hairband happiness

Very excited that my painting “hairband” is being selected by some media outlets for Emerge Gallery’s – Primar(il)y Red Exhibit! This first link is for the Daily Freeman

This next link is to the Poughkeepsie Journal
TSupport the ARTS! Emerge Gallery has fabulous – one-of-a-kind – ornaments available for the holidays!

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spiders’ bacchanal

A spiders’ bacchanal down here
Eight-legged thespians skirting about
across the faux wood of my desk and underfoot on the beige mahalo
These onyx-backed beasts don’t give me the wicked respect I crave
Rather the opposite, they mock my rage
They rappel down sateen webs with the grace of silken ballerinas,
while I clumsily produce vague sand traps like a common ant
The warm April sun is out today
It mocks me too
The light pushes in, I do not see it
I do not want it to touch me
The basement is winter cold and autumn damp
With every bulb powered, it remains oppressive
My excuse for non-producing spinnerets
Spiders are flippant and insensitive creatures
an abundance of legs, but they do not help me walk
a treasure trove of eyes, yet my vision is unclear
They do not direct words
They do not produce art
They do not manage feelings
Am I a thespian like my spiders
Acting out in moments of blank banality–no better than a two-legged starlet with a bug up her ass

I must curtail my ‘creative passions’
No reliance on fake scuttling muses
A maturation must come with webs of fire
or they are out-of-control things, to be snuffed out
ripped apart for catching bad karma
I sometimes play the fool
I sometimes age wisely
Whenever my son chastises me for behaving like a child,
I sometimes behave like an adult

and the spiders laugh at me in mimicries of silver slandering

If I should be

If I should be a smoker
I should be a rail
thin and hard
evenly spaced
biting air with my crocodile teeth
resilient to the storm
when you hold tight to me

but I am not a smoker

If I should be a drinker
I should be a laundry basket
oblong and woven
uneven and crosshatched
with soft rhythms
conducting washer and dryer
yet deep enough to hold our secrets

but I am not a drinker

If I should be an addict
I should be a window curtain
billowed and looped
iridescent colors against atmosphere
floating in the updraft
into the west winds
where our bodies might mingle together

but I am not an addict

If I should be a cutter
I should be a jewelry box
sectioned, parceled and organized
velvet lined and sweet
compartmentally selfless
storing each pained memory
in gilded lockets clutching tarnished chains

but I am not a cutter

If I should be a writer
I should be an ash urn
cylindered smooth
bottom cupped
shell polished and etched
holding safe all that we were
scattering soon our cremated remnants

but I am not a writer

mint eyes

 

exposing myself

Burbage’s Globe
Aerial fly-bar
Frozen pond
Grassy slope
Low-rent stage in high-rent district
Chipped pedestal
Monkey barrel
Bar
Coffee house
Social media
Lemonade stand
Wet inked
Newsprint
Periodical slickened
Dick Blick canvas
#!*#**!!##**
Lincoln Center
Mind
Street corner
Library room with one transom
Long pier
Short pier
Mountain top with foot-warmer
Dream
Convention hall with stadium seating
Conference hall with folding chairs
Above a deli
Below him
Bareback ride across sunset primed sand
Charlie’s Angels’ intercom
Amphitheater
Anywhere “O” speaks–
or suits with sneakers gleefully dance
Red carpet
Leaning on Harry’s white Steinway as he plays
I wear dazzling white gown in above image
sometimes gown is gorgeous emerald
on rare occasions–blood crimson

Sydney Opera House
Basement studio
a few of the the many places I pretend my words and art expose themselves

still missing you

This is a post from September of last year. Three weeks after I originally wrote this, Rocky died. The amazing thing for this exceptional animal was that he passed away peacefully in our home right after we all said goodbye that night and the very day before my mother-in-law moved in. His illness would have made a difficult transition for her even more trying. I cannot believe how much he is still missed. The good ones always are.

I think I made you sick after you showed up on my blue canvas. A painting I patted myself on the shoulder for. I’m so very sorry, my dear friend. Did I do that to you? And it is too late now. I can take nothing back. Not one thing. I should have castrated my selfish fingers. You were saying you were sick. I didn’t hear your silent words. I wasn’t listening. For two months, I think it was two months, I can’t remember exactly–I was buried in my meaningful life. You kept hanging around my studio. You hadn’t ever done that before. Well you had, but not to stay. You’d give a gentle hello then return to your usual places, ones of comfort like the sofa by the piano. We called it “your bed,” not our couch. Actually it was a love seat. The couch knew more than I. It knew how to comfort and be there accepting the additional weight of the masses spreading inside you. The casual invaders I’d grown too busy to notice.

And now, I watch your chest breathing up and down. It is your heart saying goodbye. I’m listening now my friend. I am listening now. Please forgive me when I must say my final goodbye to you and mean it from the depth of my selfish soul.

blue boys

blue boys

Rocky the Shepherd and Mojo the Dachshund – painted last year, forever hanging above our mantel

torture

My imagination often tortures me. Does yours get the better of you? When I was ten, The Blob (trivia-Steve McQueen’s first leading role), gave me the night sweats for an entire year and I wouldn’t venture near anything resembling a vent. Next it was Goya who tormented me with his painting, Saturn Devouring His Son. A father eating a child does things to a twelve-year-old’s mind. For quite some time, I stayed away from utensils and my dad. Even a can of peas and carrots had its way with me. A reoccurring nightmare at age fourteen–cubed carrots screaming as they were mercilessly squashed by brutal farmers wielding cast iron shovels, while the opportunistic peas rolled away to safety.

Today, (as I sit in my sub studio watching leggy spiders flutter by like creeping creative angels) imagination helps sometimes but not always. Brain shit rattles around like the crap I might throw up in my attic or shove into some dark basement corner. Emptying mind bins of mildewed magazines that smell worse than the son’s wrestling singlet after a dual meet is futile. Piles accumulate with no end in sight. Most of this junk is unusable and will be thrown onto a flimsy folding table for a grand going-out-of-business sale. This is my writing process. This is my art process. This is what I do. Peas rolling away to safety. When fingers get boxed-in, ideas flatten beneath cast iron shovels.

There is also something else my imagination does. This is the worst part of all. It self-inflicts pain whenever I mind-travel to places I should never go with people I should never go with. Sometimes, I disregard my sadistic demons to ride bareback on the gorgeous, powerful Percherons there. Magnificent beasts that galloped off Bonheur’s painting, The Horse Fair. Year by year, my dark matter loosens a bit more. Nights now mimic spaceflight. I survive by staying awake. If I don’t sleep while dreaming, I can’t get into any trouble. When I misbehave, the spiders stop hanging with me. They always know my truth. And without these creeping creative angles, my imagination might just get too strong a foothold. If this happens, I’ll never be able to find my way back. The spiders know one more lousy truth about me. My sense of direction absolutely sucks.

hall monister

hall monister

 

writer blocked

“the writing has to be real”
he screams into her eardrums
the war of words hasn’t even begun marching
no matter

he mercilessly continues the assault
“raw introspection must bleed from every serif”
now that’s delicious, she muses
imagining him dispatched with a saber of nasty grammar
hell-vetica she’s chosen – no ascenders or descenders – asshole
the battle is heating up
no support arriving for her open flanks
he is ever wicked and callous

real and raw lay open and bleeding
those nails of her hers bitten down to the core
forever scratching at that mountain
blanks hit her from behind like Kennedy bullets
she almost fantasizes the sun rising over a groundswell

in a show of desperate force
she slams the laptop closed
and swings ’round to lance him with her army of dried-up pens
he’s too quick
elusive bastard
those words of his –
lead cannonballs sinking her fingertips
“the writing has to be real…”

the only thing real in the room right now
is her headache and heartache
empty again
and there’s nothing she can do to protect herself

he’ll be back tomorrow…

sides

sides

 

it’s time to write

descend the stairs
grow foul in my pounding brain
sift blood through my beating heart
breaking down grit and bone
dubious thoughts leak out the foundation
feet get cold down here
can’t be hell though
hell is hot
steamy for those who detest heat
probably characterized by a cold-minded soul
I like heat
don’t mind cold feet either
descending the stairs
it’s time to write

He-lloween

He-lloween

gotta start dialin’ up the ghouls for October 31 😉

it was just a room

studio gone
it’s just a room
isn’t it
wasn’t it
what has been lost
it was just a room
if one is passionate
about their work
walls shouldn’t matter
or doors
only the spirit
only the heart
the room might be empty
but the mind is full
always full
if one is passionate
it was just a room
after all

Curl/charcoal

Curl/charcoal