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This week just flew by. I have all but the cover drawing finished for Scrabble’s Story.  Now I need to getting his story in easy reading words. Maybe tomorrow.

For now, I have this glass of Yellow Tail Jammy red wine. Yikes! It would have been very good dribbled over this morning’s breakfast.

There is a very dry frozen waffle under there. Colorful, isn’t it? And speaking of color, this was a dinner I fixed myself the other evening.

This is the year of the dragon. And Patsy from Australia sent me her linoleum printed one. She is so very talented with printmaking and other art media.  I am so happy with this and within ten minutes of getting it in a Happy New Year card, I had it framed and hanging with one of my own lino prints.

The other day I was cleaning out old but still very usable purses to take with shoes to the recycle center. I found a spiral notebook that was small enough to fit in a wallet. Evidently it went with me several years ago on a trip to Australia. I wrote this observation down as soon as I could slip off to the bathroom while the thought was still “warm”.

In Australia the voices ride over each other

never in a straight line.

Only when they become “soft”

do you know something “important” is coming.

Sometimes I think that I am missing the best parts.

Some of the women are like vocal automatons –

they come into a conversation and just speak.

Is it a planned attack on the existing conversation?

Those who were speaking stand no chance

of returning to what they were talking about.

All is forgiven with an air kiss and hug.

There are no pauses whatsoever.

Amazing to be among these “conversations”.

Today my new house cleaner and I interviewed each other. She has an accent of some place far, far away. She found my house and its things quite interesting. She will take special care of them. It will take her a couple of trips here to get the deep cleaning done to her satisfaction. She pointed out cobwebs in places I never look, gave me some cleaning tips on what supplies to not use because of damaging chemicals and demonstrated how a furniture beeswax polishes stainless steel better than specialized cleaners made for that purpose. Next week is her first day of digging in. And she loved my cats who chose not to scamper into the closet when she came into the same room. Perfect. She will be my monthly cleaning lady.

My financial advisor came this week and brought along his assistant. I consider her (the assistant) to be his interpreter for me. I keep a big basket of what I think is essential and when she comes, between rewording whatever he is trying to get into my head and making phone calls to make funds more profitable, she goes through it (the basket) to sort what I need to take to the income tax lady, what needs to be saved for the seven year obligation, and what I should shred. Most of the following day was spent shredding. It takes them four hours to drive here, get me sorted over the next two hours and then four hours back. Lovely. He keeps asking if I want to do anything special, take a trip, buy something, maybe a new car? But no, I am fine. I told him I was getting a cleaning lady and might take myself out to dinner more often. He sighed and said, “Good”.

I still head to the bar to write and have that Manhattan. Instead of getting back to Joey, the librarian, I wrote this.

Tuesday

Back in the bar

pizza ordered, Manhattan brought over.

Pen in hand over this large pad

that is waiting for words.

 

So am I.

 

Easy jazz vocals are overhead.

A couple sits at the bar

both on their devices, probably not in love

but probably were.

 

So was I.

 

And I write about the moments

I am living now. 

the ones I need to remember

about being here, being aware

 

Being alive

 

I’m waiting and watching

to see if there is anything,

anyone more important 

than this.

 

No. It’s Tuesday.                       

                                                S. Webster

 

That should do it for today. More another day.

Til then…..

 

 

 

 

A beautiful sky overhead the other evening.

My neighbors told me when I showed them this picture to just walk through their side yards to get the views without rooftops. I will do that next time. I miss the skies with trees and no buildings at my old place. It is about the only thing I miss.

Earlier this week I had a dental appointment in Murphy, so took a walk on the river there.

I expected to see some bits of green on the branches…but too early. And not one duck or goose on the river. Just a crow taking a bath.

This weekend is supposed to be rainy, so I will bake, make soup, write and draw.

It was exciting to have friends come and take me to lunch the other day. We went to a restaurant I seldom go to now. It is an okay place and they offer the only sweet potato fries in town. What made this trip especially nice was the older, Latina waitress who stopped in her tracks to say how good it was to see me again. I remembered her quite well. She had stopped to say how pretty she thought I was about five years ago. Whoever says things like that to older woman showing their age should be remembered. She paused to say how well she remembered me. How I always came in on Sunday mornings with my husband to have breakfast. She said, “You always wanted waffles with pecans added, and your husband only wanted eggs over medium with hash browns, bacon and toast. You sat two booths from where you are now. How is your husband?” I told her he passed away last year. She was sorry to hear that. Then she asked, “Do you still have that pretty green car?”

I continue to go to poetry readings. Thursday I read one about how we seem unable at times to read body language. How maybe someone just does not care to listen to what others are saying…how they don’t look and notice how much you do not want to pay attention, and how you are worrying there will be a test later on to catch you up, and expose how little attention you were paying while you waited to go back inside yourself.

I wrote this poem the other evening when I was sure I was going back to visit Joey, the librarian. Maybe he and I can get reacquainted this weekend. Hopefully he will have more to say.

 

There is no title yet and I am not sure it is finished…but I do like it.

 

I feel stuck in the cracks

of becoming someone else.

Yesterday I was funny

and I laughed.

I told funny stories and was entertaining.

 

Today I am not stepping 

up and out of the greyness,

a comforting fog

that lets me be 

how I need to be for now.

 

No one asks if I am okay

because I don’t let them 

close enough to tell 

if I have fallen short

of who they think I am.

 

I breathe in these cracks

and think about how much

that means 

breathing

taking in only the the air needed

to pause and just breathe.

S. Webster

 

 

Think it is time to post this and take a walk.

Til later…..

Okay, here we are again. So many days gone by since my last post. But none of them wasted. The other day while walking to tai chi I noticed how the fog could not bear to leave the cold ground. Somehow unable to move on.  Why not? More sun was needed…more warmth pulled it away. I suppose it is like that for some people…not wanting to let go… I have not been like that. Hunkering down in the past is not helping me to see what is coming, or worse, not letting me focus on the nows of my life.  And I am a bit fond of the nows.

After tai chi the fog had let go and the scene not near so evocative.

Remember these dining room chairs? The ones with the carved face of the Greenman in their backs? Well, they creaked and moaned, probably for years. But one gets used to certain noises over time. But this past Christmas, their continually whining and sounds of indigestion became a bit more than tedious. So when I couldn’t contact the fellow who refinished this table before I moved, I asked a woodworker in the poetry group.

And away they went that very afternoon. Wonderful!

I thought it a good idea to have them gone because I kept thinking that any minute the flooring men would come and start ripping up the flooring…in every single room and closet! But those chairs will be back in place before that happens.

I am not looking forward to the disruption of having everything that sits on the floor being emptied and moved as floor sections are removed and new boards put down plus shoe moulding. Spell check does not like that spelling of :moulding”. There are so few opportunities to pick the correct but not commonly used word, that it feels good to use the spelling that nosey perfectionist disapproves of.

Anyway, it is not the builder’s fault, not the floorman’s fault, but the product itself. Only having hardwood floors before, I was prepared to have something less than ideal with flooring on a slab of concrete. But not something this bad. There is no point in fussing over it. So what! I get to stay in my house while it is being done. Empty shelves and cabinets so the furniture can be moved, etc. Then of course put it all back in as soon as the new floor is laid in that section and the piece of furniture put back. My neighbor told me his took less than four full days. Using his place as a guide, I am figuring on six at least. The den with all those book shelves and books wedged into a very tight space will be a nightmare…but then so will my studio, bedroom, laundry room, and closet with Migun bed and file cabinet, and shelving units along the floor. But we will manage.

I am thinking that when the weather gets a bit warmer, I will sort out the garage. Get cabinets with doors and shelves and make decisions on what needs hanging onto. The rest off to good homes. With so much from my old studio still being in cartons and much already given away, I think I have already made those decisions.

At the poetry meeting I read “Social Distance”, a poem written during Covid times. We all need a reminder that it is not really over, yet. I passed out my copies and read from my artist book.

They’d never seen books shaped around the content of words and meaning. They asked if I could teach them how to make books around their poems. I said, “No.” My teaching days are done. Then could I teach a class on condensed poetry.  Same answer, “No.”  We all have a way of saying something that matters. We communicate in the best way we can. Like artwork, words and the form they take in poetry is unique to each of us. My way won’t work for those who study and work out the many forms poetry can take. I just have a feeling and respond to it with words placed on a page in a way to be understood while catching our breath.

My quick and negative response to their questions made me remember what my art teachers in under graduate school said after searching for the right words. “Sandy, we want to um, uh, thank you for your brevity.” At the time I did not know if it was a good thing, or bad. Twenty-five years later, I am sure it is what I always suspected….a good thing.

I am going through the twenty illustrations I have so far for Scrabble’s story and making them larger…about double in size. I recut paper and now feel I have enough space to get the characters inter-acting. At least so far….

Ten more to go and I can get back to the story where I left off.

Speaking of stories…I am reworking the short story about Joey the librarian. My writing about him seems best done at the bar over a Manhattan and wood-fired pizza. This one particularly good with gorgonzola and prosciutto.

Seems a glass of wine is in order.

Friends are coming down from Asheville area to visit and have lunch this coming week. They were so good at checking in on Lee and me during the hard times.  I am remembering all the Australian friends who kept in touch during those years and will have a Yellow Tail Chardonnay and say “thank you for being there.”

Monday I want to walk the river in Murphy between dental appointment and trip to Rare Bird and Lowes hardware. The flooring man will come when I get home to rip up a section of flooring to see how things are under the curling. Told my builder it was like walking on potato chips. So he came over to have a look and a glass of wine. He reminds me of the builders Lee and I had in Michigan and some of the ones here. Easy going and sympathetic in all the right places.

Til later….

Yesterday I was going through the photos on my IPhone and got caught up in some “used to bes”. It is not a good place to spend too much time. Things are so different now. Anyway I found this image from my old dining room table of things I was drawing into a sketchbook. “Dead things” as friends used to tell me when they’d see me hunched over something brown. So many of my sketchbooks have these types of drawings in them. Once while teaching in Alice Springs, a student brought me a pressed desert flower. She said, “I thought you might like something different from the dried out dead things.” It was a flattened pink bloom that I drew just as I saw it. And the poor blossom looked somehow deader than anything in my brown pile. Anyway, I thought of that as I moved this image to where it would be more accessible.

I love this picture of things that made me stop and look hard at their shapes, their colors, how I came to have them and who I was with when I brought them home to stay. They are good company.

So far there are twenty small illustrations for the Scrabble story. And it took that many for me to realize that they need to be redone…all of them. The good thing is that I am now more well-practiced with the colors I need to use. I think the pen is too harsh. I think they need to be drawn a bit larger in order to get the shading I am expecting. And in the more recent ones I have completely left out the native hen! But the good thing is that I am getting more familiar with the little fellows. So here are some more of the story in “preliminary drawings”.

The first attempt to make a boat.

How it is carried to the shore.

And its failure to stay afloat.

Starting over.

Heading toward the shore.

And failing again.

Earlier this week I took myself off to the bar with my short story. It was pouring down rain so no one was there but me when they opened at five. Good. Elizabeth fixed my Manhattan and I ordered a pizza after a spell of writing.

I need to make Joey’s story longer so will spend more time with him. I always get in the writing mood when it is close to poetry meetings. The next two Thursdays will be sharing words with others constantly putting feelings on pages.

Yesterday in the mail was a package from Australia. A friend thought I would like this apron with Australian animals on it. She was right. I love it and it now hangs right next to the flour canister in the pantry. I can’t seem to bake without covering myself with whatever is being beaten up in a bowl. It has to do with the false promise of a slow speed on a hand mixer. The first speed that one would think is slow,  covers me, the floor and the walls with its enthusiasm to get going.

BUT my son Patrick took home the hand mixer by General Electric that Lee had before we were married fifty-seven years ago. It had stopped working. So I had to buy the racing machine I now have. And the other day Patrick called to say it now is working just fine. The interior had a complete cast aluminum housing that he took apart to fix worn connections, and it is like new. those beaters know that the slow setting is slow, very slow. So I will have them back whenever he heads this way again.

Sorry, got side tracked. Here is that apron. Thank you so much Judith!

It is a dreary day. So I might get out of the studio and find a good movie to watch. And it is close enough to wine time, so movie and some wine.

I just had a thought, What if I stopped thinking of Beatrix Potter and did all my characters larger and in graphite, like the sketches in my large sketchbook. I can get so much more expression in their faces. What if the story was told in a much larger book? Maybe 10″ square…maybe bigger. I think it would be much more fun for me…and it is my story, my book. Why not? I might just tidy up the whole studio and start over. More on that later.

Did you know that the purpose of art is not to produce product but to produce thinking?

Anyway, I am off to pour a wine and pour over the movie options.

Til later….