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
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)