decades through the doors
truckin’ up the steps
pushin’ at the walls
like floppin’ fishes
land-slappin’ the earth
swimmin’ up a universe
that in the end — always wins
drove by this shiny building with a sign that’s seen better pay periods –
an ironic image in the saddest way possible
after a brief photo moment, words rolled from my penny pencil
just stepped up the little stairs to reach his steering wheel. This vehicle is not required for his line of work. My studio, a converted porch, faces his yellow house, his big truck. My home, rising during the Great Depression, has withstood many assaults over time. Her old bones don’t deserve to be rattled.
The sky is bright, the birds are singing, and every morning the man across the street shatters this peaceful illusion. His truck’s reverb frazzles the neighborhood, echoes through my chest. Maybe the man across the street needs the sleepy world agitated at 5:45 AM, maybe tremors make his shadow grow.
If someday he should acknowledge the next phase of life, I pray he doesn’t buy a bigger truck. I don’t want to become another person in this burning world who adds more noise to the hate. I dislike the man across the street. I do not hate him. I will admit, however, to hating his fucking truck.
I painted this a few months ago. Reference taken from a photo of Chris Lee as Dracula. Thought this image was somewhat fitting for this piece:)
I hope you’re all keeping cool.
am:)
Mom — we don’t need phones, you can hear me through the window just fine.
She picks up the phone on her rolling table and holds it upside down to her ear.
Dad is gambling on my shoulder.
Mom — Dad is not on your shoulder. Look, I’m not using a phone and you can hear me just fine.
My teeth are falling out. This phone isn’t working.
Mom — your teeth are not falling out.
She continues talking into an upside down landline.
Mom — please put the phone down.
The receiver twists in her hand.
I release an invisible string, a white balloon floats away.
Mom — stop knocking the phone on the table.
Mom — please look at me here standing outside your window.
She built a family with her bones.
Another balloon floats away.
Mom — would you put the phone down please. I knuckle the glass.
Mom — for the love of God please put the fucking phone down.
Butterflies flying overhead, so many more this spring. The year of my daughter’s mermaid birthday party I didn’t stare skyward looking for wings that weren’t there. I smiled in my cleverness at having covered our dining room walls with iridescent paper and hanging foil starfish from the ceiling with aqua crepe paper. The room became a magical ocean.
Mom — please stop hitting the phone on the table.
A wheelchair is talking to Mom’s ass and if she leans too far forward, her tongue might fall out.
Mom — hang up the phone.
Mom — Mom
I’ll see you tomorrow.
I hang up my pretend phone.
Sometimes, there is nothing more to add than the conversation.
Here’s to Fridays fringed with warm wine, good and red.
am
My studio runs parallel to a quiet side road that springs to life when school lets out. Watching the kids leap into summer often makes me think back. Long ago, but ever present, the silly girl who I’d like to smack in the head.
image above – me in my early 20’s – ah, the makeup-less, cover-up less time of long ago:)
hope you’re all managing the heat
am:)
The Bowl of Clavicles
Late last night, my stocky papa who smiled and made great Italian meals died
This morning my father’s steel face melted into my mother’s collarbone
Early this morning, my fierce father died quietly in his sleep
Moments later my mother’s tear-laden eyes poured into my collarbone
A sad piece of subtle strength and perseverance dedicated to this day of Memorial tribute.
am
In 1975 and for many years afterward, I wanted nothing more than to look and sing like Bobbie Gentry, and emulate Carl Kolchak, the mildly insane journalist, who investigated supernatural crimes while wearing a goofy smile and a slanted straw hat.
Today, I continue to play my favorite Gentry album Ode to Billy Joe while the guitar sitting in the corner of my studio listens along. And I strive to pile my hair higher than is normal.
As for becoming a boots-on-the-ground monster-chasing reporter, I daily arm myself with art supplies to track down creatures, and I type prose on a typewriter keyboard. The wide-brimmed straw hat resting on a pile of books in my studio sees action when the sun is out.
Maybe, I did become who I wanted to be all along. Maybe…
Pencil sketch of Bobbie Gentry done about two months ago. I continue to use a giant Ticonderoga pencil. I’m not allowing myself to get into details using sharpened points and varieties of leads in the hopes of focusing on shape and form.
I’ve not done much writing these last few months. I’ve been madly creating monster collage mini-paintings like Shunka Warakin (below) for the upcoming UFO Fair in Pine Bush, NY. Such fun:)
I hope you are all doing well.
am:)
A March 2024 sketch done with a ridiculously large Ticonderoga preschooler pencil
“Little Karole” would blossom into a six-foot-tall, gorgeous woman who’d live an amazing life as a stained glass artist. And much later, she’d become my beautiful mother-in-law.
perhaps it is my 60 years of age inspiring the words below, it could be that the majority of my new friends, most in their 70’s and 80’s, continue to open my eyes in every direction but down
“to live”
I don’t believe the phrase “to live” means escaping our burdens
I don’t believe “to live” means transforming ourselves or collecting accolades
I don’t believe “to live” includes acquiring wealth or building empires
I don’t believe “to live” means ignoring the past or focusing on the remaining years as we age
I never believe “to live” is expressed through curated media or grinning images
I do believe “to live” creates dubious comparisons of one against the other
I do believe the phrase “what it means to live” suffocates dreams before they begin
I do believe “to live” finding strength in our efforts amid others indifference
“to live” brave in our ‘individualness’ while accepting others in theirs
“to live” caring for ourselves so we can care for others
“to live” stepping forward when we’ve lost someone behind us
And I always believe “to live for today” when it is tomorrow
am:)
(Above, a recent sketch I did of my dear friend, DS Levy. My reference was a photo taken when the amazingly talented writer known as little Deb had a typewriter already growing in her heart)
Man, it has been a long time since I’ve posted. Like you all, I’m juggling coffee mugs attempting to make a Venetian decanter. I’ve been doing quite a bit of writing and ‘arting’ offline. ‘Tis difficult wanting to do it all with the damn clock dictating the days.
I do hope you, your families and friends are doing okay.
Here’s a piece I wrote sometime ago while sipping coffee in the kitchen of my previous home:)
The Lollipop Vanishes
The cold isn’t done yet. It remains bluster-blue out there. Steam from my morning coffee marinates my face while a pen hanging from the calendar on my pantry door doodles pictograms. The wind spirits are still dancing. Shouldn’t have cracked the kitchen sliders open so early. Perhaps the swinging pen is scrawling a message from beyond, should I pray or wipe the door down?
Time flips on its head whenever clouds sail by that fast. Between sips of luke warm coffee, I remember me as a little girl in brown polyester, a tomboy with a pageboy, and a half-shirted party girl. Young woman with a career, an apartment, a sports car, a motorcycle.
As a lefty, I never learned biker right-hand turns. The bike went away. I totaled my car. The car went away. I bought another car. Got married. We moved from New Jersey to New York. We had children. Moved into a bigger house. Our large dog died. We got another dog. Plus a smaller dog for child anxiety. My children earned degrees.
Our family had a bad eleven weeks that killed my father and mother-in-law and gave my mother a massive stroke. My mother died three years later. I don’t remember being her caregiver. My children moved into their new lives. We downsized into a new “old” house. My husband’s hair turned grey. My older relatives are nearly done dying. A box of Clairol waits in the wings for me.
In one of my book clubs, I’m the oldest, in the other, I’m the youngest. I worry the elder members will pass on before reading the next book selection.
The lollipop vanishes, and the goddamn stick can beat you into the ground if you let it.
Look out there, the gray is fading to light purple. How lovely. That’s something I haven’t seen in a while.
am:)
to bore into the underbelly of our hearts.
When trying to imagine the light
this grey time of year can envelop us
in its blue without shadow
To taste the sun on our bones
we must always be willing to barrel down the glassy peaks —
ice be damned!
(image courtesy of some screensaver thing somewhere)
– this morning I was thinking about the ice dark outside my studio window and these words found their way into my cold dang fingers – this is my winter desktop every year – it changes along with the seasons
I hope you’re all managing well.
am:)
anntogether 