Mike's Birthday

 "Did I tell you I visited his grave?" my mother asked.

"You said you were going to."

"I put a nice big red rose in the vase. Your bluebird is still there, but it's white now."

I can't write without crying right now, and I don't want to cry, so I'm going to go write something else. But it's my brother's birthday today, and I wanted to say something, so instead, I've gone back to the old site and pulled what I wrote last year for the anniversary of his death. Yeah, I know you've all read it before, but tough. It's my blog,  he was my brother and you're my friends.




State Fair ribbons for his baked goods year after year. Frequently took his daughters and their friends on camping trips. Worked with stained glass. Could sharpen a knife better than anyone I knew. If something tickled Mike just right, he couldn't stop laughing. As a kid he was known to fall out of his chair with the giggles.

That small guy is Mike. I was older, so I was given the jailer's keys. But I wasn't big enough to take my brother's pistol away from our older cousin. He's dead too, longer than Mike.

Christmas, I'm guessing 1979. We had this thing we did. We'd save sticky-backed bows from the presents we opened. Then, camera at the ready, we'd stick a bow on the tops of our mother's feet. You'd have to be there. She'd giggle and we'd hug. That's Mike on the right, my youngest sister on the left, and the hippie in back is you-know-who.

At my oldest sister's wedding. Hands down the most asinine haircut I've ever had. I believe I'm taller though.

Speaking of weddings, I was Mike's Best Man. But this story happened at a bachelor party for a friend I also stood up for: We were drinking pretty heavy. Metaxa. We'd light a shot on fire, blow it out and drink. After several, I decided to try one while still lit. As my mustache burned, Mike used his big mitt-like hands to put my face out, both of us laughing the whole while. That friend is dead too.

Nice smile, right? The front tooth to your right is capped. We were wrestling in the basement. That dainty arm to the right is DW. This photo was taken not too long after I introduced her to the family. I have cropped her out because she wouldn't have it any other way, but what you might want to know is that in her left hand is the same as that in his. Back in the day, understand. I most likely had a cigar as well. We were sitting there, having a good time, when Mike looks at me and says, "She's a peach!"

For several years Mike participated in the arm wrestling contest at the State Fair. I do not remember the outcome of this match with my DS, but given the forearms, one can imagine. Not taking anything away from the boy, understand.

This picture is on our fridge.

Mike had a pond behind his house. He shared it with about fifteen neighbors, but it was his baby, and few others fished it. He stocked it, fed the catfish and monitored the use of fertilizer, herbicides and pesticides. He didn't hesitate to drop in on someone to recommend different approaches to lawn care. Not that he was a greenie, per se, but he did love that pond and knew what it took to maintain a suitable ecosystem for his babies.

The above photo is not from that pond. It is from a trip he, my DS and I took to the border lakes of Minnesota. We had a gas catching Walleyes, Pike and Smallies. This Smallie was caught on a small lake we portaged in to. We carried our battery, trolling motor and fishing gear up and over a sizable hill to an awaiting small V-hull. The fishing was so good, we made the trip twice. I told a story about the trip at the funeral. I made light of his passion for fishing, for it very well could have killed us. Well, the lightening might have.

I want to end this on a positive note; and ending I am, three days of homage and testing the loyalty of a readership quite enough. There are other stories, many without pictures to prompt, all tales that become traditions to keep a memory alive. I would be remiss were I not to mention two new readers, my DD and a DN (niece), who perhaps over these last three days have grown to know an uncle lost too soon to know of the joy he brought to adults as well as children. And, no doubt, they have also learned more about me. As  Mike would say, "This is a good thing." Yet, I wouldn't be writing this at all had that drunk known when to quit. And in that he has still not learned, perhaps another person on that same path will stumble across these posts and begin to reconsider a behavior that can do such irreversible damage and leave a huge fucking hole in this sometimes barely tolerable world. We need every Mike we can get.

That's what

If I were a bettin' man...

What? a couple days ago I was tooting about hitting the 300K mark playing limit games? Two days later and another 20K. But so what? A couple hours. Easier than writing art criticism. Of course, a lot of other things are easier than poker too, and just as much as a distraction, for that is what it is at this point. Stop me if I'm repeating myself.

So much, otherwise: 

There are visible frog egg clusters in the pond.

The hawks are still dancing to impress above our fields.

I mowed the lawn again today to pick up the cutting, too long to bag, from yesterday and without dropping the deck, took off an inch of new growth.

I cruised around with the bush hog and finished with the lawn tractor back by the barns. (I really must change the oil in both the Deere and Kubota soon.)

Oh, and then there's this:

That was last night. Right before we were supposed to get a thunderstorm, which we didn't. Which is a good thing. The fruit trees are all in bloom now. The bees are a-buzzing. Beside themselves, actually, zooming from blossom to blossom like an Easter egg hunt. Something like that. We should have a good harvest of apples, pears and plums come fall.  If we had rain and wind last night, not so much.

We have three male pheasants on the property, up from zero last year. I've been trying to figure out a way to tell you the story for some time, for there is a story there. Not that we had anything to do with it. However, I will direct you to the fifth paragraph and the phrase in quotes. Therein lies our part in the story, for it is not what it seems —nonetheless a proper use of quotation marks — and what it is has been forbidden by the County. Neighbors saw to it; he presented a better case against than the neighbors; and he ignored the decision. Hence the subterfuge.

Anyway, the life-longers  tell of a day when there were many pheasant here, yet I suspect the same pressures that eliminated them before will occur again, I'm guessing at the hands of the "victim's" friends who "helped" build his case.

But listen to me: I sound like some radical nature lover.

Something in the air besides blue skies

We're due for some thunderstorms this afternoon. The temperature is just a little too high for this time of year, yet, if today is like many of the other times when this has been forecast, all of the meteorological mechanics that conspire to make for the flash will most likely miss us by a few miles. Still, I have to get out there and finish up yesterday's chore of doubling the size of the burn pile and mowing the yard. The bush-hogging will have to wait, which it can, seeing how it is a coarse process and another two or three inches of growth matters little.

Yet, here I sit, second cup of joe to get me up to speed while I finish reading the new posts in my old blogroll.

I'm seeing some trends. Some reflections on days passed, some regrets intimated, and intimacies alluded. It makes me want to do a series of posts I've resisted for years, for they may seem un- and -ly, that being the recollection of trysts.

Admittedly a sad collection of mostly names forgotten whether long term or one night, more often than not in a self-induced haze, and oh, so long ago. Not all forgotten, and certainly searchable, which actually salves any remorse, better choices made when I settled down.

Even so, those I read pale in mind-play to something I read last night on that big social media site. Often, if not blocked, a friend's correspondence will appear on my feed. This was a call for help: a marriage down the tubes and a veiled threat to end with a garage filled with CO and particulates, written, so it seemed, from the site of the crime against the self. A cry for help followed by a dozen or so commiserations, words of hope and one "call me if you want to talk." The original poster replied with thanks and there it ended, the post, that is, and it was I who was left hanging.

I have written a number of emails and made phone calls this past week, none of which have been returned. What's that about?

Of the Elusive Draw

I don't know whether or not it's a milestone but last night I cracked 300K in imaginary wealth on Stars. Funny thing, that. You see, I'm not playing all that much, and aside from a round of NLHE in the 8 Game, and PLO when I first started last August (to build a roll) I've stuck with Limit games, and then mostly O8 and 5 Card Draw, and never over 50/100. Easier on Ol' Thumper. And no, I don't pretend to think that I could somehow transfer this play to real live cash play and do as well, nor would I want to, again, for Thumper's sake. Still, when I logged on yesterday, saw that I was less than a 2K double-up to 300, and knowing that a good run would put me there, I experienced a small sense of pride and anticipation. And so, I saw more flops than I normally would. You know the rest. Yet, since I've already stated that I made my goal, you also know that it took me a bit longer than I would have liked.

Which begins to bring me closer to today's topic.

It's not exactly multitasking, for one, I don't do that well. I can listen to music while I play, or read, or paint or nap, but nothing else. No TV. And surfing the Big W while playing only serves to disregard the playing styles of my opponents, so I resist. I segregate activities, and so, if I am playing poker these days, it usually means that I am waiting for paint to dry. Likewise, while I'm painting I need to be present in the moment to decide what kind of mark I make next. (I know it may not always look like it.)

I'm getting there.

I think we all operate under the assumption that we're making the best decisions we can at the moment they are made. Or, if not, then it is in our best interests to take some measure of responsibility for impulse or some other form of incomplete thought processes.  That's how we learn from mistakes, no? But let's say we are working close to capacity or at a level which with we are content for the moment while remaining open to a learning process (There's always room for improvement.), all the while minimizing the distractions. And what if this is still not enough to realize one's goals?

In poker we see this sort of outcome in the form of the cooler. Just ask Mojo with his recent bad run. Sets get cracked too, and sometimes, given our knowledge of probabilities, more often than we think reasonable.

Yep, luck.

We've all heard it: "I'm here to gamble!" at which point we start licking our chops, for we know that the suited gappers that person is willing to call with are just not going to hit often enough to fend off a wild swing. (Yes, spoken like a true grinder.) Still, we also know that we must adapt some of the same style of play to keep our opponents off of our own game, yet we choose to call it a "calculated risk." We fall back on some measure and notion of the concept of skill.

When asked, or given the opportunity to comment, I say that I don't believe in luck, which is silly, because I know it exists. What I really mean to say is that I don't rely on it, even though I have most certainly benefited from it, at least in poker. Still, it is not the source of the majority of my winnings. Now, mind you, one might argue that there is component of luck derived in the shuffle, but even then it is what we do with the deal, draw or flop that determines the potential of the payoff. No, what I am thinking about when I say that I don't believe in luck is not poker; instead, and avoiding the poker lessons that mirror life in general, I am thinking more about my career as an artist, for within that sphere, I have scant evidence.

Still, poker luck sneaks back in, for there is a little yet persistent voice in my head that says, "The deck is stacked against you," which implies, among other things, that the game is rigged or luck lies with the competition, and there is little I can do to change that other than walk away. Well, we know that isn't going to happen.

Let me interrupt myself for a moment with anticipated protestations: I have a show next month and another the following month as well. What luck? The work is appreciated by old friends who have been familiar with my work for fifteen years or more. This is more the way things get done. Anecdotes abound. If luck enters, it will come in the form of the right person walking in and setting other wheels in motion.

And now, some comedic relief:

I stopped into a local gallery yesterday. Very local, meaning the aesthetic of the owner is more regionally influenced than my overall output. Still, she has been friendly and given me an opportunity to participate in a couple of her sponsored events where diverse perspectives are allowable. And like always, we chat for a bit and catch up. When she inquired, I told her about my upcoming exhibits. And then she asked, "How did you get those?" An odd question, or so I thought, and responded accordingly with "I give good head."

Okay, maybe not so funny, for I was not able to detect even a smirk, perhaps because she already had her back turned.

Blow jobs or nepotism: Is there a difference? And again, anecdotes abound.

Ah, the autonomy of alienating behavior!

So, perhaps I resist talk of chance, serendipity, grace and luck more out of chagrin.

Attitude, Boy! Attitude!

Anyway, I'm kicking the shit out of the free tables.

Now, if you'll excuse me, the paint is dry.

Addendum: The rejection emails for teaching positions have picked up in numbers. You might have figured this from the tone above. And quite frankly, there is more to say, particularly on the subject of skill, but I've run out of steam for the moment.

Texture

The frogs, the frogs, the frogs... I thought things had died down a few days ago, procreation achieved around. After all, they've been a-chirping for a couple months now. But no, the lullaby continues. And each day for the past week or so, as the dog and I walk by the pond, I stop and look for tadpoles. Nothing. Egg clusters? Maybe covered in algae. However, this morning I again saw a lone pollywog, perhaps the same one from a couple weeks ago, for it was larger. But just one.

The pond is at capacity, over it's banks if one considers seepage in the surrounding grasses past the berm and below the water line. We had a fair amount of rain last night and this morning, which I mention only to say that I should have mowed the lawn yesterday when I had the chance. Once a week until July when things finally get bone dry.

I did load the ex-mule boarders with compost. Three loads, which just about depleted the pile, all except for where the road-killed deer from this winter had yet to finish off.

"Are you sure you want to give them that much? Won't we need it?

"We're not growing a garden this year."

"What about for the yard? Don't we have to fill in some areas?"

"We have plenty of dirt for that. More than enough."

Yep, no garden. I'm torn. While it's nice to have the veggies, a lot of them I can't eat at the moment and the time spent weeding and such might be better spent readying the joint for sale. The word is out even though the farm isn't on the market quite yet. Still, we may have a couple coming from the Midwest next week to take a look. Bless their young, dreamer hearts. This despite not having a clear idea of where we'll go next. Of course, we could still be sitting on this place in two years, and each year we'll debate about the garden, I'm sure.

The job prospects? I'm glad you asked. Nothing. I went to the state job center last week, jumped through some preliminary hoops, scored well, and had a sit-down when it was suggested I might contact the Vocational Rehab office. I swear my dick reduced in size by 50% at that utterance. Could be fun, though: fodder.

Professional napper? It's that time. Just a short one, for I have to get my art in the mail for the show next month. Then it's back to getting my art on that online gallery I've mentioned. Stuff's there now: a few paintings and fewer photos. Yet, I've selected several more photos that may stand a chance. I'll link when it's all up and ready.

And I have to make some jello.

OK, go

I have posted a selection of my paintings, with dimensions and prices, on my flickr page. I've put them on that site for a short while before I create an account at an online gallery site, at which point the audience will be potentially larger, but I wanted to give friends first crack. See something you can't live without, let me know. We'll work something out. Thanks.

To what end?

Typically, when I go missing from the blogosphere it is for a very small handful of reasons: Life's in the shitter for that period and I resist sharing the worse; I'm in the shitter for an extended period; or, I'm working on something else that requires a bit of editorial attention and therefore my compositional energy. This week was mostly the latter.

The guy putting up my work in NYC next month needed verbiage. This is what I wrote Monday:

 

Nine years ago Spot left a respectable career as an artist in Chicago to farm organic vegetables and make art in the relative seclusion of rural Oregon. As one might imagine, much of farm labor is repetitive and tedious; yet, while this can be soul-crushing for some, a watchful, inspired eye and an over-active imagination can rise to and above the challenge to find a certain beauty, for a carrot, a basil leaf or eggplant has a purpose and place in the otherwise solitary and monotonous drudgery of Spot’s work day. Add to this that as he mowed pasture and crawled along the rows pulling weeds, he heard three voices in his head: an English gentleman who was rather condescending in his tone; an elderly African American with a bone to pick; and, a kinder, middle-aged woman. He listened, and although they were clear in their feelings, their words were unintelligible. To understand, he sought meaning on their level.

Spot brought all of this back to his studio as video, photography, sculpture and small paintings. Regarding the paintings, Spot has written: “Many of the marks I make are suggestive of letters of the alphabet, words, phrases, and even essays or correspondence. Like speaking in tongues but with a pen or brush, the decisions are made as one would write in cursive, and almost reflexively. (I have recently discovered that this type of work is called Asemic writing, meaning that it has no specific semantic content.) As many of these paintings and drawings are done on a horizontal aspect, they have developed a distinct landscape feel. Provisionally titled “For a Lack of Words,” the “writing” in this series call to mind such things as leaves falling from a tree or rows of crops in a field. This is, I like to think, Nature calling out for me to return to it, but in a subconscious language I can never fully understand.”

Over the last few years, this work has started to be seen, first in art exhibits with agricultural themes, then in Portland, Oregon’s alternative space (location deleted). This June, Spot will be exhibiting a multimedia installation (location, etc. deleted) in Salem, Massachusetts. The small paintings on paper in 'A' represent a small fraction of Spot’s most recent work.

Now, the above is a first draft, or close to it, and as is the practice around here, the copy gets kicked upstairs to the editorial department wherein suggestions and changes are made, which usually means that the final draft has little resemblance to the earlier attempt.

 

In 2003, Spot withdrew from the Chicago art scene to live and work on an organic farm with his spouse in the foothills of Oregon’s Cascade Range. Even though he has always felt a strong affinity to the land, Spot never purposefully made art that referenced nature. Nonetheless, as a farmer toiling long days in the fields, the natural world infiltrated his work.

In the series of paintings “Wa Not, Wh Not” showcased in A, Spot’s text-inspired method of painting shows a shift from his previous calligraphic experiments to a pastoral context. Spot elucidates, “I started as a writer, so many of the marks I make are suggestive of letters, words, or even essays. This method is more reflexive and abstract, much like speaking in tongues with a pen or brush. As many of the current paintings are done with a strong horizontal aspect, they have a distinct landscape feel. The ‘writing’ then calls to mind such things as falling leaves and fencerows, yet with a free-form approach that speaks to the ever-changing landscape, whether at our hand or by nature’s design.”

Spot’s work includes sculpture, installation, photography, and video. He has exhibited at (a longish list). In Oregon, he has exhibited statewide with Oregon State University, received an honorarium from the city of Salem’s Mayoral art series, and shown photography and video at the distinguished alternative space (location deleted)in Portland. This June, Spot will be presenting an installation of sculpture, video, and photography titled (info deleted) in Salem, Massachusetts. 

Even here, which represents the fourth or fifth draft, much has been added, only to be taken away as superfluous or tangential. And perhaps it's no surprise that much of the final version has been lifted from earlier artist's statements, cover letters, etc. After all, this is information that has withstood numerous earlier editing sessions.  

Now, I do not intend to disparage my editor, even though the journey to what is eventually sent out is not without some tense discussions. Nor am I looking for validation for the earlier draft, even though I think there are some tasty bits that form a story. As I turn to you, dear reader, what I suppose I hope you derive from this is some additional insight into this journey we have been on all these years.

And, as always, thank you for going along for the ride.

And then what?

70 mph

OOOOOOMMMMMANNNN

OK OK
No, wait.
How to do this justice?
OK OK

I go to the Oriental Medicine clinic, but not the one I usually go to. This one's smaller. Same folks run it, just smaller, fewer people in the waiting room. Two when I arrive. Now me. Lots of chairs to choose from but I like to sit with my back to the wall and face the window. Vet thing or guy thing, who can remember? but there's a high school let out somewhere nearby and it's a warm day, so there's that. I skip a chair from one woman and face another.

The woman next to me is a bit younger than me, but I can't say by how much. Maybe ten years. The one I'm facing is talking. She has taken off her gym shoes and is in her stocking feet. Maybe she thinks it's a cool or proper thing to do, like in an ashram or something. She's my age, maybe older, younger, but not by much. Shortish gray/white hair, mid-life in a lot of ways. She has the attention of the woman to my left and the very young receptionist and is talking about her upcoming colonoscopy. 

No sooner than I sit down, the talker asks the woman and me, "Have either one of you ever had a colonoscopy?" What the fuck? I ignore her question and the woman next to me begins to say something but the talker doesn't wait for an answer and continues on with a rundown on all she has to give up and do in preparation for the scope. No herbs for ten days, no grains or nuts or seeds. (By the sound of it these are all she lives on, on her way to Nirvana or some shit, I'm sure.) Then the "Holly" GoLytley and her neighbor has offered to take her for the exam but he's a forty-nine year old man who shouldn't have to sit there and wait for four hours until she's done. And here's where I pick up my first solid clue.

Never mind the guy shares my first name. She immediately shifts gears to the birth of her daughter and the incomplete epidural and rubs her abdomen in the place where she could still feel the labor still and just as quick back to the scope and the sedation and

"I'd really like to know a man's perspective on the whole thing... what it's like for them to have the procedure... but then guts are guts... but then there's pregnancy...

Thankfully my intern showed up just then. Unfortunately they put the woman in the room next to mine and the walls are thin.

I get stuck with a dozen needles and go to my happy place.

Just because doesn't mean

While in Hawaii, I received noticed via an alert from google, that my email account had been compromised by some nefarious Canadian IP, and it was suggested that I change my password immediately. Not really a suggestion, and I did what was recommended. Not really a recommendation either, but you get the drift.

Whether by coincidence or not, I began receiving emails from an addy I recognized but could not immediately put a name to, with a message that suggested that person had also been hacked, and so goes the circle. After the third such message, I hit the "phishing" alert and ended it. Or so I thought.

I awoke this morning to another name that rang a dim bell and I was suspicious, yet, since the preview made the message seem innocuous enough and art-related, I opened it to find this:

Have you ever painted? If so you learned nothing. If not, you speak of it as though it is complicated.

As I said, the name was vaguely familiar, so I did a search. I then knew who it was right away, yet still the message made little sense. And this was not the only email from this person.

P.S. By the way, you understand nothing of my work so please don't ever try in the future. It's not in you.

All the best,

M

The time stamps were 0230 and 0234 hrs.

Curious.

It is not uncommon for artists to work into the wee hours. As a matter of fact, most of my correspondence occurs as quick back-and-forths between midnight and two in the morning, which also means that it is as late as four or five elsewhere and these people are still awake. It's that precious quiet time we crave, when juices can flow uninterrupted. Sometimes distilled spirits as well. And I assumed the latter was involved in this case.

I wrote a review some ten months ago about an artist. It was a fairly positive reflection on his work, and while the artist needed some clarification about my say, we came to the amicable understanding that I indeed did like his work. The above emails were not from him yet concerned the review, for at the very end of the essay I made mention of another artist's work in the same gallery. Just a couple sentences, or maybe just one very long one, but again, it was positive. Still,  just to make certain, I reread the essay. I then followed up with a little more background on the guy. This is my response to him today:

Dear M,

I must admit some confusion as to the purpose of your emails of early this morning, although it seems that I have somehow offended you and your sensibilities.

Like you, I am an artist and a veteran (Navy Hospital Corpsman, aka medic 1973-1977). I am also a writer, which is to say that I exhibit in print my attempt to derive meaning, and to an admittedly lesser extent, an understanding of what an artist is presenting to me as a viewer. This requires a level of engagement that I take rather seriously. Although I do paint, I must chuckle because I do not consider myself a serious painter, nor accomplished — merely expressive in my stumbling for something elusive. I harbor no notion that I am ever wholly successful in my pursuits.. The complications to which you refer, as I am sure you are aware, lie within the artist.

As to the brief albeit positive comments I made about your work earlier last year (for I assume this is the impetus for your latter email), I meant no slight. I can assure you my motivations were honorable and made note of your work for closer examination at a later date. Might I suggest we arrange a conversation when you have your next exhibit?

Sincerely,

(Spot)

I'd offer to do a studio visit, but I think a public setting wiser.