The cookie has crumbled...

Yesterday was one of those days I could have lived forever without experiencing.  Got up early, never a happy thing, and headed for the lab for blood tests to determine why I cannot get my butt off the floor and what is causing hellish headaches.  Nice hour spent there.  Fortunately, I took a book.  Unfortunately, one of my talky friends was also waiting for tests.  The needle-sticker guy was dandy though.  Five humongous vials, he took.  Home again to pick up the Punk, take him for his rabies shot, and out to the animal shelter to get his license so they don't send me a bill for major bucks like they did with Pickle.  What can I say, live and learn.  It was closed.    I stopped for gas, and this annoying guy was tailgating me, pulled up beside me to tell me my gas tank was open.  Red-faced about that.  Home again to peruse Animal Shelter website to figure out how to get Punk official, at senior rate, sans penalty, and languish for a couple of hours before heading out to Costco for prescription, TJs for milk. Found that my glasses had fallen out of my tiny purse, so back to the car to look for them, where I stepped on them and they were totally trashed.  Luckily, I had just sold a painting, so I had $200 to get new ones.  The day ended when Punk threw up in bed shortly after I turned off the light.  Did I mention I put him down every night on a towel?  Best thing that happened all day was that he was on it when he hurled.  Puppy-motherhood.  Not much different than infants, except that yesterday was the first time Punk got left home in the general population instead of his cell in the kitchen.  And he did just fine. 

Fretting, as usual...

Yesterday, I went online to see how puppies grow.  How big will my Punkin be?  He has already topped 6 lbs, which is 1/3 the size of Pickle, though this picture makes him look bigger.  I was prepared to find that he would triple his size.  And was I surprised.  Small dogs reach their full size at 5 months.  And, suddenly, it looks like he will remain really small, for this household, anyway.  He may top out at about 8 lbs.  As with anything, one never knows.  I also looked at pics of other Shipoos.  They are enormously diverse.  Some have curly poodle hair.  Some have really short noses.  Punk didn't really look like any of them, though his coloring was there in abundance.  He is, of course, much cuter than most.  And has the sweetest personality to boot.  So, what will be, will be.  Despite all my web searching and fretting.

And this is the (maybe) finished product.

Heard a wonderful Ted.com talk today on how so many of us were discouraged from pursuing our creativity by peers and teachers who put our work down.  What is that about, anyway?  Does it help folks who are small feel bigger, do you suppose?  In my young days, it was considered bad to praise a child.  This would lead to prideful behavior, swelled heads, bragging.  How sad is that.  It is still hard for me to take a compliment, especially where my art is concerned.  It came from somewhere deep inside, I listened and plugged away at it.  And suddenly, there it is!  I feel peculiarly graced by the ability to take some chalky stuff and paint a picture.  Strange way for a grown-up to spend her time, n'est-ce pas?  Oh, wait.  I don't qualify for that moniker.  I am really only five years old when I do this kind of thing, in love with fingerpainting. 

The struggle...

Don't know if there is anything wrong, but life seems so tedious these days.  Little headache that never seems to go away.  Bane of my existence.  Though I am happy there is not some great big awful disease gnawing away at me, there little irritating symptoms keep pecking away in the background.  So I decided to ignore them, took myself over to Target where, FINALLY, I found a jar opener I can live with, and some other intimate items for other pesky age-related problems.  And came home to work on this new pastel.  I think it is coming up rather well.  And that is what happens, the image just emerges, rises up from the paper , defines itself, says "lighter value here, please" and "okay, this part is done, work somewhere else".  As usual, I am not happy till the whole image is there, filling up the space.  Oh, my.  I am liking this one.  Lots of color.  Lots of values.  Lots of sweetness, without the coy thing happening.  Off to take a pill for my headache, and keep plugging away at the art.  Letting my daemon out to play.

Blss this mess.

The Mother's Day peonies, all immortalized in messy pastels.  No patience today.  I spent most of it chasing Punk around, keeping him from devouring all of Pickle's food on top of his own generous helping, shooing Pickle off the top porch step so Punk could exit the house, taking him out for his numerous potty breaks, in short, being the Punk mommy ad infinitum.  So only a few seconds to slap away at the pastel.  And while I am whining, let me say I really resent the new Blogger template.  I used to be able to select the size and placement of my uploaded photos.  Now it just plunks it down in the center, plop.  Nothing artistic about that.  Well, not a lot artistic about the painting either.  Little headache today.  Static on my art receiver.  Just happy to have done something at all.  Many a day has passed when all I did was play numerous games of solitaire here on the Big Bad Mama computer.  Heck, I even made the bed.  Totally successful day, in my opinion.

Wow, what a Mother's Day had I!

To begin with, it lasted two days.  Big kiddo, my son, came up on Saturday, with this huge box under his arm.  In addition to his card and a Blick gift card, guaranteed to bring glee to this artist, he brought pictures of himself and his new love, and a plethora of gifts SHE sent to me, in gratitude for my son.  Art books!  Watercolor paper, D'Arches, the best!  A necklace she made herself!  What a sweet gal.  Then we took Punk and went to In and Out for lunch, just about my favorite fast food in the world.  And he accompanied me to my mother's  for the afternoon, and that was his best gift.  I was spared being the solitary target.  In actuality, she was gracious and grateful.  Who are you and what have you done with my mother?  On Sunday, little kiddo and her new husband arrived with peonies (currently being immortalized in pastels), sweet journals, and roobios soap, and we climbed into her Mini Cooper to sojourn over to Montgomery Villlage for brunch at Viola.  No reservation, and it was bursting at the seams, but, wouldn't you know, someone didn't wait and we got a table lickety split for a lovely meal together, and some catching up after their latest world junket to South Africa.  I am so blessed with these wonderful kids.  And best of all, they all adored the Punk.  No one has been that enamored of my dogs till now.  This baby just has it all - cuteness, personality, affability that just disarms even the most diligent curmudgeon.  Motherhood - it rocks.

The official state of the Punk report...

You know that my secret of happiness is to be a cheap date.  Just doesn't take a lot to spin my beany.  And my current source of luminous happiness is the fact that the Punk learned how to go out the dog door yesterday.  And today, he seems to have the knack of coming back in, too.  Big yay.  Does that mean he is house broken?  Nope.  Just means he can get himself around easier, follow the Pickle out every time she goes, and I do not have to jump up to let him out, let him in, let him out, let him in, ...  No accidents in the house in the last couple of days does not mean there will not be some in the future.  He is, after all, only four months old.  He weighs in around six lbs., which is six times the size he was when he arrived.  The best view of him is walking away.  He kind of waddles, and has the most adorable puppy butt.  And he continues to channel Boo's spirit.  Yesterday he burrowed into the throw pillows on the bed the same way dear Boo did.  Next milestone is to get him to sleep in. 

Strange days here...

Not myself, no not at all.  Up and down, roller-coaster ride of healing from the big wounding losses not that far away yet.  And I notice that I will refuse to do anything that I love, that I know will raise me up out of my self-made mire of ickiness, not paint, or listen to music, or walk the dogs (now that Punk is ready to go after his last puppy shots).  So, pulling my self up today, doing more on this painting, and ready to get out the last one to work on, as well.  Much to do, and it is a big sucker.  The old bugaboo of how-much-is-too-much has raised its gnarly head.  Oh, just get over yourself, Cowwoman!  Go let the Punk in the back door.  Despite learning yesterday how to negotiate the dog door, he is back to one way only, out.  I give him lots of breaks, he is only 4 months old.  This is a good thing. 

It's a cruel world, after all....

Latest, and last, pic of the nest on the front door.  Funny little guys.  Blow on them, they all open their mouths.  Rather, they did.  Something tore up the nest last night, and mom and three of the babies went to their reward.  One was clinging to the remnants, another was flopping on the front porch, probably fell out.  I put them in a bowl with some shredded Kleenex, gave them some sugar water with an eye dropper, and went online to figure out what the hell I was supposed to do now with these tender little unfinished birds.  And I found, kind of to my relief, that it is ILLEGAL to raise a wild creature without a license.  Imagine that.  So, the expert online said to return them to the nest.  It is a fallacy that the mother will not care for them if a human handles them.  But mom did not show up all morning.  So I called the bird rescue people, who, dedicated souls that they are, were in on a Sunday, and took my babies, nest and all, to the bird hospital where they will be raised up and set free.  They are numbers 0440 and 0441.  I can visit them later this month.  Think I will become a member, donate these old birdcages I have in the garage to their cause.  So happy this was an option.  I would have killed those little things, for sure.  With kindness, of course, but, after all, dead is dead.

Art, the business...

I stopped in the gallery in my hometown, little storefront affair on Main Street, and had the temerity to ask the owner how I could get my art on her walls.  She looked at me like something that had been stuck to the bottom of her shoe and replied, well, I would need to have a body of work.  And when I said I met that requirement, she handed me a sheet of paper.  It seems that my work would have to be juried first.  Well, I expected that.  Then, I would have to pay a non-refundable $600 membership fee.  In addition, I would receive a bill every month for my share of the operating loss, if there was one, and be required to work on the floor 2 or 3 days a month.  If my work sold, I would receive 75% of the selling price on the 10th of the month following the sale.  Let's see now.  I work without wages, pay to show my paintings, pay the rent and utilities, and maybe get some of that back 40 days later?  I think I will have postcards printed and have a private show in my little yellow house, where I already pay the operating expenses and get a place to live, to boot.  Parking is better on my street.  Meanwhile, latest work in progress, another huge (for me) painting on terra cotta red sanded paper.  Coming up nicely, I think.  This is what I like to do, the painting part.  The other part, well, that's the rub.  Somehow, I need to get my name out there, so I can sell the work, too.  Will keep looking.  Phantom gallery?  Maybe.

What the hell do I know, anyway?

Here is the current status of the nest in the wreath on my front door.  Now, I was certain that I had murdered five little avian souls because I did not know the nest was there and left the door open for several hours a couple of days, prohibiting mom from keeping them warm.  I agonized over this, actually.  So, every time I left the house, I would check to see if anything new had happened.  And today, it did.  In fact, a friend dropped by, and when I was showing her the nest with the fuzzy little wormy things, we were privileged to watch an egg hatch.  I will be checking it later for more activity, and am relieved to have not committed bird genocide. 

It's not easy being me. Sigh...

I inherited a lawn mower from my roommate when she moved out 7 years ago.  It was not a bad lawn mower.  It worked, when I could get it started, which I will admit was a kind of a crap shoot.  Usually, it would cough and balk, I would walk away, and when we were both calmed down, it would start right up.  The bag was a bit of a hassle, always getting caught in the starter cord, and really heavy, to boot.  But we struggled along, me and my lawn mower.  That's it in the center there.  The one with the pull cord dangling by a thread.  That is fixable.  Yay.  Trouble is, it would cost me over $100 to have them come, pick it up, repair it, and bring it back.  Sucker does not fit in my Focus.  Now, on the far left is my first solution to this problem, a big honking Honda I bought from a friend, who just didn't like the gasoline model, preferred electric, and didn't have the big yard any more.  Starts right up, she said.  Uh huh.  I tried, my neighbor tried, I went online and looked in the manual, tried again.  Nothing.  Zipididoodah.  So she gave me back the check, and will pick up said mower soon.  And there, on the far right, is my new baby.  I waltzed into Sears today and bought it.  It came in a manageable carton.  They put it in the back seat of the Focus, and that saved me $75 right off the bat.  And then I got it home.  Now, getting it OUT of the backseat was a bit of a process.  At one point, I couldn't get it out OR in.  Finally, I got behind it and shoved with all my might.  It popped right out.  Good.  Hard part is over, right?  Uh huh.  Did I mention that I am really bad at mechanical things?  Well, I am.  And the instructions acted like I knew what a wingnut or a T-bolt were.  Had a couple of moments where I thought about swearing, and then, suddenly, it all dropped into place, and I got it together.  Amazing.  I took a break, had an artichoke, read the manual.  Then I went out and mowed the front lawn.  Just like that.  So happy that there is no dust spraying up my nose any more.  So happy that the grass catcher is really easy to remove and replace.  So happy it is all red and sparkly.  All this is worth $220.  The real test comes tomorrow, when we begin working on the recently tamed backyard.  Will have to adjust the height of the blade for that.  Should only take a half hour or so to figure that out.  Have lawn mower, will mow for food.

Wonderful how my very very old rose bushes survive my tender neglect year after year, and, come spring, do this.  I put some on the table, too, redder than red in the little pear shaped vase my son gave me.  Followed up with a couple of bouquets of TJ's $3.99 blooms, and the house looks, if not tidy, at least celebratory.  Not sure what we are celebrating.  It will come to me, I'm sure.  Meanwhile, it's puppy naptime, so I am free to wander around without fear of trodding on the little tyke.  We are very close to learning to negotiate the dog door.  Oh, that will be the day!  Then he can follow Pickle out into the backyard, and poor big sister will only have a couple of bastions of peace in the little yellow house: the bed and the couch, which Punk can jump off of but not climb up onto yet.  Tiny milestones for my tiny guy.  Funny how life can whittle itself down to one simple question - where's the puppy?

New(and old) horizons...

Adventures in the little yellow house... Gee, I just love Facebook.  Every morning, after a perusal of my email and reading through Hazelden's Thought for the Day, always inspirational, and the New York Times headlines, I head for my home page to check up on my kids first, then see all the stuff friends have been digging through on the great cyber-highway.  One of my more esoteric friends posted a lecture by Terence McKenna, and where have I been lo these 67 years?  Great mind, thinking outside the big box.  He advocated (he was already dead when I discovered him) the return to the mystical shamanic mind for the solutions to all our ennuis.  And his arguments are indeed loquacious.  However, they all kind of fizzled for me when I realized his thrust was to endorse psychodelic drugs, hallucinogens like magic mushrooms and that old fave of mind, LSD.  NOt that I think this is an especially dastardly thing.  It's just that I believe there are some disciplines such as meditation that can do the same thing, help one to embrace the inner journey and move beyond time and space, which Terence thought was the key.  And yes, the current patriarchal structure is pathetic.  Terence would bring us back to Gaia, and the feminine, which is a path I see as gentler and more life embracing than the current religious climate which propagates violence in its stampede for power.  While I enlightened myself, my Punk dutifully waited for me to arise from my intellectual sojourn under the computer desk, Pickle laid at my feet.  It is all very sweet, actually.  Blessed be.

Sunday. Again.

Okay, not liking this new dashboard at my blogsite.  Confused with all these little icon thingies.  Nothing wrong with the old one, folks!  I suppose I will figure it out, eventually.  In the meantime, don't have a clue.  Big horse is almost done.  I ordered a new pastel book from Amazon.com, and it will be here tomorrow, at which time I expect to be inspired and everything I do will be so artful that galleries will be calling me.  Well, it couldn't hurt anything, that's for sure.  Quiet at the moment in the little yellow house.  Both dogs are having their noon nap, the Pickle under the table, and Punk under the computer desk.  Punk is in his "whatever" mode, where he is happy wherever he is, like in his kitchen pen while I slept in, outside the with Pickle, in the pen again while I took my bath, outside again, and then in the office while I tried to figure out how to post this amazingly interesting information.  At least the power tools have ceased for a while. Guess it must be Miller time for the guys down the street.  Plans for the day include starting a new painting, and a trip to the pet supply store for more piddle pads and rawhide bones for my pack.  And maybe framing a couple more paintings.  And maybe washing the car.  And maybe making some noise of my own, contingent on starting my limping lawnmower.  Okay.  That's enough drivel.  An aspirin, then lunch.  That's plan enough for the cowwoman.

Beginnings...

I bought this really big piece of black sanded paper with the idea of working BIG, pushing my envelope of comfort around the pastels. Now, I have only worked on sanded surface once before, and that was dynamite. It picks up every speck of pigment, and the result is thrilling for this little artist. Perhaps it is picking up too much? Well, this is but a mere idea at the moment. The superstucture. Funny, when I photograph a piece, I can see right away where it is working and where it needs more. The white is a little too much, don't you think? I am thinking of muting it with some pale colors. But I am liking the idea of it all just fine, and that is huge for me. I am horribly critical of my own work. Not in a mean-spirited way, but in the what-were-you-thinking way. So, back to the drawing board. Good project for a really warm spring day. Dogs are romping in the backyard when not draped around the floor like discarded clothing. Good movie on the TV running in the background. Up to elbows in pastels. Yes, it's all good. Whatever isn't done will still be there tomorrow. Yes.

After the mice, this.

I caught and released 9 mice, and that looks like the lot of them. No mouse sign for a couple of days. Yay. Then I noticed that this bird kept trying to fly into the house when I had the front door open. Come to find she has made a nest in the wreath there, and laid five jellybean sized eggs in it. Now, we are keeping the door shut, hoping our porch time for the pooches has not interfered with the gestation of these tiny creatures. A couple of weeks will tell. Honestly, wildness all around me this year. Luckily, the backyard jungle got tamed yesterday, and further ministrations should have it all spiffed up soon, so dog and poopie have a place to loll about. At least I will not lose Punk in the high grass any more. What a character. None of my other dogs really cared for the mess of dog toys I have here. Punk loves them. He gets them to squeak. He pulls them all out of the basket the way my son pulled all the pots and pans out of the cupboard when he was a toddler. I put them all away at the end of the day, and we start over the next morning. Teaching him to sleep in next. Yeah. That'll happen.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

Punk is about twice as big as his original shipping weight. That means 3 1/2 lbs. That's still pretty small. He has three speeds: 90 MPH, whatever, and stop. When he goes with me in the tote bag, he settles in, sits in the baby seat of the shopping cart, and hardly anyone notices him. We are about to embark for the 2 PM meeting, where he will sit on my lap, like a little teddy bear. A teddy bear that has to pee every half hour. I have decided that training him is useless until he has a bigger bladder. Yes, we are all in love with our Punkin boy. Pickle plays with him for hours, even lets him win at tug-of-war sometimes. So happy to be the pack of three again. Happiness is, indeed, a warm puppy.

New horizons now conquered...

My presentation days are now over. The Sonoma International Film Festival (15th Annual, where have I been for 15 freaking years?) was privileged with my august presence this weekend. Now, what do you think they do at the Sonoma FF? Right. They drink wine. Lots of it. And since I don't drink, and prepare, even though I was a raw beginner at my schtick, I knew all would be well since the audience was already pretty toasted by the time the film began. My first film, Invine Welsh's Ecstasy, had only one representative, an executive producer. I arrived early with the goal of finding her and schmoozing her and getting a feel for what would make her happy. She, on the other hand, did not arrive till 2 minutes before the film. My little plans and designs. Sigh. The film was all about drugs, with a fair splash of alcohol, too. I was impressed that they took a different tack, talked about the addict's search for meaning and spirituality through drug use, and the big bad drug dealer did not drag the innocent into his web - she pulled him up into hers. Adam Sinclair's performance was wonderful, and I am sure he is destined for something wondrous. And last night's film was On Falling, a little indie flick, which promised four representatives, the director and three actors. Again, there I was, early, and we cooled our heels outside for 20 minutes waiting for the first film to end. Sigh. I could already smell that the crowd had been imbibing. Once we finally got in, I found that there were actually eight filmmakers present, plus the mayor of Sonoma. Help! And that arrived in the person of my mentor, who, bless his heart, conducted the Q&A. And did I mention that this film was also heavily laced with drug/alcohol use. The cheese guy suggested I have a glass of wine before my first appearance. I thought about it, and said my 3rd step prayer, instead. It worked for me. I got off the hook for the second showing of Ecstasy because the rep wasn't attending, and driving 40 minutes to Sonoma for a 5 minute intro was just stupid. I was not perfect my first time out the gate. No matter. The crowd was happily toasted, and we all got a good laugh out of it. Had I not had the Punk to think of, I would be back there using my stinkin' badge to see something that did not have anything to do with drugs. Now settling in for an afternoon nap. The Punk was pretty upset from being left in his prison in the kitchen two nights running, and got me up at the crack of dawn today. Ah, life on life's terms, and the joys of being puppy mommy.

And did I mention...

I called in for a refill of my thyroid meds, the one I have to take every day for the rest of my life, and found that I was out of refills. Like, do they think I am going to overdose on this stuff? Come on, give me a break. And the mouse-in-the-stove chewed through the lid of the plastic container I stored Pickle's food in the night before last, so I put it in a more sturdy container, which also turned up with a hole in its side. This necessitated a trip to Cost Plus for glass containers, and to Trader Joe's, for new dog food. That damn mouse is getting really expensive. Really, I keep starting this day over, and it keeps dumping stuff on me. Happy to report we got home, the Punk and I, without incident, from our travels. I suppose that is about all I can expect, ever. A nap would be nice now. Oh, wait. The Punk is running in circles on the rug beside me. Meanwhile, not happy with this painting yet, but it is coming, I think. Just happy to have a few to myself today, on this, funky Monday.

The short end of the stick...

While I know I am blessed in many ways, as I pulled my (low-top) Converse All Stars over my exceedingly high instep this morning, my focus landed on all my deficiencies, like a piggy little nose that reveals far too much nose hair, and my weinie Ally McBeal hair, that, even freshly washed and short as hell, just lays there, limp and exhausted before spraying the hell out of it to encourage it to look like more than it is. And I started off wrong today, anyway, because there we were, the pack of three, all warm and happy at 7:45 AM, a new record for the Punky baby, and Pickle started barking. Aaaaaarrrrggggh! Then, despite numerous trips outside, the Punk laid a pile just out of my eyesight, on the area rug. You think he knew not to do that? Like he was just underlining my poor start? And, I went off to the lab at 9AM, thinking I would beat the crowd, only to run smack into them. A happy hour and a half later, sitting on my full bladder, I got to pee in the cup. Lucky me. Okay, I am in a foul mood, and program teaches me I can start over here. So, starting over, HP. And the white horse is going into abeyance today, because I think he is mostly done-diddy-done-done. Perhaps a new subject will help me lift my pitiful self out of the abyss of self-pity I seem to have hurled it into.

Just swimming here...

I went to the memorial for my friend who committed suicide today. Unlike many before it, this ceremony refused to ignore that he took his own life, or, as one put it, "opted out". He was horribly depressed for the last year, and ran out of solutions. He went right to the source, as another put it. So, sad and lost, I came home (first time I left the pup alone, too), got into my grubs and began a new painting. Lots of joy in that process, and I needed a lift. This is how it all begins, the pastels. Scratch away at the paper, get the idea there, scratch some more. For some reason, it seems easier to know when something is done in this medium. Of course, there are those works which just don't speak to me. That is why God made two sides to the paper, you know. This one is a wonder from the beginning. I get that horses are something I love to paint, all that power and majesty. So much to be in awe of on our tiny blue ball whirling about the cosmos. This one is for you, Roger.

I am not a victim, I am not a victim, I am not...

The puppy is in playful mode. He runs away from me when I want to pick him up. Now, I know this is just puppy stuff. And yet, yesterday, I took it personally. Strange how easy it is to slip into that they're-doing-it-to- me mode, especially considering that I have not had a good night's sleep since the little bugger landed here 2 1/2 weeks ago. Really like having an infant. Exactly like that. Everywhere I go, he goes, in the tote bag or in the big zipper carrier. Makes going anywhere a real production. Which is why, I remember now, I said no more, never, never doing another puppy. And in the end, I want a dog that I have molded to my particular ways, not one that someone else raised, so, gee, only way to do that is to raise it myself. So, here's to late night flashlight tours of the backyard and pre-dawn wake-up calls. I have solved the running away. I just put him on a long leash whenever I take him out, and reel him in when we are ready to go inside, whether he is ready or not. And in the moments that he slept this week, I started this mommy oriented painting. Exactly what I feel like most of the time - pesky youngun waking me up, again.

Poor Pickle...

For the first week of the Punk, he was too little to climb up on the big doggie doughnut under the computer desk. Now, that's all changed. He can get up the back steps. He can jump off the couch, just launch himself into space. What a guy! There is only one refuge for his sister, on the bed. And that is only a matter of time, too. Gosh, they grow up so fast. Meanwhile, lots going on in the cowwoman's life. Today is the memorial mass for my father, big FOO (family of origin) and ROO (religion of origin) reunion. I am over most of the regret stuff, anger stuff, and the sense of loss that comes from big change too fast. Puppy helps a lot. Nevertheless, another loss this week, a dear friend who lost his battle with depression and took his own life. Though I know he suffered, and from his point of view took the only avenue to relief, I will miss him. When I was in that place, I felt that I was a burden to everyone I loved. I am sure he felt that, too. This life can get very heavy. For him, it did not change despite all his best efforts. Peace, dear spiritual warrior. I wish he could have hugged the puppy first.

Work in progress...

This is how much I can get done while the Punk is napping. Of course, I don't have any large pieces of black paper. That would make this so much easier. On payday, this Friday, I am ordering a bunch from Dick Blick. None of the art stores here in town carry Fabriano Tiziano, my fave. I don't think pastels are a particularly popular medium, so I feel blessed I can get really good sticks, but the paper, ah, there's the rub. Anyway, this is shaping up nicely. Somehow, I think if I don't paint for a while, I will forget how to do it. Actually, if I painted 24/7, I would still feel that way. I don't know how to do it, really. I just keep working at it, and it happens. There is such a lovely passivity about it all. It's all part of my bizarre little life as an artist. I hope someday I will feel like I have really arrived. Maybe it is enough to just be on the journey. Yes, that's the ticket. Trucking along here.

It's not easy being me, redux...

We are rising early in the little yellow house. Like, at freaking DAWN. Okay, I knew this would happen. This is, after all, the fourth puppy I have raised in my sobriety, 22 years of it. Puppies listen only to their own internal clock. At least, for the first couple of weeks. We are easing the Punk into our lives. Oh, hell, the Punk is running the whole show. So, not much time to do anything I like, like make art. Instead, I pick away at pieces that are laying limp on the drawing board. Like I warmed up this sweet owl (which, I found out yesterday as I perused the owl lexicon online, is the only blue-eyed version of this incredible raptor). Also did some explaining, like where is he hanging on, anyway? Meanwhile, finally got the Punk to settle into his midmorning nap so I can get dressed and ready for MY day. Pickle is draped across the bed, little sniffy morning for my Pickle, who needs more time to get with the program than Punkin wants to give her, and told her off first thing. Though, wonder of wonders, he can now negotiate the steps up into the house, so I can leave the two of them in the yard and go make coffee, knowing he will follow his big sister into the house once he has finished his business. And yes, he always does his business. Wonderful little guy, actually, and a wonderful idea. My grief has subsided for the most part. I was comparing Punkin to dear Boo, thinking he is so very mellow and may be channeling my Boo's sweet spirit, except he didn't like to be on his back, when Punkin rolled over and slept that way, just like his darling departed brother used to do. Oh, Punkin was a great idea, for sure.

Oh, so nice to be doing something else...

It seems all I have done for this whole week is watch the puppy, feed the puppy, walk the puppy, puppy, puppy, puppy. Okay, that is the way it is with a new one, constant supervision. The Pickle is not happy, and likely to snap at Punkin and even do something really harmful. So, we have puppy-to-go a lot, Punkin in a bag, Punkin in a zip-up container. So far we have been to meetings, to Trader Joe's, to the Dollar Tree, the library. It's all good, actually, and easy to do. For a while. And now we are on a loosey-goosey schedule that allows me some ME time in the afternoon, so I got to do some quick paintings today. Not into big details and really, I don't think it is necessary, do you? This took about half an hour, and I like it just the way it is. Of course, it is all about the black paper, which I think is just magical in the way everything gets all dramatic without even trying. I need easy right now. Still recovering from a few nights of not sleeping. Hell, I'm going to need to recover from getting up at 7 AM every day. Not my style or inclination. Whatever, I had so much fun getting all fierce with the tiger. Just hope it is not like those black velvet paintings that were so big in the 70s. Too cutesy?

Surprise!

Punkin arrived last night. He didn't come into the same terminal that Pickle did, which shows you how carefully I read the email from the airline. After we parked, took the AirTrain to the Continental terminal, found our way to arrivals, asked three different counter persons, we were directed to the cargo building, five minutes down the street. So we backtracked, found our car (major victory there), found our way out of the garage, and took the wrong exit. So we made a big loop and came back, my sidekick reading addresses till we found our destination. Okay, lots of confusion, but we had allowed ourselves plenty of time. He had been on the ground only about 10 minutes when we arrived, and the nice clerk snipped those heavy duty plastic ties so we could extricate him from his crate. Now, I read that the shipping weight was 3 lbs. I thought that was 3 lbs of puppy. It was actually 3 lbs total, crate, puppy, and bag of food! This is one tiny pooch. Also one delightful little personality. He was so good riding home for the 1 1/2 hours in my friend's lap. I put him down on the front lawn once we arrived and he piddled. An hour later, we were all asleep, the pack of three, on the bed. He woke up on Texas time, really early, I put my hand under his head, he fell back to sleep. I didn't, but, hey, Punkin is the boss for a while. Today, I took him out, he piddled, I fed him, took him out, he pooed. He loves the backyard, romps around like a little rabbit. Pickle was overtly jealous last night, though she got her usual amount of attention, too. Today, they played together! And Punkin went for his first foray in the tote bag, to Western Farm Supply for a smaller collar and some chew sticks. He did just fine. He likes his enclosure in the kitchen, his big, big dog bed. and especially the black and white cow toy that is big enough to be his brother. He's a prince, my Punkin.

Painful admissions...

Okay, I have been horridly naive about my mouse problem. Foolish me, I kept thinking there was only one mouse, and every time I caught one, another moved in. I caught two today. I drove the first one over to the same field where I let his brother go. The second one is in a deep plastic pitcher, and he is a feisty one, almost managed to jump out before I put the lid on. Needed to bait the trap again right away. I couldn't find the peanut butter, it got behind the milk somehow, so I used raspberry jam. My mice seem to prefer that. Will it ever end? Let us hope so. I plan on putting a lamp by the dog door if I leave it open at night. I notice my mice do not like the light very much.

Didn't get to pick up Punkin today. He missed his plane. So he is arriving on a late flight tomorrow instead. This is probably a good thing, what with all the mouse excitement, and the half day teaching sixth graders a lesson in fine art. Now, I thought these kids would be mature. Boy, was I wrong. I remember being 5'8" tall in 6th grade. I read Gone with the Wind that year (and Lolita, though my mother still doesn't know that). It was interesting to note that almost no one did the lesson as I taught it. And since my whole thrust was individual, personal creations in whatever colors they wanted, that was okay. My worst fear was that there would not be enough time to finish the project. In my first class, everyone was pretty much done 25 minutes early. I got them to work a little more, here and there, gave them more information, then had them come up, 3 or 4 at a time, to show their art, and everyone got a hand. My friend to roped me into this was thrilled with the outcome. I kind of felt that they could have done better. $80 worth of pastels got thoroughly beat up, but they now belong to the school anyway. I got paid, yay. And I stretched myself. Comfort zone is now larger than ever. And I am really tired. Have all kinds of new respect for teachers, let me tell you. Some of those boys would be hard to handle one on one. Everyone said they had fun. Hey, I did, too. A couple of kids did amazing work. I was properly amazed by each child's rendering, how different they all were, how intense they were about the process. Would be nice to think an artist or two was born today.

Me -1, Mouse -0

Another victory for the cowwoman. Let me tell you, these little guys are formidable opponents. This is mouse #3. I caught the first one by sheer luck, when Pickle scared it as it noshed away on my oatmeal bath stuff and it leaped into a plastic pitcher and could not get out. Next one I caught in this self-same trap, the second humane trap I tried, after much trial and error, and a lot of peanut butter. The day after I released the second little bugger, another moved in. (Pretty sure there has not been more than one, judging by the miniscule leavings. ) I wondered if the same mouse traveled down the street from the field I released him in, and just waltzed back into the stove. Now that I see him, I realize this is a much smaller guy. And the smaller they are, the harder they are to catch. It takes a little weight to trip the trigger in the trap. But I am smarter than the average mouse. I not only wrapped the bread with thread before spreading peanut butter on it, I anchored the tidbit around a heavy pair of scissors, so the mouse could not flit in, drag out the morsel, and disappear down one of the burners of the stove. I am cleaning the stove zealously this afternoon, and praying that this is the last of the little guys for a while. That would be nice.

What did I do wrong?

You know how it is. You plan, God laughs. Monday, email in hand, I sojourned to the bank to empty my account and pay $5 for a cashier's check, then to our Central branch of the Post Office, that denizen of unhappy, homicidal folks, to pay $21.35 for express mail, return receipt requested, so I can get my puppy shipped to me on this Friday. To be honest, they told me it would not be overnight, but Wednesday, at the latest. So, of course, email this morning from the breeder - she did not get the check. Since it was after 3 PM her time at the moment I opened the email, I tried to track it online. No go. So, I jumped on my horse and went back to the post office, where they told me, after having me cool my heels for an interminable length of time, the, yes, it was scanned delivered, at 12:15 PM Texas time. Back to the house, where, of course, there was a second email -never mind, it came. Meanwhile, I was in bargaining mode with HP. WTF, I've been good all week! Not a single solitary mean word to anyone, not even the Pickle! I DESERVE this puppy! Well, to be fair I had just returned from my monthly trip to a treatment center, where, usually, I am with a team of folks who present a video, follow a format, and have the proper blue cards to distribute to those leaving the facility who would like help getting to their first few AA meetings out in the cruel world, and my team didn't show, leaving me out there on that limb. I improvised, got a list of those who wanted to avail themselves of our help. Hell, I've been sober 22 years. Not very much surprises me. Except when things go wrong when they shouldn't go wrong. And I guess they really didn't, did they. Oh, just let me get the Punkin home safely. Little package of love flying in Friday. How sweet it is.

The Puppy Pick-Up Tradition.

Here's how that goes. We set off with great big coffee drinks, something with whipped cream and sprinkles and a gazillion calories. Our journey down the 101 corridor is fast and easy and we get to the airport just fine. Then things get dicey. We park in the wrong lot and get on the wrong skytrain and wind up in long term parking. Then we get off in the international terminal and walk a mile or so before we get where we need to be. The plane will be late. The breeder will call all anxious because she never sent one that far before. When he does arrive, this time we will have heavy-duty scissors to get the blankety-blank plastic ties off so we can get him out of his grate (unlike last time, when we had to disassemble it.) Then we will head home in godawful commute traffic, miss our off ramp and wind up roller-coasting over the San Francisco hills to Lombard and on to the Golden Gate Bridge. We stop in Marin at the In and Out, for hamburgers, fries, milkshakes, and a puppy airing. Then we crawl home through the Novato narrows and the Santa Rosa trudge. What can I say, it's an adventure! Actually, Punkin is coming in on the same flight Pickle arrived on. Experience should let us be more productive and less scattered. Of course, there are even more things that could go wrong. Just praying my new little guy gets here without any traumatic experiences. He's only 8 weeks old, you know.

It's a boy!

The cowwoman is adopting a new baby. He is scheduled to arrive Friday, flying in from Texas. I found him on the same website where I found my Pickle, a secure breeder's site approved by the AKC. Unlike Pickle, I do not have a designated name for him, but I am thinking maybe Dilly, or Dandy, or PoohBear, or Bingley, or Frodo, or ... Maybe I will have a contest. Maybe I will know when I see him in person. I went with a mixed breed, because Boo was a mixed breed and such a great dog. New kid is Shih Tzu and Poodle, and his folks are both under 10 lbs, so he may be smaller, too. That's nice, because I like to put my constapanion in a tote bag and go a lot. Boo sat under tables in restaurants (just feed him a taco chip or morsel of French bread once in a while), went Christmas shopping with me, rode in the baby seat of my shopping cart. It was a real temptation to find one that looked like Boo, same markings, and, wow, there were several out there. New kid is similar in his face (and this picture with his tongue hanging out was a big selling point for me, so like Boo), and he is black and white, but not all black like Boo, and he has more nose, I think. I may have to learn about grooming. Both of his breeds have beaucoup coat. Oh, just so happy here. I need a warm puppy at this time. It's good to have a purpose. Getting the house puppy-proofed should keep me out of the stinkin' doldrums.

Wisdom from bumper stickers...

I saw a dandy at Trader Joe's the other day. It said "I support the separation of church and hate." Oh, yeah. I agree with Jesus's philosophy, and know that every one of us embodies the divine. We are meant to love one another, even when we are not very lovable. If that is true of an individual, I love them from a distance, and I frequently pray for them, that they receive their highest good, whatever God decides that is. A good whack up the side of the head always sounds good to me, but hey, what do I know! Frankly, I don't know a lot of Christian sects that accept the fringe elements, like gays, into their fold. Nor do I know of ANY who treat women the same as men. Really, folks. The Bible was written 3,000 years ago. Isn't it time to kill the myth that Eve was created as a handmaiden? Haven't we stood up and been real human beings in that time? Okay, I still see women objectified, especially in advertising. It helps that men are now also becoming more and more objectified, I suppose. Let's go back to the real truth. Human DNA is less dissimilar than penguin DNA. What we look like and what gender we are, that is all the frosting on the cake. The real stuff is what goes on inside, very complicated systems that all need to work together so we can breathe at all. In the end, we are all just individual expressions of the divine. I want to embrace the diversity. I go to a New Age church, where the message is all about the great Oneness that is our Universe, and the Mind that directs it all. Pretty sweet message. All kinds of folks show up. All are seeking spiritually. It has grown a lot in the last 20 years. So, down with the hateful thinking that is so prevalent in our society. Let's leave all that to the Republicans.

Hello, now goodbye!

Big shock this morning. I caught the mouse! Not the best picture, but I wasn't about to take him out for his closeup. Believe me, I was surprised. Finally found a method that worked: bread wound with thread spread with peanut butter. Catches his teeth, so he has to struggle enough to trip the trigger and close the trap. I had a moment when I wanted to go down to the Farm Supply and get him a little cage, keep him. And then I remembered he only came out when it was dark, and that would not render him a happy pet. So I released him, several houses down the street. Actually, in the yard of the woman who recently yelled at me when I cornered an errant Pickle in her sideyard. Okay, probably not my best moment. But hell, two birds with one stone, and all that. Let us hope mouseypoo doesn't find his way home to my stove. And if he does, well I've got his number. Grateful to find I really am smarter than the rodent.

It's the end of the world as we know it...

Well, holy validation, Batman! I am actually right where I am supposed to be. A friend (not a real close one, just one of those I found when I was trawling for friends on Facebook, back when I thought there was a contest about how many friends one can have) posted the Hospice Grief Wheel. After Shock and Protest (which were actually the fun stages) comes Disorganization, where I am stuck at the moment. It includes apathy, loss of interest, disorientation, anxiety, confusion, impatience, and a feeling of unreality. Yep, that's me at the moment. Total lumpsucker mode. Remember the lumpsuckers, these poor little fat fish that kind of bounce along the bottom because they can't swim very well? That's moi. It is 11:30 AM, I am sitting here staring at the computer screen, in my PJs still. No plan for the day. Nada. Zipididoodah. I suppose that is just fine, actually. Oh, mother is giving us kids (67, 64 and 62 year old kids, that is) some $$$, yay. My plan, get a new puppy. I know I am not well because the whole thing has me bound up in fear. But that is the plan, anyway. Fluffy little boy. Bingley. More later.

Oh, the hell with it...

I go through times when I am sure I have lost my mind. Cannot concentrate on anything for very long. Banging on the stove to scare the bejesus out of that damned mouse. Watching the same movie, over and over and over. Well, to be honest, nothing has spun my beanie on the boob tube for a while, and this stupid little romantic comedy keeps showing, Something Borrowed. I just think that little Ginnifer What's-her-name is adorable, as well as the guy whose name I still don't know, and the cute kid from the office. Kate Hudson is looking a little overblown, though, and God, she is the KID of Goldie Hawn, who I think is younger than I! I read on my home page today that to get where you are going, you have to start where you are. Does that apply when where you are going is the funny farm? Sigh. So I painted something. I wonder if the painting is okay? I wonder about everything these days. I wonder if I can dedicate myself to eat the whole bag of spinach while staring at the produce section of TJ's. That particular pondering led to an incipient panic attack. Yep. Definitely around the bend here. What would help? Therapy? Thinking about it. Let's see what's up tomorrow. Too late to call anyone tonight, anyway. And too late to worry about everything that did not get done today. At least, something did. Now wondering if I have the energy to fold the laundry that has languished in the dryer for two days now. Hey, I could have forgotten it was even there. Could be worse.

A mouse in the stove update...

I have that little sucker on the run. Did I mention I plugged up the hole he was using to get under the sink? With a wadded up plastic bag and a big bunch of duct tape. Yep. And that drove him out into the open today, when I saw him dart from the bathroom into the laundry room. That guy can motor! Then, just when I was hoping he continued on out the dog door, I saw him duck into one of the burners of the stove. Again. So, I cleaned the oven. Fumes almost did me in. Hope he got a snootful, too. In case that didn't discourage him, I ordered another humane trap. Now have spent $30 trying to catch the little bugger. Praying that will happen soon. Oh, and decided I looked positively fried in my current self portrait, so I smoothed out my eye bags, and decreased my lower lip, that looked like I did one of those injection thingies Goldie Hawn did in The First Wive's Club. Hopefully, I look amused. This was certainly an amusing day. Did I mention that I bang on the stovetop every time I go by? Fortunate thing I live alone, and the only one to witness my behavior is a pokey little Pekingese. Ah, the life of the cowwoman is rich, indeed.

Je m'amuse...

Kind of bottom feeding here. Can't think of anything to do. Let's see. I could: play the piano, vacuum the living room, hammer away at the laptop I have sitting on the table, finish the framing, whack away at the overgrown yard(s), wash the Pickle, take a walk, hell, even go to the GYM (like that will ever happen again). Instead, I did this rather unhappy little self-portrait. What can I say. I am not a glamorous person. I have a piggy little nose. Nice mouth, even if it is pulled into my chin more than ever with those Howdy Doody lines. Oh, well. Something will appeal to me, sooner or later. Soap opera coming up. Fifth Sookie Stackhouse novel to muck around in. It isn't a total loss, no not at all. And this too shall pass. Yes. Soon would be nice.

The sweet smell of validation...

It's not a secret that I love music, mostly classical or art music, but lots of other stuff too, especially soundtracks. I own a big bunch of soundtrack albums. And I was happy as a hog in you-know-what when I found that my local classical station felt the same way about movie music, that it was the contemporary classical music. This week, as we approach the Oscars, they are playing a count-down of the top 100 film scores, and as they approach 25 so far, I own many of them. They started at No. 1 this time, which was John Barry's Out of Africa. Got it. Also in the top 10 was Dances with Wolves. Check. And Pride and Prejudice by I-can-never-remember-who, Patrick Doyle's Sense and Sensibility, Howard Shore's Lord of the Rings, John Williams Jurassic Park and ET and Harry Potter. Check, check, check, check, check and check. But then there was Max Steiner's Gone with the Wind, and Maurice Jarre's Lawrence of Arabia. I own those on VINYL! Must get some of the Hitchcock movies, other than Spellbound, which I already own. Vertigo was up there in the top 25, and I heard that theme repeated in the new movie, The Artist, which is destined to take the top prize this year. Okay, all excited here about pretty much nothing, but, hey, happy today, and that is saying something after my trip to the bottom of my ocean recently. Not swimming yet, but treading water like mad. And working on this pitiful piece, which just refuses to be scintillating. Can't hit that bullseye every time, I guess.

Perhaps, maybe the final, final version...

Tricky little piece, this. I decided it was too bland in its values, so I darkened the reeds, particularly behind the bird, who once again got punched up and more defined. I love these birds. They used to float by my window in my little place a few blocks away, where I learned to be sober in my early recovery. Kind of like silent ghosts, these birds. And there was a tree a couple of blocks away where they roosted. Someone cut it down. Probably because of the mess underneath it. It is such a wonder that, with just a little attention, I can rescue a piece that is driving me bugnuts. I liked the composition from the beginning. Just a puzzle what was not working. And then, I puzzed it out!

And when in doubt, do this...

I think artists in the past did self-portraits when they couldn't think of anything else to paint. I certainly do that. I didn't even have my glasses on this morning when I began noodling away with this image I had scratched onto the paper before I went to bed last night, after nightly mouse patrol to be certain there was not the tiniest crumb of food for that pest before I hit the sheets. Friends complain that I am prettier than my efforts, so I glamorized myself some, and gee, I got younger, too! Wasn't looking at myself in a mirror. Hell, I have done this so many times, and seen my image so many times, I can do me in my sleep. You think that if I alter me in the picture, I could be that me in the flesh? Like Dorian Gray? Guess not. Also left off the glasses, and to be truthful, I didn't have them on for most of the process. And I don't have the proper pigments for portraits, so had to make due with a range of reds and yellows. I like the pensive pose. That was an accident. Love those happy accidents! I left her all rough. That works for me. Ah, to have that neck again!

Don't know what I'm doing, but doing it anyway.

I tuned in to one of my half a million channels yesterday and caught a showing of Bottle Shock, wonderful indie film starring some of my favorite unsung heroes like Alan Rickman, Bill Pullman, and a current fave, Chris Pine, about a wine competition in France about 40 years ago that was won by a tiny winery in Napa Valley. Anything that distracts me from my current ennui is welcome here. So I took my little vase of violently purple irises and put them between me and the TV, on the kitchen counter, and slapped away with my heavy little hand, and here is the newest Trader Joe bouquet immortalized. Can you see that I don't really care very much what happens here? Or perhaps, I am just letting God do the painting. Still aching inside, don't know what it is all about, but it seems to be old wounds in active bleeding stage, and the only respite I get is when I am working at my "art". Of course, still not sure that is what it is. I am in illustrious company there, because none of us "artists" really ever feel that what we do is really "art". Not worrying too much about that at the moment. Just trying to keep from sinking to the bottom of the pond. Just treading water. Can't seem to swim yet.

Thing change...

I was thinking of just letting this be one of those what-was-I-thinking pieces, a vain effort to impress my teacher, one that had lost all its freshness, a trait she said she admired me for, which is just another way of saying I work fast and loose and have the guts to just leave it at that. And then I came back and decided it was worth resurrecting from its overworked state, by, strangely enough, working on it some more. So I remodeled the bird, dialed down the orange pigment in the foreground and did some diddling with the water, and gee, it came out pretty swell after all. funny how that can happen now. I also dipped into my new box of pigments, oh, joy of joys! Teacher told me how to clean the old ones that are looking so grungy (read USED), by grinding up some rice, putting them it in a jar with pigments of similar color and shaking gently. Going to try this. It is always a moment of supreme displeasure when I lay down a pigment and find it smeared with other hues, even though I did that myself. I work in such a frenzy of joyous creativity, you know. It just flows out of me. What a gift! So grateful.

A cow for all seasons...

I took this little work to my class yesterday because it just didn't have much umph. You know, it was flat and kind of not-very-much. No muchness. And my teacher told me what I kind of already knew. The background was too blue against the orangeness of the Hereford. So I got out the new set, the 80 (oh, count 'em, 80!) Sennelier pastels and fiddled a little, got all scumbly, and gee, isn't this fun? Teacher told me I am "heavy-handed". Didn't know if that was good or bad, though it didn't sound all that complimentary. However, later she said my work was "fresh". Yes, I will take that. It is not overworked very often and shows my process. Sometimes, it is downright indecent how fast I work, and how sweet the outcome is. I think there are a few little swipes I could take of this cow. For one thing it took four or five tries to get the eyes even. Think I would measure that when I first draw my image in? Nah. I'm an eyeballing kind of gal. I am always wantint more on the paper than is there, and work with a frenzy to get it all there before thinking about things like that. In that way, my teacher and I are alike. No futzing around in the beginning. But from that point on, we differ. From that point, she futzes. Not this gal. Guess I can life with being heavy-handed. So far, it is working for me.

A day in the life...

Nowadays, I never know what I may have to deal with from moment to moment. Sometimes, I wake up, it is all normal and fine. Other days, like today, I would rather just pull the covers over me and hide there, forever. I get up because the Pickle needs to be fed. I make coffee, because that is what I do when I get up. I bathe, because it is bath day (every other day now that my skin is so very dry). I answer my phone. I go to my noon meeting, because it is Tuesday. One foot in front of another. Then I went to the Tuesday pastel class at the neighborhood art supply store, and peck away at a particularly fussy painting. My teacher is kind of fussy. I catch it from her, I think. Probably, I will mute out some of this fussiness, and it will be MY painting when it is done, instead of hers. Yes, I definitely think that will happen. Meanwhile, another day in my tiny life, almost gone. There is a good little mystery novel waiting for me in the bedroom, along with a warm puppy. Nothing terribly wrong. Just a down time. If we were smart, we would all hibernate, anyway.

Monday musings...

It is cold here, in the 50s and damp. I am sitting in my computer/music/library/temporary dining room until I finish the framing room, watching this skinny guy lug his purloined shopping cart up and down my tiny street, checking recycling cans for aluminum. He lifted the lid of my itty bitty generic garbage can, then dropped it without a second look. And I thought, hey! My garbage not good enough for you. Okay, now getting a grip. If it is cold in the little yellow house, it is much colder out there. When I think about it, I never saw a homeless person when I was growing up. Of course, I lived in a small town, where everyone messed in everyone else's business, and everyone knew everyone, so folks like that got taken care of, one way of another. They got tucked away in state hospitals, for one thing. Don't have any of those available any more. Thank you, Ronnie. Sad state we are in, going backward, not taking care of one another any more. Oh, I wouldn't want to go back to those days. No computer, no DVR, hell, no satellite TV. I don't think we were thinking about anyone but ourselves when we swept our neighborhoods clean of indigents we so charmingly called bums. There is a much greater chance here and now that we will evolve our thinking into something a little more kind and compassionate. It may have something to do with most of our population is over the hill agewise, facing the Great Reward, and wanting to actually deserve it. You think? Me, I will just keep holding a space for that skinny guy in my consciousness, hoping he gathers enough cans to eat today. It's good to have a goal, you know. And it seems that he works awfully hard doing this. Too bad someone isn't paying him. Oh, and here's the beginning of (yet-another) cow opus. Sweet baby cow, with big cow eyes.

Itsy bitsy, teeny weeny, and out of focus, oh, well....

Tiny painting we did in pastel class today, about 3x5. We started with pigment laid down, then went in with alcohol to spread it around, and painted with the pigments on top once it had dried. Everyone did one, they were all different. Mine was not the most brilliant, but I liked it a lot when I got done. This teacher is so good at helping me work a little more pickily, keep pushing it when I want to quit. I'd like to carry her around in my pocket to cheer me on in all my doings, actually. Lordy, life can be so incredibly hard. Still kind of out of focus myself, so this is a good example of what is going on in the little yellow house at the moment. Just turning into the skid, trusting this is all temporary and will change any time soon. Now would be nice.

Sorry to say...

I accidentally listened to the news tonight. I do my best not to do that. It always upsets me. And the Republicans are so good at that, you know. This is the party of smug Christians who know better how to live my life than I do, but turn around and diddle their little aides and interns, cheat on their lovely wives, and abuse their power all over the place. In case we have forgotten, our government divides church and state, keeping one out of the other. In the beginning, it was about keeping state out of religion. When are we going to get the religion out of the state? We all get to believe whatever we want, that's a freedom we are guaranteed. And I believe that the first man who mentions his "faith" should have been ridden out of town on a rail, tarred and feathered. Tell me you will beef up education. Tell me you will keep our military strong. Tell me ALL will have equal rights (yes, even women and gays). Let me breeze along newly paved highways and stand on a strong infrastructure. Just stay out of my bedroom, and away from my reproductive system. If YOU don't like abortion, well, YOU don't have one. But don't YOU say I can't. Especially if you are a male. What the hell do MEN have to say about making babies, beyond their one shot hitting the mark? Okay, I feel better. Now back to making art, like this quick study in preparation for my upcoming class. I think this is the image we will work from. Choose one light warm, one light cool, one dark warm, and one dark cool color. Do the underlying layers, working some on top of others. Repeat, working the vertical trees over the layers. Scumble some more. Voila! I think the kids will have a lot of fun with this, and be mightily surprised with the results. No more news for this apolitical animal. Just gets in the way of the joy.

Flatlining here...

I seem to have lost my muchness, again. Oh, too much change, too fast. Snapping back is not so easy now that I am older than dirt and out of shape. The old part is not my fault. The out of shape part is. Hardest thing to do is get back up on that horse. I think I hate exercise. Then I start doing it again, and find that it really makes me feel wondrous, physically and emotionally. I get to pat myself on the back, pin roses on my nose, jump around and flex my biceps. Maybe that will start again. Soon, I hope. Meanwhile, I got my hair cut. That always makes me feel lighter and in the path of good self care. Gee, I have some good excuses to be indolent. And, on top of everything else, it's freakin' winter, the time when sensible mammals hibernate! Yeah.

Turtling here...

Pulled my head in and just didn't do a damn thing today. Well, I did super-clean the stove, go online for hints from Havahart mousetraps, and set the scene to catch that *&^%$@* mouse that has taken up residence in the stove. Not a crumb in the whole kitchen, except in the trap, and the little sucker will have to climb on top of the trigger to get it down, as I hung it from the ceiling of the trap. My bet is that he is so small that he could scamper all around the inside of the trap without disturbing a hair. Hope this works. Not that I am complaining, my kitchen has not been this clean since the day I moved in. Oh, and I did this totally overworked and overthought Wolf Kahn homage, practicing for my upcoming debut at Art Day before a passel of 5th or 6th graders. No pressure there, right? And, gee, it is good to be able to tell them what NOT to do, too. Yes.

I had this idea...

A friend wanted me, the ARTIST me, to teach a class on Art Day at her son's elementary school. So I picked through some ideas and decided that what I like most is color. And an artist who personifies that is Wolf Kahn. I love reinventing the world in different hues. Isn't anyone else tired of green trees, or blue skies? Gee, there are so many other options. So I am going to have me kids recreate a Wolf Kahn composition in their selection of colors, after a little introduction to their wondrous attributes, such as how red can be warm or cool, and the great appeal of contrasting value, and how cool colors seem to recede and warm colors come forward. Then I sat down (well actually, I stood up, at the kitchen counter), and rendered one of the paintings on an old calendar, to see how difficult it would be. Easy peasy. Sixth graders will have a ball doing this. And, in the end, have a colorful piece to hang on their family fridge. And learn that artists rule the world. Yes.