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The washer is churning, the dryer is turning, the sky grows darker, the winds blow stronger, my dog is restless, a painting is waiting for me to tend to it, and I am happily content. Why? Because it is MYDAY!
The days of the week are Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, MYDAY, and Saturday. Yes. I have renamed Friday to suit me. My ongoing love affair with this day continues. The optimism of a carefree weekend is what I always feel on this particular day.
This weekend is already a very promising one. Aside from watching the semifinal round of the NCAA Basketball Tournament, my husband and children will be returning from a long trip to Montana. No, I did not join them. I wanted some "me" time to get to the tasks I cannot seem to tackle with their three bodies and accompanying clutter ever present. Throw in that it was a ski trip and snow skiing is not my forte, and I was grateful for this time alone. However, it was TOO long of a vacation. In fact, this is the longest I have ever been alone since my marriage. I began missing them fiercely after seven days.
I have to admit there were more than a few occasions when I felt I made a huge mistake by not joining them. It is only when I take a look around the house and see all I have done that I think I made the right decision. My mother is experiencing some new health problems, and I am glad I was not somewhere across the country fretting and wondering how she was faring. I also know it was good for me to bask in the peace and quiet in my beloved home. That in itself has been excellent for me.
After so many years of not being completely alone for any extended period of time, it was interesting how I reacted to the change. I was able to have uninterrupted thoughts. No one disrupted the flow of whatever activity I was engaged in. I did not get to ski the mountains of Big Sky, ride a dog sled, swim in the Hot Springs, be the one an elk charged ::chuckle::, but I got to get in touch with myself a little more than I have ever been. I also have a greater appreciation for them and the positive ways they impact my daily life. How can I regret that?
Now, I just want to see their faces, smooch them, and hug them tightly...before hubby leaves in a few more days on yet another trip~minus the kids. LOL!
"Loneliness expresses the pain of being alone and solitude expresses the glory of being alone." ~Paul Tillich
(Graphic by Simone's Creations®...not for use without her permission.)
I dreamed I was this age and single. That I never had any children nor had ever married. It was unsettling. My vacationing husband happened to phone me while I was still tangled in the dream. I had a vague awareness later on in the morning that I had spoken to him, but I was not certain. Had it only been a part of the dream? Rain and gloominess without a hint of the sun's presence followed me throughout the day. The temperature was cool. It was an odd day. My mother and I and two of my sisters went to lunch, then on to a meeting to give our approval of a clay rendering of my father's face that is to be part of a bronze wall plaque honoring him in a certain city. The company commissioned by the city to create it specializes in making memorial headstones. The likeness of Daddy was outstanding, and we all enthusiastically gave a thumbs-up to proceed with the casting in bronze. I roamed through the display area. There are such beautiful granite headstones to choose from. Just when I thought I had seen the prettiest one, I came upon another one that was more gorgeous. The combination of beauty and sadness a headstone encompasses is disconcerting. One cannot deny the artisanship of the stone, but its use is wrenching to the heart. We climbed back into my vehicle, and one of my sisters asked if we could stop at the close-by cemetery where her in-laws are buried. They both passed away in 2002 within a few months of each other. We agreed to go there. The cemetery is positively massive. Winding roads, old sections, new ones, parts designated for those of specific religions. My sister had some difficulty finding the exact section. During the hunt, I hopped in and out of the car to take peeks inside some of the mausoleums. One looked like a tiny church, complete with a miniature steeple. Had it not been for the fact that it contained someone's remains from long ago, I would have loved to paint a picture of it. The stained glass windows were stunning. I found it especially touching that some were "perpetual care" ones~meaning fresh flowers were delivered daily inside those mausoleums. We finally located their plots. Mom stayed in the car while the three of us girls stepped out into the rain to view the area. ::sigh:: It was very depressing. Because it is a family plot, there were numerous other family members buried there. My sister filled us in on who was who. There was my brother-in-law's 43-year-old grandfather's stone. He died in a boating accident. After safely lifting the last of his children into the boat, he drowned. His marker was impossibly sad because of the inscription stating he laid down his life for his loved ones. Next to him, was his wife's headstone. She passed away a mere two years after he did. His first wife's stone was nearby. She was all of 24 when she died. At the foot of one of the graves rested the remains of my brother-in-law's three-day-old infant sibling. It was too much for me. I needed to get back in the car and get away from all the personal history that was twisting my heart. It was a little easier for me to look at the grave sites of the unknown people from the 1800s or to admire the headstone of a person I did not know. I, who have the world's absolute worst sense of direction, was able to immediately find my way out of that giant cemetery. There was much chuckling from the others about that. After I arrived home, I busied myself with tasks. When I finally sat down, I thought about my dream. I thought about the cemetery where we had been. And I thought about how sad it would be had I never married and never had children. While my entire life story has yet to be played out, at least I know that at some point in time there will be somebody standing in the rain looking at my headstone and those of the ones I have loved and who have loved me. Remembered. "Slowly, the dead steal back into our speech." ~Unknown
"The reverend he turned to me, without a tear in his eyes. It's nothing new for him to see. I didn't ask him why." ~from the song Cemetery Gates performed by Pantera It has been over a year that I have thought about writing this entry. Many times during the past months I wanted to find out the thoughts and feelings my nephew had about the incident. I was afraid to ask him. My concern was that I might stir up some buried emotions by urging him to relive the evening for me. And so I waited. Hoping time would be kind to him. Friday I finally talked to him about what had happened. This is about Darrell "Dimebag" Abbott's last nite. His name is not one the majority of people recognize. His father is country-westerm songwriter and producer Jerry Abbott. Darrell was a guitarist (who some consider to be one of the top guitarists ever to play) who formed a heavy metal band called Pantera. It was one of the most successful bands of the nineties. When it split in 2001, he moved on to play for Damageplan. In early December of 2004, Damageplan came to play in Columbus, Ohio. A crowded Alrosa Villa club was just getting into the music of the first song when a young man jumped onto the stage and shot Darrell repeatedly. His gunfire was not confined solely to the guitarist. The manic shooting spree killed four. Darrell first. One of the dead was a fan. One a club employee. One a bodyguard for the band. There was a fifth death...that of the gunman when a patrol officer shot him. And with that, Darrell Abbott became the first musician to ever be murdered onstage. Oh, the reason the 25-year-old man shot Darrell? He was mad at him for disbanding Pantera and joining another group. Nice, huh? My nephew was eager to see this group play that particular evening. He is a huge fan of music and always knows the latest information about various groups. He had been a Pantera fan and was a Damageplan fan. He and his boss excitedly arrived at the Alrosa. The opening song began to be played. Then gunfire erupted. First aimed at Darrell, then it was sprayed everywhere. Shots were fired into the crowd. The spectators fled the club and were kept in a parking lot to be questioned by police. Knowing my sister would hear about the shooting on the news, my nephew called her from his cell phone to let her know he was unharmed. These are the questions I asked him and his responses: 1. Do you think about that awful nite very often? No. 2. During the shootings, what did you think? At first, I thought it was part of the act. I think everyone thought that. 3. When all of you realized it was NOT part of the act, how did everyone react? It was not too chaotic getting out of the club. There was no pushing or shoving. Maybe everyone was kind of in shock. I called Mom to let her know I was okay, because I knew she would see it on the news and be worried. I remember feeling agitated when I talked to her. 4. Did you think about it a lot after that nite? And did it cause you to be afraid when you attended concerts from them on? At first for a few days, I couldn't think about it at all. Three days after the shooting, I went to a concert. I was nervous. I am not anymore. 5. What are your feelings about what happened? The whole situation pisses me off. It was a terrible waste. He was supposedly a nice guy (Abbott). Not only were the killings so awful, but the Alrosa's revenue was affected by it. Now few bands want to perform at the Alrosa. There used to be great groups that came there. There aren't anymore. It frustrates me. 6. Any lingering effects on you? I think I will always be angry about it. I don't really think about the shootings themselves except when I am listening to Pantera or Damageplan songs. I ended the interrogation at that point even though my mind was spinning with dozens more questions I wanted to ask him. It just "felt" the right time to stop had arrived. And I feel sure that after my phone conversation with him, he was probably assaulted by nonstop thoughts about all that I had dredged up. I know after I hung up the phone, I yet again thanked God that my precious nephew had not been one of the fatalities on that cold December evening. Closing with a very disturbing and chilling quote: "Guns are neat little things, aren't they? They can kill extraordinary people with very little effort." ~John W. Hinckley
The midlife warnings
once so distant from my ears
ring and deafen me (Posted at Write Words Writing Club) I find the mid-life years~particularly the forties~compare easily to the teen years. There is something about these years that seems to contain the turbulent emotions of the volatile teenage years. Enter the incredible highs and the bottom of the barrel lows. The lust to succeed in some way. The zest for living that at times can consume every pore of my body. The self-confidence mingled with self-doubt. Whatever the day, each one holds a magic or a darkness...or perhaps a bit of both. Unpredictable. Undeniable is the urge to leave my imprint somewhere. On something. It is a time of wanting, needing, and expending energy to determine a way to get where I want to be. Need to be. My winter watercolor art class came to a close. The spring session starts soon, and I told my instructor I would not be back. I do not feel I have the gift to paint well. He told me I was wrong. He was sad. Like a teenager, my mind was made up, and there was no changing it. Of course, I felt terrible that I upset him. I softened it with a hug and told him I loved him to pieces. I need to wander through the world of art in my own way, experimenting with a wider variety of mediums. No rules. I cannot close off the part of me that has to express myself. This journal will be my playground on occasion. It will be filled with poetry and paintings. Some decent, some hideous, some~hopefully~good. In other words, it will represent me and my quest to find where I think I fit. And gone will be the timidity I often feel about displaying my works here. After all, I am still a work in progress. ::smile:: Speaking of which, there is the most erotic photo of a couple on a beach that I am itching to sketch and paint. Time to begin it. "Keep true to the dreams of thy youth." ~Friedrich von Schiller
(Graphic by Simone...please do not rip her work.)
This particular past entry is one of mine that makes me feel good. Oh, the little things in our world that can bring us joy are boundless. Wednesday, March 2, 2005; 8:32:00 PM EST; Feeling Quiet; Hearing Slave To Love~Bryan Ferry & Roxy Music (mmm, baby) The Unexpected I had attended a boys soccer game being played by five- and six-year-olds. It is next to impossible to watch kids that age play the game without smiling. Usually, it is "pack ball"...there is a clump of kids who are frantically kicking at the ball, and they travel up and down the field in one large pack. A few kids remain on the fringe of all the activity, not because they are staying in their assigned positions as much as they are virtually clueless as to what to do. Young children are sometimes quite emotional, too, while they play. They fall, and they cry. They accidentally get kicked, and they cry. They get in a really good kick, and they are jubilant and jump up and down in celebration while looking over at their parents and grandparents to be sure their stunning move has been observed by them! It is very entertaining and heartwarming to watch them play. They are not only learning the rules and techniques of soccer; they are also learning about themselves and beginning to explore the competitive nature of sports. So... I was sitting along the sidelines and intently watching the pack of kids make futile attempts to kick the ball. All of a sudden, the ball squirted out of the sea of tangled legs. It rolled over to this lone boy who was standing very near where I was seated. His eyes lit up...he waited for the ball to reach him...he drew back his right foot...and then with all his might, he kicked that ball HARD. He kicked it so hard that he lost his balance. Both his feet went flying up in the air, and he fell onto the ground landing on his back. All the spectators gasped...sure that he had been hurt. The little boy rolled over onto his stomach and barely moved. His parents were seated next to me, and they were extremely worried. The boy fiddled around with the grass for a few seconds, then he looked up at his parents with a twinkle in his eyes. He said to them, "Hey! I just found a four-leaf clover!" We all went into hysterics~relieved he was not injured and totally charmed by the fact he was in the midst of a game, yet he was oblivious to what was transpiring on the field. Forgotten was his glorious kick. Forgotten was the nasty jolt to his body as he hit the ground. The important thing to him at that moment was his unexpected good fortune at finding something he felt was special and meaningful. And isn't that a lesson for all of us? The game of life sometimes knocks us flat on our backs. We have the choice of focusing on the negative during those times. We also have the choice of finding something positive about our situation. We might have to look awfully hard to see anything we deem a plus, but undoubtedly it is there waiting to be discovered. Today's quote: "There is little difference in people, but that little difference makes a big difference. The little difference is attitude. The big difference is whether it is positive or negative." ~W. Clement Stone
I think our own interpretations of a piece of artwork are sometimes more interesting than the art itself. When a painting is very realistic, everyone can agree on what it depicts. For example, if it is a portrait of a woman, we all would be in total agreement about that. What would differ among us would be what we saw in the woman. Is she contemplative? Sad? Wistful? Should the painting be of a landscape, we might see the same scene, but what we envision about that place would vary. We can look at more abstract work, and it is far easier for there not only to be many more interpretations, but also many more things to interpret. Those paintings are more obtuse. And that opens the door for our minds to explore all there is about the works. I am unsure too many people would ever come away with identical thoughts about such paintings. The Write Words Writing Club had a picture over a month ago that a few people selected for their entries. I have never been a collector of abstract work. I am not a contemporary decorator. However, every once in awhile, I am taken by a painting or picture that is definitely unlike my usual preferences. That was the case with this picture. What I immediately saw in the picture was quite different from the interpretations of those who wrote about it. I saved that picture. I knew at some point in time I would want to write about it. I was not certain when or in what style I would write, just that I would. The time is now. 
The lust released,
spent in a fury
of reckless need. The intimate act
merely an attempt
to fill a void. An ache for love
the impetus
for their coupling. Turning away,
closed eyes concealing
the pain of emptiness.
There were so many of them. Within reach. I brought my hands together and was certain I had been able to capture at least one. I tingled inside with the knowledge that I had managed to obtain that which I had yearned for. My hands remained cupped around my celestial prize. A smile adorned my face while I savored the moment. Carefully I parted my fingers, eager to peek at the glow I held. I saw only darkness. How could that be? Nothing was there to be seen. I turned my hands, palms up. My eyes met emptiness. And I felt myself spiraling downward into bleak defeat. Engulfed in a sadness that refused to relinquish its hold on me. The saddest part is that I caused a kind old man to well up with tears as he watched me give in to my thinly-veiled despair. And I cannot forgive myself for that. "But what we call our despair is often only the painful eagerness of unfed hope." ~George Eliot
This Thursday-through-Sunday excursion I just took to Indianapolis was delightful and interesting in so many ways. Happiness was very much my constant companion during the four days. Having missed out on the trip to Seven Springs right after Christmas, I was definitely looking forward to this one. The men's tournament games were good ones. The stamina these young men have to have to play day after day (if their teams win) is impressive, to say the least. It kept hitting home to me that these really ARE young men. They carry a large load on their shoulders when they play. An arena full of fans cheering or booing their every move has to be tough to take at times. Down one point, scant seconds left in the game, and a player shoots. Misses. Game over. Who usually gets the blame? The one who missed the shot. Sure, others eventually have to share in the blame or that team would not have needed to have that shot go in to win. You cannot help but feel sorry for the kid who took the errant shot, though. He will replay it in his mind over and over again. And he is what...18, 19, 20, or 21 years old? Yet, he feels he not only let down his teammates and coach, but he also let down his school. Heavy burden. One thing that infuriates me and has grown increasingly worse during the past decade is the outrageous booing of players and teams. Not classy, in my opinion. It sets a very poor example for children attending the games, and it is plain ol' rude. To spice up the games a bit more, I bet on some of the games with one of the men accompanying us. We broke even. ::grin:: No big money bets, but money is money! I can see this is going to become a tradition. He and I started it when we vacationed in New York last year. A regular season game was being played, and I bet on Duke. He bet on Maryland. I lost. I had to pay him, and he has never let me forget it. Now, we are even. He is such a trip. Hubby had reserved the three hotel rooms for all of us. One for the fellow who had his three sons with him, one for my betting buddy and a business friend of his, and one for hubby and me. It did not occur to the hubster when he made the reservations to request specific beds in each of the rooms. All three rooms had a king-sized bed. That posed a problem for the two guys sharing a room. I had absolutely no idea that two men would have EXTREME problems sharing a large bed. Oh, but they dooooo! No amount of persuasion would change their minds about it. The rooms did not contain any couches; they only had overstuffed chairs. Those two wanted a rollaway bed brought to their room. ::eyeroll:: Hubby said he would make the call to request one. All of us went on to the games. Had a blast. We stopped back at the hotel to kick back for a little before it was time for our 8:00 p.m. dinner reservations. No rollaway was in their room as of that point. During dinner, the two potential bedmates were in a sweat about the lack of a rollaway bed. Hubby informed them the hotel was out of spare beds (which was untrue, but it was way too fun to pimp these guys about their predicament). They looked to me to convince them my hubby was lying. Riiiight, like I was going to pass up the opportunity to give them a hard time. I said I heard hubby on the phone saying, "Oh, okay. No, I understand. We will figure out something else. No problem." What priceless faces they had after I said that. And having downed several bottles of Cabernet, the conversation was pretty loose. I grilled all of the guys about what the big deal was. Two women friends would share a bed if they had to. So why couldn't men? Uh, I know why now. And I laughed myself half sick. It was the friggin' funniest conversation I think I have ever had. When we returned to the hotel, I went into their room with them...and by the window was the rollaway bed. One of the guys actually hugged it. I was losing it! Men. ::shaking my head...and laughing hysterically:: There was something that occurred that I positively loved. We were in a cab. The driver was Somalian,and we chatted with him. He has been in the States for four years. What a joy he was! He was very pleasant and upbeat. We asked how he liked living here. He bubbled enthusiasm as he answered. He LOVES it here. He said this is so unlike Africa in many ways...all of them good. He appreciated that no matter where you went in the United States, English is spoken. In Africa, there is no one language spoken everywhere. He also said there was weather for everyone here. If you want cold months, you know where to live. If you want warm weather year 'round, you know where to go. If you want to experience four seasons, you have choices. In Africa, that is not so. He mentioned a few other pluses, then he finished with, "United States...land of opportunity." That really tickled me. And his enthusiasm rubbed off on us...just as I bet it does with others who are lucky enough to find themselves in his cab. I brought along my camera to photograph the State House. I love its architecture. There was also a church I wanted to photograph that I saw the last time I was here. From our hotel room window, in the distance I spotted yet another church that captured my fancy. I have decided I might start a series of church paintings. I would like to paint each one using a different style or method. I think it could make an unusual collection for a wall somewhere in my home. And it could just grow and grow. I have always found myself admiring churches wherever we are. The Civil War monument and Union Station were also interesting structures. I was very worried when we left on Thursday. Mom has not been faring very well recently. I was quite concerned about the breathlessness she is experiencing that has worsened since her pacemaker was implanted. The doctors are fiddling around with her medications, so it is highly possible that is responsible for the shortness of breath. But, it is also possible her valve leakage is causing it. Anyway, Wednesday nite I talked to her on the phone, and she was horribly breathless. (She is not a smoker, by the way, nor has she ever lived with a smoker.) I was so afraid to leave her that I asked her if she would like to come to Indy with us...that she would not even have to leave the hotel room if she did not wish. She declined my offer, and told me to stop fretting about her. Umm...not likely. I called her again on Thursday AFTER talking to each of my sisters to make sure they knew Mom was struggling with her breathing big time. All of them promised me they would call and visit her regularly while I was gone. I called her on Friday during one of the games, and she thought perhaps there was a bit of improvement. I was elated. Same news on Saturday! ::fingers crossed that it continues to improve:: That was good news number one for me. Good news number two: I wanted to bring something of Daddy's along with me. (The reason why is personal, but it was highly appropriate for me to think of him.) I was not sure what to take. I finally settled on his wedding band. Before I proceed, I need to say that Mom wears his original wedding band on the middle finger of her right hand. When they were married, Daddy had just gotten out of the hospital. He had developed an abscess at the top of his neck after being hit there by a baseball, splitting open his head. His weight plummeted during the time he was recovering from that. He was 6'4" and weighed all of 160 lbs. His wedding band was sized to match his weight at that time. After a few years, the ring no longer fit him. He put it away, and had a new ring made that contained some diamonds that were left to him by his mother's twin sister. During his confinement in the nursing home, we felt it was wise for him not to wear that ring...our fear being that it would be stolen or somehow slide off due to his weight fluctuations. He went without a wedding band for five years. His birthday falls in December, and he was always very difficult to buy for. It was more difficult during the nursing home years. Well, in December of 2001 I had what I thought was a brilliant idea for a gift I could give him. I would buy him a new gold wedding band. Then, he could have one on his finger like he had for soooooo many years. I guessed at his ring size. His birthday arrived. He could not speak, but he was semi-alert. My sisters and mother were gathered around his bed when I gave him my gift. I had to open it for him. When I opened the ring box, his eyes grew so large and a smile broke out on his face. I asked Mom if she would please put it on his finger. She took it, held up his hand, and while slipping the ring onto his finger, she said, "With this ring I thee wed." God, I recall almost sobbing. We all almost sobbed...except for Mom and Dad. They just looked at each other in that way they always had. The look of pure love and devotion that is seemingly so rare to see anymore. He passed away one month and three days later. I got to have the ring. I put it on an old chain of mine and wore it to Indy. The first day we were there, I went to a jeweler and bought a beautiful gold chain for that ring. And I wore it each day of my trip. He was with me. And the good news is that I did not cry or feel sad. I liked having something visible of his with me. It was comforting. ::smile:: Maybe it is a step in the right direction to healing my heart. The negatives of my trip? There were not any. None. Zero. Zip. It was a grand time in every way. And I think I deserved to have it be exactly as it was. "Travel and change of place impart new vigor to the mind." ~Seneca
On the polished court
the hunger for victory
fuels his body
Okay, okay, okay. So that was not haiku at its finest. Cut me some slack, since that is the first one I have ever written. Besides, I wrote it while I was in a goofy mood. Let me explain, please! Thursday, the hubster and I are taking a trip to Indianapolis for the annual Big Ten Men's Basketball Tournament. I am very much looking forward to not only being pampered half to death at the hotel, but getting to watch game after game after game. Being swept up by the noise, sights, and the bodies of the players (::grin::) is a thrill for me. Conseco Fieldhouse is a great arena. When I was born, I think the Gods of Men's College Basketball clobbered me on the head with their magic wands. I love the game. Always have. Always will. I am usually a very vocal spectator. Geez, I bet that comes as a surprise, huh?!!! I do enjoy watching the games on television, but being there in person brings a different kind of excitement and sensory overload. Two of hubby's friends are also going. As was the case the last time I went, their wives did not want to go. Guess they are not quite as delighted as I am by the prospect of spending hours upon hours watching young men run and sweat and perform fantastic passes and shots and take-your-breath-away dunks. One fellow is bringing his three sons with him. The other is coming stag. Just me and mennnnnnnnnnnnnn. Might I politely insert a WOO HOO here? ::laugh:: I do want to take some time here to direct people to a site that is full of thought-provoking and well-written essays and poetry. The writers in this group are good people through and through. Their ability to express their thoughts is staggering. I am not a member of this particular club~for obvious reasons. However, I read each of the entries, and I am never disappointed with the quality of the words they share. It is the perfect place to visit and have your mind be expanded. Be prepared to spend more than just a few minutes there. No one can go and stay for a mere couple of minutes! This talented group can be found at: THE WRITE WORDS WRITING CLUB. And now I am off to pack the last of my necessities for my trip. Think of me, please, and imagine me wildly clapping and delivering a well-timed WOOT during each of the games! "I've tried to handle winning well, so that maybe we'll win again, but I've also tried to handle failure well. If those serve as good examples for teachers and kids, then I hope that would be a contribution I have made to sport. Not just basketball, but to sport." ~Coach Mike Krzyzewski, Duke University
I have decided to use the above painting of mine for my 2006 family Christmas card. How nice to know I will not be hunting for the "right" card during the hustle and bustle of that holiday season. I will be able to write my own verse to have printed inside, too. I will like that. I will need to take a photograph of my children to insert into each print I have made of this painting-turned-card. It is not as though I set out in the waning days of February to paint a picture that would be suitable for a Christmas card. The painting was for the art class I take. The winter session of my class is quickly coming to a close, and our latest assignment was to paint a snow landscape. I found a photograph (where it came from I have no earthly idea) that seemed to be perfect to paint. It captured three of my loves: the snow, sleds (preferably antique ones), and Christmas. Except for the sled and wreath, the rest of the picture was all in white and shades of blues. It reminded me of black and white pictures where only one object is colorized. It was from that photograph that I painted this. As with my last painting of the church entry, this painting is very small. The measurements are about 4-1/2" x 6-1/2". Being a person who thrives on details, I have found it challenging to incorporate detail work into tiny paintings. I do not give up easily, so I have been plugging away on it. I was happy to finish it. I completed it just a bit ahead of schedule, which means I do not have to scramble to be certain I have all my work done when the class is over in two weeks. And you know what? I actually LIKE this painting o'mine. If you knew how I feel about 99% of the pictures I paint, you would know it is unlike me to be pleased with the final result. I think it helped that my instructor was very complimentary. Some of the students in my class are the ones who suggested it be used for my Christmas card. With that kind of encouragement, it probably helped me be less critical of it. Next week's class will be interesting and very different. We are to do an experimental painting with absolutely no idea in mind what it is we are going to portray. I am unsure how that works, but the teacher said he will demonstrate prior to us putting brushes to our watercolor paper. I always have a good time in the class. This particular session has been unique for me in that I have tried some things I never had previously. I used different brushes than I typically use. Miniaturizing my work is a new experience. The experimental project will be another new one. Maybe one day I will find my niche. But in the meantime, I plan on continuing to enjoy the journey. "Painting is silent poetry." ~Simonides of Ceos, quoted by Plutarch
In the course of rounding up some music to make yet another playlist, I came across this song I had forgotten I had. I always liked it very much. It is raw, for sure. Profanity is scattered throughout it. Many would shudder listening to it just due to the language. The subject matter is volatile enough to cause others to wince and flick off the sound. Ah, but that is the draw for me. All of it combined makes an extremely powerful statement about us as human beings and our inherent flaws. When my husband first heard me playing this song, he gave me this "look." I can read him like the back of my hand, and I knew he felt the song had no value except shock value. I stopped the song and told him I wanted him to listen very carefully to the lyrics. I hit play, and he listened. After it was over, I said I wanted to discuss what was said in the song. We had quite a lengthy discussion about it. I expressed to him that I felt it captured truths that generally get shoved under the rug. The unpleasantries no one wants to talk about. And it was able to do it with more force by using a slap-in-the-face kind of way. Sometimes we NEED that slap. Sometimes we have to have it to be able to feel. To understand. To change. To accept. The song is called What It's Like by Everlast. Here are the lyrics. Enjoy...and think.We've all seen the man at the liquor store beggin' for your change The hair on his face is dirty, dreadlocked and full of mange He ask the man for what he could spare with shame in his eyes Get a job you fuckin' slob's all he replied God forbid you ever had to walk a mile in his shoes 'Cause then you really might know what it's like to sing the blues Then you really might know what it's like (X4) Mary got pregnant from a kid named Tom who said he was in love He said don't worry about a thing baby doll I'm the man you've been dreamin' of But three months later he said he won't date her or return her call And she sweared god damn if I find that man I'm cuttin' off his balls And then she heads for the clinic and she gets some static walkin' through the doors They call her a killer, and they call her a sinner, and they call her a whore God forbid you ever had to walk a mile in her shoes 'Cause then you really might know what it's like to have to choose Then you really might know what it's like (X4) I've seen a rich man beg I've seen a good man sin I've seen a tough man cry I've seen a loser win And a sad man grin I heard an honest man lie I've seen the good side of bad And the down side of up And everything between I licked the silver spoon Drank from the golden cup Smoked the finest green I stroked daddies dimes at least a couple of times Before I broke their heart You know where it ends Yo, it usually depends on where you start I knew this kid named Max He used to get fat stacks out on the corner with drugs He liked to hang out late at night Liked to get shit faced And keep pace with thugs Until late one night there was a big gun fight Max lost his head He pulled out his chrome .45 Talked some shit And wound up dead Now his wife and his kids are caught in the midst of all of his pain You know it crumbles that way At least that's what they say when you play the game God forbid you ever had to wake up to hear the news 'Cause then you really might know what it's like to have to lose Then you really might know what it's like (X4) To have to lose...
