Automatic painting...

Still in the what-the-hell-who-gives-a-hoot mode here in the little yellow house, where the yards languish and the dogs lay at my feet quizzically wondering if I will remember to feed them that day.  This morning, I made the decision to not go anywhere, hence I am currently clothed in my favorite paint-splatted jeans and one of my thrift store shirts, thinking about my next move.  I could go out and rake.  Raking is not all that horrid; it is picking up the piles that is a bitch.  I have finally devised a system; I take an old wastepaper basket that lost its pop-up lid, lay it on its side and scoop it full of leaves to dump in the yard waste bin.  The whole operation takes about an hour, and gets me all sweaty even on cool days, so it is a good thing to be in my grubs, because I can be impulsive and wind up ruining some garment I actually liked.  You can see from my current oeuvre that I am mellowing a little, colors getting a little softer, some direction to the piece, at least.  This is so much fun, not having any investment in the outcome, just worshiping the process.  Of course, for every one I put up for the world to see, there are three or four languishing in obscurity.  That's okay.  I learn something from every piece that comes up off the paper.  Most of all, I am learning how to spend the energy generated by my grief in a way that does not hurt anyone, even me.  Art therapy rocks.

What it feels like to be me, today...

It is one year from the day I walked with the Boo into the emergency vet, only to have to put him down four hours later.  I am sad and angry and kind of all over the place at the moment, as you can see.  Need more black pigment.  Crazy world.  Someone, at the art supply store for God's sake, nailed it.  Boo was my "soul dog".  Punk and the Pickle are sweet and marvelous company, but they will never fill the vacancy left in my heart when Boo died.  So I will keep slapping paint around, wailing a little every so often, and just being all prickly, for a while.

I can do THAT!

Everyday, I get AnArtistADay on my iGoogle homepage, and they do the most kookie stuff, messy, often rather dismal stuff.  And as the anniversary of Boo's death approaches, I put away my pastels, which were getting picky and not any fun, and got out the acrylics and Bristol paper, and started slapping.  If I get really audacious, I will frame these little messes, put a hefty pricetag on them, and run 'em up the flagpole, see if they fly.  Why the hell not?  So, voila!  The anniversary series begins!

The greeting card imperative...

I have been singularly unhappy with my pastel ability lately  In fact, I put them away for a while.  But not before doodling up this little ditty, the first one created specifically for a card.  Dear friend is having her first baby, so I perused my body of work for a suitable image to print on her card (I seldom buy greeting cards any more, preferring my own images).  Well, there were some that I could have used, but none that spun my beany.  So here is the effort, not too coy or sugary, she is not that kind of person, but still full of that motherlove that I think all mothers share.  Fathers, they are a different story, for sure.  Anyhoo, now have the acrylics on the drawing board, slapping away at paper like I did a year ago, when Boo died so suddenly.  Feeling like I need to get even more heavy-handed than usual.  It's about catharsis.  Changing.  Again.

Aw, gee, cut it out!

I seem to be the victim of a vengeful HP.  First, I was scrupulous in putting out my trash bins (I just paid that freakiin' garbage company their exorbitant fee, which other old folks, who live the CITY, get for 1/3 the cost), and they skipped my yard waste can.  Really indignant here.  I need it empty!  I am planning on major yard work this week!  Then, my new phone, the one I just love and adore, locked itself up and refuses to unlock.  This means a trip to Best Buy to bother those sweet guys in the cellphone area, again.  Nuts.  And, after enduring many months of very irritating reminders that popped up EVERYWHERE, I finally renewed my RegCure license (they had a sale of RegCure Pro, real deal), and it refuses to load on my computer.  Now have to call them and trudge through a plethora of steps so I can correct all those errors on my disk that the now defunct program said I had.  Give me a break.  And my new camera, a Samsung, like my phone, came with the manual on a disk, and needs Adobe Reader to decode, and that is not working, either.  I think the technology fairy has taken a dump here in the little yellow house.  So I said hell with it, and painted for a while.  Not sure I like him, but he was fun to diddle with for an afternoon.  He will wind up in the pile soon, the one I keep for paintings that I need to review before I finish them.  My mentor calls that the "second easel".  I just call it the pile.  Tomorrow will be another day.  Maybe I will get my phone back.  Maybe the bin will be emptied.  I don't know.  It's always a surprise.

A hardware success story...

Okay, this is embarrassing.  The chain broke off my closet light about a year ago.  I fumed a little, then began screwing and unscrewing the light bulb to see into the darkness and preclude any faux-pas like arriving with two different shoes on, which has happened to me and no one bought the story that it was the latest from New York.  And the other day, when I was trying to unscrew the light bulb, this thing popped out of the socket.  I looked at it and thought, Holy filament, Batman!  I could probably get a new one of these at OSH!  So today I put the whole thing into my purse.  This saves me from trying to describe what I need.  I just hold it up and say "I need a new one of these".  Once, I managed to fix my toilet that way.  Well, the first aisle I was directed to was not the one I needed.  And, after perusing the infinity of items that come under the label of "lighting", I asked someone else.  What I needed was around the corner.  I am always proud of myself when I solve one of these little life dilemmas.  I was going to pay a handyman to come in and do this for me, along with some other little repairs, but gee, I fixed this one for under $4.  Oh, wait, I have yet to screw it in and try it out.  That is another chapter in the never-ending uphill battle with this cruel, cruel world.

Love on leaf-blower day...

Absolute cacophony happening here.  Punkin is laying at my feet, and we are both blown away by the noisiness of Thursday afternoon in the neighborhood.  I already did my compliment of whining and sniveling earlier, so I just have to suck it up, I guess.  Last night, a friend shared with me that she was pooch-sitting the daddy of a new litter, and that soon, when she was grown-up enough, one of the pups would be her very own.  And she was amazed by how much sweetness this little guy brought into her otherwise solitary life.  And I thought surprise, surprise, surprise.  Non-pet owners have no idea what they are missing.  These small (or medium, or large, or gigantic) sweet creatures provide warmth and laughter and just plain company for we solitaires who have given up on a life partner (or, like me, have tried on a variety and decided phooey, I'd rather just be myself for the rest of this existence).  Sadly, our companions will probably leave us too soon, but for the time they are here, they are totally present.  I went out for a little while this morning, about two hours altogether, and the joy at the front door on my return was a celebration, for sure.  And, burdened as I was with my huge Costco bag, and my ultra-large purse (gave up on the hella-cute teensy one, I need much more STUFF than that one can handle), I was still touched by the love that poured out even before I put the key in the lock.  Oh, and here is the 13th white horse.  Thinking of moving on to dark horses now, having explored all the vicissitudes of white ones.  Plus, white pastels pretty chewed up here.  Another trip to Blick is in the near future.  Yay.

Portrait of my youth...

It is interesting to me that so many people do not believe in God.  I look at all the wondrous creatures that share our little podunk planet, and think we are so blessed.  This is one creature that made us what we are today.  Without the horse, we would have been stuck in the hunter-gatherer stage a whole hell of a lot longer, for sure.  And they are such gentle things, so strong and powerful, yet fragile, too.  This one reminds me of Bridget (named after Bardot, herself), a palomino my steady's Mom got for herself when I had usurped her big gelding on the weekend romps around our lovely countyside.  Bridget came from the glue factory, literally.  Rescue horse.  And she was just fine, that little filly, even if she did pronate rather alarmingly, and occasionally, just run in the opposite direction.  My mount, Big Fella (lack of imagination has never been my problem, but I didn't name him), a strawberry roan about 70 feet high, loved going up hills and often took them in amazingly big leaps.  However, downhill scared him, so we were always in the rear of the parade.  Ah, the teenaged days of being saddle sore.  I remember them well.

Hmmmmmmm....

I don't know about you, but sudden changes in the climate kind of throw me.  Today, it was all drizzly.  I slept in.  And got up to big muddy prints all over the kitchen floor.  I mopped.  And now, need to do it again, despite deployment of strategic towels on the canine path of least resistance.  So, I pondered this rather frustrating epic I am determined to execute, endeavoring to make them look less than a parade to the glue factory.  Believe me, it is mucho better than it once was.  Funny, but taking a photo and looking at it on my monitor here gives me hope, again.  Must never say die, you know.  And now, back to the mop brigade.  Makes me want to attach little booties to Punk's admittedly overly-large paws.  Or I could just put his fuzz-ball little self on my Swiffer duster?  At least I removed the dog stairway, so no laundering of bedding will be required.  Ah, the life of a dog lover.  Messy love.

Win some, lose some...

Some ideas work, some don't.  Hint: if the horse looks like a circus performer, he is never going to look natural in nature.  This one was in the surf, but that just didn't give enough value contrast to make him dramatic.  And now, with his new and improved environs, he is perhaps TOO dramatic.  I have fiddled and faddled away at this for DAYS now, and I NEVER do that.  So, I now pronounce him done-diddy-done-done.  The paper has another side, you know.  Or, maybe, some time in the future, I will look at him and find him redeemable, just the way he is right now.  You never know.  Stranger things have happened.

Life is cruel enough without hardward stores...

The IRS took pity on me and refunded some of my own $$$.  Very big of them, since I have these piles and piles of pastel paintings, just yearning for frames.  Now, I have mastered the art of centering and securing the painting on its backboard and matting it without getting fingerprints on the mat (most of the time, if anyone knows how to get pastel pigment off white mats, let me know).  I have learned to very carefully Windex the glass and blow out any tiny morsels of detritus before slamming the whole thing into the frame, only to find I had forgotten to sign my work  Aaaarrrrgggghh!  But, except for the metal frames that come with handy doohickies that have holes for the wire, I have not come up with a way to secure the hanging wire to the wooden frames without resorting to my faithful staple gun, which I braved the hardware store to purchase so I could stretch the one canvas teacher made us do (and that, too, required more than one trip), and my friend and mentor, the PROFESSIONAL artist says that is tacky.  Eye screws are de riguer.  No way I could get these microscopic little screws into the miniscule lip of the very hard wooden frame.  Soooooo frustrating.  Then my admittedly fertile mind had one of its AHA moments.  What I need is a tiny drill!  So I packed up one of my already framed paintings with its little packet of accoutrements (eye screws and picture wire) and bounced off to OSH yesterday afternoon.  One of the things I know how to do well is look helpless and confused.  Half an hour, three hardware experts, and $50 later, I had this handy-dandy drill, with an auxlliary collet to hold the 1/16" bit.  It was just like the staple gun; there is more than one size of staples and there is more than one size of collar to hold the infinite number of bits and doodads you can attach to a drill.  Thank you, dear OSH folks.  I attached a couple of wires last night to pieces that were already framed and the drill was slick as a whistle.  Framing will never be my favorite pastime, but it is no longer the enigma it once was.  Now, off for more eye screws, wire, and oh, yeah, frames.

Easy peasy...

Animal portraits are so simple compared to portraying the whole magilla.  All that measuring and conformation!  Okay, I don't do that.  I eyeball everything.  I think there is joy in the spontaneous drawing and painting that I do.  Well, it is a joy to execute.  Whether it is a joy to look at, ah, that's the question.  With this ditty, I took a page out of Wolf Kahn's book.  It really doesn't matter what pigment he uses, it all works, as long as the value stays true.  So I just noodled away, and this sweet filly just jumped up off the paper, dark grey paper in this case.  Dark supports always produce more dramatic and dynamic images for me.  No worry about pushing pigment into the tooth, no annoying holidays peaking through, little white spots that make an image look unfinished.  Okay, you can see the paper here, too.  However, it looks like I did that deliberately instead of just letting it be and not messing around with it any more.  I love this image.  There is an inviting expression on her face, like you just want to go get a bunch of carrots for her.  I don't know how that happens.  It just comes.  How sweet is that!

Free to be me...

Well, white horses are boring.  And tight is boring.  Not that I can't do tight.  I can.  Just like my process to hang out there.  Not a lot of thought here.  I put all my pastels into little 5 drawer chests, two of them, so everything is organized and I can find a pigment without a lot or perusal.  Makes the whole deal a lot easier.  And a whole lot more spontaneous, actually.  Open a drawer, grab some blue, and oh, some yellow would be nice, and let's put some pink in the waves.  Just love color.  And this medium is so very luminous.  Oh, and this is on my favorite support, Fabriano Tiziano black paper.  I will probably noodle around with it some more before moving it over to the framing table.  It is larger than my usual piece, so will need a custom mat.  Luckily, the IRS returned some $$$ to me the other day.  I am going to think of that BEFORE I do the next work on the black paper.  Details, details.

Well, you have to begin somewhere...

Not a big fan of the 4th of July.  Love fireworks.  Hate sitting in the parking lot or garage for 3 hours trying to get home later.  Hate that the noise scares the stuffing out of my dogs.  Hate that so many folks get royally pissed on Bud and drive around where I might be at any given time.  So, staying home, with the Punkin and the Pickle, and just because I could, I started a new white horse painting.  This is on my favorite paper, Fabriano's Tiziano, black.  Can't get it in my little town, had to sojourn down the 101 corridor and across the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge to Blick, the mecca of art supply stores.  Okay, I could order it online, but it is a lovely drive, and I get to have lunch with my son who works in Richmond, and I get to explore new levels of gratitude on the way back over the bridge, when San Quentin fills my windshield.  I think it is a good thing to remember that I am free, here in the USA, in the little yellow house.  And you can see from what has happened so far that I am feeling free with COLOR.  This is, of course, just an underpainting, but I can already see it will be very dynamic when I start putting the good stuff on top.  What a way to spend a retirement!  How lucky am I! 

Sunday, and more horses...

Major endeavor of the day was a trip to Petco for a purple replacement bra for Pickle, who keeps getting her pink one all dingy, despite my best efforts to launder it.  Punk went along, rode in the cart, gave his approval to some new toys, and two engraved hearts to put on their harnesses, so everyone knows they are loved and wanted back should they wander away.  Really, we should all have a tag like that, "If lost, return me to ____".  Sure would make me feel cherished.  And, onward with the white horse opus.  These were particularly vexing.  My first effort had the legs too long, and a definitely saggy looking butt sticking out there.  Much work on the values, which were problematical, and the hues, also a little perplexing.  It has now all come together in the way these things have of happening, mostly without much effort of thought on my part.  As usual, this is a surprise.  Now ready for a trip to Village Art for frames.  When I have enough, perhaps I will get brave and show them to an artist who owns a gallery, and has actually ASKED to see my work.  Fear, it stinks.

Thiis is the one that is going byebye. Or not.

And I really like this painting.  there were many happy moments and pleasant surprises that happened when I did it earlier this year.  Or late last year.  Hell, I can't remember.  I just know it has made me mucho happier than a lot of stuff I have done.  Well, letting go is an art in itself.  Really.

White horses and I...

After a long ponder, and some advice from a friend, I decided to give my first white horse oeuvre to the Art for Life Auction this year.  Now I love my paintings.  I suppose I know that the whole object is to sell them so some lovely person out there in the big bad world will have something delightful to gaze at every day.  But I will really miss my first white horse, if it sells, that is.  It is possible that I will be able to attend the event, sip mineral water and gnosh on chichi munchies, check out all the OTHER art, and the other artists, hobnob with the rich folks who love art and attend with the hopes of getting some, cheap, and still come home with my beloved painting.  This is not it, by the way, this is one that I added to the opus to replace the one I am donating.  And it is unlikely I will bring anything home, mine or otherwise.  I have, after all, sold my piece now for four years running, and I am somewhat proud of that, as that does not happen to all the artists who donate.  Somewhere out there, there are four folks who have an original painting by MOI on their wall.  That is kind of sweet, yes.  Whatever, it is not til September, and I have time to knock out a few more white horses. 

Just keep swimming, just keep swimming...

Friday in the little yellow house.  I started to post this, then realized it was looking a little flat and a lot messy, so I straightened that out.  Now have an opus of koi.  Working on my white horse opus, next.  Really, I need to get more instructions, work on my STYLE, which is, as always, elusive as hell.  I was reading about IMPORTANT art, RELEVANT art, in other words, New York art.  Apparently, it should reflect our culture, make social statements, be edgy and cutting.  In other words, UGLY.  Drab, colorless, depressing and downright bizarre.  I don't even want to look at that art, much less create it.  I have been depressed for many of my years here on the Big Blue Ball.  I don't need reminders of that darkness hanging on my walls.  Okay, fish are remarkably prosaic.  Ditto birds, horses, cows.  Tigers, lynx and lions are a little more jazzy.  Still, I am refreshed by these paintings.  My soul feels lightened up, just knowing there are these wondrous creatures in the world.  I look at my egret every day, all curled into itself, that look of infinite knowing in its eye, refreshing.  Yes, that's me.  Little old prosaic me, just wanting some wonder and beauty, some that I made myself.

All my troubles, Lord, soon forgotten...

Well, I got sick.  And though it seemed impossible not so long ago, I am getting well, again, too.  Not as springy as I used to be, and, because my appetite dropped out of existence, I was hella weak for a bit.  All this is hella scary when you live alone, like I do.  Both dogs survived, even the tomato plant still has life in it.  And the world kept right on turning.  Now, onward.  I framed the tiger, and, for a quick and rather sketchy piece (on very dramatic black paper), he is really fine now.  I'm calling him "Burning Bright", and he may be the choice to go to Art for Life.  Or not.  Really, I surprise myself , all the time.  I finish these paintings, put them away for a while, and it is as if I have never seen them before, and someone else did them.  Well, Someone Else did, held my hand and pushed it around.  Life is just one big surprise, you know.

Messing around with the fishies, still

Just started, and coming up nicely if I do say so myself.  I don't know if this is a good idea or not.  It is picky picky, and the actual image is not very large, and maybe it is better to do close-ups of the koi and the lily and the lily pads.  Hell, I don't know.  I started it, so I will keep picking away until it is something I think is worth looking at.  Or not.  The paper has two sides, you know. Meanwhile, back at the little yellow house, health seems to have rebounded now that Vitamin D is replenished.  It has cooled down this evening, pleasant breeze coming in open door.  The Punk is throwing toys all around the office floor and Pickle is hunkered down in her last bastion of solitude, the bed, which Punk still cannot get up onto under his own steam.  He is wearing his soft harness, and has not shrugged it off completely, so it is fitting a tiny bit better, though his leg gets out of its hole a lot.  It provides me with a convenient handle to grab him by, and he needs grabbing regularly.  Huge box from Crate and Barrel on the table, new dinnerware, birthday gift from my daughter and her husband.  Blessings, everywhere.

One of those (existentially challenging) days...

My new Kindle Fire arrived.  Yippee.  Trouble with new electronic thingymagigs is that they never work the first time out of the box.  Or the fourteenth time, either.  First, gee, I had to hightail it to Best Buy for some Wifi.  Didn't have any of that around.  Decided I didn't need to be THAT connected, so just got a router for the little yellow house.  And spent a happy couple of hours trying to get it up and running.  Didn't even know when it was, actually, but saved $70 by not having the Geek Squad do it for me.  Then came the Kindle.  Not good at that little keyboard app.  Fingers are too big, and mind are not the largest, so it must be fun for everyone else, too, right?  Oh, I hope so.  If I thought I was the only one that struggled with this stuff, I'd slit my throat.  Now connected, Wifi speaking, and registered, Amazon.com speaking, and wondering where are all those books in the Cloud?  Why doesn.'t my Kindle just display them, download them, or whatever it is supposed to do?  Well, working on that.  I did get a book on loan, and began reading it.  Don't know what to do when I am through with it.  Return it?  Will it self-destruct?  Aaaaaarrrrrgggggh!  Oh, and the fish, well, it's Art for Life time, and thinking of donating this piece.  Or not.  Have a month to mull.  And read.  I love the Kindle, really I do.

I'm not insecure, I'm just an artist...

It is Art at the Source time here in wine country, the west county artist's open studios, so I sojourned over to my hometown, to the street that I grew up on, to visit an artist who lives right across the street from the house my parent's built in 1953, where I lived for the next 10 years, till I got married.  That in itself was pretty surreal.  This artist works in pastels, and I was hoping for some pointers about things like paper, strokes, stuff like that.  Here's what I learned - he works solely on sanded paper, which is not my favorite as I like to blend things a lot until the final layer, and it eats up my little spongy thingies.  He uses his fingers.  Okay, not doing that.  He had drawers full of pigments, and yet in the painting he was working on, nothing was very bright.  I like a lot of bright colors, can you tell?  And he uses tiny marks.  Don't think that will happen for me any time soon.  I am, as my teacher told me, heavy-handed.  I like to work fast and with a bold stroke.  Okay, I had a moment of wondering if I am all right here.  Should I change what I do, would that be more "artful"?  Maybe someday.  Not today, though.  Hell, Van Gogh was considered nuts, Monet was considered "sketchy", everyone's a critic.  I don't have to be one, too.  I like my cow.  He makes me smile.  Smiling is never a bad thing.

Quality problems...

I sold these two paintings.  Well, surprise.  I AM a professional artist now.  I am SUPPOSED to sell my work.  Still, it is like giving up children for adoption.  This first thing I notice is wonder that I did them at all.  That is, of course, because I didn't.  I just channeled that God-given ability, kept pecking away, till all that was there was what Spirit wanted to be there.  It is a magical thing, being an artist.  I live in perpetual wonder.  And I will miss these guys.  They were seminal paintings for me.  I used to just do cows, because no one really knows what a cow looks like.  But everyone thinks they have a horse's aspect down, and if there is even a tiny deviation from that image, I am sunk.  Big leap of faith to do these at all.  Time to do a whole bunch more.  They seem to be the ticket for more $$$ to buy more frames to make more paintings to fill them.  Busy, busy life I have.  Wondrous, too.

My loosey goosey life...

Dates that I no longer celebrate:  September 14, March 5, August 2 - all old wedding anniversaries; March 18 and Fathers' Day, now that Dad has gone to the big golf course in the sky;  November 9 and September 21 - ex-husband's birthdays (first one is dead, you see); May 30, my parent's wedding anniversary (actually, I stopped doing that one long ago, when a very expensive gift I gave got my mother's arrogant ho-hum).    There are one or two dates I will always celebrate:  June 8, my natal birthday; December 26, my sobriety birthday; and June 2, the day I quit smoking.  For the last time, that is.  I missed my usual ritual this year as I had a visit from big kiddo and his new gal, so I went off today to SHOP.  You see, I save so much $$$ not smoking, over $4,500 a year, I calculated, estimating $5 a pack and 2 1/2 packs a day, it is cheap to buy myself presents on this auspicious date.  And not included in that amount is the co-pays for all the doctoring I had to do, like I had pneumonia 5 times, and numerous bouts of respiratory distress.  So spending $300 is nothing, right?  And actually, I got $100 from my mother for my birthday, so actually, I only spent $200.  Yes, very important date to honor.  Meanwhile, here is my latest endeavor, still embryonic but coming up so nicely with its bold value contrasts.  Loose geese.  Just like those ducks I keep trying to get in a row, the ones that constantly run amuck. 

And the Punk goes on...

It's nighty night time, and what a miracle, he's asleep!  Of course, that does not mean he will not wake up about 15 minutes before I want to turn out the light, and want to play.  Look, he still has his pig belly!  What a guy, my Punk.  That is his new training bra, just like the Pickle's, except hers is pink.  That turned out to be not my best idea, as it is now looking rather dingy.  Maybe I will get her a matching bra.  Punk's is still a little big for him, but I expect him to put on a couple of lbs in the next couple of weeks.  Nevertheless, he is a little guy, a true toy.  Which doesn't mean he isn't all dog.  He now barks with the Pickle at the neighbors as they wrestle their garbage cans down the driveway by the side of our yard.  And, like the Boo before him, he is in love with the front porch, now that the weather is clement and we can have the front door open more often.  Okay, not a lot of excitement around the little yellow house.  What did you want?  Drama?  Try TNT.

Worse, worser, worstest...

This is the third attempt I have made recently at a decent painting, and the best, which tells you where I am at the moment.  It needs a lot of work, especially after I lifted it up to tap off the excess and got black all over the water on top of the big bird.  Almost threw it in the round file after that.  So it feels like time for some alcohol.  No, not the sipping kind, the rubbing kind, that will smooth out the water so I can lay another layer of pastels on it.  Yes, that's an idea.  Or maybe it is just too far gone.  Whatever.  Have I ever told you my ex-husband used to put movie reviews on his answering machine?  Tempted to call him see if he has seen Salmon Fishing in the Yemen, a yummy little movie now playing at the smart people's movie theatre.  Also The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel, another little film that is currently making over 10 times it's production cost.  Yes, Virginia, there are folks out there that can survive without CG or 3D, violence or sex.  We are old, but not dead yet.  More, please!  Oh, and back to the geese, time will tell.  It could be worse.  I think.

Progress not perfection...

Well, there is always a new day.  Until there aren't any more, of course.  Looks like I will remain vertical for a while, and today, it is better than it was yesterday, which was better than Tuesday, which was hell.  Have decided to let it be what it is, not try to muscle through my current low energy/high headache phase.  If tests show nothing physical, committed to doing some counseling, which is never a bad idea.  And working at doing more art during this time.  It is the only thing that gives me surcease from the constant barrage of self-interest that runs like DOS in the background all the freaking time.  Well, the Punk helps, too.  He has been the easiest pup since the Boo, is pretty much trained to go outside (with a little help from Mom), and can be trusted more, which makes my life ever so much easier.  So, not jumping up and down, but pretty contented today.  Off to start another masterpiece.  Loving the animals.  This may be what I was looking for when I was casting about for an idea that worked for me, and a style I liked.  The pastels seem to be my medium.  And I even went online and found mats in the size I had been paying a small fortune to have cut for me at our local craft store.  Ordering them even as we speak.  See, not entirely stagnant here.  Sort of treading water, not going anywhere fast, and that's okay.  Yes.

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.