tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17146304982147724742024-03-06T14:00:54.198-06:00German Girl ArtThoughts, Essays, PoetryEvehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10414532669457758552noreply@blogger.comBlogger151125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1714630498214772474.post-38083526432048275012024-02-21T12:10:00.002-06:002024-02-21T12:10:55.927-06:00Beckoning<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmZvzzHKi4ujP_F3TV1ouf-afbjWsNgFAI1wtDdch9K2uGV2_LhS1ksmYiz9gIxS-tOo4FbaszDIM-nya2J61dhsdUtB1-h8InmbWH-ngt_qVgy4iP9XnFuz8B0FNnYjjniJiPoI7AEJ1VEl4EVWaBqZujMRxBgsYS1UvaIqh0_l8QMBIezJ-DwUxdfUg/s3704/Lucy%20In%20The%20Sky%20(48x30).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3704" data-original-width="2507" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmZvzzHKi4ujP_F3TV1ouf-afbjWsNgFAI1wtDdch9K2uGV2_LhS1ksmYiz9gIxS-tOo4FbaszDIM-nya2J61dhsdUtB1-h8InmbWH-ngt_qVgy4iP9XnFuz8B0FNnYjjniJiPoI7AEJ1VEl4EVWaBqZujMRxBgsYS1UvaIqh0_l8QMBIezJ-DwUxdfUg/s320/Lucy%20In%20The%20Sky%20(48x30).jpg" width="217" /></a></div><p></p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><i> <span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></i><i><span style="font-family: georgia;">How long does it take to make a painting?<span style="text-align: center;"> </span></span></i></div></blockquote><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Oswald;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Oswald;">This is the question I am asked most often to which there is no straight path to an answer. </span> </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Oswald; font-size: medium;">Standing in front of a blank canvas is a beckoning to express...something. Rarely do I know what that is. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Oswald; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Oswald; font-size: medium;">Beginning with unconscious child-like abandon, I pour and scrape, then pause and begin to meander around the surface searching for clues of where to go next. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Oswald; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Oswald; font-size: medium;">Listening and looking,</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Oswald; font-size: medium;">nonchalantly walking by</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Oswald; font-size: medium;">then suddenly swiveling,</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Oswald; font-size: medium;">as if the painting spoke,</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Oswald; font-size: medium;">and there it will be,</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Oswald; font-size: medium;">a shape, a line, </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Oswald; font-size: medium;">a beckoning</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Oswald; font-size: medium;">to dive deeper into the surface,</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Oswald; font-size: medium;">excavating the pentimento</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Oswald; font-size: medium;">that has been woven within the canvas all along. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Oswald; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Oswald; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Oswald; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><p><br /></p><p> </p>Evehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10414532669457758552noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1714630498214772474.post-7426533473129701012024-01-14T14:32:00.008-06:002024-01-14T14:35:24.640-06:00What Is Your Story?<p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibyP3-qIcSyW9ntTJs53xsbt6SszBMpgd4LRpndrNQikc7xkDnQnLKzP3ck9CRQeXKKHrXFuB8ZrgALnzEYaFZzv4SH-9W4GYjY4AY-zYkRsmMaCqDT1mxcBI_5Nk0GPPMmzP4xyNEacwwZevre3dJ875YzboP5g8nWwE-MPE79hlM7qilZmDQIID1JB8/s3161/Abstract%20Gaze%201%20(37x23).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3161" data-original-width="2082" height="381" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibyP3-qIcSyW9ntTJs53xsbt6SszBMpgd4LRpndrNQikc7xkDnQnLKzP3ck9CRQeXKKHrXFuB8ZrgALnzEYaFZzv4SH-9W4GYjY4AY-zYkRsmMaCqDT1mxcBI_5Nk0GPPMmzP4xyNEacwwZevre3dJ875YzboP5g8nWwE-MPE79hlM7qilZmDQIID1JB8/w251-h381/Abstract%20Gaze%201%20(37x23).jpg" width="251" /></a></div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;">
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif"><span style="font-size: medium;">“<i>Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?” Mary Oliver<o:p></o:p></i></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: large;">It’s an early
Sunday morning in January and the new year is in its 14</span><sup>th</sup><span style="font-size: large;"> day. The
temperature outside is -8 with a
windchill of -35, perfect conditions to enjoy a warm cup of coffee and reflect
on what kind of person do I want to be.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif"><span style="font-size: medium;">With the jolt
of caffeine, my mind begins an internal dialogue. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif"><span style="font-size: medium;">List the
qualities and make it your life’s purpose to be guided by them. For instance,
when you find yourself responding in a way that is not in keeping with your
image, stop, breathe, and adjust. <o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif"><span style="font-size: medium;">Rebel
thoughts and behaviors should be encouraged, it’s important to let our thoughts
and actions roam free on the Plains of Individuality. <o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif"><span style="font-size: medium;">Sit
quietly and consider these intuitive thoughts as they become your guideposts, soft
slips of clay molding your heart into the person you want to be, no longer pulled
by the actions of others, no longer an emotional puppet reacting to circumstances.
<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif"><span style="font-size: medium;">Reflect on
how you are acting now and dive into change. Here is the fertile soil of your
growth. At times it will be painful as you expand and crack your existing shell
and metamorphosize into the soloist of this symphony we call life. <o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif"><span style="font-size: medium;">When someone
hurts you and your immediate response is to defend yourself by striking out in
kind, mirror your path of being a loving person, then choose forgiveness and let
go. I believe this is what Jesus meant when he said, “turn the other cheek”. Not becoming a weak victim but staying strong
and true to your being. <o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif"><span style="font-size: medium;">We are the
stories we tell ourselves. It is never too early or too late to ask, What kind
of person do I want to be? Avoid the trap
of becoming someone you really don’t want to be just to please. Share your
ignorance with glee, so you can learn, then share your knowledge with gratitude,
so you can teach. <o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: medium;">We only have
so many heartbeats. Our purpose is to make every beat count.</span></span> </p></blockquote>Evehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10414532669457758552noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1714630498214772474.post-50490657972827606012023-01-27T11:01:00.008-06:002023-01-27T11:04:11.636-06:00Girly Girly<p> </p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
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<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="mso-no-proof: yes;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="mso-no-proof: yes;"><span style="font-family: arial;">When
we first brought Mollie home, she weighed a hefty four pounds and fit into my
purse. With all the cool non-chalance of being in the perfect bedchamber, she
would burrow into my open bag , find a comfortable spot and nap,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>as if the purse were made especially for her.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><o:p> </o:p>It’s interesting how a dog
projects their sexual orientation. Our first cavalier, Soans, was a handsome,
tri-colored construction-truck alpha. Sweet but territorial. We would joke that
if he could stand on his front paws, he would spin like a fuzzy lazy susan spraying
360 degrees while proclaiming, “mine, mine, mine”. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Our second cavalier, Max, a
gorgeous chocolate- tri, didn’t have the same level of testosterone,
none-the-less, you wouldn’t mistake him as anything but a boy. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span><span style="font-family: arial;">2009, Max was two and a half years
old, and we decided to get him a companion, a 12-week-old black and tan,
petticoat girl. Mollie literally wiggled with curiosity and love – not for us,
but for Max. As soon as she saw him, she made a beeline for his side, as if
shouting, <i><span style="line-height: 107%;">Yipeee</span></i>,
one of mine. It took Max a few weeks to return the sentiment. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>However, once their bond was threaded, they
were braided together for life. </span><span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></p>
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<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">During her teething phase, she gnawed
off the tip of a leather belt, chewed one new Birkenstock sandal to shreds and
disfigured a diamond earring into an unrecognizable shape while digesting the
diamond…no, I did not check her poop, instead I had a jeweler straighten the
setting and put in a cubic zirconia. Now I can’t tell, nor do I care, l which
earring is real, and which is “fake”. I marveled at her fashion sense.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Over the 13 years she was with us,
she became anointed with many nicknames, including Shatze, Mollie moo moo,
Princess, and <i>the </i>Dowager Princess when she reached the elegant age of
11. But my favorite was Girly Girl.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">She didn’t have a frou frou
wardrobe, she was more Golda Meir than Princess Di. She liked to walk about in
her naked fur, all shiny black and tan. She loved belly rubs, leash free romps
in the park. She loved resting her front paws around our necks and nuzzling us
with her throat. Most of all she loved Max.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Food was her Vogue, and she was a
non-discerning gourmet. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her dining etiquette,
however, could have used a bit of advice from Emily Post. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Though gentle, she could snap a treat from your
hand faster than a magician. When dinner came, she would sit primly waiting, gazing
at me with goddess like reverence, razor focused, as I made her bowl of farm to
table fare. When ready, she would race to her dining spot with the speed of a Formula
1 race car driver, sitting in nervous anticipation until I served her. And like
Houdini, her food would disappear with sensational speed.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">The only thing that ever slowed
her down was when I put blueberries in her bowl. I watched with amusement as
she delicately removed every berry from her food and spit, yes spit it out onto
the floor with energetic contempt.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">After 13 years, 2 months and 18
days, a heart that beat with wild exuberance, broke, and stopped. Mollie passed
away on December 18, 2022.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">She was by Max’s side when he died
three years earlier. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Today I imagine how
happy he was when her spirit ascended and met his on the other side. </span><o:p></o:p></p>
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<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span><span style="font-family: arial;">I miss her sweet energy, trotting
behind with unquestioned loyalty and trust. The cozy cave in my heart keeps expanding.
Nestled inside are the four-legged companions who gifted me with their loving
presence. How blessed to have been chosen to be stewards of these amazing
beings. </span><span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p> </o:p><span style="text-align: center;"> </span></span></p>
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</v:shape><![endif]--></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj2DWLu51OqZPmftg5kj8iNgCvhhrHZlp_QBz79SkNE5gBtrttrzYrLAe0oBRVVa2d38MikWOXAONTJjFuWRT2UnqWAYpogVxHzMvT5oSJ_T4HUcpn1H9dFLTVnb6Tsy-pourq28THuzhoe-MBFc7711MvQYhhZNpM03u5X6WOplIun9aHkkfmATpYa" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="373" data-original-width="230" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj2DWLu51OqZPmftg5kj8iNgCvhhrHZlp_QBz79SkNE5gBtrttrzYrLAe0oBRVVa2d38MikWOXAONTJjFuWRT2UnqWAYpogVxHzMvT5oSJ_T4HUcpn1H9dFLTVnb6Tsy-pourq28THuzhoe-MBFc7711MvQYhhZNpM03u5X6WOplIun9aHkkfmATpYa" width="148" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>Evehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10414532669457758552noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1714630498214772474.post-44277148734419856082022-12-08T14:53:00.000-06:002022-12-08T14:53:04.690-06:00Love In The Park<p style="text-align: center;"> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0q3VS58fkm3OOOoA9GjzJiQmSCbTJjjDSvi7zbWKt8KG-2hFNCjdcfblkPhdeRVPy7BCQTwflhTMCbasMpHDls7Xx7i9MLAczALY4wr36QSRkyUe-tkadOYPvD1ulWhTzK5Fa3DXT0PjUprzZ8HXQaJ6IwkbYoKSqfm7EBKKslqmxrA_8inVBMit_/s1706/2022-11-28%2008.15.56-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1706" data-original-width="1440" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0q3VS58fkm3OOOoA9GjzJiQmSCbTJjjDSvi7zbWKt8KG-2hFNCjdcfblkPhdeRVPy7BCQTwflhTMCbasMpHDls7Xx7i9MLAczALY4wr36QSRkyUe-tkadOYPvD1ulWhTzK5Fa3DXT0PjUprzZ8HXQaJ6IwkbYoKSqfm7EBKKslqmxrA_8inVBMit_/s320/2022-11-28%2008.15.56-1.jpg" width="270" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Weather foul or fair,</span><span style="font-family: arial;"> seven days a week,</span><span style="font-family: arial;"> I take our two Cavaliers to a natural oasis, Katherine Legge Memorial Park (KLM). This multi-use park is one square mile of ancient trees, open spaces, and a cornucopia of smells that my dogs revel in. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">From the first time my two legs and their four set feet on the grass, we felt the magic of this place. Early morning and dusk, the park is open for dogs to explore off leash. It is surrounded by a fence so no fear of running off or into traffic. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I meet a lot of dogs and their owners, and as we pause to greet one another, invariably we comment about this natural paradise, how fortunate we are to have it and how it is an elixir of youth for our dogs and for us. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">With every deep inhale, I feel the endorphins being blessed upon me by these majestic skyscrapers made of root, wood and leaves. I silently marvel at the invisible world beneath my feet, the intertwined underground fungus of</span><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span><span style="font-family: arial;">mycelium wrapped around every root braiding together threads to create a miraculous mycorrhizal network. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> As</span><span style="font-family: arial;"> my dogs scamper around with </span><span style="font-family: arial;">abandon</span><span style="font-family: arial;">, I imagine them feeling the same exquisite sense of connectedness and wellbeing. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Walking along this morning, looking around with grateful amazement, I realized the magic of this park, pure Love. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">KLM is a reservoir of love. Love from people who see their dogs as a part of their family and are devoted to making their lives happy and fulfilled. And the joyous, unconditional love of these dogs, roaming with their packs in total bliss, chasing squirrels they will never catch except in their dreams.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I can't wait to go again, and neither can my four-legged friends. </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><br /></div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsywJJVxizQFrspqWNb917XIS1gS68arLced4kzAaFHuFyoQsMOv1ta_VKkTh_yY5dNeTG51n9JqdGn080Ozg5VDfZe0CkFhN2gXQX6UAkH5-JQxWdJ7yGm85cjFq_h-PIpHj9SwGVsNOjhYqJ7B0jFLmw7oXQpAcQCUKw589xFn5fVgV32Ba-Ygrz/s2700/Nigel%20and%20Mollie%20at%20KLM.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1800" data-original-width="2700" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsywJJVxizQFrspqWNb917XIS1gS68arLced4kzAaFHuFyoQsMOv1ta_VKkTh_yY5dNeTG51n9JqdGn080Ozg5VDfZe0CkFhN2gXQX6UAkH5-JQxWdJ7yGm85cjFq_h-PIpHj9SwGVsNOjhYqJ7B0jFLmw7oXQpAcQCUKw589xFn5fVgV32Ba-Ygrz/s320/Nigel%20and%20Mollie%20at%20KLM.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;">Nigel Mollie </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><p></p>Evehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10414532669457758552noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1714630498214772474.post-67968061866708108572022-11-15T14:40:00.000-06:002022-11-15T14:40:22.203-06:00<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg36AOhJZf1BWpjKDcJunR6oVexuH8lZd2pX_Z4ALrbtxoHxKr_5RBgWRjU5n1e-4Ywe9CqgQJGx-K9Un6ooUopd8BOPUd2VBnZ9xwQOsfuARyilNICaShMvFScL6rvu24SKlMyRf9fE1Rt5Ak-MCyMq0N-rPi4-9iHtfn6Da1_Ftz4rW65I73n7vrv/s3823/Tender%20is%20the%20Night%20(48x36).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3823" data-original-width="2850" height="405" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg36AOhJZf1BWpjKDcJunR6oVexuH8lZd2pX_Z4ALrbtxoHxKr_5RBgWRjU5n1e-4Ywe9CqgQJGx-K9Un6ooUopd8BOPUd2VBnZ9xwQOsfuARyilNICaShMvFScL6rvu24SKlMyRf9fE1Rt5Ak-MCyMq0N-rPi4-9iHtfn6Da1_Ftz4rW65I73n7vrv/w302-h405/Tender%20is%20the%20Night%20(48x36).JPG" width="302" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Oswald; font-size: medium;"><b>Tender is the Night</b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Oswald;">48x36</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Oswald;">acrylic & pastel</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Oswald;"> on vintage linen museum wrap canvas</span></div><p></p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br /></p></blockquote><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Oswald; font-size: medium;">A Brief
Description of the First Ab Ex Artists<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Oswald; font-size: medium;">Outlaws of the art world / beatniks
of color / renegades of content / shape shifters of consciousness with oil and
turpentine.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Oswald;"><span style="font-size: medium;">An alchemy born in smoke filled
studios, composing a brave, nascent language even they, at times, did not
understand / questioning value and substance / ultimately liberating the future
from the order of realism and dunking us into the lyrical chaos of the unknown.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Oswald;">We would not be able to paint like
we do without these early warriors, slashing a path through a foreign territory
known as our interiority / giving us permission to seek the arcane in the subconscious
/ shushing </span><span style="font-family: Oswald;"> </span><span style="font-family: Oswald;">our </span><i style="font-family: Oswald;">selves</i><span style="font-family: Oswald;"> </span><span style="font-family: Oswald;"> </span><span style="font-family: Oswald;">and allowing our daemons to speak.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p>Evehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10414532669457758552noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1714630498214772474.post-82974934217377130742022-07-18T14:57:00.002-05:002022-07-18T14:57:19.318-05:00<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRmAqNiYyphLXmj0q9Zf7HuEyCEDnhcxn0lHPWJHFhFgVlgjrQxbewNplMf-_Zz0qVyInkeUZ6d-6InRnOA7W0edOa75a5GTzdjMOP5lKuC6rME0qipl8C0xI0iqaEOEltdKqJISHBXoqRfn9hpKIGvrlfzeMZCYt2nXjrH3aszIt1uNtnaEgVYuT1/s3310/Piece%20of%20Mind%20(36x24).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3310" data-original-width="2326" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRmAqNiYyphLXmj0q9Zf7HuEyCEDnhcxn0lHPWJHFhFgVlgjrQxbewNplMf-_Zz0qVyInkeUZ6d-6InRnOA7W0edOa75a5GTzdjMOP5lKuC6rME0qipl8C0xI0iqaEOEltdKqJISHBXoqRfn9hpKIGvrlfzeMZCYt2nXjrH3aszIt1uNtnaEgVYuT1/s320/Piece%20of%20Mind%20(36x24).JPG" width="225" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> <b>Piece of Mind</b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i>a closet </i></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i>full of contradictions</i></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i>a wardrobe of non-conformity</i></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i>her piece of mind</i></p><p style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">When my beloved 80+ year old Aunt confessed she didn't understand my art, I took no offense, nor was I surprised. Born in the 1930s, she was taught ART was realism. A barn was a barn, not the illusion of the artist's interpretation. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I explained to my Tante Eva that she didn't need to "understand it" to enjoy the colors, shapes, and composition. She was grateful for that because now she could just allow her eyes to see the poetry and bathe in the emotions it inspired in her. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><span style="color: black; font-size: medium;"><div style="text-align: left;">It's not the first time someone said they don’t understand abstract art. What they do understand are the colors and composition intrigue them and draw them in. I have a theory this emotional pull comes from our infancy.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">When my son and his wife were expecting my now 5-year-old grandson, I bought a book on infant development. Within the first few pages I learned we have rods and cones in our eyes; we see black & white through our rods and color through our cones. When we are born, only the rods are fully developed until we reach the age of six months. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Can you imagine seeing everything in black & white and one your 6-month birthday, you wake up and <i>Holy Cow</i> it's a kaleidoscope of magic! Consider the impact all those dancing colors have on your newly percolating mind. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Whether it happens gradually or all at once, I think on a deeply subliminal level, we are trying to get back to that miraculous moment when we opened our eyes and saw the first rainbow spectrums of color. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Such a momentous experience would lay deeply in the core of our development, which is why I imagine, so many people tell me, whether they understand the art or not, one of the first things that draws them in is the COLOR.</div></span><p></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /><span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><a name='more'></a><span><!--more--></span><span><!--more--></span><p></p>Evehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10414532669457758552noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1714630498214772474.post-21999034162488355992022-01-19T13:57:00.000-06:002022-01-19T13:57:38.544-06:00Secrets<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjjuspLf8HNbAjVLP1_72T9LfyYKk6suonnJzwUYJsJGggK90ZGpGZKPG4va1ZlpKGiaecdl5zK1i4ZEkagJyrqZ6xtqf-5jJhGfnjThoTsmlzIjZM31nTYjhFFX2MVUFqy3lVSiWoZa3X54Of2evzoaNErAirihwSnKuxettyJFLoxIWWRrqw-vo1c=s2814" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2814" data-original-width="2228" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjjuspLf8HNbAjVLP1_72T9LfyYKk6suonnJzwUYJsJGggK90ZGpGZKPG4va1ZlpKGiaecdl5zK1i4ZEkagJyrqZ6xtqf-5jJhGfnjThoTsmlzIjZM31nTYjhFFX2MVUFqy3lVSiWoZa3X54Of2evzoaNErAirihwSnKuxettyJFLoxIWWRrqw-vo1c=s320" width="253" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">Secrets are powerful aphrodisiacs; mysterious, alluring and
potentially dangerous depending on the secret and with whom you share
it. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">When someone shares a secret, they give you a potent power,
trusting you are the trustworthy friend they believe you are. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">Sharing a secret is relinquishing a burden, a bidding of sorts, asking
someone to share the weight of whatever it is that is haunting you. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">Growing up in a Catholic home, I witnessed another kind of secret.
A mass said in an arcane language and an advocation of confession. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">As you enter the confessional you are transported to a dimly lit
closet size room where you kneel on a cantilevered piece of wood that has been
wrapped in velvet and once settled in piety, a small, screened window quietly
slides open to reveal your absolver, a stand-in god. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">You whisper your sins into the profile of a man earnestly leaning
in towards the breath of your words with the sacred knowledge that what you
confess will be held like executive privilege, never to be pried from his
mind nor lips. He passes down his judgement through a series of penances and
you rise with your soul once again bleached clean - if your conscious stays
mute. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">Our secrets are witnesses to the unwritten pages
between our lives. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;"> </span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">Some are frivolous / some are hurtful / some are damning
/ some should be revealed / some will be bound in our ashes, forever silent. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span></p><p>
</p>Evehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10414532669457758552noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1714630498214772474.post-40367520159600134422021-06-12T10:41:00.001-05:002021-06-14T12:46:11.738-05:00Hush Hush<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbxoHl3P59h2Hjhk13ZI3NJ_i4ZTKurz7eGl1VrrRFSyqit5zyvS3-J3HNVuK51AeucVq-nU90-dP_0Puqx7At439dZimgO7iyyjWSN4LkT1rqYRADJQwMPu2O3rIXbrpyYPLrd2TrlfU/s1413/The+Modernist+5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1413" data-original-width="1091" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbxoHl3P59h2Hjhk13ZI3NJ_i4ZTKurz7eGl1VrrRFSyqit5zyvS3-J3HNVuK51AeucVq-nU90-dP_0Puqx7At439dZimgO7iyyjWSN4LkT1rqYRADJQwMPu2O3rIXbrpyYPLrd2TrlfU/s320/The+Modernist+5.jpg" /></a></div><br /> <span style="font-size: medium;">As an artist I am always searching for my spiritually covert language, the closed conversation between my soul and the Divine.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">A sacred braid, we weave around and within each other, a linguistic hide and seek, building a wordless language through color, shape and structure. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;">The seeker becomes the sought.</span></i></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">And like an arcane chameleon / me and my Maker / we evolve, we mutate, we grow.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">It is impossible to be immutable. Until the final molecule of oxygen escapes from my lips back into the Universe, where I will slowly dissolve, fading to stardust. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">A rainbow / a glimmer / a sudden burst of brilliance.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;">Hush Hush</span></i></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></p><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>Evehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10414532669457758552noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1714630498214772474.post-61753576330877330532021-04-13T14:39:00.007-05:002021-04-13T15:26:10.153-05:00Stardust<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFhAQ8ncqUr_3CD6lJekoJNATk0xxxukCa9WR16MyKYniN4ROu1z9rw1WaGmg4uuZ_rtU0LRWXNzllADtah0XZXv3yeMGxjtOUEzqr_jPkCDtHnRnrbFlwaKzjF3OSmMEtQwNRqw-bfu4/s2048/selfie+with+toes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFhAQ8ncqUr_3CD6lJekoJNATk0xxxukCa9WR16MyKYniN4ROu1z9rw1WaGmg4uuZ_rtU0LRWXNzllADtah0XZXv3yeMGxjtOUEzqr_jPkCDtHnRnrbFlwaKzjF3OSmMEtQwNRqw-bfu4/s320/selfie+with+toes.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;"><b>Selfie</b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I marvel at the stamina and resilience of
my body, my feet and my legs. They have been faithfully carrying my
increasing height and weight until my mid-twenties where I balanced upon my set
point on six and half shoe size feet.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif">A joyous toast to you marvelous
feet and marvelous legs, torso upright, arms swinging to music only I can hear,
hands creating, well-shaped shoulders supporting neck and the regent, the head.</span><span> </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Time to travel inward where the unseen land of
miracles performs night and day to a full house, without pause. The exquisitely extraordinary ballet of life; stomach, the
uncontested conductor, sending signals through the dynamic vagus nerve to the
brain which then orchestrates everyone into positions of optimum production,
pumping red glory, all keeping the miracle of me alive!</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I fill the corrugated-consciousness, complex
maze of my mind with libraries of gratitude / happiness / health / kindness /
patience / generosity. A symphony of electrical adjectives that shimmies my
heart into gladness.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I feed you / food for thought / food for health / food for pleasure
/ formal exercise / sexual exercise / dancing / lifting / stretching / breathing / touching / feeling / on
soaring wings of abundance / all critical for the river of blood to flow freely
in an infinite loop of nourishment / a marvel beyond words / an ecstasy beyond
landed experience.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I am the embodiment of stardust streaming / I am the embodiment of stardust dreaming. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 10pt;"><br /></span></p></div><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Evehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10414532669457758552noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1714630498214772474.post-16259199390410586602021-03-14T14:59:00.000-05:002021-03-14T14:59:09.875-05:00Breaking Rules<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQqX3DyjABJgBETfq1SMQS5a64XKrWO0aD7xV4jVbwWU8ACez3RKB1fl29mEakIWvldWMBDUR-ouWU3TKhVmBFCurVlCaWQSiBUskxWCcoIb4rYmMut_-ktqDZQs9lEon3mPtUaGSIPFM/s2048/Diffusion+5+%25288x8%2529.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1949" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQqX3DyjABJgBETfq1SMQS5a64XKrWO0aD7xV4jVbwWU8ACez3RKB1fl29mEakIWvldWMBDUR-ouWU3TKhVmBFCurVlCaWQSiBUskxWCcoIb4rYmMut_-ktqDZQs9lEon3mPtUaGSIPFM/s320/Diffusion+5+%25288x8%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"> <span style="font-family: arial;">Diffusion 5</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><b>“<i>There are no rules…go against
the rules or ignore the rules.</i>”</b> <i>Helen Frankenthaler</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p>
</div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">The above could have easily been expressed by Frankenthaler’s contemporary, Joan Mitchell. With a major difference in linguistic delivery. Mitchell would have simply said, “<i>Fuck the rules</i>.”<span style="font-size: x-small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;"> </span></o:p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">Known for her contempt of any ideology that would straight jacket her sensibilities and freedom to live and paint on her own terms, she did not allow society to dictate her way of moving through this life.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;"> </span></o:p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">To find a new way of thinking, seeing, doing, you must be able to break the chain of acceptable behavior. Some posit you must know the rules before you can break them. Logical and yet, sometimes the rules are so entrenched into the psyche of the collective, that once you know them you almost fear to break them.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;"> </span></o:p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">The most dogmatic rules are fed to us, in tiny spoonfuls, by our earliest teachings from our parents and then our schools. Upbringing and religion provide tightly bound traditions that offer safety and succor if you stay between the boundaries of “acceptable” behavior. Dare go outside these social boxes and you risk being cast out and ostracized.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;"> </span></o:p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">After watching the horrendous, slow motion murder of George Floyd on national media, reminiscent of the blood sport spectacles in an ancient Rome arena, difficult to watch, yet just as hard to look away, many Americans and citizens around the world, woke up to the horror of acceptable discrimination and racism. Over the course of days, weeks, and months, a lava hot, slow-moving realization; prejudice was intrinsic to our behavior.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;"> </span></o:p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">Yet, I argue, not in our hearts. We are not born with prejudice; we are taught to be prejudiced through the language and the actions of our parents and other early influences. Then as we grow, these false beliefs shape our view of the world and we begin to mirror the micro society we are part of – our tribe.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;"> </span></o:p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">These behaviors are so subconsciously embedded in our psyche, that even when we meet “the other” it is difficult to see beyond the color of their skin. On the surface we behave with a certain decorum, but just beneath the veneer of civility, there are the whispers coming from the lips of our reptilian brain that bind us to those early influences.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;"> </span></o:p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">Similar to Morgana’s spell on Merlin, which kept him locked in the dark caverns of his ego, it takes tectonic events to break these familial and societal chains for the scales of discrimination to fall from our eyes and crack open our hearts. Suddenly these childhood rules shatter as we awake from the bardo and are reborn to see all people as people, and realize all religions are from the sam</span><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;">e </span><span style="font-family: arial;">tree; diverse branches lifting their arms towards the magnificence of the Universe.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Like fabled Humpty Dumpty, once
cracked and shattered, the rules can never be put back together again. <span style="font-size: x-small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;"> </span></o:p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">There is no glue that will erase
the cracks of knowing, the wizard is revealed as a paper tiger. We are now free
to “fuck the rules”. Humanity wins. We win.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></div>Evehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10414532669457758552noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1714630498214772474.post-20049312809051902892021-02-17T16:08:00.033-06:002021-02-18T10:26:22.725-06:00What Is The Story?<p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><o:p> </o:p>There is something I have been struggling with for years,
why must an artist, to be taken “seriously”, produce a recognizable body of
work? Recognizable in the manner when people see your art in a gallery, in print,
on social media, they immediately attribute it to you.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Gallerists, other artists, and colleagues advise consistency as a way to brand you as the artist. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">When I look at the body of work I
have made over the past fourteen years, at the beginning, I was all over the
place. A result of taking a lot of workshops and copying the style of the instructor.
Quite normal, I am told.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Once I realized I had to go beyond the instructors and their techniques to develop my own style (and frankly, I don’t want my work to look
like another artists), I still found that I took pleasure in the
experimentation phase of painting. <i>What if</i> is a part of my internal dialogue.
Over the past few years, I have been working in a more disciplined manner, and
can see a consistency of my hand on the canvas.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Then in the late fall of 2018 I
re-discovered my love of collage and began developing a series that has no
resemblance to my paintings or mixed media work. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: arial;">The
Black-Tie Affair<o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0FUiH01Dak257oIA6k1AgktVz3uN2NR3kzgAbAeaObw193v21-Wi0B-eOpFw_6QyMjfPBwzJnMZzEnUPBiU-qB3i9aw8T2KMoEkRwdkmxZbNtoJdVZ0IkefIBjKh7CAH8g99xSA9fxVU/s2048/The+Black+Tie+Affair%252C+a+short+memoir+%252822x14%2529.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1459" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0FUiH01Dak257oIA6k1AgktVz3uN2NR3kzgAbAeaObw193v21-Wi0B-eOpFw_6QyMjfPBwzJnMZzEnUPBiU-qB3i9aw8T2KMoEkRwdkmxZbNtoJdVZ0IkefIBjKh7CAH8g99xSA9fxVU/s320/The+Black+Tie+Affair%252C+a+short+memoir+%252822x14%2529.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;">Analog Collage</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: arial;">22.5 x 14 inches</span></span></div>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> While musing on this</span></o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span><span style="font-family: arial;">one</span><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> early morning, it</span></o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> struck me; </span><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>I am a writer as well as a painter. </i>My collages are an extension of my writing, a form of visual storytelling
told in paper images instead of words.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p><span style="font-family: arial;">What lights me up about collage is
the ability to create fantasies, dual realities, puzzles for the mind. </span><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p><span style="font-family: arial;">What is the story of </span><b style="font-family: arial;">The Black-Tie
Affair</b><span style="font-family: arial;">? Is it about loss? Mystery? Regret? Or simply a man’s remembrance of
an exquisite moment in his life?</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I am not here to tell you the
ending. I am here to show you the beginning. The rest is up to you. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: arial;">My
Awareness is a Silhouette Floating in the Background<o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4XklMPpoWYtIZvG8Z_bkkavkHXdmWJKl0fX734Z_8FVa-fq3Qx3odNf58TSZFFOSnpt206EKGzT4K2nyjR_8TAgVj5GHxXD7T_-w8xdYLqX-6q2nBxOUL3UaeepBUGKYqgUGnx0NJiyE/s2048/My+Awareness+is+a+Silhouette+Floating+in+the+Background+%252812x12%2529.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2023" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4XklMPpoWYtIZvG8Z_bkkavkHXdmWJKl0fX734Z_8FVa-fq3Qx3odNf58TSZFFOSnpt206EKGzT4K2nyjR_8TAgVj5GHxXD7T_-w8xdYLqX-6q2nBxOUL3UaeepBUGKYqgUGnx0NJiyE/s320/My+Awareness+is+a+Silhouette+Floating+in+the+Background+%252812x12%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;">acrylic painting on Birch board</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;">12 x 12 inches</span></div>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">My painting are also a form of
visual storytelling told with pigment and paint. Here I strive to create worlds
of calm, beauty and elegance. An oasis for the mind where you can lose yourself
for a while, tuck the troubles of the world away and just dream.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">My purpose as a non-objective painter is to create a visual
landscape from the inside-out. The painting is my story and your story
simultaneously. My version, your version, the true version.</span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 12pt;">The
End</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p>Evehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10414532669457758552noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1714630498214772474.post-72128155367285516512021-01-29T10:30:00.000-06:002021-01-29T10:30:13.407-06:00A Puppy and His Unique Taste Buds Leads the Author on a Thoughtful Journey<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXNtJCt4qV8Xzp4SF__u1SMfmNJDDgpT0C1hjwRigdk64uqIJlFzoV6ThcGHL7bD2Tz1CRa5_1PX4pyM1B-f-4E0o8CLpnTF1qhfsVSBeIwaQWoZtEiRjdbMHvqQ5m2R9a40XHF9JYgRQ/s1824/Nigel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1824" data-original-width="1824" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXNtJCt4qV8Xzp4SF__u1SMfmNJDDgpT0C1hjwRigdk64uqIJlFzoV6ThcGHL7bD2Tz1CRa5_1PX4pyM1B-f-4E0o8CLpnTF1qhfsVSBeIwaQWoZtEiRjdbMHvqQ5m2R9a40XHF9JYgRQ/w200-h200/Nigel.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Our puppy, Nigel, discovered a
weird and to a human, disgusting appetizer, wild goose poop. Before I could
stop him, he had ingested several green droppings, which he discovered on our
mid-day walk past the man-made pond in our neighborhood.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The next day, at exactly 2:48 am,
he barked me awake from a very warm and cozy sleep, with an urgent, <i>I have
to go out..NOW</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">We have councils of wild geese
that land in droves by the pond, where they graze and bath as if visiting a
posh spa. Before lifting off to warmer climates, they create a landmine of a
mess and a tempting buffet for the neighborhood dogs.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I don’t fault the geese or the
dogs, they both have a stake in the land. As do the coyotes and foxes that can
prey on the smaller dogs, if they are not tethered to their two-legged
companions.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">We too, have a stake in the land.
But our vision is stilted and narrow minded. We see the land as a tool to
further our ambitions. We believe the land is here for us, for our taking, to do
as we please.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The American Indians thought the
white invaders devil-crazy when they approached them to “buy their land”.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The land belongs to no man. The land
belongs to the land. It would be as crazy as offering to buy the sky; above,
below, it’s all free to be.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Only it’s not. Look where we are.
We have lost our relationship with the land, smothered her with concrete, burdened
her with buildings, some Babylon tower tall, stripped her bare and clothed her
with tracts of housing, shopping malls, airports, cities and roads. Molten tar and
soul crushing concrete to shape and map sinewy highways across this land and
lands throughout.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Our eyes yearn for those pristine
areas of majesty and our ears cry for their holy silence. When we see a photo,
we are stunned by her beauty and wish to be transported, not to tame but to be
held in her thrall, to honor, witness, and explore her wild wilderness.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">So, when I see a coyote, or a fox,
or a hawk flying high in the sky, I feel blessed to witness their wildness and
I feel a measure of sadness as we continue to encroach on their stake in the
land and force them into smaller and smaller spaces of survival. And I always
make sure I know exactly where my four-legged companion is.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p></div><p><br /> </p>Evehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10414532669457758552noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1714630498214772474.post-38164373044363394662020-11-03T11:13:00.000-06:002020-11-03T11:13:13.369-06:00Did We Arrive Knowing?<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMBBX4HtVui_V9udE_QOw9vRKybRNd5Fye35CR9Rr7_f-QKu1D4xg-Gz3l8_tPOaW9YE_c18EY5ucERCTpgi6zNt3UDWcPNZ7Y1kQhjqx1YV2me_5PbcHZqsasM9XYcxsx9jvmYldkMso/s2048/Rouge+%252812x12%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1962" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMBBX4HtVui_V9udE_QOw9vRKybRNd5Fye35CR9Rr7_f-QKu1D4xg-Gz3l8_tPOaW9YE_c18EY5ucERCTpgi6zNt3UDWcPNZ7Y1kQhjqx1YV2me_5PbcHZqsasM9XYcxsx9jvmYldkMso/s320/Rouge+%252812x12%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Rouge</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">As soon as we look at something, we change it, minute-micro
changes. We color the object or environment with our subconscious and conscious
perceptions. We bring our history, our bias, our opinion and create a new narrative,
adding another layer to the story. <o:p></o:p></span></p><div>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">We are all storytellers, richly manifesting our version of
reality into beingness. We walk into a space and we change it. Our unique
energy pulses and sparks the space with another level of truth.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">As a collective we play a symphony, a quiet concerto, a
murmur of subtle differences. Our cones and rods filter the lens of our visual
and non-verbal information, reinterpreting it into our own making. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: times;">When did we first learn this skill? Did we arrive knowing?</span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></p></div><p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p>Evehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10414532669457758552noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1714630498214772474.post-49708492543828392482020-10-08T10:30:00.001-05:002020-10-08T10:30:56.958-05:00All The Time In The World<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj56HV6GKKQNOJJaD2R8S3psQUhvzRxQxDi2M2sd-l01umis__pk2fRRc-gPoarMujIh4fcAZk59GOLrXiSl73CZSTkczwCbpeT8Bsp9P2NOH6m8483GSur5gC_CPtrOR8tQVf5pEVdjow/s2048/Holding+Time.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj56HV6GKKQNOJJaD2R8S3psQUhvzRxQxDi2M2sd-l01umis__pk2fRRc-gPoarMujIh4fcAZk59GOLrXiSl73CZSTkczwCbpeT8Bsp9P2NOH6m8483GSur5gC_CPtrOR8tQVf5pEVdjow/s320/Holding+Time.JPG" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: x-small;"><b>Holding Time</b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: x-small;"><b><br /></b></span></div> <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">This time
is dystopian; not imagined but real. It is riddled with uneven emotions like
slow drips coming out of a faucet to an aqua torrent from Niagara Falls.</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">I
feel as if I have all the time in the world and yet I have no time. The days
slip by like warm taffy. Projects and goals have wavy boundaries. I move
through the day in a hyper alert daze. This pandemic, poetically labeled, Covid
19, has restricted and liberated simultaneously.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">I
am more socially isolated allowing me the freedom to roam the inner corridors
of my imagination. This multi-verse virus has created an unusual dichotomy; the
surrealistic cave I find myself wrapped in has veiled my time in a shroud of
lethargy and energy, coursing in tandem through me.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">I
plan, I plot, I stand still - and wonder, what will the world be like when we
collectively awaken from this Kafkaesque dream? <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">These
two poems were written one month apart, similar emotions, yet an increasing dread of *something wicked this way comes:</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: arial;">Pandemic Time l<o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: arial;">The days run into each other</span></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: arial;">like children on a playground - </span></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: arial;">pressed together like p b & j.</span></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: arial;">What day is it? I wonder.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: arial;">I test myself.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: arial;">I think it’s Wednesday.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: arial;">Are you sure?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: arial;">I think so.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: arial;">I doubt. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: arial;">I look at my phone for confirmation.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: arial;">The days run into each other<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: arial;">like children on a playground -<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: arial;">carefree<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: arial;">careless<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: arial;">careful. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">041020</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="font-family: arial;">Pandemic Time ll</span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">These times move me<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">to moments of intense clarity.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I pull myself into this moment,</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">this now.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Staying in this present <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">keeps the wolves of fear at bay -<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">as they lurk<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">at the outer edges<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">of my invisible eyes. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">They wake me at night<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">pounding on the door <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">of my heart. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I lurch into awareness –<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">and repeat this mantra,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> I<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> am</span></div>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> here<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">as I slow the internal thunder.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;">T</span></o:p><span style="font-family: arial;">he hammer becomes the feather.</span></p>
<span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">050420</span><div><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span></div><div><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">*Ray Bradbury</span></div>Evehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10414532669457758552noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1714630498214772474.post-89463122246014779122020-08-08T15:05:00.013-05:002020-08-09T15:49:12.183-05:00The Glorification of Idiocy<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">Our country
has been infected by a malignant consciousness that glorifies idiocy. *</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">Anyone who
believes we are winning this pandemic war is living in a delusional, alternative
reality. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;"> </span></o:p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">Thursday,
August 6, we commemorated the 75</span><sup style="font-family: arial;">th</sup><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;"> anniversary of the first atomic
bomb dropped on a city, Hiroshima, Japan. One hundred forty thousand**
women, children and men were killed in the initial blast.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">To date,
more than one hundred sixty thousand*** women, children and men have died from
Covid 19. The virus has been on our shores for what seems like an interminable seven months with no
indication it will burn itself out in the near future.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">How many
more women, children and men will have to die before we call out this
administration out for what it is…an inept, cruel, greedy, dishonest, and corrupt
swamp.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">I watched
Larry Kudlow, Director of the United States National Economic Council, brag
about how our economy is bouncing back. For whom is it bouncing back? Tell that
to the mother or father who can’t feed their family, waiting in line for
donated food. Tell that to the families that fear eviction because they can’t
work and don’t have money to pay their rent or mortgage.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">I dare Mr.
Kudlow, in his expensive pinstriped suit with an equally expensive pocket
square, to go into an underserved neighborhood and tell them how great the
economy is doing, how their 401K’s are performing beyond expectations.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">We pay
taxes. Those taxes are supposed to be used to help us lift ourselves up into
better lives for our children and our communities. We send, by voting, men and women to Washington to be <b><i>our voice</i></b>. To help create
opportunity for everyone, not just their elitist friends and donors. Instead,
many of them go to Washington to become rich, raping us financially, burdening
generations with the debt of their excess.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">Donald Trump
bragged he would “drain the swamp”, once elected. He <i>IS</i> the swamp. And he has
filled it with ferocious, voracious, rapacious, dangerous, ugly, racist reptiles. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;"> </span></o:p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">We have
become the 13</span><sup style="font-family: arial;">th</sup><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;"> Ward in the Hunger Games, our President is a parody
of President Coriolanus Snow and Washington is The </span><b style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">Capital</b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;"> of Panem.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">If we think
it can’t happen here, we are wrong.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">Beirut,
Lebanon was once called the Paris of the Middle East. Today, they are literally
in shambles after a shattering explosion destroyed a lot of the city. And
because of the corruption and greed of their government officials, they are
incapable of helping their people. They don’t have the social and manpower
infrastructure in place to mitigate the catastrophe. Instead of planning and
putting emergency systems in place, they took the peoples’ money and used it to
enrich themselves.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">Sound
familiar? Where are infrastructure programs, the factory jobs, the middle
class jobs, our President promised to get elected?</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">We cannot
stay silent any longer. Let’s not delude ourselves that the United States of
America can’t become the next Lebanon or forbid, Syria.</span><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">Our mantra should be, vote, vote, vote this administration out. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">I still have
hope. There are a multitude of us who are awakened and see this evil for what it
is. There are many wicked smart Americans in powerful positions
throughout the country, including Washington, that see this administration as a
dangerous, aberrant anomaly. So, let’s help them. Let’s stand up and speak up.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">We have the
power. We have the light. We can end this nightmare.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">*Paraphrase
Marianne Williamson and Russell Brand</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">**Newsweek</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">***New York
Times<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;"> </span></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;"> </span></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;"> </span></span><o:p></o:p></p>Evehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10414532669457758552noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1714630498214772474.post-25546610453204137842020-07-05T13:25:00.005-05:002020-07-05T13:47:06.383-05:00When Did You Know?<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidc2Ysgi3iB4FbYNkwOonfxk2ksRxlD5pojfxNSnzVFMou8-Md9eLnyfyLc3QO4AitJckzg1r8LrwyNALx8KNDDR2q5NzFx4t4Fr_i5WwjJeJJkHYXlWZ0iA-B4n0lAsx7CxSVyiCquws/s4601/2018-11-30+08.03.53.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2281" data-original-width="4601" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidc2Ysgi3iB4FbYNkwOonfxk2ksRxlD5pojfxNSnzVFMou8-Md9eLnyfyLc3QO4AitJckzg1r8LrwyNALx8KNDDR2q5NzFx4t4Fr_i5WwjJeJJkHYXlWZ0iA-B4n0lAsx7CxSVyiCquws/s320/2018-11-30+08.03.53.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><i><br /></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>The two most important days in </i><i>a person's life,</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>the day you are born</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>and the day you know why.</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i> <span style="font-size: x-small;"> Mark Twain</span></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
When did you know you wanted to be an artist?</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
All my life could be an answer. Yet it wasn't until 2007, at the age of 56, that I began to seriously dedicate my life towards a full-time art practice. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
My circumstance was not unusual, but it was unique to me. That year I was diagnosed with breast cancer. After the shock of the diagnosis sunk in another reality exploded into my consciousness, if I was ever going to act on my dream, I had to do it now. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
After thirteen years of reading books about how to paint, watching tutorial videos, attending workshops around the country and becoming part of a community of like-minded people, today, I thrive in the fullness of allowing my quiet, yet very powerful neshama, to speak through my work. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
When do you know when a painting is done?</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
It's taken time, time for me to trust my instincts, which can only be known by creating bad work as well as good, looking at the work of many, many artists and learning to see beyond the surface of the picture plane, getting feedback from instructors, mentors and other artists and finally hearing my heart tell me so. Simply put, I love the painting so much I want to keep it. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Luckily, this is when my left-brain steps in and tells me to get real, and I let it go to a collector who loves it enough to want to hang it in their home. At that moment, the seer sees the work through my eyes, and we are in the same space. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Even though that is a wonderful place to be, I can't stay there. I have to keep going into the studio to make more work. It's what's demanded to keep me firmly tethered to terra firma. I have to do it. When I don't, I feel lost, when I do, I feel calm. And when things are humming along, I feel elated. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I'm not very good at meditating, thoughts keep drifting in, creating that monkey mind chatter meditation instructors warn you about. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
However, in the studio, I am in the moment, I am focused, and my mind is quiet. This is my meditation practice and I am good at that. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
Evehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10414532669457758552noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1714630498214772474.post-3745548033167804172020-06-04T11:25:00.002-05:002020-06-05T14:21:54.408-05:00This IS Who We Are<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuhywcjXmrUZB5QIOjpQdAvll0Ofsx6nOwXHPj6P7Mx1D9TWyyc0qfMSW07LmVeM3nSlSviP7sNgG9OvuHQ6eTZkWIrOjnMAhlutZN-ukNiZ9KErdQ52QdLjNaR8m2jstDnJIcVbdwaTA/s1600/Angel+of+Change.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1562" data-original-width="1600" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuhywcjXmrUZB5QIOjpQdAvll0Ofsx6nOwXHPj6P7Mx1D9TWyyc0qfMSW07LmVeM3nSlSviP7sNgG9OvuHQ6eTZkWIrOjnMAhlutZN-ukNiZ9KErdQ52QdLjNaR8m2jstDnJIcVbdwaTA/s200/Angel+of+Change.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><b>Angel of Change</b></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
On the
morning news, historian and author Jon Meacham, commenting on the brutal and tragic
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>killing of George Floyd, observed we
should stop saying “this is not who we are” and move the conversation closer to
the truth by admitting,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Yes, this IS who
we are.” Now we need to decide, “Is this who we want to be?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The first
slave ship arrived on American soil in 1619. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
This country
has always been controlled by white men, writing a segment of ugly history. Forcing
slavery for free labor, nearly eradicating the indigenous Indians to steal the land
they lived on and honored as belonging to no one, but the Land itself and
consistently writing women out of history. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Even benign
white men follow blindly down this historical path of inequity. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
A few years ago,
I read Art & Physics, a fascinating, well researched book by acclaimed
author, Leonard Shlain. The book was inspired by his twelve-year-old daughter
whom he had taken to see an exhibit of modern art at the MOMA in New York City.
When she asked him what the paintings meant, he didn’t have an answer. Being a
curious fellow, he began researching our attraction to non-representational art
and ended up writing a book about artists and how they have foreshadowed the
discoveries of scientists, beginning with the Age of Enlightenment. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
It wasn’t
until I was almost finished with this 480-page book, that I realized he had not
mentioned one woman: not one woman artist, not one woman scientist. As a
dedicated researcher, that he only focused on men was almost breathtaking. And
the irony, it was his daughter’s question that set him down the path. His book
received many praised reviews, no one noticed that women were not even a part
of the story. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I was born
in Wiesbaden, Germany 69 years ago. We immigrated to the United States when I
was nine. I don’t remember being taught any in-depth American history about
slavery. It was pretty much glossed over; it happened, the Civil War fixed it,
now we are all equal. Only we are not. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Women did
not get the right to vote nationally until 1920. And today, 100 years! later, we
still have not elected a woman President or Vice-President. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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The Civil
Rights Amendment was passed in 1964 and yet, this establishment continues to be
tightly held in the clenched fists of old white men. It is an untenable
stranglehold.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I don’t have the answers, and I don’t like what I see. It puzzles me, it scares me, it shames me and it hurts my heart.</div>
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But I
believe we are becoming more awakened. As reprehensible as our current President is, we should thank him,
for he has unmasked the ugly side of America; out of the dark will come the
light. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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We should honor
Breonna Taylor, George Floyd, and all those who were killed before them, as
they have become Angels of Change.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I think
Jon Meacham’s honest assessment and question are a
lighthouse of hope and enlightenment; to paraphrase Mr. Meacham, this <i>is</i> who we are, now we
need to decide, who do we want to become?<o:p></o:p></div>
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Evehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10414532669457758552noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1714630498214772474.post-50130604649413516412020-04-24T09:40:00.000-05:002020-04-24T09:40:40.963-05:00Adjectives; The Emotional Branch Of Our Vocabulary<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4a2dStZ7M66RmXamfDU1PGe93Dt9T6pzi-k2XP6dhPOTqoJKlCLmeeh4E5XzJFF1ec3v9V6rpWey6ly1aLEVLX9X0QVWcOXSNZxSkT0vyBZHA8soXQMtZjI98KzNcwsrVeZmmDWKHGg4/s1600/If+Purple+Were+A+Dream.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1280" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4a2dStZ7M66RmXamfDU1PGe93Dt9T6pzi-k2XP6dhPOTqoJKlCLmeeh4E5XzJFF1ec3v9V6rpWey6ly1aLEVLX9X0QVWcOXSNZxSkT0vyBZHA8soXQMtZjI98KzNcwsrVeZmmDWKHGg4/s320/If+Purple+Were+A+Dream.JPG" width="256" /></a></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: x-small;">If Purple Were A Dream</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Analog collage on paper</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">For whatever reason, my muse likes to lure me awake between
2 am and 4 am to drop interesting thoughts into the midst of my sleep.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She cannot be willed back to silence; I have
learned –<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I snatch the pen and steno pad off the nightstand, </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">quietly retreat to our bathroom, </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">shut the door and in the dim light, take
dictation.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Today began with a short poem and then she dangled
this gem: <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Adjectives,
the emotional branch of our vocabulary.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Before I go any further, this disclaimer; I am not
a linguistic marvel nor a professor of the English language. So, please, those
of you who read this and are - hold your wagging Shakespearean tongues, your
erudite comments, your red pencil corrections and simply enjoy this alphabet
locomotion of a ride. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As an example of the critical revue adjectives
play on the stage of writing, imagine reading this poem without the modifier, <i>softly</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Three Forty-One<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Waking
momentarily<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
sink into the quiet -<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>an
oasis of stillness. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Softly,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
drift back into sleep.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This six-letter word among words carries the poem into an imaginary place of down
feathers, marshmallows, chubby baby cheeks, delicate fluff, gentle gazes, a
whisper of a kiss. One word paints a kaleidoscope of romantic images. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">You gotta admit, our language would be pretty dull
without them. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br />Evehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10414532669457758552noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1714630498214772474.post-22989809373003216372020-04-14T15:30:00.001-05:002020-04-14T15:30:58.353-05:00The Currency Of Compassion<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZWvB0bzpT78jDS5yF5C_Ds-Bsm3wiNPKLGfKAdb09Qr8fRQRVg3tI31K7zwZjFEZpqidiYso2S-2BTTHkAqt_5j2dEyrT2mHD-T1xuV1CPFi8e7Ckw-_yi0z6F2avZPtQ7r-4Jhed8Xo/s1600/The+Unfolding+%252823x37%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1015" data-original-width="1600" height="202" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZWvB0bzpT78jDS5yF5C_Ds-Bsm3wiNPKLGfKAdb09Qr8fRQRVg3tI31K7zwZjFEZpqidiYso2S-2BTTHkAqt_5j2dEyrT2mHD-T1xuV1CPFi8e7Ckw-_yi0z6F2avZPtQ7r-4Jhed8Xo/s320/The+Unfolding+%252823x37%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><b>The Unfolding</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: x-small;">23 x 37</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: x-small;">acrylic on canvas</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br />
I have found these days and hours of quiet time, a time for introspection, reflection and lots of cooking. Scouring cookbooks to plan clever ways to use up supplies in the pantry since going to the grocery store feels more and more like entering a hazmat zone. Gloves, masks, physical distancing, all important and yet so foreign.<br />
<br />
I'm even baking. This latest inspiration was one of necessity. We had some bananas that were over ripe; pre-pandemic time, I would have thrown them out. Now I feel it's almost sacrilegious to waste any food, especially when I hear of so many being food insecure and going to bed hungry.<br />
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In this country, success and trade hinges on currency, the kind printed by the Treasury. Yet, we have within ourselves a much more potent currency, a currency that resides in our hearts:<span style="text-align: center;"> </span><br />
<ul>
<li>the currency of compassion</li>
<li>of kindness</li>
<li>of hope</li>
<li>of gratitude</li>
<li>of fellowship</li>
<li>of stewardship</li>
<li>of love</li>
</ul>
<div>
We can learn, enrich each other and ourselves by spending our universal currency. We can use to live bigger, better lives and help others live with hope, promise and dignity. </div>
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We see examples being played out on the television. People inspiring and cheering each other on. People coming together in spirit; singing, clapping, cheering from their windows for the heroes that enter places not for the feint of heart. </div>
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This pandemic is forcing us to see and become more aware of the inequalities that plague our country. We have the opportunity to make big, radical changes. </div>
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Imagine, an unseen, non-living, microbe has stopped the engines of commerce around the globe. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Boom! </div>
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The Earth is healing herself. Skies are clearing. The air is ridding itself of polluted particles and the peaks of Mount Everest are being seen 125 miles away in India. These are miracles even five months ago we could not imagine. Doesn't that tell us something?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>There is a voice that does not speak. Listen.</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Rainer Marie Rilke</i></div>
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Evehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10414532669457758552noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1714630498214772474.post-73720886133917751312019-12-28T13:58:00.000-06:002019-12-31T06:35:57.294-06:00Phooey To Resolutions; A love letter <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqBDvoHPkhGsITN_Nn1IuvYrzqMPDYupsVNBNyXE-BGbvHrmukdYryxlFTdYpgDWUGQ4xhpGgIoYF2nnjPVJWkYsYocqyR5SEfSg-Ax8cLFqKjQ59ckFHOvr-ATi7_vY9fuoS14qDOsME/s1600/Photo+Jul+11%252C+3+00+01+PM+%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1097" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqBDvoHPkhGsITN_Nn1IuvYrzqMPDYupsVNBNyXE-BGbvHrmukdYryxlFTdYpgDWUGQ4xhpGgIoYF2nnjPVJWkYsYocqyR5SEfSg-Ax8cLFqKjQ59ckFHOvr-ATi7_vY9fuoS14qDOsME/s320/Photo+Jul+11%252C+3+00+01+PM+%25281%2529.jpg" width="219" /></a></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Resolutions seem to have a singular purpose...to be broken.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Why not say phooey! to resolutions and instead write a love letter to your non-conformist, irrational, radical, loving, lovable, bountiful, beautiful self.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Rather than going down the rabbit hole of disappointment and broken resolutions, focus on grace. Be thankful for who you are and who is in your life, right now, in this divine moment, and live in that space. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">From this vantage point, your dream-resolutions will unfold with spectacular success. It can't be helped. The Universe will propel you toward your goals. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">As they materialize, give a silent prayer of thanks, and continue on. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">May twenty-twenty begin and end beyond your expectations-</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">unfolding in three hundred sixty-five delightful days </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">of magic, awe, inspiration </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">and </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">unending curiosity. </span></div>
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Evehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10414532669457758552noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1714630498214772474.post-69486753933555645822019-12-18T14:25:00.001-06:002019-12-18T14:50:18.699-06:00Untethered<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6SL_TIve5sZy9rc09ZYYP4Q6rnIM50B9kLoTT6Udvzub_o3xS7CUFGFFjzkkGL36QpBKzYCTvI2ZpstM8iY4dwtv-haQ7XMEpRBt8VUADCdBr8LijTlGOHoh8ESy_3t74nzooCmxI7oo/s1600/DSC02703.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1064" data-original-width="1600" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6SL_TIve5sZy9rc09ZYYP4Q6rnIM50B9kLoTT6Udvzub_o3xS7CUFGFFjzkkGL36QpBKzYCTvI2ZpstM8iY4dwtv-haQ7XMEpRBt8VUADCdBr8LijTlGOHoh8ESy_3t74nzooCmxI7oo/s320/DSC02703.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
Max</div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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<i>“Only the deeply wise idea of the transmigration of
souls could show me the consoling point at which all creatures will finally
reach the same level of redemption.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Richard Wagner<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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These past few months I have felt untethered, with the
death of our beloved dog, Max and my husband’s surgery. Like a hot air balloon, no longer grounded to the earth, lofted up and up with no destination. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I won’t deny, Fred’s surgery after Max’s passing, caused
me angst. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Any time general anesthesia is
used the potential outcome of eternal sleep is not to be taken lightly. I tried
not to go there, but I couldn’t help it. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Two hours after he went into the operating room the
doctor came out to tell me everything went well, and he was in recovery. That’s
when I realized how long I had been holding my breath. I suddenly felt as light
as the leaf I saw blowing in the wind. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I look at my mortality and I wonder, where have the years
gone? <o:p></o:p></div>
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It’s time to right size – live smaller in the sense of “things”
and live larger in the sense of being. I’m ready. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The center of my wellbeing remains steadfast in my daily
routine; up early, light yoga stretching with breathing meditation, writing,
sometimes, and always coffee and reading. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I don’t know what my world would be without books, real
books, books with enticing covers and interesting titles and the author’s name
prominently displayed so I can remember it every time I pick it up and turn the
page. Books that smell and weigh of curiosity and knowledge. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Currently my morning reading includes Billy Collins; The
Rain In Portugal, Patti Smith; The Year Of The Monkey and Leigh Hyams; How
Painting Holds Me To The Earth.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Most nourishing, the momentary gratitude and joy of the
quiet.<o:p></o:p></div>
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These are the moments I miss Max the most. Like a twin
shadow, he followed me out of the bedroom every morning and we had our intimate
time - <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>just the two of us, me gazing at
him while I stroked his fur, he gazing back, with a low, growly purr of pure
joy, mesmerized in the love we had for each other. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Last night a friend said,<o:p></o:p></div>
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“I don’t consider him gone; I just consider him promoted.”
Ten words, like alchemy, helping to heal this raw wound. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<br />Evehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10414532669457758552noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1714630498214772474.post-24803813564964431232019-12-07T04:09:00.000-06:002019-12-07T04:11:26.962-06:00The Dog Who Flew To France; A Tribute To Max<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiehFZ31Ap3hcRrWVJxKOuMylg5lZTCOBpnAiHH-mZoQjBtoP2SyAVg67UjzyEz_GakzgUsRpdMDcSuxx0Mz9914-MunzwavvTYkCJfPUdKig4Mi5dgPBzGdBYPCbrBxHS96jXfNjKRqFw/s1600/young+max.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1490" data-original-width="1490" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiehFZ31Ap3hcRrWVJxKOuMylg5lZTCOBpnAiHH-mZoQjBtoP2SyAVg67UjzyEz_GakzgUsRpdMDcSuxx0Mz9914-MunzwavvTYkCJfPUdKig4Mi5dgPBzGdBYPCbrBxHS96jXfNjKRqFw/s320/young+max.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Max 2007 </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Max came to us in the late winter of 2006, via Easley, SC.
He was our second Cavalier King Charles Spaniel. Looking into his warm speckled
gold and brown eyes, we recognized an old soul in a puppy’s body. Max had been
here before.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">For the first seven years everything was perfect until the day
our vet told us Max had a heart murmur, and for three years he monitored his
heart. Then synchronicity stepped in. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I had to take Max to the vet for an ear infection, and our
regular vet wasn’t available. The new vet did a routine heart check and said,
“Whoa, that’s quite a heart murmur.” I mentioned our vet was keeping tabs on
it. She never said a word, but her eyes communicated alarm and concern. As soon
as I got home, I told my husband, we need to find a cardiologist for Max.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">We found, 20 minutes away, in Chicago, practiced one of the
top veterinarian cardiologists in the country, Dr. Michael Luethy. We made an
appointment straight away. What Dr. Luethy said something we were prepared not
to hear; Max’s heart murmur was severe, and he probably won’t make it six more
months. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Shock doesn’t come close to the nauseating reality of those
few words. What Max needed was open heart surgery to repair his mitral valves.
The success of this type of operation in the U.S. is about 40%. Not odds we
were willing to take. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Then Dr. Luethy said, “tomorrow I have a client coming in
with his dog who had successful open-heart surgery at a clinic in Versailles,
France and is coming in for his 90-day checkup. If you would like me to, I can
give him your information.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">We learned the clinic’s success was 96% and they had been
performing this surgery for almost ten years. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">The following day we were on the phone with Dr. Luethy’s
client, and with his help and guidance, we contacted the Clinque Bozon, in
Versailles. Synchronicity stepped in once again. They were going to be
performing this highly specialized surgery in six weeks, and they had one slot
open. If Max passed the testing, he would have surgery on July 3, 2016. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">From there it was a whirlwind of medical tests, shots and
federal government paperwork to prepare Max for international travel. My
brilliant husband got him comfort dog status and on June 29, we boarded Air
France to Charles de Gaulle airport, Paris. We got bulk- head seats and Max was
able to make a bed at our feet. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">It’s funny how 19 lbs. of adorable fur can change the mood
of a flight. Max was a handsome hit. All the flight attendants had to stop by
and say hi. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>Air France Celeb<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">We rented an Airbnb and “lived” in Versailles for three
weeks. Because Max couldn’t walk far and we didn’t rent a car, we travelled
with a stroller. France being a very dog friendly country, we could take Max
everywhere, and we did. So, when people would see us with a stroller, first
they assumed we were French, and they assumed a child was in the stroller. To
say the least, it was a conversation starter.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA2FmiSyieE3WK6HU_xZ0SiHMfpio5-_ywF2HLHSzKILM2IOxfyNK3ypgJto3sjSlZv9uz5HCF3CrhZP_qFXUZFNgmDn_aI-CYm6l2EBPBNrAxk52RsjYQNWPLnzJ5KS8YJ7_KT4BYvnY/s1600/stroller.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1378" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA2FmiSyieE3WK6HU_xZ0SiHMfpio5-_ywF2HLHSzKILM2IOxfyNK3ypgJto3sjSlZv9uz5HCF3CrhZP_qFXUZFNgmDn_aI-CYm6l2EBPBNrAxk52RsjYQNWPLnzJ5KS8YJ7_KT4BYvnY/s320/stroller.jpg" width="275" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Selfie with Mom</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Max’s surgery lasted 10 hours and we watched the entire
operation through a big plate glass window; two surgeons, Dr. Masami Uichi (who
perfected this 96% successful surgery), assisted by Dr. Jean Hugh Bozon, his
wife, Dr. Sabine Bozon, a cardiologist and several technical assistants. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">We thought if Max can go through the surgery, we can stand
watch over him, and somehow, he would know we were there.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Max stayed in the hospital for seven days, recuperating. Two
weeks later, we were back on Air France heading to Chicago’s O’Hare airport. It
was Bastille Day, and while we were on the flight, a terrorist drove a van into
a crowd of people celebrating liberation. 86 people died. It was surreal.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">This past summer, I was petting Max and felt a couple of
lumps on the left side of his throat. I thought they were fatty tumors,
harmless and not uncommon in older dogs. The diagnosis was lymphoma.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">We took Max to Dr. Nathaniel Vos, an oncologist practicing
with Dr. Luethy at MedVet. We learned it wasn’t just ordinary lymphoma, but a
very aggressive form. We discussed options. Option one had the best outcome for
a longer life, the treatment, chemotherapy once a week for 15 weeks. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Having gone through chemo myself 11 years ago, I immediately
pictured all sorts of nasty side effects and perhaps the worst, temporary
baldness. I was assured that dogs handle chemo differently and don’t generally
suffer the same side effects and they definitely don’t go bald. The oncologist
also mentioned that we would know within two-six days if the treatment was
working. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Max received his first treatment. No ill side effects. Appetite
as good as ever, energy level high, overall happiness pretty good. I checked
his neck several times a day. And on the third day, like a miracle, the
swelling was gone. I couldn’t feel them at all. We were ecstatic. That lasted
for four days. I didn’t want to believe what I felt on day six, not only were
his lymph nodes as large as ever on the left side, now his lymph nodes on the
right side of his neck were swollen as well. Gut punch.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">We called the doctor. He was very sorry and suggested a
second chemo cocktail, not as effective, but it could extend his life, if it
worked. Since he had no ill side effects with the first cocktail, we agreed to
try this new one. It didn’t work. And the third option didn’t work, either.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Wandering around in this alternative reality, we finally
decided, enough, and Max went on palliative care. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">We were feeding him pasture raised eggs, steak and lots of
love. Eventually, we couldn’t even tempt him to eat, which meant he wasn’t
getting his heart medications or the palliative care drugs. I didn’t have the
heart to force him. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Those adoring, wise gold speckled brown eyes were telling me
he was staying alive for us. It was time to say goodbye.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Max, our mighty warrior, our love, our playmate, our
bedmate, our soulmate, lost his battle and passed away on October 28, 2019.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">We had the honor of being the blessed stewards of Max for 13
years, 10 months. Because of Max I am convinced that God-Dog is a spiritual
palindrome. Either way you spell it, it means LOVE. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Max has carved a resting place in my heart; there he will
nest until I draw my last breath. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Grief</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">The grief<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">it comes in waves –<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">like the ocean’s tide<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">it ebbs and flows.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">My eyes are dry<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">but my heart cries. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I honor these moments,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">they are the offerings<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I lovingly place at your altar.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">10312019<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br />Evehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10414532669457758552noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1714630498214772474.post-61233809196235174142019-10-31T09:56:00.000-05:002019-10-31T09:56:30.248-05:00Loss<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDk3EJzY0jhjJuK0mCdyjdYR28tnRCTDZYj9bIgo0LBUIGKZXMv-xbMJ6-Bgel5Pgle5YDpdWS5GxDrbY4eYCk3nQbqPMe1HdWxI1O08iOJzRmAblorIdXLSE547czg64Dq_BLDGLtbAc/s1600/close+up.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDk3EJzY0jhjJuK0mCdyjdYR28tnRCTDZYj9bIgo0LBUIGKZXMv-xbMJ6-Bgel5Pgle5YDpdWS5GxDrbY4eYCk3nQbqPMe1HdWxI1O08iOJzRmAblorIdXLSE547czg64Dq_BLDGLtbAc/s320/close+up.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "lucida handwriting"; font-size: 14.0pt;">Max<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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2006-2019<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Max could speak volumes through his eyes. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Here’s the irony, three and a half years ago we flew him
to Versailles, France to have life saving open heart surgery. The reason we
went to France was the success of the surgeon, a Japanese doctor who had
developed a technique where the dog’s immune system didn’t attack the sutures,
thereby letting everything heal successfully. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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In the U.S., the success of this surgery is about 40%. We
didn’t like those odds.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Across the ocean, in Clinque Bozon, a small veterinary
clinic, they were performing the same surgery with a 96% success ratio. We
liked those odds. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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We arranged for Max to get comfort dog status, which
allowed him to fly in the main cabin with us, and off we went to Versailles for
three weeks. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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He had his surgery on July 3, 2016. Two and a half weeks
later, we flew back home, and he was doing great. We were all so happy. Max had
a stronger heart, and we allowed our imaginations to see him with us for many
years to come. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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About four months ago I took Max to our local vet,
because I thought he had developed a couple of fatty tumors on his neck. To my
knowledge, fatty tumors are benign and not uncommon in older dogs. Our vet felt
his neck and said, “these are not tumors, these are his lymph nodes and they’re
swollen.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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Gut punch.<o:p></o:p></div>
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After a few tests, the diagnosis came back as positive
for a very aggressive form of lymphoma. After consulting with an oncologist and
our local vet, we decided to give Max chemotherapy. With his heart condition,
he wasn’t a candidate for the most aggressive treatment, a 19-week protocol
where he would have to have a treatment once a week for three weeks, off one
week, and back to treatment. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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We opted for the second-best course, which was an oral
chemo treatment once every three weeks over a 15-week span. Within two days of
the treatment, his lymph nodes had decreased dramatically in size. We were
smiling, and hopeful and happy. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Within six days, I noticed his lymph nodes were swollen
again, and now the ones on the other side of his neck were also swollen. Severe
disappointment. Back to the oncologist, who suggested another course with a
different drug. We said, let’s try it. That also failed. We had one option
left, another drug. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Max had no ill side effects from the first two
treatments, so we tried the last option. That also didn’t work. We all agreed
it was time to put him on palliative care. At first, he responded well. Was
running to and twirling around his food bowl, loved going out and rolling in
the grass and slept in bed with us. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Every day was a blessing as we kept a careful eye on how
he was feeling. As time went on, in small increments, we could see he was
failing and finally, this Monday, those eyes that could write a book, looked
into my eyes, and I knew.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I knew it was time; time to be compassionate and help you
to a peaceful end. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I can hardly write this without my face falling to my
chest. Oh Max, I miss you so. And the irony, it wasn’t your heart, after all my
dear, it was a cruel cancer that took you from us. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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This primordial hole in my heart, I know will heal, and in
its place will be a legacy of wonderful memories, where you will nest until I
draw my last breath. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Thank you for choosing us. Thank you for giving us almost
13 years of pure joy. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b><i><span style="font-family: "lucida handwriting";">Run, Max, Run</span></i></b><i><span style="font-family: "lucida handwriting";"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw_3YhteCkA1e3C_DQs8REk6VdfvSz3uPCucHYbbbgOcDAPtjF0XYgOHr4_ve4f5G2kc1CR-n9YzBFOvAEd_swg4xRCz8qA_US5C_x0jq89kLNlhf0vaeSiUgafEClI1Fn_-RqkMKNVmU/s1600/Max+with+pine+cone+copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="851" data-original-width="585" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw_3YhteCkA1e3C_DQs8REk6VdfvSz3uPCucHYbbbgOcDAPtjF0XYgOHr4_ve4f5G2kc1CR-n9YzBFOvAEd_swg4xRCz8qA_US5C_x0jq89kLNlhf0vaeSiUgafEClI1Fn_-RqkMKNVmU/s320/Max+with+pine+cone+copy.jpg" width="219" /></a></div>
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2009<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br />Evehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10414532669457758552noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1714630498214772474.post-55778422897354496472019-10-20T15:33:00.000-05:002019-10-20T15:46:17.376-05:00Inside Out Painting<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZJIWMukYCzC0N1VbjDYtm4T3aZcqWkVMbCEiWaodnWPXnGLGvqXQBSeArXkBmH9n1KV8ONt_rxiPN6ClJ3opnfvunwAyop7tGUxnBRITJfxD285xnvyyhQDOWVr3yfpdd8ylwuk9eXCI/s1600/Are+You+Willing+To+Bring+Your+Own+Story+1+%252823x37%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1046" data-original-width="1600" height="209" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZJIWMukYCzC0N1VbjDYtm4T3aZcqWkVMbCEiWaodnWPXnGLGvqXQBSeArXkBmH9n1KV8ONt_rxiPN6ClJ3opnfvunwAyop7tGUxnBRITJfxD285xnvyyhQDOWVr3yfpdd8ylwuk9eXCI/s320/Are+You+Willing+To+Bring+Your+Own+Story+1+%252823x37%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>Are You Willing To Bring Your Own Story?</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">23x37</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Acrylic & spray paint on canvas</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;"><i>"Painting is an illusion, a piece of magic. So What you see is not what you see."</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;"><i> Philip Guston</i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">More so than any other form of art, abstraction requires a dialog between the artist and the viewer.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Since I am painting, not from visual reality, but from what I call inside-out painting; coming from my subconscious instead of the concrete world around me, I need the viewer to bring their own story into the painting in order to complete it. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">That's what's so unique about this category of art; least understood by many, yet a form of communication that demands a collaboration between artist and audience. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">When someone is drawn to my work, it's their own emotions about color and shape and line through which they see my paintings. I believe many people are intimated by abstract art because it doesn't relate to the world they see. But that's also what intrigues. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">This is as difficult to put into words as it is to describe the art.</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> Yet, there</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> are plenty of critics that drown us in "intellectual art speak" elevating the work to an almost biblical level by tossing around big words and complex phrases meant to create a community of the elite, as if this form of art is only for the chosen. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Rubbish, I say!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Abstract art is closer to birth and childhood than to universities. You don't have to know why you like, you just do. And I am grateful to those who do, because I love making it. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"> </span></div>
Evehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10414532669457758552noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1714630498214772474.post-2106046964244150762019-09-15T15:49:00.002-05:002019-09-15T15:55:25.872-05:00When your heart speaks, listen<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7Im-cQsPOEX8MiuDOxe9FIF5a0PXm6txDHPGc4loYOzViYAJsnWHvk8oO1fF6O4RIVSu2CPi8ed98REOyoQIFuPE1hH9Uzwzg4HyobukxAq_U6ixdDGbbwK3CLCD9WmYJAjkY_bf2j8Q/s1600/Make+Believe+%252848x48%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1578" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7Im-cQsPOEX8MiuDOxe9FIF5a0PXm6txDHPGc4loYOzViYAJsnWHvk8oO1fF6O4RIVSu2CPi8ed98REOyoQIFuPE1hH9Uzwzg4HyobukxAq_U6ixdDGbbwK3CLCD9WmYJAjkY_bf2j8Q/s320/Make+Believe+%252848x48%2529.jpg" width="315" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: x-small;">Make Believe</span></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">48x48</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>My creative expression must </i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>be the most important thing </i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>in the world to me</i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i> if I am to live artistically, </i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>and it also must not matter </i></span><i style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">at all </i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>if I am to live sanely.</i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i> <span style="font-size: x-small;">Elizabeth Gilbert</span></i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">It started with an imaginary friend, Illa. I was four, she was timeless. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I don't know where she came from, one day she was there; someone small just like me, someone secretly just for me.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">She and I created alternative worlds to play in. We fabricated outrageous tales, went on forbidden adventures and escaped the chaos of a lonely life. I can't quite remember when she disappeared, just as she appeared, like a magic trick, she was gone. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">The fairy tales may have stopped but my search for creative expression certainly didn't. In my twenties I used my body as a canvas and my wardrobe as the paint. Eventually I turned to more traditional tools; pencils, paper, paint, and here I am today. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">The other day, my adorable Aunt (who unfortunately for me, lives an ocean away in Germany) apologized, in an email, that she didn't understand my art. I suggested she look through the lens of colors, lines, and shapes instead of the lens of realism. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">We don't have to understand why we are drawn to a piece. Abstraction, in particular, is not meant to be understood through the reality of the visual world. Like poetry, it's meant to be filtered through the mind and felt in the heart. </span></div>
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When you heart speaks, listen, just rest there, it's amazing what may bubble up to the surface of the conscious. </div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
Evehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10414532669457758552noreply@blogger.com0