Just a Short Story

I don’t have pictures of exciting things or new artwork.

But there is a board game I am working on titled, Sustainable Gullibility. It is the advancing on a path to a goal of “Ignorance is Bliss”.  The players advance spaces along the path or are “marginalized” for a period of turns. With today’s America in mind, I began to think of the irony of beliefs. So a toss of the dice determines the color card you will have to obey. Politics and religion are what require a sustainable gullibility to flourish….and both are flourishing in America right now. Only six can play the game and each advances, or sidesteps into marginalization, with his chosen token. Tokens are objects of where we Americans get our beliefs…neighbor’s fence, TV, radio, cell phone, remote control and of course, a tin hat. Examples of instructions are ie. “You have a fish symbol on your car – advance 2 spaces” vs “Your fish has feet – step into marginalization for two turns”. The player never knows what card he will choose. There are some other opportunities to get to that state of bliss, like someone getting a card that says “Church Pancake Dinner! take three marginalized players along with you back on track 3 spaces.”  Who can resist those church socials?  Anyway, you get the idea….

I used to love sculpting old men using plaster and worn tool parts donated by men who tried to understand and contribute to my artwork.  Almost every one of the patriarch sculptures are gone now. Only three stay with me.

Inspired by the men I see most mornings and the old patriarchs who stay in view on a shelf, a story came to me via an old fellow I call Harold. It is a story only two pages long, not because I tired of Harold, but likely he just wanted me out of his hair. I am happy he showed up one day to let me watch a bit of his life. (I like reading this story aloud).

Harold  –  a short story by S. Webster

He sits there near the end of a table, drinking coffee with about five other men.

Takes a sip and mumbles something.

“You talking to me?” asks the man closest to him.

“No.”

Ten minutes ago, he wanted to talk to someone. Anyone who noticed him. Anyone who would make eye contact. But not now. They were too late to hear him tell his story.

Too late because he already forgot half of it and needed too many words to fill in all the blanks that forgetting lets in.

He pushes his coffee away to stand. Fuck growing old! Fuck memories with not enough words. Come to think of it, fuck everything! And he walks out the door.

Here I thought of writing, “walks out the door, across the sidewalk and into traffic.”  But I don’t. Something about him makes me want to know why.

With the slightest of pauses, he turns left. Hands in his pockets, keeping his gaze just enough ahead to make sure he doesn’t bump into anyone. He has no “sorrys” or “excuse mes” left. Everything about him is used up.

I think I heard someone call him Harold last year. So, let’s use his name from now on. There’s a bit of dignity in that – using his name.

Harold walks to the corner and waits for the light to change before crossing. He’s pulled his hat lower on his face to shut out those around him, grateful it is not a MAGA hat that openly begs for comment – cheers or sneers. No, his hat only says, “Ernie’s”,  giving no location.

In the next block, Harold goes into a deli and points to a sandwich in the case. He pays for it and a can of coke that are put in a bag to take with him.

He jaywalks across the street and makes his way to the park. His usual bench beneath a large oak is empty. Once seated, he tries to remember if today is Tuesday. He used to only come here on Tuesday, but for the life of him, can’t remember why. So, just to be safe, he now comes every day. One of them is bound to be Tuesday, right?

Harold opens the bag to take out the sandwich and can of coke to put on the bench beside him. Pressing the bag flat, he places it across his knees. Then he picks up the can to study how he will get it open, remembering to lift each side of the tab with his gnarly fingers until he hears it make a sizzing sound that lets him know he pulled in the right direction. He takes a slow drink to wet a dried throat from breathing through his mouth for the last four blocks. He opens his sandwich and pulls back a slice of bread to remove the lettuce, which he tosses under the bench.

Harold bites into what is left and tries to guess what kind of sandwich it is. Chicken? Tuna? Egg salad? It’s not ham. He knows this because he is not chewing enough for it to be ham.

The next several minutes are spent thinking about what he is eating. Tuna, by the smell of it. The rubbery crunch of celery and onion can’t hide the fishiness of a sandwich that smells like cat food. Can he remember not to get one tomorrow when he goes back to the deli? Probably not.

After putting his empty can in the bag with the uneaten part of the sandwich, he stands and heads toward the closest trash can.

Once back on the sidewalk, Harold starts his two laps around the park before walking over to the library.

They know him here. “Hello Harold, do you need any help?”

“No.”

He only comes here because he remembers it is a quiet place. No talking. Here he can sit at a table, shade his face as he looks down at pictures in a magazine.

But not today. The doors are locked. A sign says, “Closed” and the reason why, that Harold doesn’t read.

He grips the rail as he walks back down the steps and goes home. Four blocks with three right turns.

In the front room Harold sits at the piano and plays the few melodies he can remember before going up to bed.

 

It will be a few days before someone notices he has stopped coming around. No longer coming in for coffee, buying a sandwich, walking in the park.

I don’t know exactly what happened to Harold. I only know he caught my eye one day while tossing lettuce leaves under his bench. We never spoke because he seemed a man of few words. His last might well have been, “Fuck this!”

 

The end

 

So maybe next week I will have something better to share…though, personally, I think an ornery old man is an okay bit of sharing.

Marla comes for a couple days’ visit next week. We will go through the last of what I thought was important to save – just in case that is not going to happen.

The few things left are firmly in the “what was I thinking” category.

Til later….

 

 

Saturday!

I treated myself to new sunflowers and a few other blooms the other day. Flowers like roses simply don’t fit in my house. Besides that, Sadie eats any plants and then chooses to lose them in pieces on the floor. This table is a place she will not jump up on…so they are safe. It seems sunflowers are much more expensive this year, but not surprising, as everyone is adding up the cost for consumers. I could not resist taking a Memorial Day bouquet to a neighbor just because she always makes me smile. Plus I pawned off a red glass vase (her favorite color). I wish there was a flower shop here in town instead of just the slim pickings of the grocery store. When I lived in the north, the florist would let me pick my own assortment from her cooler, charged me per bloom, and then wrap them in a brown parchment paper with a thin ribbon holding them all together. Now I am stuck with the pre-bundled choices someone in the grocery store arranges in ugly, poorly designed vases. All looking like they are headed to a hospital room or neglected mother.

BUT, the other evening a couple came by to share a nice red and brought more flowers with them. A simple bunch that I could put up away from Sadie.

I met them out front while sitting on this bench amid some very healthy, full shade loving ferns.

It was such a good visit. Virginia and I would occasionally have lunch together but got out of the habit. Now we will plan to do it more often. Her husband had not been to this house but loved seeing the artwork again. I so appreciate anyone who just stands in front of my large bird head image in the bedroom to stare at all the imagery and hidden text-like markings. Each one of them gets something different from what they see in it.

That got me thinking about what I catch myself staring at in the house:

Always Robert Hughes definitive book on Australia’s settling with convicts and consequences of a harsh land. And beside it on the same chest is my rock collection bowl.

details of work hung with the large bird head painting mentioned before.

Several have parts of my poetry included and always want to whisk me off to other times and passions needing expression. I love waking up each day to these reminders.

And this grouping that rounds the corner in the bedroom to more of the series of imagined specimens water colored onto gesso surfaces. Does anyone even make their own gesso anymore or do they just use premixed acrylics that are labeled “gesso”?

And next to the door to my bedroom are some other favorites to stare at.

And on the bed is always Sadie and Dilly coaxing me back for a warm cuddle.

My yardman came this week to do a bit of tending. He brought me another potted pine tree from his woods since I have not killed the previous one. Plus a new piece of bamboo for the water spout into the little pond. I promised him I would not buy any more plants and will keep showy flowers away from the aesthetic of my Japanese-looking exterior.

Sparrows come and have a shower here. Their nest is in one of the thick bushes by the pond. In the front yard there is an empty nest tucked into a bush. And when I am sure it has been abandoned, I will bring it in long enough to draw.

Some time back when a landscaper redid my front yard, I carved wood blocks to make a stage-like book presentation.

There were other detail images carved to be cut out and placed a bit away from the behind full image. the one on the far right had a lotus plant in front of the waterfall with fish image. Those same old iron fish came with me here to be part of my garden here. Anyway, I only made two of these books. they were a bit fiddly getting measurements cooperating with my idea. One was for me and the other for the landscaper, Tim Ryan, who sadly passed away recently. While landscaping my place he taught me how to trim Japanese maples…”always be aware of their bones.” He will be very missed in his town.

That particular wood cut of the fish and water is the image on my invitation card for a neighborhood open house.

Now I am going to go get some lunch, do my exercises, a bit of boxing, before settling into writing. That poor old man with limited speaking skills has so much more to tell me.

Til later…..

 

Some Follow Up From Memory Lane

I am getting side tracked here while going through old artworks. Mostly I was searching for more work inspired by Proust and found these made from old clock parts.

 

The first one with the appendix to Remembrance to Things Past cut into a continuous narrow strip to fill the entire sculpture. And another with moving parts that adjust the speed of time.

So much collecting of suitable parts for these works. I loved making them but am happy to have it behind me. Arthritic hands are a reminder daily.

I built so many house forms in my studio. All using odd materials like this one using reclaimed scarves layered together with a urethane to make what I called, “skins”.

Some houses went onto boats.

See what I mean about being side tracked? I could do a whole blog about boats…some other day.

My physical therapist is back from two weeks off. I tried my best to do the assignments but fell short on occasion. It is hard to put the boxing gloves on and only hit air. I started punching the bag at gyms in 2014 and loved it. Here was the first one back then.

I loved how patched up it was. Then the one at the local gym was used by a group of less-than-intelligent teenage boys to test how much weight it could take and disappeared from access. I asked them to just hang it in the lady’s room handicapped stall so it would be safe and I could use it. No, that was not going to happen. But my therapist remembered how much I loved the bag and got me back in my gloves with more lessons to punch his protected hands as he calls out punch numbers. The jumping around, jabbing punches and staying on my feet is very good for balance.

So yesterday I asked him if I could buy my own bag and hang it in the garage. He thinks that is a fine idea. Patrick just happens to have a spare with almost as much character as the one above. He will install it when he comes in July. In the meantime I surpassed all my numbers from the last therapy session and I am now working on stepping over objects on the floor.

My doctor treated me to a mother’s day outing at the local playhouse. It was interesting and everything one would imagine of a local live theater. I also went to a neighborhood luncheon with eleven women at one table. So my social skills have really been taxed this week when you add in a wine tasting event.

I need to get going now…wish this was more exciting. Looking through old artworks did not make me sad. It made me glad that that part of my life is over and I can move on. What I did see in poking about in the files was that I had so much to say with my work and was willing to say it…not much of my work was made for the market and mass produced, except paper sculpted jewelry. Everything else had a story.

Got to go now….

Til later…

 

Is It Any Wonder Some of Us Look Backwards?

I parked next to this supremely ugly tesla truck in the grocery store parking lot. It has all the look of a war machine. Much bigger and much uglier than its pictures. I was too far behind the tall, handsome man getting into it to ask about the statement on the side and back, or whether the engine really fits between those two front wheels, or why he wanted to own it, or what he thought of Musk, or…… Maybe next time I will postpone my shopping to quench my curiosity.

Then back home on my walk around the neighborhood. Much better.

I did a few more drawings for the pages depicting leaves.

Early this morning I had a follow-up CT scan. I need to get two a year for the next two years. I hope I am remembering that correctly because I tend to shut down my hearing when it comes to the medical side of things. Then off to chair yoga after sitting still and trying to talk myself into not going and just having a nap. Chair yoga won the discussion. I was simply too tired to make a good case for skipping an activity with health benefits. I did sit in the parking lot there and think about turning around and going home. But I got out of the car in time to ask a couple going in if there was a rule as to how long one could sit in the parking lot and try to find an excuse to go home. He said, “You’re here now, just go in the door!” Good advice.

Tomorrow is poetry. I am taking in a follow-up of the recent poem about Proust. Not sure I posted it here, so will repeat it now.

Proust

 

It is one of those days

when I am compelled to pull

Remembrance of Things Past

From the bookshelf.

 

I have never read it cover to cover.

And bought it only to open randomly,

just to see how many words

he squeezes between commas.

 

How much he has to say,

in page-long paragraphs,

that force me to start over again

in search of meaning.

 

And so public about his passions!

His pen must have flown

across the pages,

shuttling emotions from heart to paper.

 

Never once thinking them too private,

too personal,

or too uninteresting

to those who he will never know.

 

Within the hour, I am exhausted.

Close the book and promise myself

to care enough

to write it down.

 

So tomorrow I take in these older sculptures along with this writing of explanation.

The words I will read:

Art under the influence of Proust            S. Webster

 

“I suffer the worst withdrawal

that might follow

a recent repetition my

daydreams have allowed

that

few small triumphs

have

tarnished from the

trap

of self-fulfilling fantasy.”

 

This is written in the fragmented phrases glued to a ribbon under tension and looped between two pullies (one behind the other) that are fixed into a carved slot in a stick of wood. They extend below the slot like wheels that let me roll the words forward as I read.

 

An open-fronted case of what looks like three volumes. Their spines are titled, Lost I, Lost ll, and Lost lll. When pulled from the case they reveal themselves to be boxes with flip top lids that open to a maze having an antique marble following the open doorways through chambers with text on the top of the walls. We follow along and read as we go.

 

Lost l   Suddenly everything is lost

“She had no idea

what had happened to

her knowledge no longer

believed to be stuck in the darkest corner of her

mind. Everything

is lost.”

 

Lost ll   It is lost, lost, LOST

“Again he recalled to his mind

that all

his knowledge and memory

would be forgotten and the bitter disappointment would

yield to the inevitable

all is LOST”

 

Lost lll   I am desperately lost

“I never thought I would have

forgotten

this distant coming and going

of my mind and I will not have patience to accept

that I must have lost my way.”

 

The clunking sound the marble makes as it bumps into walls to find passageways to the next hallway is so much like what stumbling sounds make as we search for words.

 

I like these two pieces. I like even more how they made me feel when I made them. And now, at eighty years of age, I like the incessant bumping into walls by the marble trying to find words of meaning. It is like writing.

Right now I am part way into a new short story of an elderly man…scrap that! Old man.

When a memory occurs to him, he can only come up with one word relating to it. So, carrying on a conversation is impossible. One word he uses repeatedly and with emphasis is, “fuck”. What else would he say when all else fails? The only way his story gets told or the only way he will matter is totally in my hands. I wish I did not like him so much. I wish I could just leave him partially present on the first two blue-lined yellow legal pad pages buried under a couple of sketchbooks. I wish he would stop whispering, “fuck, fuck, fuck.”

But he does matter. So I will go back to following him around if only to see what happens next to frustration, anger, hopelessness, etc. in the lonely life of someone I can learn from.

Better get back to fulfilling my desire to get 7,000 steps in each day.

Til later….