happiness is…

this is one of those rare instances where I call upon my face to serve as art replacement – I believe I was about 16-17 years old here – I do remember the t-shirt – very fond of it at the time – Happiness is a German Shepherd ūüėė

knots of secrets

No light reflecting in those intense dark eyes. Windows to the soul, not on this face. Manhole covers down to deeper things. Between the furrowed brow where one might find introspection, I find knots of secrets the way bucks lock horns then die. He’d been a lover of men long ago. I know because he kept photo proofs stashed in shoeboxes under his saggy bed. The most dogeared photo was of silver-haired lovers entwined when they were past lovemaking and exhausted beyond repair. It wasn’t his figure in the careworn image. I once asked him who the two were. He told me it wasn’t for him to say, the couple in the photo were in love and love is a sacred thing one must hold dear. I asked if deer locked horns because they were in love. He shrugged his shoulders and replied, “No young one, when bucks lock antlers they are horny. Animals have fellowship. Humans have love. Love is a gift and it must be cherished.”

Around his apartment, black and white photos cling to their slice of wall space. Clouds stick to heaven the very same way. Each image perfectly soldiered into painted symmetrical wood. The sturdy black frames cannot diminish the powerful subject matter within. Love. Curving, languid nudes in soft light sometimes wrapped with white sheets like gossamer wings. Decades ago, my uncle was hired to shoot elegant boudoir stills for couples. Most of these amorous pairs commissioned him early into their young marriages. When their skin glowed beneath hot halogens and their figures flowed smooth like silk honeymoon lingerie. Each photo paper lover appeared sculpted in form and perfectly matched to their partner’s body. My uncle had an artful way with autonomy. Names were never known. Gazing at one of his large black and white images is akin to admiring a marble figure whose face is left trapped inside stone, much like Rodin often made the artistic choice to leave casting seams.

Uncle Milo has since lost his eight-five percent of his vision. His elegant wavy hair is silver-white. Those intense marble eyes now covered in a milky glaze. He’d call it dodging light in the dark room. Today, I ask him again who the two silver-haired lovers were. He responds in his whiskey voice, “Young one, they were the only partners who respected the sanctity of love beyond the beauty of their flesh. Their love was the most honest love I’ve ever witnessed in my small life. I’ve accumulated a great wealth, to have captured such treasure.”

sides

sketched last year for a writing project-thank you

ocean lover

The new dying to occur with autumn’s arrival announced itself with icy darkness. She was burning in the nautical sheets. Why was it so fucking hot? This long day was jammed hard into the night with no sign of relenting. Watching the aqua bedroom curtains bounce‚Äďlike her favorite peekaboo skirt when she was playing at sexkitten‚Äďdidn’t help cool her fevered mind. A chilling breeze serpentined the bamboo furniture of her bedroom once plum-peach. These boudoir walls had been painted oceanic blue two years ago after she met him‚Äďwindsailer man.

They first met on Maui’s shore when the towel worshipers had departed for the day and only the moonraisers remained. She was a sunset photographer. He belonged to the ocean. Her first magical sighting was spent picturing his body sailing on hers. All this imagined through her Nikon 16-35mm. He’d been lens captured tilting his rig until his chest was practically parallel with the turquoise water. The way his body manipulated surf and sea made her desperate to know him.

With her Nikon rolling as wingman, both lens and lady were waiting when the Freestyle Wave finally pulled to shore. Beneath the pearled moonlight, a brilliant smile connected his sea to her land. Their tropical bodies were soon venturing hand in hand to a tiki bar where they danced away the tides. He directed her curves with the ease of wind and sail. In and out, sweeping effortlessly in time to the pulse of her excited skin. The moment he dove into her mouth with a deep soft kiss, she plunged into his watery world. Head first. There was no going back to a lens loving distance. Not after this man. Not after this kiss.

Her sunset landscapes were replaced with crashing waves and flying porpoises. Sea shells adorned every nook of her condo. Her hair went from metro blonde to sun-kissed platinum and her lipstick shade to orange coral. For two long years she struggled to take this beautiful lover from the sea to the land. For as many days, the depth of her resolve watered down. On this particular night the harvest moon cast an orange-gold across Maui’s sunset. In the corner of her ocean blue walls‚Äďemptiness where once stood a rolled sail.

Another night spent sweating in relationship oblivion. She had no energy left to do battle for his heart. He had not the strength to best his wet desire. The ocean is a wickedly magnificent lover. There is no winning once she’s made up her mind.
first oceansince this is my first and most likely last ocean painting, I wanted to sneak her in again-thank you

 

 

flurries

I never cared before
things going down that should be up
things going up that should be down
none of this ever mattered
and I don’t think it does now
I think what’s bothering me
is
how much blur there is behind me
I wish I would’ve recorded
paper, photos, journals
more
there are flurries of images
like snow, I recall them
they land on my tongue then melt
there are distinct memories
not necessarily good
taking up too much space
I count five decades plus
seven-hundred-thirty days
I get worried looks sometimes
from the young kiddies when I substitute teach
What year were you born?
I never hesitate, 1963 with a smile
as they need reassurance their old temp-teacher won’t melt like the
West Witch
or the snowflakes
I laugh remembering
the feeling coiling around ‘those’ old people
anyone beyond eighteen as I recall
gosh, I feel so young in my head
and inside my heart where it’s warm
maybe it’s okay if the snowflakes melt
better old and warm than aged and cold

for now…

I’m blessed to still have both parents
my dad often jokes
“…just wait ’til you’re 83…”

Aged Smile

Aged Smile

born a few months ago, previously published

 

word dining

skin-slick words
one sliding into the next
sinfully playing out thoughts
cinematic suggestions coupling
atop monochromatic unions
each time
honestly every time
my eyes are guilty
while my mind races
and my palms sweat

perhaps the solution is
rending those sultry words apart
pouncing above the serifs
visualizing beneath the descenders
disrobing the creator
but what would be the point
it is not the invisible writer
but my golden age response to
these enticing content seductions
perhaps too much fantasizing
or
contemplation of sensual mystery
whatever rationale is applied
I should not keep biting

but I fear the world
a bit more dull
if not dining on sensual words
and I’m a bit selfish
that way

Dress of Life

quickie sketch previously posted, but I think she appears slightly aloof –
perfect for when one reads erotica that turns their face red, even when no one else is in the room…

I sure hope my parents aren’t reading this stuff ūüėČ

worlds in the same space

When we meet, we’re stripped of flesh
our gaze cannot travel from floor to ceiling
and back again
unencumbered by complicated scents
or wood-lined musk
voices light or low do not matter
nor fullness of conversation
unequivocally all build upon the same plane
creating worlds in the same space
alone in our company
we bravely cannon
thoughts given over often altruistically
into
this universal journal
many times so unsure
waiting
simply waiting
for the lead ball to land
hoping invisible beasts keep their chemical spit
to themselves

we willingly contribute to this
world diary
this massive, shared testament
to the human spirit collective
blue horses less orrunning blue horses done about 2 years back for a good friend and talented physical therapist

dedicated to bloggers out there in the universe – thank you for being a constant source of inspiration and encouragement
annmarie:)

Phantasms of Fantasy

she is not fearful
monster habitats
are not of this world
loved ones reinforce
and echo friendly books
monsters are creative figments
phantasms of fantasy
into dollhouse she is not fearful
monster habitats
are not of this world
learned now
she reminds herself
monsters are creative figments
phantasms of fantasy
buck fifty¬†headline –¬†RAMPAGE
closet monstermonsters
are not of this world
she is learned
she reminds herself

May you dream of safety for all the world’s children.

Photo of delicate daughter taken 14 years ago in her most favorite house, monster on black sketched on printer paper while subbing yesterday, marker added at home.

Calcutta’s Brothel Children

My Friends,
Once in awhile, I’m reminded of my bubble. The bubble I float in across space. The oily mist lets me imagine rainbows. Its composition allows me to glide and not dirty the ‘souls’ of my feet.
Today was one of the days my bubble smacked reality. I watched a documentary¬†by Ross Kauffman and Zana Briski. Their film, Born into Brothels,¬†shines¬†white light on the children born into Calcutta’s red light district.¬†These young children¬†rarely tread¬†on hope. Their feet are too busy cleaning, scouring and hiding behind makeshift curtains ‚Ästthe¬†flimsy sheets¬†separating them from¬†their¬†working mothers. Many young girls will eventually take up their mothers’¬†occupation, some starting at age eleven. Some will¬†be sold by their fathers.

The bright side of this award-winning film is the “power of art to transform lives.” Ms. Briski, a talented photographer takes several¬†of Calcutta’s¬†children under her wing. They learn that beauty can be found behind a lens. Ms. Briski goes beyond teacher as she dedicates herself to these young¬†lives. She organizes an¬†exhibit of their work in NYC¬†to¬†highlight their desperate situation. Of the children permitted to leave, Ms. Briski manages to secure them¬†places in boarding schools. While some children return to the brothels of Calcutta, others are able to learn of hope and a better life…
CalcuttaThank you. May you hold on dear to your loved ones.
Calcutta Window sketched in the dark while watching documentary. 

Hello Dollies, Please Don’t Hurt Us

My Friends,
This blog of mine has been through¬†several¬†iterations.¬†While¬†returning from a¬†self-hosted site back to WordPress, many older posts were¬†lost in translation. I’m going to¬†use¬†Sunday evenings to rework, repair¬†and repost some of my favorite 2014¬†efforts. I hope you don’t mind¬†blogging¬†down Memory Lane with me.¬†If you haven’t read before, I hope you enjoy.
Thank you,
The ‘Annagement’
¬†(sorry couldn’t resist)

Hello Dollies, Please Don’t Hurt Us
(originally posted 4/15/14)

Returning home from a¬†lovely garden journey, the giant husband and I happened upon an old-timer’s¬†flea market. A¬†pair of¬†cigarette-smoking, timeworn¬†vendors stood outside like cement lions. They wore¬†pensive smiles while¬†observing curious browsers.

The market’s outdoor portion¬†consisted of a few makeshift tables loaded with¬†lopsided¬†frames, 1950’s tools, hat boxes… The indoor portion¬†was¬†housed in a¬†dilapidated and dank-smelling barn¬†that¬†had seen better days.¬†The giant husband and I¬†strapped on our big-boy coveralls and entered the jittery¬†building.

Beside the usual flea market fare¬†of¬†old¬†records, fringed lamps, mildewed books, chipped dinnerware¬†and¬†broken¬†Tonka toys there¬†were boxes of dead dolls. I can’t think of anything more blood-curdling than little plastic¬†people.¬†Dolls used to scare the crap out of me when I was a kid, now they were back to haunt me.

These dolls were broken-hearted. Their tiny¬†scratched¬†lips¬†whispered how long they’d lived without¬†a warm embrace.
solo dollThey’d been abandoned then forgotten…
solo dollThe dolls choked on satin¬†visages of yesteryear. Long ago, they’d been¬†precious…
headEyes¬†once marble-bright¬†were now marred dull like the fabric¬†tears of stuffed clowns…
clownThe giant husband and I had to look away from the pained grimaces.
wrestlerBut the most frightening thing of all was when¬†a¬†little¬†sinister¬†man-doll attempted to steal¬†the giant husband’s soul…
bpThank you. May you dream of happy dolls in warm homes.
All photos taken in April 2014 with iPhone. I’ve made it a personal goal to attempt art for every post, some earlier posts in 2014 have only photos.¬†¬†