The Sun is Down

I promised myself a few days ago that I would alternate, and try to accomplish three stickies each day, but that these would be diverse, (a) physical, (b) mental and (c) emotional.

Today I spent a considerable amount of time taking wallpaper off in the Princess Room (physical); talked to my daughter for more than an hour (emotional) and gave more serious thought to Convivium and made some notes on the draft(mental).

Mission accomplished!

The New York Times Book Review

I receive the reviews on Friday in my email box because I can't get them easily or at all in print form. This fact frustrates me and forces me to read for long periods of time on-line. But read it I must, and enjoy it I do.

Reading today but two of many reviews I found myself harkening back to the summer of 1960, the year I sat through two summer classes at Erasmus Hall High School in Brooklyn. Mind, Erasmus was not my ordinary school but the school that offered me the opportunity to graduate one semester shy of eight from Midwood High School established more than one hundred fifty years later and a staunch competitor back then.

In that lazy summer of two classes, a long bus ride across Brooklyn and the introduction of jay-walking tickets, I received two "As" one for Creative Writing.

Why am I remembering this now?

I believe I took my pen to paper by carefully observing the brilliant writing in the New York Times Book Review section, and thus increasing my already well-established vocabulary, and re-enforcing my small but successful gift for writing better than average.

As I was admiring the first of the two reviews, I realized that none other than Joyce Carol Oates was speaking out to me years after I've lost track or touch with her words--words that in the past echoed into a large window-less room of my own unacknowledged childhood trauma.

Now as I continue to postpone and procrastinate my own writing, I find several of her words reverberating in my head: predilection and wry, just two of the many words she introduces into her review of "The American Wife" by Curtis Sittenfeld.

I also had a flash back to crossing the large expansive Flatbush Avenue on which Erasmus fronted, in thought and not mindful of ongoing traffic, and a police presence.

As a result of my dreaming of words, my own and the writers of those reviews, I received the first registered jay-walking ticket in the City of New York.

Do Americans Need a Civics Class?

I can't believe that Senator John McCain or the Republicans can think that one woman equals another and that Gov. Palen is the same or similar to Senator Clinton--merely because they both share the same gender.

It appears that they think women are stupid.

Three years later

It nearly shocked me that it was three years ago that New Orleans was hit by Hurricane Katrina.

I was still working full-time, but had taken the week off to visit G, and also see a friend in Raleigh, NC. In fact, I was actually considering a retirement move to North Carolina.

In these three years, I've lived one whole year in Taos, NM and ate in all their restaurants.

I lived six weeks in Pittsburgh, PA awaiting the birth of my second grand-daughter.

I was on and off the road between March 2007 and September 2007, but spent the entire summer of '07 in Guilford, VT and the month of May in Belfast, Maine.

Stunning changes.

An exaggerated story

Reading Alternet, I see that perhaps Senator John McCain exaggerated his treatment as a POW, and I wonder, "Do we all remember pain more severely, joy more exuberantly and the stillness of just being as boredom?"

It appears that Phillip Butler remembers the Senator's experience as less harsh, and that I remember some of my own life experiences with a different eye and ear than those around me.

How can we balance truth, from not fiction, but from a more objective position?

Art on the Loose...at rest!

During the last month I went through boxes, piles and folders to gather together all the issues of Art on the Loose, a zine I started when I went back to visual art.

The first issue I put together in Burlington and the last in Scottsdale--six issues in all.

Now they are comb bound together, no other copies survive as I burn barrelled them last week, and this single example will find a place on my bookshelf, downstairs, and be discovered sometime in the future.

In addition to the issues, I had one pocket put in the back, and one single blank sheet of card between each issue.

I may have something to write on the those blanks about what I was thinking, feeling and arting during that issue.

A project complete--on the artful journey!

Gamin writes

I was first introduced to Neil Gaimin, not as a novelist, but as the collaborator of Dave McKean and comic books. I was introduced to graphic novel comic books because of my keen interest in artistic tarot cards.

I believe I read that Gaimin was short-listed for the Man Booker prize for Neverwhere, one of my favourite science fiction novels.

Dave McKean's tarot, Vertigo, is also a big favourite of mine, and one I often take on trips.

Eyeglasses, Ice Cream and a Bagel

I was more than delighted to receive a call yesterday, "Your eyeglasses are ready."

So, a shift in plans and a trip to Honesdale rather than joining the action at the Damascus Citizens Auction got me comfortable new eye-wear, a new eye-glass case, a stop at the Cafe for a bagel with Nova, a plus one cup of coffee and a relaxing and profitable morning.

Before I stopped at the Cafe, I went over to Quality Print and organised the comb binding of my Art on the Loose zines, with inserts, and a pocket envelop. I also had my new Medi-card laminated and my wonderful old Tarot Joker spiffed up.

After filling up at Turkey Hill, I stopped at one of several yard sales and picked up a clothes rack (72") for a mere three dollars, and then traveled up Galilee to the Ice Cream stand. There I ordered some ice cream, to go, and bought two plants, one a hanging tomatoe with lots of small green tomatoes. I hung it up on the front porch.

It's a birthday weekend and one I'd like to remember with fond-ness, and fun.

Nearly there...

I had a few excellent interviews yesterday, and have 3 more on my list to follow up, and then I have to write, write, write and keep my personal promise to myself to be finished and ready for M's return from France on 20 August.

Will I make it?

A Sullivan County Artist

Had a good interview with Tom in his Callicoon studio today--made it there and back avoiding the rain. I even had time to make it to the Farmer's Market and get some Flemish quiche (3 for $19.00).

Soon I'll be so organised I'll make my own quiche again.

I also managed to buy another wooden rocker, almost a twin to the rocker I bought at the other Tom's antique shop but for only a tenner. It does need some work, but nothing that can't be fixed with a wee bit of wood and a tube of glue.

I have satisfied my rocker mania and saved $390. by not buying the two hand-made rockers up at Kellem's.

Sullivan County Dramatic Workshop

I had a terrific interview with these folks today.

And tomorrow I am meeting Tom at his studio.

This leaves an additional four interviews to conclude this week.

The Art of Convivium

I really should have posted on "an artful journey" about this project rather than Pentamento, but apparently got carried away by that blog.

I have several more interviews: one local community organiser; my art pal, Tom; two more theatre folks; perhaps someone at the Hancock writing group and the 4 Corners folks regarding fiber arts.

I'd really like to put this article to bed before August 18 and be prepared for Michel's return from France on the 20th so that we can start actively visiting, interviewing and photographing the farmers.

Many Wands

Yesterday and again today I pulled Wands.

And two days in a row, the Emperor.

I've been buzzing around the Scriptwriter 1250

I found a way, finally, to get it all together. L's old Scripterwriter 1250 and my two over-packed containers of small computer disks have joined together to produce the written words that started on my Macintosh SE.

These are not ordinary disks but the receptacles of nearly ten years of writing, writing that started simply, and ended with a burst of energy that didn't seem to end.

I've been able to print out several of these disks, and occasionally as the page sits actively on the computer monitor I pause to read a word, then a sentence and continue to get absorbed in the story line.

Yes, it appears that in among morning pages, PWs and poetry, there exists the real making of short stories.

Another icon of my reading life has died today.