Launch (Original doodle)

"Launch"

Doodle Art

9" X 12"

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Pay attention

Few words are more annoying then "It might be flyable".

The world comes to a grinding halt when they are uttered.  Should I make dinner? Is there time to walk the dog? Are we barbecuing with the family this weekend?  Can the parents come over for the holiday?

Well, that depends, it might be flyable.  And it really doesn't help that there have been a slew of accidents the last couple of years and I have been chewing the inside of my cheek raw wondering about the ROR of this sport...

It has been a long  month of torrential rain.  With a lot of the extra time on my hands, I have begun running with my little dog regularly, doodling up a storm, packing healthy lunches...
Sagely I started to consider and acknowledge... it may be time to part ways with my beloved M3.

Last night the rain cleared.  It was four weeks to the day since I was last in the air.  After getting off work, unpacking my cooler, I started dinner and ate the moment my partner was home too.  Changed shoes and took little dog for a walk/run.  Towards the end, where I could have kept going for the extra half mile, I saw a wing lift up above a roof....

Well, no harm in heading back to the house a little sooner...

I might as well wear an extra sweater and bring my gloves...

Just in case, I'll put my gear in the car too...

I pulled up in the parking lot and getting out, I could see the wind was cross so I didn't hurry. I visited with folks until, out of the corner of my eye, I watched the wind sock straighten out.

Somehow, I was hooked in before I thought about it and off launch.

Probably a lower bench flight I mused, it was a little late to catch an upper bench flight.  Once off launch, I headed right; dodging the crowd that always goes left.  There is more lift to the southern end but with more obstacles fighting over it, little room to use it. By going right, if there is lift, it is mine to turn in.

I looked down and see between the thick stubby trees below my feet, a doe and fawn.  We made eye contact. I smiled and waved.

"Werido" said the flick of her ears as she dismissed me and went back to munching.

I laugh as I dance, gaining a teeny bit more altitude with each gentle flat figure eight.   I spent twenty quiet minutes in the rocking waves until I saw I was above everyone and in the lower lift band at last.

I swung my self over to the southern end.  Benching above the parking lot's hot asphalt isn't an option.  It spits up eky hot heat and can be nasty business -if you are tempted, resist!. High above the crowd, and just behind the restrooms,  I pull an easy-going 360 to turn in a fat rotating thermal and head to the back ridge.

My heart always accelerates when I do this because sometimes, this little M3 of mine, reminds me it's an M3 and to pay the hell attention.

A third of the way there -Boom!  My left tip is pulled up and forward, I hear the right tip curl and my related hand relaxes in response.  Ooooo.... don't look, weight shift left just enough and right pressure is back with an audible snap.  Good, weight shift right, 180 from the hill and I am in the upper lift band.

PS: I am a total chicken about the idea of "blow back" (i.e. getting sucked over the ridge) so I am always way more forward than most folks.  Plenty of room for all of this.

All right, time to check; how is my forward air speed? Count to ten slowly, watching... and yes, all is good.  Cool, let's do some figure eights and climb up.

PS PS: This is all going by click-click-click in my head, maybe a whole minute in total time.

Ok, it is not so quiet up here.  ;)

But... then, in minutes, the glass off is up here too.  Buttery air; gentle, thick, welcoming air.  The kind of air I, klutz of the world, am graceful in.

At the end, as I flew out to leave the lift band, I leaned back and looked up and smiled at my wing.   Maybe we do have to part ways sometime but not at this time.  For now, I will keep flying.

PS PS PS If you are an instructor, I am totally cool with feedback on my piloting decisions. 

Rainy Day Doodles (Original Work)

Showers and Flowers
11" X 14"

   

Gir and Elephant - Besties
11" X 14"
Finished

       

    

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A Dream and a Question

It was cold, it was warm; sunlight broke intermittently through low clouds and blinded the shadows lying on the ground. 

“Turn around”, the intensity of the whisper burned the chilled sidewalk.  Although unheard, she paused, heart heavy in her wrists, the weight of his eyes on her shoulders; she curled her fingers into knots and just like that, those three moments between them became forever.  The stars marked it, the light watched it and the wind would carry it with her always.

Are we separate wings on the butterfly? Carrying life between us in the disguise of a body?  Or is that the illusion and we are each the butterfly in its entirety?

If she had turned around, would the moment have climaxed to perfection?  Or would the frailty of it been exposed, letting it fall like a house of cards?

Are the longings, desires between two people, are they piano notes hung in the sky to be turned into children’s bedtime stories? Are they just legends that could never be lived in ‘real’ life? Are they mirages we seem doomed to chase throughout our lives?

Is she frozen because she wants to turn or because she knows he wants her to turn? Are they reflecting each other?

Or is the Moment worth more than anything else? 

"Two"

7.5" X 7".5

Gouche Watercolor on loose paper

No Hands! (Original Work/ Doodle)

Finished

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Doodle (Original Art)

  

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A Walk in Gold (Original Art)

I started this piece a couple of months ago, 18 March 2015.

Just as I finished the back drop I 'lost' it; it being my idea, the moment and the emotion I was following; it completely evaporated.   Over the last few weeks I occasionally wander over to impatiently stare at it for a minute.  Sometimes I even pick up a paint brush and twirl it in my fingers. But nope, nothing flickers. 

Until this last Sunday morning.... ;)  I woke up at 5am from a dream.  In the dream I was walking, barefoot, in the glow of orange and yellow; I was in a field bathed in light.  Chortling to myself, I gleefully knew exactly where I wanted to be.  

First things first. Caffeine!    

I slipped out of bed, into yoga pants and down the stairs to flick on my coffee pot.  As it finished brewing, Char came to inquire. I poured a mug and I tossed my lovely cat on my shoulder to head back to my sacred place of plants, sunlight and brushes.  Char took his seat next to me on the chair and was out in two minutes.   

Five hours later, around 10am, I finished the sunrise portion and sliced the heavy paper to fit onto this 9" X 12"  canvas backdrop. Now to work on the second part of the piece.  I will re-post when done. 

6 May 2015 Done   :) 

'A Walk in Gold'

9" X 12" X .75"

Available 

Night Terrors

Night terrors....

Ugh. 

Right???

If you haven't yet, take a moment to internet search "Night Terrors". This search results in a plethora of information about "pavor nocturnus".  I find it validating so many of us are gripped by our lethal imaginations and evolutionary inability to literally 'run away'. 

I have a rampantly active imagination.  I hope you all do too.  I know Life is interesting and fantastic just as it is but! If you also add an over the top back story to every tree you happen to meet -whoa, let me just tell you, now Life is Mind Blowing! 

(PS it is 4:25am, not anywhere around three am so this can lighthearted.  I had this particular night terror dream a couple of months ago. I woke up at 3:02am in such a regressively childlike state, I rudely woke up poor Charlie for a badly needed cuddle.  Thank goodness for cats.)

(PS.PS. If you decide to read this post through, I would love to hear your two cents and/or your own one.)

Anyway. Here is my reoccurring dream/ aka night terror.  

The setting for each is always in a house reflective of the real world one I live in at the time of the dream.  This imaginary house is devoid of furniture, wall hangings or color.  There are no light fixtures.  The only illumination comes from the windows where a vague wet grey light pulses in. The floors are always wooden slats that feel soft under foot; like I am walking on rain softened earth.  

My breath tastes stale and heavy in my mouth, sliding down my throat and into my lungs like thin plain spaghetti.  Sticky and un-buttered. The feeling of dread creeps around my legs in a fog of sweaty suppressed shivers and I walk quietly, room to room; again and again. 

It took a while, until I was much older, to realize what it was I am doing in this dream. Sometime in my teens, I realized I am checking, and re-checking, each room to make sure it has not been breached.  Most of the time, my anxiety stays at the same unchanging, distressingly high levels for the duration of the dream; a weird flat line that is exhausting but manageable. 

It is only when security has failed, that there is a sudden escalation of both terror and a contradictory determination.  What is really an adrenaline kicker starter is when I open my eyes to this dream and I know I have started the whole thing in a full scale alarm.

Again, most of the time, the walls hold 'It' securely outside.  Perhaps my vigilance keeps them strong.  Perhaps the silence of the house makes it less noticeable and vulnerable to attack.  Whatever the reason, the house is usually able to withstand the nasty imminent mold from contaminating the ghostly empty space within. 

Tonight, as I hung out with this amazing talking mushroom the color of thundercloud about how to train my hair to hold a curl, I heard a noise behind us…  Turning to look, I accidentally shifted my dream, parting the sunlight aside like a curtain and I stepped into The House.

My heart slams into my ribs with a force that knocks the wind from me.  Gratefully, this is a dream.  Breathing, while nice and settling, is not necessary. 

“It” is inside.  The helpful floors and my long skirts silence my quick steps as I hunt for the source of the intrusion, room to room, again and again.  

I find “It” in the front room, by the back wall, curled in the corner, rocking.  Matted floor length black hair drapes across the slight female form and feeling me approach, “It” rises to challenge my rebuke; uncoiling in a joint less motion of malice and decay.  The hands are spidery and the veins are black; the skin tightens and loosens in a fluid motion that reminds me of a marsh mellow about to be exploded in a microwave.

What is the most paralyzing aspect of “It”?

There is no face.  There are no features, no eyes, no mouth.  Instead there is only a muted white wash out where there should be some form of identity but there just isn’t.  The only sounds I have heard is a rusted intake of breath, a wail of despair and a laugh of hatred.  I do not know where I have conjured up this figure but I do know to avoid horror movies.  I really really really do not need more material for this.

When I was small, I would run and many times, manage to get out of the house.  Sometimes, the trees right outside would bend their branches down to lift me up and away from being followed.  After all, as we all know, trees are incorruptible to darkness and full of light.

Remember, the house is reflective of whatever house I lived in at the time of the dream.  Sometimes I lived in places where there were very few trees that had the strength or height to help me.

Then there were the worst versions of this night terror.  In these ones, I would open my eyes to the dream and find I was lying as if I were in bed (except there is no furniture, so I am not sure how that works).

I would know instantly that “It” was already in the house and had rotted the walls.  "It" had grown like fungus and everything was in ruin.

This variety of my lovely well known night terror mostly happened when I was little.  The first few times I actually managed to wake up screaming but after I while I started to think about it and ask 'What is a shadow most afraid of? Always?' 

Light.

I discovered that when I would find myself “in bed”, locked in suffocating fear,  if I called to my friends; the Wind Woman, the trees, the moon and unseen sun; to the earth, water, fire and my dream guide, they would always come, bringing their light.

I called them my angels, saying “Eight angels in the night, Eight angels to chase away fright, two at foot, two at head, one above, one below and two on either sides, surround me with your light!”  And they would come, every time, unrolling their light like canvas to the friend on the other side.  They would hold the wide ribbons of light between them and push back the darkness.

***Okay -pause.  Seriously! IMAGINATION is fantastic right???***

As I grew older, I became angry; this was my house, this was my space.  Strange and empty perhaps, the floors were my friends and the eerie light was from the over sized moon.  What business did "It" have to be intruding on my space?

On the rare occasion that I must call out to my friends, they now ‘throw’ their light into me.  Now, when I find “It” I say nothing, I hold my arms open and the light bursts from my chest, my face and hands - the radiance blinds me and  pummels “It” through the walls and out away into the sky.

Tonight, as I found "It" in the corner of the front room, as it slithered to me, I didn't hesitate.  I stepped forward, using the light breaking from my hands, I threw "It" out of the window and wrapped the house with the bands of light to prevent reentry. Then I wandered off to hang out with Char - interesting side note, Charlie is always with me in the dream; he has been since the first night in my apartment.

Even though, or maybe because, this night terror still comes by a few times a year, I find it an important reminder.  This night terror is symbolic of how I see my friends and family in the real world.  How I hope they see me. That, when faceless, nameless terror shows up on my real world doorstep, I know I can call out to my angels and asking for their strengths and experiences, to help me cast out unwelcome shadows.

There are few forces as powerful and mind blowing as the positive energy we can receive, and give, in our beloved relationships.

The Life in Her (Original Art)

"The Life in Her"

18" X 24" 

This was two separate pieces; Loose canvas mounted on canvas stretched over a board)
Acrylic

(Twitter)

Cannon Ball! (Original Art)

I painted this a while ago and while it wasn't quite finished I couldn't figure out why.  After a few days of chewing it over, I hung it on a wall that I walk by a bit.  Stubborn paintings eventually do come around and tell me what it is that needs to be finished.














Yesterday, while walking by I parted a distracted glance at it and at last had my 'AH HA!' moment

'Cannon BALL!!' 

18" X 24" X 1.5"Available

Prints of Artwork Available

A Walk in a Dream is Available online.

Winter is Coming is Available online

The Summer with Grandpa (2012)

In 2012, I got a job in a city by my parents and because of this job, my monthly visits via family dinners with my Grandpa became weekly and then bi-weekly visits.

On my first non-family-dinner, on-my-lunch-break-visit  I hung out with my mother in the kitchen for a bit, who as a primary caregiver, was a bit hungry for company too.

Then I wandered into his sitting room to ask how he was.  In reply he turned the TV volume up. I shrugged, sat down and ignored him in return.  I pretended my Grandma was in the room and thought about all the things I would have wanted to ask her or maybe tell her. Idly I noticed the show was a western film, an old one and watching the backdrops I asked out loud, "Was this filmed in Utah?"

He glanced sideways at me; (well, now I knew his hearing aids were in), "Who the hell cares?"

I didn't mean to but I grinned.  He caught the grin and accidentally grinned too before we both resumed ignoring the other.  I left after about half an hour, kissing his face as I went and saying I would see him Friday after work.  He didn't answer.

He was, understandably, a bit suspicious.  I wondered if he wondered if this grandchild was here for patronizing pity or for money? What was the catch? We had never been close.  Our prior monthly visits since Grandma died in 2008 were a mixed bag, sometimes he amiable, sometimes he wasn't. Plus I had always brought a baked bribe.  He loved my desserts and I was showing up empty handed.

He had lived his life as an entrepreneur and was good with his money.  He disliked authority, distrusted government and had a low tolerance for nonsense. He'd always had wandering feet and an itching to get on the road. Now, ninety six years old, he still possessed his strong mind and independence but his increasingly frail frame didn't support either aspects of his character properly. Which made him grumpy.

At least I think it made him grumpy but that may have just been one more contributory reason for grumpiness. In all of my memories of the man as a kid, I think the only time I saw him not grumpy was when he was in his garage or planning a trip.

The catch was I wanted to know him.  I missed my grandmother -a lot. As my sole surviving grandparent, I had decided he was to be inflicted with my determined company. I don't have a lot in common with most of my family.  I felt that he and I did have some things in common so I wanted to know him.

I came back on Friday.  The moment I walked in my parents ditched for a late late lunch together, something that was rare due to the necessity someone always be near him.  Mom patted my shoulder as they went past and pointed to his sitting room.  I wandered in.  He was napping.

Honestly a nap sounded nice.  I set a timer on my phone, sat down in the adjacent recliner, kicked the foot rest up and closed my eyes too.

We were both out like a light.  I woke up to the bell tones on my phone 20 minutes later and looking up I saw him studying me.  I sat up, folded my hands in my lap and smiled at him, "Hey Grandpa!"

He cleared his throat, "Why are you here? Do you need money?"

"No sir. I do not need money. I just wanted to see you."

He thought about that and answered, "Well, okay.... Then you can stay a little while."

I beamed, "I am reading a book.  I brought it and I wondered if you would like it.  I could read you a couple of pages."

"Okay then."

The next week's visits were very much the same. I started getting braver and asking why he had left the Navy and why did he start his own company?  What did he think about certain politics, religion and about having children? And you know what Reader?  He started answering all these questions.

He disliked the government because they made the Great Depression longer with all the programs they started.  He said the programs made people lazy and greedy and then the Great War was the escape goat from the bad choices.  He liked working for himself because when things fell apart, it was his to fix. Especially since things would fall apart when working for other people anyway.

This summer was a gift.

In mid September, on one of my last visits with him I told him I would soon only see him once a month again.  I had been offered a job, a very good job with a bigger company.  As I had told him about it he patted my knee and incredulously laughed, "What will You do for Them??"

I glowered.

He smiled and tugged on one of my long blond strands and gestured at my hot orange shoes, dark blue jeans and turquoise blue top, "Yes You!  You have wandering feet and a creative mind too.  What will You do for this big serious company?"

I flipped my hair, sitting up straighter, "I will be a Program Analyst."

This pleased him and he sat back with his hands on his tummy to think on that a minute while I went back to messing with the arrangement of tiny metal figurines (trains, elephants, sewing machines, etc.) on the table next to his chair.

"Girl, I will miss you." He at last advised.

I swallowed my instant female reaction and cheerfully got up to hug him.  "I will miss you too."

My last visit was end of the first week in October. I hadn't been by in five days and I was disappointed when I found him asleep.  I tiptoed back out and sat down in the front room to read my book. About five minutes later I heard his door open but kept my eyes down so he could decide if he wanted to see me.  Five minutes after that he came out and sat down without looking at me and asked, "What are you reading?"

I told him.  He shook his head, "You sure love history."

I shrugged and smiled and put it down.

"Read me a chapter Girl?"

I picked it back up and I began to read and he interrupted "Louder, no reason to whisper."

I started again, and again he interjected "Louder! Can't you read any louder?"

I flushed, maybe he forgot his hearing aids? Maybe he was having an 'off' day?

Soon I was shouting the words as I sat crossed legged, book open in my lap, my hands wildly gesturing to show the violent bloody battle scene laid out before me in calm white pages and black ink....

And then he started to chuckle and I paused, a tiny bead of sweat running down my temple, and I looked up to stare at him.

Now he was in stitches, clapping his hands on his knees as my wide eyes blankly took him in until he gasped -"Gotcha!"

I blushed, slamming the book shut as I grinned at that mischievous person. I tried to cover my mirth with my hands as I protested the ridiculousness, "Grandpa!!"

We laughed and laughed and I ruefully agreed he did get me and after a few more minutes he smiled at me and he told me he had a couple of things to say to me.

In summary he told me to always laugh and always wonder and let my itchy feet take me places and ask questions. He told me he loved his life and he was glad we were friends...And that's all I want to share on that.

I left him feeling young, small and grateful.

My Grandpa passed away just a few weeks later in November.

http://acarnamedkatie.blogspot.com/2011/11/grandpa.html

Exactly 3am

Ugh it's 3am. I know it. I start arguing with myself, 'Don't check the time. If you don't check it then it might not be and the longer you don't check it, then if it is 3am now, then it won't be 3am anymore when you do....'  This is an irrational inner conversation and I know it but then my hand is reaching for my phone -without the other half of my brain being fully on board, and I check the time -

UGH IT is Exactly 3AM.

I think about it for a few more minutes...  Maybe.... maybe if I just wait a little more... I start counting backwards "100...99...98...97...96..." Breath in on the first two numbers, out on the third and fourth, slowly.....

I give up at 47.  Nasty number that one; an odd number that adds up to an odd number, eleven. -I am getting irrelevant.  Get up and do something or stay here and start counting again.

I slide up and out.

Luna is on to me lately.  Sweet creature doesn't know why the human is up, it is better to go back to bed!  Her worried little face is so beseeching I take her back to her bed and kiss her and tell her to go back to sleep. She does, gratefully.

I go to my safe haven, the art room and start to sketch in purple markers.  Char joins me almost immediately and takes his place by the window to watch.

Elephants are the latest dream subject.  I love elephants.  I haven't been up close to one so the kinship is entirely the result of my overly active imagination, books and YouTube videos.  I'm always leery of actually meeting one.  What if desiring the acquaintance is one sided?

I am grinning at my train of thought, this one is funny and I think I will stay on it for a minute.  The resulting elephant in front of me is now an interesting hot pink.

Doodles

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Doodles

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Girl in Red (Original Art)

'Girl in Red'

Acrylic

12.25" X 12.25" X 1.5"

(2) 5" X 7"

(1) 4" X 12"

(1) 9" X 12"

Snow kite: 1. Me: 0

Doesn't this look nice?

Day one Mr. Husband is in lessons. I was careful to listen and watch all instruction should I have a go at it some point.  The winds were light throughout the day and Snow kiting looked like a good kick in the butt.   I skied and trudged through heavy deep snow to hike out to help a few times.  He was one exhausted human being at the end of the day.  

In between rescue retrievals and re-hydration missions, I was content to wander, take pictures, freak out when Luna was too close to the ONE road in the middle of no where.... 

And happily take up a snowmobile rider's offer for a few rides to the top of the hill so I can ski back down

The day was a good day. An awesome, sun burnt, mega-watt grinning kind of day.  

Day Two... maybe I would get to try it out.  My inner dialogue is something like this on a repeatable loop; "I may lack a little dexterity and of course I will struggle just like Mr. Husband did, but there is clearly more wind today and I Can figure this out -This Will be Fun."  

Yeahhhhhhh... about that... besides my lacking of a prickly talent, (I have a serious eye/hand coordination shortage), the baby beginner snow kite I was attempting to man handle, was freaking powerful.  

I never did get to get my skies on.  I stumbled in my ski boots over and over again as the Thing yanked me forward and down a few times. It's not hard to launch, very similar to a paraglider, but steering seemed to be opposite.  Fortunately I land on my face regularly and I have developed a knack for ignoring having the air knocked out of me.  Although the force of my impacts tend to startle bystanders... but it really doesn't hurt... well it doesn't hurt that much anyway...

Ugh... anyway, summary, Snow kite: 1.  Me: 0  

4am and We who are dreamers, the writers, artists and thinkers

"You are not the moon kissing the black sky."

Epic sentence isn't it?  I am suspended in the mental picture conjured by that combination of words (online).

It is 4am.  I like 4am.  It is the hour of stealth.  My best friend's breathing is unchanged as my weight shifts out of bed and Luna the young canine, doesn't flicker a muscle as I quietly ease past. I wander to my precious art room, and I curl up on the office chair to watch my overly painted and sketched Lone Peak wake up.  Charlie, the cat-dog, also a master of stealth; slinks in and onto my lap to stretch out his long body for a cuddle, one white paw reaching out to rest on my hand.

I love the 'alone-ness' of this hour.  I don't have to be anywhere, no one is looking for me, there is nothing that needs to be done.  Off in the distance, even the interstate, which is a badly clogged artery from 6am to 3am, flows cleanly and quietly.

Char brings me back as he starts purring, and I remember my Sal. I remember Grandpa. I remember Dee. I don't believe in anything like heaven or hell.  I believe in right now and the power and energy of the soul. And I believe that Energy cannot be extinguished, it can only be recycled.

I woke up from a dream.  I can't quite remember it, I can just barely hold it in my hands, like a postcard with only a quick note but given the decorative picture, the return address; the non-descriptive greeting was  loaded with the perfume of somewhere and something else.

Reader I have always needed to write to you. You were the journal, the napkin, the back of my hand, a wish on a star; a message on the beach written out in small smooth stones.  I have been writing to you all my life.

I was looking for a sketch from a long time ago.  I pulled out the journal I figured it would be in, the small black painted journal from the summer and fall of 2002.  I read a few pages and laughed at the almost indecent bluntness of my entries.

I self edit now.  I apply a filter and censor before I articulate my thoughts; and not just here, but everywhere. Is that an age thing? Do you also cut yourself off mid thought?

4am

When I was little,
I had all these words in my head,
too many questions needing to be said.

I would write them with symbols,
maybe sketched out in the sand,
or sometimes finger drawn into the muddy land.

Reading and writing,
well those skills came a bit late.
But not knowing didn't stop me from marking my slate.

Is this the definition of what we need?
We who are dreamers, the writers, artists and thinkers,
We who are all trying to be creators

We cast out our ghosts nets
as they burst with moonlight,
Once again breaking the string of the kite.

We must reach for the stars,
We must dream of the night,
So that every morning, we are again overwhelmed by sunlight.

A thank you note

I remember that last day at the Inner Harbor, when you told me 'This is how I will remember you'.

It was raining, a drenching soaking misting rain and through it fell rays of sunlight.  I wanted to answer your question, the one behind that comment but as I tilted my face up from under my baby blue cloche hat and smiled at your dark eyes, I couldn't.

Instead I reached up to let my fingers glance down the side of your face, fluttering as they fell and I looked away to the ocean. After a moment I turned back to you, all my thoughts tripping over themselves, my breath heavier than a humming bird's wings; yet still I froze. You watched and smiled reassuringly at my silence until I laughed a little.  So we said nothing more and I let you take my hand as we walked on.

Later, weeks later, I remember your voice.   I was sitting on the floor, my knees pulled in, clutching my phone with white knuckles as I heard the break in the connection, the break in your voice, "Come back- come back to me" and still I didn't have the words to tell you I could not, and why I could not.

Years have passed and that moment still exhales as if it just inhaled.  I wanted to write to you when I wound up out on the west side of the states.  I wanted to tell you about the day I met my sweetheart.  I wanted to call when we were engaged.  I really wanted to tell you about the day I decided to stop being afraid and instead love to fly.

I didn't. 

I didn't because I still did not know what to say.  But I know what I want to say now. The words came unexpectedly, while I was alone on a white mountain in a bright blue day.  They came with an easy understanding that reminds me of looking into clear water. 

I don’t want to interrupt the place I am in and the place you have doubtlessly moved on to.  I do not want to betray our strange and delicate friendship found during such a chaotic time in our lives. But I am going to write all of these badly belated words here because they are a tribute to your gift to me at a time I needed it most.

Regardless if it was because of how I was wired, how society had trained me or the experiences I’d had;  At that time my personal doubts were so all encompassing I could not see anything but them.  I needed a mirror to show me what was above and below; what was inside and outside and this mirror was to be you.  You were my first mirror and when I saw myself as you saw me; everything changed. 

You were the first person I believed who believed in me.  You were intelligent, successful, kind and good looking.  You were in a position of authority and inappropriately and significantly older than me.  You asked nothing from me (except to sometimes hold my hand).  You called me eclectic and beautiful and you told me I could Do Anything I put my mind to.  And because of how I saw you, I believed you.

Over the months, you began to love me, not just the attracted-to-you kind, but the real kind.   I knew you would shield me from the world; you would have showered me with excessive kindness and indulgence.  You would have given me anything I wanted, anything at all. 

I had began to understand the value of the gift you had given me and I began to know there was only one gift I could give back to you.  And that was to leave.

It was your character that made you kind and intelligent; it was your experiences that had taught you patience and given you your insight; Your successes were achieved after persistent attempts made over years and continued after failures.

I was young and I knew I knew very little.  I, wild and thin, I lived on coffee, cigarettes and spontaneous choices.  You had a community, you had businesses, friends, family – you had built a life I should not be a part of.  

Looking at you, I too wanted to gain character to make me kinder and intelligent.  I wanted experiences to teach me patience and to give me insight into myself and the world I live in.  I wanted to learn persistence, perseverance and gain my own success.  I wanted to find a place and choose to call it home.  I wanted to find a man I could grow to belong with and be equal to.

When I look back, now that I am also in my mid-thirties, maybe you only saw my youth, my femininity and vulnerability.  Maybe I made you feel young; Maybe you just wanted to help the broken unhappy girl.

But perhaps you saw my possibility.

Dear friend, here is an update.  While I am still not an ambitious person when it comes to a ‘proper’ career, I am competent and independent.  I paint, and sell my work.  I write and post my scribbles here online and sometimes people from all over the world read and re-read my work.  When you knew me I had never belonged anywhere, and today I have lived in one place with one person for more than ten years. 

I love a man who is everything a man should be and more And he loves me back  We argue, we squabble, we laugh and take care of each other. Because of him I have battled my way to becoming a half decent skier.  I was terrified of water and I learned to scuba dive and make myself swim in the ocean.  I am scared witless by heights, yet I love my paraglider.  I have overcome my social anxieties and I capably manage my dyslexia and naturally scattered self.    

I have taken what you gave to me, what I saw in you and made it my own. Thank you for being my first mirror.

All the People (Doodles)

All the People Doodle 

Lady in the Wind (Original Art)

I drew out a couple of sketches at 3 am to capture the mood and the next day laid out an outline on an 16" X 20" X 1.5" canvas.

The completed piece is heavily layered and textured using acrylic paint.  Para-gliders soar, cumulonimbus clouds build, far off rain falls and wild ocean waves spray a rocking sailboat; All held by the mood of the Lady in the Wind.

 

'Lady in the Wind'

16" X 20" X 1.5"

Acrylic - Stretched canvas

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Symbolic

Carefully watching my reflection, I slide the glittery grey liner along my lashes, then top that with a thin black line.   I retouch my eye shadow and then to move to apply mascara.  Now it is time to stroke my cheekbones with blush and mouth with lipstick liner and lip stick... Pressing my lips together, I pull back to study for missteps....

I wake up, the bed is incredibly comfortable this morning and getting up felt like I was peeling off a band-aid.  Stretching my happy muscles, I get up to a 'talkative' four legged creature who is also having a hard time getting up.

I am brushing my teeth when I remember the dream.  The dream about make up, hair, clothing  and an agonizing decision over heels... The quick glances from my reflection to my watching eyes; this dream felt meticulous...ritualistic.

After rinsing out the paste, I lean on the counter and study myself for a moment.  What was it I was preparing myself for?  A night out? Dinner with my sweetheart?

No... even when we go 'out' I don't invest the kind of time indulged in this dream.

I straighten up and get dressed trying not to trip on my dancing young canine.  I let her out, pack lunches and hold the dream lightly in my palms.  When Luna is back and munching on her breakfast I sit down for a minute with my coffee and think about it.

Reader, my dreams are usually playtime for my imagination.  Although I dislike sleeping in and missing mornings, I Love sleep.  Just as I love all play (i.e. painting, skiing, flying, walking with Luna at the end of the day as the sun lights up the mountains).

In dreams colors morph into action, landscapes are in the fourth dimension; I see people I have said goodbye to and met people I will never know in the waking world.  Many of my paintings come from this part of my life.

Yet every now and again I have a guide dream. Rather then the usual kaleidoscope of carefree explorations and reckless inventions; my subconscious has something to say.  Something my conscious doesn't know or may be over looking.  I usually I only recognize that the dream was different when I wake up.  Which is unfortunate.  On the rare occasion I realize what they are while still in them, I know to look for clues and remember answers.

I close my hands around my empty still warm mug and close my eyes.  Again, I see the lip liner I am focused on but I also see, in my blurry peripheral vision a dress, a dark blue creation.  My hair is slightly curled, the usual streaks of brunette and red under my natural blond.... and a couple of dark blue streaks?

I try to relax, I try to see forward, was I going somewhere, to an event?

....No event.  I wasn't getting ready for something...the makeup, the dress, the shoes.. they were symbolic. Huh.

Luna explodes her head between my hands, cracking her brains on the ceramic mug; she crawls half way into my lap to tell me her breakfast was delicious and she that she really really really needs to run around like an lunatic in the back yard again.  Laughing at her eager paws and scrabbling toes, I oblige her request and toss her ahhhhhmazing stick for her to show off and race around with.

I will write about it now and think about it later. It is time for today.

Doodles

Winter Doodles

 

 

Molten Insomnia at 3am (Original Art)

Molten Insomnia at 3am
15" X 14" X 1.5"
Acrylic 
(Details: (4) 5" X 7" X .75" canvases on (1) 12" X 12" X .75" canvas) 
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