Not as bad as it looks.
Thursday, May 31, 2012
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
Why
A rough day, for the first half, anyway, reminding me I am not out of the woods yet and must watch my intake. Too bad, yet the ribs were done to perfection and the new sauce we tried suited the meat. Maybe it wasn't the pork, but the two beers or the handful of baked "fries." Or the pine pollen. Or the labor involved taking yet more limbs out of the flowering plums. (Thumper was a little skittish as well.) But nothing like twelve hours of sleep to put things right.
Hence, I still have a little steam in my engine at this late hour. Paint is drying, I've read a bit and managed a bit of the game we all love. And as you know, it's quite a good feeling when you flop the nut flush after calling a raise. As it turns out, he had two pair, which made getting pot committed for a jam while waiting for the river a bit of fun. Only wish it was real, except for Thumper.
Oh, there is more poker I could tell you about, how rough it was for the first six days of the week, losing four buy-ins in that time. A bad run made worse by becoming incredulous. Again, we all know, but sometimes not enough to know better for a while; and then, fortunately, we come to our senses and the run-good we all know returns as well, and three of those buy-ins are recouped in one short game.
No, poker is more of a distraction these days, meaning that I default to it after everything else has been attended to, at least to a degree that I can say it has been attended to in an ongoing fashion. Markers. An idea from reading that won't let me concentrate enough to read another word. The idea put to paint and then let dry or to jotted down to await further elucidation.
"I've seen higher scores, but you're up there." I've always been a good test taker, even being such a scatter brain. That's what they used to call it. Remember?
No matter. Eyes open.
The wife added another note at that level so I'd be sure to see it... among the other notes?
But I didn't come here to tell you this, though it may explain a lot, stylistically. No, I wanted to say that the cottonwood seeds are dusting the pavement, the frogs are still chirping away, the Christmas tree farmer sprayed for weeds, a new house is going up on our road, I missed a scotch broom out back when I sprayed last week, my mower blades need leveled and
Hence, I still have a little steam in my engine at this late hour. Paint is drying, I've read a bit and managed a bit of the game we all love. And as you know, it's quite a good feeling when you flop the nut flush after calling a raise. As it turns out, he had two pair, which made getting pot committed for a jam while waiting for the river a bit of fun. Only wish it was real, except for Thumper.
Oh, there is more poker I could tell you about, how rough it was for the first six days of the week, losing four buy-ins in that time. A bad run made worse by becoming incredulous. Again, we all know, but sometimes not enough to know better for a while; and then, fortunately, we come to our senses and the run-good we all know returns as well, and three of those buy-ins are recouped in one short game.
No, poker is more of a distraction these days, meaning that I default to it after everything else has been attended to, at least to a degree that I can say it has been attended to in an ongoing fashion. Markers. An idea from reading that won't let me concentrate enough to read another word. The idea put to paint and then let dry or to jotted down to await further elucidation.
"I've seen higher scores, but you're up there." I've always been a good test taker, even being such a scatter brain. That's what they used to call it. Remember?
No matter. Eyes open.
The wife added another note at that level so I'd be sure to see it... among the other notes?
But I didn't come here to tell you this, though it may explain a lot, stylistically. No, I wanted to say that the cottonwood seeds are dusting the pavement, the frogs are still chirping away, the Christmas tree farmer sprayed for weeds, a new house is going up on our road, I missed a scotch broom out back when I sprayed last week, my mower blades need leveled and
Friday, May 25, 2012
Waiting for the coffee to kick in
Another review is in the can, which means that I've done what I can and await my editor/publisher to do his part. I've taken liberties that will seem familiar to readers here. It remains to be seen what parts make it to the site. At any rate, I'll let you know when it's up.
The sun is out for the first time in several days, and had I not been up until the wee hours writing the above, I would be outside putting the chainsaw through some damp, heavy branches. A fence is in immanent danger from fir boughs and the flowering plums continue to sag across the drive. I am avoiding the inevitable for the latter. They are not producing leaves in the lower branches, and the number of those lower branches gets higher every year. A half-cord of wood is not reason enough without a suitable replacement.
Otherwise, there is not much else to report. And I shall not burden you more with my to-do list.
Well, maybe just a little...
Addendum: When I finished writing the above, I signed into the sharing app my editor and I use. I saw that he was editing the piece. The guy is good... very good, and I must admit I'm getting a kick watching the process.
The sun is out for the first time in several days, and had I not been up until the wee hours writing the above, I would be outside putting the chainsaw through some damp, heavy branches. A fence is in immanent danger from fir boughs and the flowering plums continue to sag across the drive. I am avoiding the inevitable for the latter. They are not producing leaves in the lower branches, and the number of those lower branches gets higher every year. A half-cord of wood is not reason enough without a suitable replacement.
Otherwise, there is not much else to report. And I shall not burden you more with my to-do list.
Well, maybe just a little...
Addendum: When I finished writing the above, I signed into the sharing app my editor and I use. I saw that he was editing the piece. The guy is good... very good, and I must admit I'm getting a kick watching the process.
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
Of consequence
The eastern sky showed promise, as did the west, for a sunset worth putting the book aside and going into the house to fetch my camera. It wasn't quite the ideal time for capturing the color of the clouds, so I set down to read a bit more. I'd wait another ten minutes or so. But the low clouds had a different idea (if one can accept such a notion, a higher power and all of that) and so I looked elsewhere.
The book? "Art & Fear" by David Bayles and Ted Orland. An easy read about the things a young artist can anticipate as they try to make a go of art after school. It should be required reading for every undergrad art student, and judging by this edition, the fourteenth printing, it was making its way into many hands for a while, at least until 2002.
An easy read because I have started it twice now, getting more than halfway through it once before without remembering much of the advice it has to offer the second time around. Not because I skimmed the first time or that it is not a useful book, but because much of what it discussed I already knew. But this time I read further, almost to the end. I imagine I will finish it before bed, for the second half deals more with things pertinent to this stage of my life. Regardless, I do wish I would have read this book when it was first published in 1993.
I received my MFA in 1992. Then, like now, I wanted to teach, not only to make a livable salary but also doing something I loved, which was discuss ideas about a wide range of things, which is probably more likely to happen in an art program than any other field. Everything is fodder for the imaginative mind. Yet, I quickly learned that people with MFAs are fodder themselves, given a class to teach here and there, maybe even a full load, but at a lower pay that barely covers bills, and so the burn-out rate is huge. Conveniently, there are more MFAs waiting, ready and willing to pick up the fallen flag and march forth.
Still, I thought I was different, admittedly a conceit artists must believe to persevere, and perhaps a myth perpetuated within the very system in which I wanted to remain. The energy given off by idealism. And perhaps best left to the young.
The book describes it all too well, the inner workings of the system, things of which I had little idea. And now that another hiring season has passed without an interview, let alone a request for letters of reference (and I had some heavy-hitters ready to write them), I believe that I am best served by filing this desire under that bursting file, "Pipe Dreams."
Shame, really. But passion is not enough. Nor is a modicum of success in this arena. Nor is hope. Not that I have lost any of these. And if the book is reliable, I may be better off as an artist to not be teaching. No, it's more what to do with this life lesson, one better learned at a much younger age.
Such lessons instill a pragmatism, a talent, it seems, that to-date has been elusive. And although I paid off my student loans many, many years ago, there remains a cost.
In a way, this blog is emblematic. Before writing tonight, I spent a couple hours looking at three different website for jobs in my region. I do this to some degree nearly every day. As one might suspect, there is not much to choose from for a fifty-seven year old guy who can write halfway decent prose, knows a bit about farming and who otherwise spends his time taking photographs and painting with childlike impertinence. Can you imagine how hard it is for someone like me to inquire about a floor job at a hardware store chain? And I don't mean this in some sort of elitist way. I have been a janitor, a security guard and a stock clerk, all jobs I found worthwhile. But I was younger then. I can't shake the feeling that an old codger applying for those same jobs, even if I had the stamina, doesn't come across as damaged goods. And so, I turn to this space, a place of comfort and relative security. A place where I have a say.
Ah, so tragic! Perhaps a taint akin to pathos. Still, my few readers, know that I have not given up. I have something to show for this life, no matter what turns lie ahead. I recognize beauty when I see it, and furthermore, manage to make something of it that might — for there are no guarantees — endure.
Plus, today I took the perfect photo for the blog header.
Now, if I can only figure out how to make it into a header. So much left to learn....
Sunday, May 20, 2012
Take heed
Yesterday's sky said rain today, a bit of a spit is all;
and self-congratulated to have mowed Friday
for predictions point to more all week,
perhaps into June, which is normal.
Fifteen dry days this month ties a record,
and the ever-hopefuls planted gardens accordingly
too early, or so I maintain, no plot sowed myself to verify.
Two gophers trapped this week,
and in that the compost pile is smaller
without the assistance of mules, they were left
in their tunnels. One in the catacombs created by another
that lay dead from a couple weeks before.
A work-around yet of some convenience.
Similarly, the prodigious and feral male feline,
cornered under the porch and back lit, in profile
and at close range, still growling as I hooked him
with a shovel, scooped and walked a ways
down the road ditch,
far enough to not be reminded.
And,
because I chose not to mention this tragicomedy upon her return from errands,
it was with some relief that a proposed walk around the property to inventory flora
was postponed by something we ate.
It is a perfect day to change the oil in the tractors, but it won't happen. Or clean the studio. Instead, I will bbq a chicken and asparagus while listening to beautiful music. Procrastination is as self-fulfilling as short-sightedness and tomorrow is never too late to suffer.
When asked of absolutes,
Jesus replied, "Watch."
and self-congratulated to have mowed Friday
for predictions point to more all week,
perhaps into June, which is normal.
Fifteen dry days this month ties a record,
and the ever-hopefuls planted gardens accordingly
too early, or so I maintain, no plot sowed myself to verify.
Two gophers trapped this week,
and in that the compost pile is smaller
without the assistance of mules, they were left
in their tunnels. One in the catacombs created by another
that lay dead from a couple weeks before.
A work-around yet of some convenience.
Similarly, the prodigious and feral male feline,
cornered under the porch and back lit, in profile
and at close range, still growling as I hooked him
with a shovel, scooped and walked a ways
down the road ditch,
far enough to not be reminded.
And,
because I chose not to mention this tragicomedy upon her return from errands,
it was with some relief that a proposed walk around the property to inventory flora
was postponed by something we ate.
It is a perfect day to change the oil in the tractors, but it won't happen. Or clean the studio. Instead, I will bbq a chicken and asparagus while listening to beautiful music. Procrastination is as self-fulfilling as short-sightedness and tomorrow is never too late to suffer.
When asked of absolutes,
Jesus replied, "Watch."
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
Tuesday, May 15, 2012
Proportions
The elk jerky is quite good. All lean and peppery.
I needed a good protein source, and by "good" I mean tasty, for I get a lot of protein already. I could almost say too much but I'm not certain that is the case. In a ratio to my carb intake at this time though, protein is overwhelming. It's this gut diet, you see. Think modified Atkins. Consequently, I weigh less now than I have in fifteen years. Maybe eighteen. But I had help before the diet, though not by choice.
But enough of that.
Twelve more gallons of the blue stuff was sprayed around the place yesterday. The effects are apparent this morning. So much bed straw, a fair amount of poison hemlock and thistle. At times I feel like just bombing everything green and starting over. Of course, it would be a battle I'd lose for there are enough seeds in the dirt to keep the "plants misplaced" coming back for fifty years. So, I'll settle for cosmetics. This evening I'll get out the weed whacker for some more trimming around the outbuildings. And later this week, maybe even as early as tomorrow, I'll start in on the blackberries.
"No, not the blackberries!" one might protest. No, not all of them. Just most of them, which will still leave us with gallons of berries this summer. And the berries I don't pick will get eaten by the birds so there will be plenty of seeds shat about to keep the next owner of this place (or even me, if we don't find a buyer for a while) busy for years to come.
If parentheticals can act as transitionals, I can tell you about some orchardists up the road who have had their place on the market for three years. Age, you understand, makes this type of work harder with each passing year, and they are both ready to kick back some, she to paint and he to continue with his first love, the study of rocks. Anyway, their place is now in escrow, an offer accepted by folks who first offered two years ago at an absurdly low price. All have evidently come to a better understanding of what the market will bear.
Meanwhile, houses in some Portland neighborhoods are staying on the market for no more than ten days and offers are being accepted over the asking price.
By way of a nod to all that is good, the bluebirds are feeding their young in the boxes we put up in the back ten acres.
I needed a good protein source, and by "good" I mean tasty, for I get a lot of protein already. I could almost say too much but I'm not certain that is the case. In a ratio to my carb intake at this time though, protein is overwhelming. It's this gut diet, you see. Think modified Atkins. Consequently, I weigh less now than I have in fifteen years. Maybe eighteen. But I had help before the diet, though not by choice.
But enough of that.
Twelve more gallons of the blue stuff was sprayed around the place yesterday. The effects are apparent this morning. So much bed straw, a fair amount of poison hemlock and thistle. At times I feel like just bombing everything green and starting over. Of course, it would be a battle I'd lose for there are enough seeds in the dirt to keep the "plants misplaced" coming back for fifty years. So, I'll settle for cosmetics. This evening I'll get out the weed whacker for some more trimming around the outbuildings. And later this week, maybe even as early as tomorrow, I'll start in on the blackberries.
"No, not the blackberries!" one might protest. No, not all of them. Just most of them, which will still leave us with gallons of berries this summer. And the berries I don't pick will get eaten by the birds so there will be plenty of seeds shat about to keep the next owner of this place (or even me, if we don't find a buyer for a while) busy for years to come.
If parentheticals can act as transitionals, I can tell you about some orchardists up the road who have had their place on the market for three years. Age, you understand, makes this type of work harder with each passing year, and they are both ready to kick back some, she to paint and he to continue with his first love, the study of rocks. Anyway, their place is now in escrow, an offer accepted by folks who first offered two years ago at an absurdly low price. All have evidently come to a better understanding of what the market will bear.
Meanwhile, houses in some Portland neighborhoods are staying on the market for no more than ten days and offers are being accepted over the asking price.
By way of a nod to all that is good, the bluebirds are feeding their young in the boxes we put up in the back ten acres.
Sunday, May 13, 2012
Not much of anything
The Mallard hen and ducklings are nowhere to be seen. And like last year, they posed for one photo shoot and were gone. It seems that even the drake is a little perplexed as he returns to the pond for several hours every day.
Other than that, not much to report. I painted blue the tansy and scotch broom I could find yesterday. Today is going to be warm, so herbicide, do your magic! Sun, do yours as well.
Smoking three pounds of elk strips for jerky today.
Other than that, not much to report. I painted blue the tansy and scotch broom I could find yesterday. Today is going to be warm, so herbicide, do your magic! Sun, do yours as well.
Smoking three pounds of elk strips for jerky today.
Friday, May 11, 2012
For your pleasure flock together
Call me Crazy, up this hour, but I've been working. Not as extreme if you consider that I took a two hour nap in the early evening, yet maybe Stupid because I went to bed when Thumper told me to after pushing, pushing, pushing it with an early rise, hitting the road, hopping from gallery to gallery, then a meeting with my new employer/editor, all the while mainlining caffeine. Excitable boy.
Reminds me of a story. When I was in high school, the gym-basketball coach/Civic-Economics Teacher, knowing that I lived on the grounds of the local state hospital told of person getting a flat tire along the road in front of that institution on a rainy day. Having removed the damaged tire and retrieved the spare from the trunk, he found that he has somehow kicked the lugs into the water in the ditch and cannot find them in the murk and mud. At about this time a mental patient strolls by and asks the matter.
"I've lost the lugs and I'm now in a fix."
"No problem." the resident says, "Just remove a lug from each of the other tires and put them on where three of the five you lost would go. That'll get you back into town."
"Hey, what a great idea! I never would have thought of that. And, if you don't mind me asking, then, why is a smart guy like yourself in a mental institution?"
To which the patient replied, "I may be crazy but I'm not stupid."
Heard that one before, have you? It loses its subtlety the older I get.
I know crazy when I see it. I can almost smell it and can spot a Thorazine shuffle from three blocks away. So, this is a gimme:
Worth a chuckle, perhaps. Without clicking on the picture, let me describe the finer parts. There are KEEP OUT signs in both the car and house windows. An old mattress springs and what's left of a mattress frame lean against the tailgate of the car. The windows have a grating on the inside and one is boarded over with a piece of plywood.
I have driven past this house many times. On occasion I have seen the car full of stuff. I mean full, not only as it sat in the driveway but around town. The woman who lives there sometimes sits outside and reads a book. I've assumed that she has a couple problems, one being paranoia and the other, because of the car filled with stuff, a problem with hoarding.
This is a small town and the adage holds true. It took asking one person... only one... about who this woman was. My mechanic. "She comes in and buys her spark plugs from me, then goes up to D&W to get a distributor cap and the wires she buys at NAPA. Doesn't want folks to know what she's up to, I imagine."
He also told me the car is sometimes filled because she removes all of what she perceives as valuable from her house whenever she goes someplace. Knowing this, among other things, the person I asked told me that she parks the way she does because of him.
"I was out test-driving a repair one day and I saw B down from her house about 200 feet talking to neighbor, so I pulled into her driveway and sat there long enough to make sure she saw that someone was in her drive. Ever since that day...
The "among other things?" She is supposedly writing a novel based on the history of the area. I told him should he speak to her again, to tell her he knows a writer who would be very interested in the manuscript.
I would.
Reminds me of a story. When I was in high school, the gym-basketball coach/Civic-Economics Teacher, knowing that I lived on the grounds of the local state hospital told of person getting a flat tire along the road in front of that institution on a rainy day. Having removed the damaged tire and retrieved the spare from the trunk, he found that he has somehow kicked the lugs into the water in the ditch and cannot find them in the murk and mud. At about this time a mental patient strolls by and asks the matter.
"I've lost the lugs and I'm now in a fix."
"No problem." the resident says, "Just remove a lug from each of the other tires and put them on where three of the five you lost would go. That'll get you back into town."
"Hey, what a great idea! I never would have thought of that. And, if you don't mind me asking, then, why is a smart guy like yourself in a mental institution?"
To which the patient replied, "I may be crazy but I'm not stupid."
Heard that one before, have you? It loses its subtlety the older I get.
I know crazy when I see it. I can almost smell it and can spot a Thorazine shuffle from three blocks away. So, this is a gimme:
I have driven past this house many times. On occasion I have seen the car full of stuff. I mean full, not only as it sat in the driveway but around town. The woman who lives there sometimes sits outside and reads a book. I've assumed that she has a couple problems, one being paranoia and the other, because of the car filled with stuff, a problem with hoarding.
This is a small town and the adage holds true. It took asking one person... only one... about who this woman was. My mechanic. "She comes in and buys her spark plugs from me, then goes up to D&W to get a distributor cap and the wires she buys at NAPA. Doesn't want folks to know what she's up to, I imagine."
He also told me the car is sometimes filled because she removes all of what she perceives as valuable from her house whenever she goes someplace. Knowing this, among other things, the person I asked told me that she parks the way she does because of him.
"I was out test-driving a repair one day and I saw B down from her house about 200 feet talking to neighbor, so I pulled into her driveway and sat there long enough to make sure she saw that someone was in her drive. Ever since that day...
The "among other things?" She is supposedly writing a novel based on the history of the area. I told him should he speak to her again, to tell her he knows a writer who would be very interested in the manuscript.
I would.
Tuesday, May 8, 2012
New(s)
There's a reason we call it "news," although it does not necessarily refer to a completely original event.
That's the pseudo-brainy thought for the day, so obvious I should start over. But in all of the excitement, I won't.
Wait around long enough and something will happen. That's a good rule of thumb out here in the sticks. I often get the urge to write a post, but usually while I'm mowing the lawn or some similar chore. I think, "I could write about running out of gas and then spilling over when I thought the tank would easily take what remained in the five-gallon can." But that's what other forms of social media are for, which is why I don't. Of course, I just did, but for other purposes.
I just had a little bit left to mow. One strip. Yet, now with a full tank, there was grass out toward the barns that needed cut as well, so I headed out there. I started at the opposite end from where the pond is, and I mention this only because I then headed toward the pond, up a small embankment, onto the driveway, hung a left to come back down and saw the ducklings. The mowing came to an end for the day.
It's not a very good photo. I needed to stop it down more or maybe push the ISO up a notch for these little buggers. They were looking for Mom, who was nowhere to be found. Hopefully, they'll still be there tomorrow and I'll use my 100 mm lens accordingly. Mom and Dad showed up as I was headed back to the house. I probably scared them off with the mower.
And, I have a new writing gig. A bi-weekly column that will highlight single pieces of art in exhibits, the one piece that stands out in an otherwise fairly unremarkable show, six or so little snippets at a time. Now I just need a name for it. I'm thinking "Spot On."
There's also a light at the end of the tunnel, so to speak, on the health issues. I'm visiting the loo a lot less due to a magic potion and precisely placed needles. It's a welcome change but there's an aspect of the inconvenience that I'll rather miss, and that is, as unseemly as it may be, familiarizing myself with more public facilities. Even so, I believe I have enough photos now for a series.
I'll leave you with the latest.
Sunday, May 6, 2012
Wednesday, May 2, 2012
By association
If you bothered to read the link in the last post, you might be interested in another perspective. This guy's a heavy-hitter. I wonder if he reads me.
Matters of taste.
I knew what the sound represented right away when it woke me this morning, a scratching, scratching, scratching, but in that first fog could not place where. I sat up, looked around and focused. Outside the bedroom window? The roof? The cat heard it too. Scratch, scratch, scratch. In the ceiling just above my head. The same place as a couple years ago. Most likely a mouse honed in on another mouse's urine smell and thought this a good location. I'll be baiting the attic.
Certainly not much new here. Another essay. This one a bit rambunctious, even though, not certain foul words would fly, toned down a bit from earlier drafts. Still, based on what I've read from earlier discussions about this artist, there may still be an opportunity to let loose a few.
But no, not much new. Seasons cycle, which is sometimes enough excitement. The mallards are back, or rather, some mallards have taken up residency on the pond again. The hen is in the tall grass or briars somewhere near and the drake is still hanging around, meaning that the clutch is still being built. It is still a mystery where last year's mama and babies got off to after sighting them once. No evidence of feathers or even spent egg shells. Anyway, here's wishing them luck.
And the first opportunity I get, that stray tomcat is going to taste some lead. The compost pile is hungry.
Certainly not much new here. Another essay. This one a bit rambunctious, even though, not certain foul words would fly, toned down a bit from earlier drafts. Still, based on what I've read from earlier discussions about this artist, there may still be an opportunity to let loose a few.
But no, not much new. Seasons cycle, which is sometimes enough excitement. The mallards are back, or rather, some mallards have taken up residency on the pond again. The hen is in the tall grass or briars somewhere near and the drake is still hanging around, meaning that the clutch is still being built. It is still a mystery where last year's mama and babies got off to after sighting them once. No evidence of feathers or even spent egg shells. Anyway, here's wishing them luck.
And the first opportunity I get, that stray tomcat is going to taste some lead. The compost pile is hungry.
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