. No, literally. I keep Kleenex everywhere here in the little yellow house, so a box is always within easy reach. And in the midst of this, there is gratitude beyond measure. I do not have arthritis, diabetes, MS, cancer, or any other life altering/threatening ailment. I have a warm bed, with two warm poopies, great food to eat, amazing friends who also share their tribulations and can laugh at them, as I often do. While I am not about to run a marathon in the near future, I will be heading out to swim laps and lift weights and peddle like crazy on the stationary bike. And live to tell about it.

Horse (or pig) of a different color...

An exercise for a gray, cold day - paint a happy little pig. This little guy is black, actually, in my reference photo. It's just that black is so, well, dark and brooding, and this here fella is ever so much brighter than the average pig, wouldn't you say? This may be finished. As always, it's impossible to tell. I just got brave all over the place here. Newness, what a wonderful concept.

Flotsam and jetsam for a rainy Sunday...

It is suddenly cold, chilly even. I turned on both heaters today, mostly to aid in drying soggy poopies. They love the wet, actually, and Boo especially likes the toweling off. I had both of them under a blue towel today, two little flat faces peeking out at me, too cute for words. It is early evening, and I am grateful that little kiddo is back from the other side of the world, on terra firma after a grueling three flights with some complications in connecting flights. Happiest when both kiddos are nearby, oh, I mean all three, since a new one is joining the fold. I am listening to Cinemix on my ITunes Radio, soundtracks. They played "The Way We Were", and I got all hot and bothered, again. Back in the olden days, my lover took his other girlfriend to see that movie. Well, we had agreed to see other people, only he did and I didn't. What can I say, it was the 70s. Then the waltz from Disney's "Sleeping Beauty", which I had to drag my 7 year old daughter to see. Gee, I have all these great Disney pics on videotape. Makes me want to throw an inner-child party for my menopausal girlfriends. We are all closer to childhood than you might think, enjoying our netheryears with great elan. Some marbles, some jacks, and a little Cinderella might be just the thing for a dark winter night.

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1.03.01

Yet another medium to mess around with...

Did I mention that I found that going to the local art store for product demos is very enlightening? The Savoir Faire folks demoed Sennelier pastels, soft and oil, and I got to have a few samples, which was nice. And then they mentioned that their soft pastels are bound with gum arabic, the same as water colors, and, if you laid them down and went back with a damp brush, you could actually work with them like watercolors. And I thought, gee, I want to try that! So I ordered a starter set of 24, which arrived yesterday (see, I am more spiritually evolved, able to delay gratification, especially for a bargain), and I noodled around with this simple scene. I am not happy with the paper, actually, too toothy. So I need to experiment and see what works better. But there is definitely promise here of some fun work ahead. Can't think of a more wondrous way to spend my time than creating.

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1.03.01

Something new, again...

Don't know why this happened, but I am in this vortex of productivity, trying all kinds of new things with my new medium, and still finding surprises everywhere. Perhaps I am finding my muse? I really hope so. Notice how loose this painting is. Part of that is the acrylics themselves, their reluctance to run or blend in any way. Oh, you can add water and they get all runny, but that takes away from their vibrancy, and that is what I love the most. So I just kept dragging color on top of color, and there she was, my new little lady. The expression came quite easily, too. Wistful, isn't she. I always wanted blue eyes, you know. This ability is my consolation prize, I think. I went to the library today, and snuck a peek at the new American Artist magazine, and no one is painting like this, at least, not this month. Which made me think I am, once again, doing it WRONG. Well, it sure feels right. I am going to suppose it is. Yes.

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1.03.01

The Not Well Yet Gazette, vol. XXXVIII

I will be the first to admit I don't have a clue what I am doing 99% of the time. I just try to do the right thing, the thing that is kind and compassionate. Lord knows, in the past, that was not always the case, and I have some stuff to make up for, big time. Yet, my character defects hang around like stray cats, probably because I am still feeding them. It's just fear. And doing paintings like this one is about conquering some of that. Now I am emulating Lucien Freud, the grandson of Sigmund, in his layer on layer of paint, and looseness all over the place. Well, it feels right, and is a lot of fun, so I think I will keep doing that. Impatience, that's my middle name. I want it to be DONE! Yesterday! Perhaps it is, just don't know yet. I loved doing it, that's for sure. And all this productivity is really a stopgap for the fear I have when my progeny is on the other side of the world. See what a little fear can do? It's so interesting.

The cowwoman paints (gasp) a woman!

It's been a long time coming, this foray into figure painting. I like to draw faces, and bodies when I can get one to stand still. The human form is so precious, with all its little nooks and crannies, with the way shadows fall and light shines. I left this madonna really loose, and she may stay that way. This medium is not as easily blended as oils, and I like the colors and the way they go together to make the figure. I am having soooooo much fun here. It's even better than fingerpainting was in kindergarten. And next, there are pastels on their way to me, Sennelier soft pastels, that have the incredible ability to be turned into watercolors with the touch of a wet brush. Oh, I can barely wait!

Deja vu all over again...

I have been picking away at this oeuvre for days now, changing it over and over again. Good things happened when I added some new pigments, like quinachrodone fuschia and a wonderful yellow ochre clone from Sennelier. It is in real life a bunch of things that some person at Trader Joe's thought would go well together. Not necessarily so. And it reminds me of a very early work, The Ball Jar, a bouquet from a friend's garden near the house on the edge of the world that he sent over in one (Ball jar, I mean), and I rendered into posterity. That painting lives with a friend now, as he really loved it. I am thinking I will come to love this one, too. Strange as it is. And yes, it's purple. Like, get over it.

Flash! Old dog learns new trick!

Never thought I could become so obsessed with sheep. I kept looking at these paintings, and decided that I could make them better. Now, this is new behavior. When I am first working on a piece, it sort of emerges from the canvas all by itself. There is little deliberation in the process. I feel guided by HP, pushing pigment around, picking up hues on the brush. And I have this belief that I cannot change anything; that would ruin HP's work. Except that I thought Mom was kind of homely in the first rendition, and with these sweet younguns, she should be radiant, in her ewe-ish way. So I softened her face, gave her some lashes (which she actually does have), brightened her nose, and gave her a neck, so she doesn't look like a linebacker in a fluffy coat. Then I brightened the background, which was actually grass in the photo. And suddenly the whole thing became more scintillating. Minor adjustments were then made to the second painting, shortening the baby's butt, brightening his back, modeling his front. And, surprise, both are more pleasing. HP may know what She is doing, but, in the end, She gave me a brain and good small muscle control, so I know what I am doing, too. Miracle!

Done diddy done done...

Well, almost. Much improved, I think. More detail, more expression, better proportions, better all over. Paintings have their own special voice. Hello, this one says. I am so delightful, I can barely stand myself! Thank my artist for not making us too precious. We are just fluffy enough. We are not cartoony. And we are not too real, either. All those dippy-dabs of paint, all that love all over our canvas, how could we be any better. And now, as I look at it here, I think I see a couple of adjustments. Luckily, there is still paint on the palette. Can you imagine how much FUN it is to do this? And what grace I feel that I can, at all? Yay.

And today I did this...

Very loose first draft, for sure. Kind of wonky, and lots of fine tuning to do, but the idea is there, and I am liking it already. Part of my problem here is the reluctance of the paint to go where I want it to go. It is thick and not very tractable, at least, not yet. It does give a really nice sketchy quality that is actually hard to get with oils. I see lots of little things that I want to continue to dab away at, but not too much. I am not a representational artist. I am an expressionist, in love with color and form and nuance that is created by the media, to fool the eye into seeing what I see. It is kind of magical, in the end, this process of creation. More magic coming, tomorrow.

Anaotmy of a painting...

Just like life is a journey and not a destination, paintings are a process, not a product. Here's how the sheep came to be immortalized. A couple of years ago, I trailed a friend to the ranch where she boards her horse, Happy. Both dogs went along for the ride, and I took lots of photos of the various animals there, hoping to get some good ones for reference pictures for future paintings. And Friday, when my daughter and her beloved were in the belly of the great silver beast, suspended above solid ground for most of the freaking day, I got busy doing stuff to distract myself from my own SELF-CENTERED FEAR. And one of the tasks I undertook was to sort my photos on my disk, a monumental and thoroughly boring endeavor. And gee, there were those animals! Well, I cropped one photo, printed it out, and later that evening, when I had most of my job done here in the office, I laid out a palette and dippy-dabbed away at a portrait of this sweet little family. Note that Mom has her back totally shorn, though the rest of her is admirably fluffy. Artistic license let me ignore that little fact. And I am not unhappy with my painting, no not at all. So satisfied, I will be rendering this scene next. They look like sweet kids, all of them, with holes in the knees of their pants.

Little family...

Big experiment. Just noodling around with my acrylics, again. It could be done. Or not. Just tired tonight, and rerun of Bones is coming up soon (just love Seeley Booth), so I am quitting for tonight. They are not as sweet as cows, these sheep, but ever so much fun to poke around with. I began with a black canvas, and I really like the effect. Tomorrow, it may look entirely different to me. And to you, too, when I get done. Painting is such a personal endeavor. I only know that when I feel satisfied, that something good has come from the work, there is no feeling as happy.

Roots and wings, bah!

Mother was right. You never know the agony that children can give you until you have some of your own. And I do. Have two children, I mean, a boy and a girl. Of course, they are no longer the cherubic tykes I look at on my bureau and bedroom wall every day. Gee, I remember hanging over their respective cribs when they were tiny, awed at every tentative breath. I became acutely aware of both the fragility and the resilience of this earthly existence in those moments. Now, they have flown off to become who they were meant to be. And for me, not much has changed. I still chew my lip over their various escapades, and mourn when they are hurting. I would like them to just stay where I put them until I come back again to visit. Alas, neither one is willing to do that for me. And yesterday, kiddo number two, the redheaded dervish that is my daughter, was on airplanes for the whole freaking day, winging her way to Egypt. That's on the freaking other side of the world! And I talked to HP all day, just keep her safe, please! I mean, I felt responsible for holding those planes up all by myself. It was exhausting. She and her darling fiance arrived just fine, and probably would have even if I had not been all twisted up. So I got out this picture of me, sweet little angel that I was, and am remembering the self-inflicted perils I have survived in my 7 decades of life on the Big Blue Ball, and decided to LIGHTEN UP. I know my kids. They are never going to stand still. Life is, after all, a moving target.

Ah, life on life's terms!

Late morning in the little yellow house. I am here in the office/library/music room, and so are the fur people. Look pretty innocent, don't they, Boo at his requisite four feet away from the dreaded Pickle, who is curled up at my feet. Yet, even as they just lay there on the recently vacuumed carpet, they are making a mess. Another vacuum cleaner bit the dust, or rather, the dog hair, this week, necessitating a trip to WalMart for a new sucker-upper. This time I got one that specializes in dog hair. Yeah, that'll work. I can bet you these sweet dewy-eyed creatures can murder this one in less than a year. Well, they are worth it, my poopies. Dog hair all over the place is really just little bits of love. And everyone who loves me expects me to arrive with a fine coat of my own, black on light clothes, blond on dark. Equal opportunity dog hair.

Experiencing the divine...

I went to one of our little AA seminars last night, this one on why AA is a spiritual program and not a religion. Three of our sober gurus headed the panel, and only one hit the mark. Okay, I heard how one found her Higher Power, the one of her understanding, and I heard all about another guy's understanding, but the young kid, the one with only 8 years experience, knew what he was supposed to be talking about. Our founders, Bill and Bob, knew that our Program needed to have singleness of purpose, that being to get and stay sober. Politics and religion were guaranteed to get us all drunk again. So they made this an exercise of the spirit, so all who needed our help could belly up to the table and be welcome. We don't talk about religion very much. It is, after all, an outside issue. Those who do find themselves sitting alone. Frankly, I think we are not a religion because religions main thrust is to tell you what to believe, how to act and what to do or not do, depending on horrific consequences if you don't follow the rules. And alcoholics hate rules. Alcoholics hate authority of any kind. We are not alone in that, I know. But alcoholics are people who function at the extremities of life. There is little middle of the road for us. Not until a lot of work has been done. So, every one of us has a conception of God, or Spirit, or Great Beloved, that we carry around in our hearts and minds to keep us on the path of happy destiny. Frankly, anything that could make this lily, well that's a pretty special Something. N'est-ce pas?

Cow woman goes on an adventure...

It is bleeping hot here today. So I took advantage of a friend's invitation to paint on her ranch at the coast. Surprise! It was bleeping hot there, too. Also, her ranch is north of our old house on the edge of the world, up a 5 mile mostly vertical, gravel, dusty driveway. Hard to find, too. Sheer drops on my side of the car, and thank HP I didn't do the driving. I would be a trainwreck now if I had. We painted for 3 hours, ate lunch, then said sayonara. I had a great big headache, and was curious whether we would survive the trip down with the aplomb we did on the way up. And up. And up. From sea level to 1800 feet. Lovely view. And I learned that I am happiest navigating the distance from the kitchen to the couch. One little step down. That's perfect.

The mission statement...

I have a friend who also has a blog. He keeps asking me how many followers I have. And I reply, followers? What are those? Whatever they are, he has nine of them, and to him, that's gold. You see, he is a professional artist, and in the business of selling his artwork, and his blog is all about his process of creativity and the current work he has on his easel. Now, my blog has some of that, too. But it is not the real purpose of this endeavor. Originally, I started the blog because I enjoyed my daughter's blog so much, and decided I could be just as self-centered in my own right. Then it evolved into something else entirely. I began to use it as a spiritual tool. It's like getting a camera. Suddenly, I saw all these wondrous photographs in the world around me. I saw much more deeply into the world with my Canon around my neck. And I watch the world more intensely when I am thinking of what to write about here, too. But more than that, I watch the inner landscape, too. How am I feeling today, physically, mentally, emotionally, spiritually? Am I griping or expressing gratitude? Am I in the solution or part of the problem? And, yes, I put my little artistic expressions up here, too, because I am a visual person and love the color. But also because I love creating something new in the world most days that I am in it. The day is never wasted if I have diddled up a little digital image or started (and usually finished) a painting or a drawing. Or written something here about my tiny life. Which leads me to this huge surprise I got the other night when I saw this little icon on my dashboard and realized I have 23 followers! I don't know any of you. And suddenly, this has become me and others. It feels kind of funny. Cannot imagine how you stand the diatribes about Speedo-related fat bubbles and the trials and tribulations of the Pickle. But bless your souls. I kind of know that I am not riding around on this little dirt ball of a world alone. Nice to have you on board. Trivialities of life in the little yellow house will continue, complete with mountains of dog hair and experiments in pigments. Welcome to my world, inside and out!

Okay, hit me with your best shot...

I suppose that fussy is nice. It's just that I like messy better. After all, I love Matisse, and Van Gogh, and they were not particularly precise or interested in portraying a faithful representation of the object of their image. Oh, and Cezanne, another guy who messed with everything, including perspective. The bird is there, isn't it. Perhaps it is sort of fuzzy around the edges. But it is a happy mess, yes indeed. It made me happy while I was doing it, even though I knew from the beginning that it was going to be something different. For some reason, the paint just would not do what I kept pushing it to do. It just wanted to clump up, all stubborn with this life of its own. And now I see that was just fine. So, this may be my new style. Really easier than anything I have done before, and hell, easy is GOOD!

This one's for the birds...

The new acrylic painting, trying some different subject matter while staying in the aviary mood. My grandparents had an egg ranch when I was little, five hen houses. It was an everyday of the week job, gathering the eggs, candling them, washing them, buffing them, packing them. I hated the chickens, though. They were mean to me, pecking me when I tried to help with the gathering. Then I came on my first soft-shelled one. Ick. And spent the rest of my time playing in the feed bin or sussing out litters of feral kittens that were hidden all over the ranch. So here is an homage to the Mill Station Road ranch, and a big raspberry to the guy in the egg truck that ran over my doll in her buggy, even if I did happen to leave it in the driveway.

Why am I surprised?

I am selling this painting. It is just about my favorite of all time. It happened in a moment of tender grace, morning at Pepperwood, looking over my shoulder, not at the vista that goes on forever, but at the little hill behind me. Morning was still spreading sweet shadows, the grasses were still and luminous. And God painted them, together with me, my pigments, my brushes, and a roll of paper towels. The hues that make up this image slipped onto and off my brush magically, without a lot of thought, almost like automatic writing. It is hard to let it go. And it stands to reason that those works that are precious to me will also be precious to others. They are my children, these works, the mating of my heart and the medium. The best ones are, that is. Some are too cerebral. They wind up in the cupboard in the garage, where they wait, for a moment of inspection, and probably to return to the oblivion they came out of, and support another image on top. Love that aspect, that nothing is wasted, really. Meanwhile, waving goodbye to this one. And hello to a nice little bit of money, to help pay for Boo's surgery. It's a good trade, in the end.

Monday, ugh...

It's kind of a bug day here, as in some days you're the windshield, some days you're the, well, you get the idea. I did get my butt and all other assorted bits to the gym, where, sorry to say, the pool is not yet open. They are remodeling, and it really is a good thing, since it will be bigger, brighter, and probably even have some new equipment, yay. But we have been without the wet areas for a while, not even an indoor facility, just portapotties along the back. Thank HP, that's open again. Funnily enough, this has been a great lesson for me. Since changing areas have been iffy, I put on my gym clothes first thing in the morning, and every time, I get to the gym! Not like when I would throw the gym bag in the car, and figure I'd get there, some time that day. Lately, I have been going every day, taking one or two off on the weekend, doing full weights (and I have added weight on every machine, even those blasted upper body ones that had me trembling and puffing in the beginning) three days, and in between, more cardio, new machines, and lower weights on others. Just need to remember where I am in the rotation, and that in itself is a trick. Met a new buddie there, lady I met when I got my eyes checked Friday, and she paints and takes photos, like me! What a world. After my workout, I started another painting, and, at the moment, I hate it. It is fermenting at the moment, and when dry (acrylics, again, dry before you can blink), I will work to get it into acceptable shape, if not scintillating loveliness. Well, you never know. Love my life, even on bug days.

Sayonara, you three...

Happy to say We Three was sold at the auction today. Sad to see it go. It was kind of a seminal piece for me, where I pushed a little and got something new and exciting. In the beginning, it was kind of flat and very black and white, so I went back into it with color here and there, and it just popped. I loved how they gazed out at me with that frankness cows have, yet each had its own expression. Well, it went home with some lovely person who, I am sure, will love it as I have, look into it often and feel the sweetness. My artwork come from a birthing process, and each piece feels like a new infant still. I hope that, when I have been through the process more often, it will become less painful to let it go. Not there yet, though.

The sweet smell of validation...

Tomorrow is the big event, Art for Life. I probably have mentioned it before, and I will again anyway. It is a fundraiser for Face to Face, our local AIDS hospice organization. Out little county was hit hard by the epidemic, and that is honored at this event, on a big round table clothed in red, with black stones set in a spiral from the center three, the first deaths, each year separated by a white bone. We have a moment of silence every year, and it never lessens in the poignancy. Artists from all over the county, and we have herds of them, donate a piece of their work, and art lovers come to bid on them. The artists get recognized, the patrons get cheap art and a tax write-off, and Face to Face gets a nice bit of money. Caterers come and try to outdo one another, and the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence come to serve hors d'oeuvres. Everyone has a dandy time. And there is this year's offering, on the $75 tickets, with an artist's credit on the back. My name and art, out in front of God and everyone. Happiness oozes from my every pore!

More...

Perhaps you can tell how much fun I am having with my new medium. Acrylics are strange. The pigments are so much more strident. They don't mix as well as oils, which is probably why the paintings I have done have been so vibrant. Unusual things happen when you scumble them (paint one color over another). And they clean up with water. Gee, that's ever so nice. I actually thought about going back into this painting with oils. You can do that, paint oils over acrylics ( but not the other way around). But in the end, I got most of what I wanted with just the one medium. I glazed parts of it, a new skill for me. So much to learn, you know.

Once more with the plastic paints...

I may have found something good here, after all. Acrylics make me work really fast, and not think too much. Thinking too much makes for ugly stuff. Art is heart stuff. You really get that looking at a Van Gogh. Not so much with Picasso. Very cerebral, that guy. I don't like it when my paintings get that contrived look. Maybe I quit too soon with this one, I never know. And the little bird is kind of coy, but so was the photo. It's just an adorable thing, the little bird. I got to push the paint around more this time, more like working in oils. And I primed the canvas ultramarine blue, so no white holidays peeking out at me. Just glad to be working at it again.

And then I did this...

After long time, no paint, I laid a palette of acrylics, my arch enemy. But I had a bunch left from those academic classes that fret so over toxicity in oils, and a friend gifted me with a basic set, and what can I say, I am part Scottish, you know, and kind of wanted to use them up. This is my attempt to get them to work like oils. Not happening as well as I would like, but the effect is loose and kind of eschisse, or sketchy, ala Monet. In fact, I couldn't get oils to do THIS at all. Perhaps this is a good thing! It was fun, and probably is not done yet, but then, what ever is? If I'm vertical, nothing.

Really, I am teachable. Really.

Recently I toodled over to the senior center for a watercolor class. Secretly, I hope they will be astonished to see me there. YOU can't possibly be a SENIOR! No one has said that yet. Anyhow, the class was sparse, and the real instructor was on vacation. Standing in her stead was one of our local and very wonderful artists. Nevertheless, I completely ignored her demo and proceeded to do this rather wimpy painting from a book I brought with me. Of course, I could have saved some gasoline if I just did that at home in my own studio. Don't know what came over me there. I was just full of rebellion and defiance that day. It happens. Hoping I will get back to that place where I don't know very much, and that is okay. Soon.

There will never be another Boo.

Here is my birthday boy. He is 12 today, which translates to around 70 in dog years, for a little 20 pounder like he. Actually, he is not 20 lbs any more, not since pesky Pickle came to pester him 24/7. He is slim and trim and perky as hell. Don't pay any attention to all that white on his muzzle, he's had that since he was 2. Okay, the white over his eyes came later, but still, what a guy! He came to live with me on an October day very like the one we are having today, warm but not sizzling hot, windy with papery leaves skittering before my car as I drove to town to get a gander at him. "Adorable Pekingnese/ShihTzu mix puppies" the ad read. And there was one little boy left. I might have been a little disappointed that he was black and white, but that lasted only a second. He was the runt. In fact, Pickle weighed a pound more than he did when she arrived at 7 weeks old. I knew that day that I was putting my heart out there where it could easily break, and that someday, it would, as Boo is temporary (as is everything, when I think about it). And I went for it, anyway, because I knew that he was 2lbs 2oz of pure love. And that is how it has been. Mellow, dear Boo.

You tell me...

I have an appointment to get my eyes checked on the 17th of September, and I am wondering whether to tell Doc that, when I get tired, my right eye still hurts where he punched the hole in it. Well, he did fry it extra crispy because of that little complication when my iris bled. But no one told me it was going to hurt at all, and I am not sure it does because no one told me it would. Now, that may seem strange to you, but makes excellent sense to me. I am used to other people telling me how I feel. I'm sad - no you're not, that kind of thing. And when I tell the Drs how I really think I feel, you know they are doing that twirly finger thing behind my back, sure that I am several candles shy of a chandelier. Sigh. I really do have a super-sensitive body. Look what happened after just a little squirming around on the floor at my somatics class. All kinds of icky stuff whacked me up the side of the head. Maybe that is why my glasses are not working all that well. I can see fine through them on the left, but my right eye seems kind of fuzzy. Or maybe it really is a cataract. That would be a good deal. That Doc can see, and take care of. And no on will think I am crazy. Wouldn't that be refreshing.

If this is Sunday, there must be garbage.

Sundays suck. The trash is collected on Mondays in my neighborhood, and that means that all the erstwhile garbage-makers are busily hauling their cans out to the curb, making lots of noise to disturb the cow woman's serenity. Add to that the frenzy of the furry beasts who share my little yellow house, as they race around, barking. Pickle starts it. Boo, who is a little deaf, picks it up, and keeps it up long after the disturbance has ceased, since he can't hear it, and wants to cover all his bases. And in my current depleted, somewhat fragile state, this very common occurence is totally messing with me. And on top of all that, we have an air show in town, making godawful loud noises that threaten to rip the fabric of my existence way beyond repair. And did I mention I found the source of my angst? I have been doing some somatics work with a friend, and that has released a lot of pain that was happily trapped up until now in my poor old body. Muscle memory. Great big ouch.

Woe is I...

Using recycled image because Photoshop burped and would not save today's rendering. Kind of follows, it is that kind of time for the cow woman. Every so often, without any real reason, depression descends, and there I am, at the bottom of that hole, again. So I sit here, noodling around with the computer, mindless games, mostly, and listening to this schizophrenic radio station that plays both classical and soundtracks. I heard some Danny Elfman music, he's Tim Burton's guy, then an achingly lovely Chopin scherzo, followed by John Williams magical Harry Potter, and then some Satie, which at best is weird, and can be downright disturbing. Okay, this too shall pass. Perhaps, though, this time, I will get a ride on the A train, and do some THERAPY. Oh, lord. That means paying someone to sit on their couch, rip all the scabs off the old wounds, and bleed all over the place. Somehow, my wounds just don't seem to go away. And this has been a year fraught with change, always a catalyst for sturm und drang. Well, whatever. It is what it is.

Just visiting this time...

Today is our little art show from our halcyon days trudging around the Pepperwood hills. The new Dwight Center, an architectural gem, is hosting a reception for docents and patrons, and we artists will be up there at 3 to hang our work, have a dandy reunion potluck, then attend the reception, and the star-gazing that will follow, if we wish. Don't think that will happen for this artist. Must get home to be good Boo mommy as he recovers from very rude surgery in his instrument of torture Elizabethan collar. But anxious to view my painting that has been languishing up there since the class ended a month ago, see if I like it as much as I once did. And I will be showing my very favorite Pepperwood work alongside it, since notice was sent there was room for a second oeuvre. Taking along my trust staplegun and picture wire, a portable easel, and a fruit tray to contribute. Not up to cooking anything today, not after morning workout, wimpy as it may have been.

Looking back...

I suppose regret is a silly emotion. What's done is done, get over it. But I spent a moment thinking about my last divorce, and its consequences now that our daughter is marrying. Certainly, I wish her more happiness than I found in marriage. And I have no doubt she will have it. She is healthier than I will ever be, and part of that is because I worked to get healthier, and sober. And I will live always knowing that this was not a mistake. There are no mistakes, just lessons to be learned. Wait, I think there is a song about that! And my lesson was learning what is really important. Houses and cars and swimming pools are nice, and I really like them, too. However, people are more important. People are more valuable. I left because I didn't feel valued. Not surprising, because then, I didn't value myself very much. That has changed. Now I take excellent care of my little self. Today, after my super-healthy Trader Joe's soy and flaxseed cereal with skimmed milk and after taking dear Boo in for his operation, I worked out, then came home and put together a big pot of homemade split pea soup, because it is really cold here. I had it for dinner with zucchini pancakes, really yummy. So, lessons continue. Sad that it didn't work out, for my dear girl. Happy I am in recovery and able to be useful in ways I never imagined. And joyous that I now have someone who values me in my life. Me.

Oh, crap.

A couple of weeks ago, I thought I saw something awful on Boo's eye, but when I caught up with him, it was fine. I put it down to a trick of the light, and forgot about it until Saturday, when it looked like he had a big piece of raw meat stuck in the corner of his eye. Really gross and painful looking, though he was not complaining at all. Today at the vet's we found that it grew on the inside of his eyelid this time, so sometimes it is tucked in, irritating his eye really something awful. Which meant I had to dig out that blasted collar, which I had thrown out into the garage hoping to never lay eyes on again, and we are off Wednesday morning for a repeat of this undignified process. Boo actually acclimated to his collar so well last time, he would have worn it for the rest of his sweet life if I had asked him to. He is the sweetest most loving creature on the face of the earth. Also one of the smelliest, so he will also endure the indignity of a bath before his surgery. Let us pray this will be the last one.

Days of our lives...

Yesterday was one of those precious moments, when dreams come true. Darling daughter is getting married (yay!), in a year. And yes, we went shopping for THE DRESS. Well, it takes about 6 months to get it all up to snuff, fitted exactly to the bride, so it is good we began looking now. I found out there are all these bridal salons tucked into ateliers above the windy San Francisco downtown streets, sort of like jewels in a crown. And each contains miles of white dresses. One may wonder (and one certainly did) how many variations one can make of a white dress, and the answer is thousands and thousands. Styles are infinite all by themselves, varying in length, bodice treatments, skirt treatments, bustles, lace, beading, rhinestones, ruffles, feathers, appliques, sleeves, sleeveless, straps, strapless, ad infinitem. Then there are the fabrics themselves, the sheen or lack thereof, the drape, the weight, the formality or informality, the American vs European lace. And finally, the various shades of white, from cream to bluewhite. So it was an educational day as well as a highly emotional one as I watched my dear daughter slip in and out of about 25 different dresses, in as many styles. She is so trim, anything will look wonderful on her. I had my favorite, a Priscilla of Boston dress with a structured bodice, halter top, and full, flouncy skirt that had POCKETS. It was simple, elegant and so very bridal. But I expect anything she chooses will be lovely, since she already is. Mother of the bride, over and out.

Age old battle...

Every so often, I listen to Leonard Bernstein's Candide, an opera he wrote back in the 50's. It is cunning in its wordiness and pseudo-classical music. Mostly, it is about the difference between form and substance. Candide is the ultimate optimist, looking for good everywhere, happy to lead a simple life. Cunegonde, his love, wants the trappings, jewels and yachts and champagne. They sing, oh, happy we, how we agree. Both wind up disillusioned (that's stripping away of the illusion, when you think about it), and land squarely in the reality of it all. The world is what you make of it. They plant their own garden. Not a bad idea. If I sat around here waiting for someone to show up with flowers, I'd be bitter and disappointed. Hell, I was bitter and disappointed for a lot of years, even in the midst of all the right things: four bedroom house, swimming pool and hot tub, German cars in the garage, five kids, middle management job, three piece suit husband, etc., etc., etc. The problem was looking everywhere for my happiness except where it lives, in me. Just because things look good doesn't mean they are good. Simple works for me. Not that I would reject the mega-millions if they landed in my lap. Just wouldn't expect that to change much for me. I can be just as miserable rich as I can poor. It's a choice. And today, happy, happy, joy, joy. Lawn mowing, watering, sweeping, cleaning up. Loving every minute of it.

I've been thinking, again.

This thing about being female, and having all the important parts hidden, where you can't examine them yourselves for defects, and having to go every year for an investigation of the nether world down there, so that your PI notices if you aren't up to snuff, and kind of gets on your case. And since you know you have to go back again next year, maybe you do cut down on the doughnuts or the cigarettes, so she doesn't yell at you again. Or, if you don't, at least you know you should. Males just don't get that. Everything important is hanging out for daily examination, and, if it is working even 80% of the time, well, hell, that's pretty wonderful. They don't get a PI, not unless something goes really wrong, and by that time, it's usually too late to do anything about it, anyway. Why are we surprised that women live longer? Really, guys. The answer is in those freaking stirrups, a lot of messy goo, and a whole lot of sense. Supplements help, too.

Art imitates life. Duh.

Once upon a time, when I thought my artform was writing, I began a novel about a woman who was intimidated by her kitchen appliances. And, being the spiritually awakened person that I am, I caught myself yelling at my microwave yesterday. Now, this is my third microwave in my five years here. I use that sucker several times a day, for hot beverages, little low-calorie frozen dinners, to defrost two little chicken tenders for my evening taco. Okay, that's really TMI about my tiny life here in the little yellow house. Whatever, I had heated up a cup of yesterday's coffee, and in the 1 minute 10 seconds that took, got busy with other things. This new microwave continues to beep at me intermittently until it gets my attention. So I screamed from the bedroom "I'm coming! Just shut up!". I want my original microwave back, the one that told me to have a nice day every time I used it. The problem with living in the light is that it falls on EVERYTHING, even into those dusty cracks you hope to never see again. Next step is to learn to love my eccentricities. And figure out what to do with that deep fat fryer my brother gave me last Christmas.