Uncovering the Nude Woman

Art is a loosely based term for all types of creative endeavors. I surround myself with art. My shop is filled with the works of mostly unknown artists who have poured their souls out onto canvas or paper or wood or metal. Last weekend I helped my friend Tina with an estate sale. Out on the summer kitchen of the 1805 house a picture of a blonde nude hung. It was huge and filthy and it appeared it hadn't been touched in years, neglected and relegated to the back of the house. Tina and the girls who helped her organize the sale laughed at it and talked about how awful it was. They didn't even price it, figuring it was going to end up in the garbage. Of course, when I saw it and inquired about it, they thought I was joking. I defended my position, saying that it looked a bit like outsider art, but it was probably an art project, something raw. I told Tina I wanted it if it hadn't sold by the end of the sale. Sure enough, on Sunday Tina called to inform me that the painting was mine though she still couldn't see what I saw in it and that she had left it on her back porch for me. I picked it up on Wednesday and brought it back to the shop. After a meticulous cleaning, she sits in my store, an unschooled nude with a sort of mystique that compels me to look her way. Art is what saves me. It always has and it always will.

Ode to Evangeline

The ACHIEVE program was grant funded and run through first the local YMCA, then the local community college.  For two brief periods in my teaching career, I taught in the program, pretty much as poverty stricken as the students I served. 

In the early 90s there was a grant run program I taught at briefly entitled "Latimer," an after school enrichment program for at-risk elementary students on the Hill, one of the roughest neighborhoods in the city.  When my growling '78 Cougar turned the corner of Craig Street, I was met with drug dealing well wishers holding up blunts for sale, thinking I was a potential buyer. However, after seeing me a few times head for the little three room school house next to the community center, they relegated themselves to their front porches and eyed this paper white blonde woman with curiosity. 

Sometimes I would bring my middle daughter with me as she enjoyed the company of these raucous peers.  We cleaned and organized the little classroom, taught reading, helped with homework and, in short, attempted to escape from a world of harsh realities.

Evangeline was my favorite, a fourth grader with anger issues the size of Mount Vesuvius.  She was big for her age and made her presence known to the other students, either whacking them when they displeased her or vocalizing their inferior traits to humiliate and control.

I soon discovered that Evangeline, who was always in trouble at school, responded positively to my presence, and I even allowed her to play through my hair with her sticky fingers.  Instead of punishing, I praised.  Instead of rejecting, I accepted.  She became my daughter's protector and guide on the streets outside of the classroom.  She told her "I got your back."

I finished that session and never returned to Latimer, though I was asked more than once by the director to substitute.  I asked him how Evangeline was doing and was told that she had psychiatric problems and hallucinated during class.  Later, I was told by her cousin that she had done prison time, but had a child.  One day as I was walking downtown, I saw her with another woman.  I knew it was her because she still wore that same hard and angry look she wore as a child.  However, she had never grown much after fourth grade and now appeared short as a fully grown adult.  She didn't recognize me as she walked past, but I heard her say to the companion "I like her shoes."  I didn't say anything, just kept walking.

H is for Heroin

If you are a writer, you are always looking for fodder to keep the reader interested. In going back through my diary of four years ago, I came upon a passage describing a brief scene I encountered while my daughter Meghan and I sat on her hospital bed in the hallway in the Emergency Room. It was just another one of her many visits to the hospital for mental breakdowns, but that particular time the place was hopping, so we didn’t even have a room. There was a young girl in her late teens or early twenties in the bed just in front of Meghan who was writhing in pain with her mother standing over her and trying to comfort her. At first I thought she was having appendicitis or something, but quickly realized if she were that sick, she wouldn’t be in the hallway of the emergency room. It turns out it was her birthday and she got loaded up on smack just before she went to the birthday party her mom had put together for her. The load was bad, so she was in agony. She puked her birthday cake out in front of us and the male nurse who was in charge of the hallway apologized for not being able to keep us from being directly in view of the onslaught, then went to get her some medicine. He took his time getting it for her and while she was whining and crying, he asked her “are you ever going to do heroin again?” Of course she said “no,” but I saw her mother’s agony and knew that this was an ongoing battle and I also realized that for this woman, it probably wouldn’t be over soon. I thought about the girl, a beautiful one at that, making a conscious decision to become a heroin addict and my Meghan, who through no fault or choice of her own was on a similar journey and I also thanked God that my children had never made decisions that would purposely destroy them and cause a mother’s terrible heartbreak. There are always worse situations out there. One must remember that. Again, I have shelter, clothing, food and peaceful surroundings. Taking a look at the rest of the world, I realize that what I take for granted doesn’t exist for many. The Middle East, South American and African continents are fraught with conflict and wars, children lose parents, parents lose children, post traumatic stress is normal and the oppressors lose their souls to power and greed. There’s a show on TV about people who try to save whales from Japanese whalers and the head of the operation stated something that often rings true about humans “we as a species are insane.” Even the whales know it as they look at us through pitying eyes.

The Beauty of the Morning Routine

I have this routine I go through every morning. When I wake up, I wonder what the weather is like outside. Is it sunny or cloudy? Generally, I start out on a happier note when the sun is out. Next I pry myself from the bed after listening to the news the partner left on before he went to work. Then I turn on the burner for the tea water and with my first cup of green tea, I head for the computer. It's the smartest piece of technology I own. I still have a dumb phone and I don't even own an ipad. As much as I would like these modern conveniences, the computer has pretty much become the focal point of my life and I'm afraid of what mobile devices might turn me into. I use it to blog and for my on-line sales. Which leads me to my next step. I check my e-mail to see if any sales occurred while I slept. Then it's on to e-bay and etsy and facebook. Finally, I create a blog or "bliary" which I choose to publish or not publish. If I don't feel like writing on a particular morning, I go back through four years of previous writings and pull from them. It's a nice stash to rely on. It used to be I wrote every day without fail, but things like my daughter's mental illness, my partner's cancer and the stress of trying to keep a small business afloat got in the way. By and large the body of work from the past appears to me as drivel now, but that's okay. There are kernels of thought sprinkled here and there that I can go back to and develop. I can also look out the window in front of this desk and see the changing of the seasons. Today is cloudy and the maple tree in front hasn't even begun to show signs of life. Just before I sat down, I saw a red cardinal sitting on a branch. I tried to get a good picture of him, but he was too far away. Next I saw his mate land where he had been. I love birds and even in this ruinous end of the city where houses sit partially decayed and unkempt by unscrupulous landlords, the birds visit and make everything seem better. Technology be damned, the sound of birds in the early spring can still stop me in my tracks. I'm happy for that. I really am. So that's it. My morning routine.

The world is shapes and colors.  I used to teach a lesson about  synesthesia.  I found an article in U.S. News and World Report years ago on the phenomenon of synesthesia.  It's rare, but in some individuals, when they experience one sense, another comes into play.  Many artists and musicians have it.  For example, when a young man heard a car go by he saw dots.  When a girl kissed her boyfriend she saw orange sherbet foam.  When a woman heard her husband's voice, she tasted warm buttery toast.  According to the researcher in the article, all the secondary senses involved in the experience are primitive.  W. Kandinsky paints to sounds.  The colors and images come from the sound.

My first car was a 1978 Mercury Cougar, a gas guzzling beast.  I loved that car.  When my son was little and the muffler fell off, he used to say "go fast Mommy" so he could hear the roar.  I'll bet a synesthete would have gone nuts if s/he had heard that monster flying by.  Gray, red, purple, black dots -- the speed of sound.  What a light show