Freedom to Burn

I'm pretty sure it's not what the Founding Fathers had in mind. And, slippery slope argument aside, it simply defies good sense.

See, it's almost the 4th of July, and local fireworks establishments (outside the city limits, of course) are in a let-freedom-reign tizzy. We're in a drought again, and, according to local officials, brush fires triple during the holiday season. In fact, an article in the local paper quotes the Fire Marshal as saying that the majority of the 280 fireworks-related 9-1-1 calls the fire department received last year came on the Fourth of July.

So the city decided to do something about it. They've announced, loudly and openly, that they're watching local fireworks stands to see if buyers then cross the city limit with their bounty. If they do, they're fair game to be stopped and fined 207 dollars.

Seems to me people might have the good sense to say, "You know, it's been awfully dry, and, besides, shooting off fireworks in tight quarters with eyes, roofs, and cars nearby might be a bad idea. I guess that's why there's an ordinance that makes possession within the city illegal. Maybe we'll use balloons and confetti this year."

But no.

Instead, with fist proudly thrust into the air in solidarity with other business-as-usual, "hey, I just sell them" boobs masquerading as freedom fighters, the fireworks stand owners are sending decoys to confuse and distract the officials. And they're promising to send 100's more as the reason for the pop, sizzle, and ka-boom approaches.

Ah, the irony. Taxation without representation morphs into it's my neighborhood, and I'll burn it down if I want to. It's no wonder much of the younger generation yells loudly for the "right" to talk on cell phones during class but thinks there ought to be a law against burning the flag in protest against unjust wars.

I've said it before, and I'll say it again: Ay-yi-yi.

Health

This is my first attempt at Photo Friday, a photography challenge that centers on a new theme each week. This week, the theme is health. I'll leave it up to you to decide if this is good health or bad health (or is that good or bad taste...).

There are amazing photos posted each week by mind-boggling photographers from all over the world. I'm just hoping to improve my eye, spur creativity, and learn to take photos. Want to see more? Click on the link above.

Open Studio

The challenge from Inspire Me Thursday this week is to create something and then show where we made it. I'm guessing it's a sort of online studio tour of sorts. Pretty cool.

I can't tell you what I'm making (shhh... it's for the Creative Underground swag swap), but I can show the first stage: I've collaged my own paper, using wrapping paper, tissue papers, old sheet music, and my own photo. I've also glued, sanded, and rubber-stamped dots. Next I'll make copies of the paper and ... well ... you'll see before too long.

Behold my messy desk space, always covered with paper, paper, and more paper as well as a few brushes and bottles of adhesive. I always seem to end up working on a space about 5 by 7, even if I try to clean up during the process.

But don't you love the fab view from my windows (I designed them myself)? Carolina chickadees, woodpeckers, wrens, blue jays, and cardinals land on the feeders outside the window, providing both distraction and inspiration. Hummers flit from Bog Sage to Black-and-Blue salvia; white-winged doves land on the bird bath; and a funny, birth-marked little squirrel sits in the hedge below the biggest feeder, feasting on leftovers from the messy birds.

Want to see more open studios? Click here.

Shape-Shifting

Are you an innie or an outie?

Not belly buttons, that is, but personality.

If the MBTI is right, one end of the personality spectrum hosts the outies--or, as Jung put it, extroverts. These folk come back from the party recharged and invigorated. They tend to be action-oriented and verbal, focused on the outer, physical world. The other end of the spectrum--the introverts--tends to be focused within. They often get exhausted by outward encounters, needing time to retreat into ideas and contemplation.

As my old friend Joe once put it, if you don't know what an introvert's up to, you haven't asked, but if you don't know what an extrovert's up to, you weren't listening.

Unlike belly buttons, though, our preferences change over time. Hair goes gray or falls out, gravity wreaks its havoc on the most unfortunate of body parts, and--if we're lucky--our self changes, too. Maybe once we always had to "talk it out," but as we grow older, we learn the wisdom of letting things ride once in a while. Or, if we tend to think things over ad infinitum, perhaps we channel Teddy Roosevelt's up-hill charge now and then, startling long-time friends and family with our sudden--and unexpected--action.

And that's ok.

"Be yourself" implies a frozen-in-time approach to life, a sort of "that's how she always is" sense of identification and labeling. I think the self is more fluid than that. Maybe we're like water at the poles--frozen for epochs, solid masses of seeming permanence and immobility. But then the thaws come. Fissures shatter from within; pieces crack, break off, and melt away.

Who knows what changes our own global warmings will bring?

Somebody's Out There!

Sometimes, writing this blog feels a bit ... well ... unnerving. Each day, it seems, I walk onto a darkened stage, knowing there's an audience before me--even though I can't see them (you!). Then, the soft shoe begins. I share my art. Sing and dance a bit. Opine, whine, wish, and wonder. And then ... often ... nothing.

No catcalls or heckling. No ovations. No polite applause. No "off with her head." Just silence.

I guess that's how it is with blogs. There are blogs I read regularly--even ones I adore--that I've never responded to, so I know it's possible to enjoy the viewing without saying so.

Being the gabber I am, I guess people would think I'd enjoy the wide-open stage: "Hot dawg--a microphone without fear of interruption!" But I find I miss the conversation. The give-and-take. The stimulation of response. In fact, this little venture has begun to feel awfully lonely at times. And just a tad solipsistic.

So here's a rose from my garden for the ones who connect (you know who you are), with promises for more to come. I love to hear from you, even if it's just a howdy-do now and then. And for the lurkers--feel free to come on out and play!

Country Mouse or City Mouse?

I've always been a city dweller. Whether in an apartment, condo, or suburban house, there was always a neighbor (or twenty) next door--and a convenience store down the street. Friends live within "Hey--you wanna get a cup of joe at Barnes & Noble?" distance, and my job, quite literally, is 7 minutes away.

But what about quiet? Total darkness save the moon and stars? Peace, critters, and a large expanse of black land Prairie for my native plant garden dreams?

It appears the Pied Piper of moving-to-the-country has been calling my tune. So do I listen? Sure, I know--more driving, better planning in terms of shopping, more alone-time, right? But what else? I'm not sure what I need to know.

See, I found a house--an odd, funky, but well-built metal house with a two-bedroom apartment (that needs more windows, that's do-able) and a h.u.g.e. insulated workshop/studio to die for. Three+ acres of live oaks and a few scraggly pines just waiting for verbena, Texas Star hibiscus, four-nerve-daisy, greg's blue mist and fall plantings of wildflowers. Paved roads. 10 minutes to the nearest real town. Highspeed internet access, good electrical and city water. But ...

What do I need to know?

P.S. The photo is of the "Anne Hathaway" house at the Dallas Arboretum.

In Good Time

How's 32 minutes?

Here's what I've learned: I don't like to work fast. First, I set the timer for 30 minutes, rushed back to the study, grabbed whatever was handy, and began my normal trial-and-error process of laying things out, moving them around, looking for something new, and so on. Big mistake.

Tick. Tick. Tick. I could feel the clock all the way from the kitchen. "Hurry up," it cried. "You don't have all day, you know!"

Suffice it to say I ended up scrapping that attempt. The next time I simply looked at the clock to note the time and then began. Instead of trial-and-error, when I found something, I glued it down. Each step caused a new step with no reversing or back-tracking. Yikes. Yuck.

So here it is: My stab at trying to, as Inspire Me Thursday says, "work fast so there is no time for second guessing yourself." Of course, all of those "pesky inner critics" IMT said would disappear are currently sitting on my shoulders saying things like, "That's not finished, you numbskull. It needs something."

But, hey, I'm posting it anyway. See what a good girl I am?

P.S. This is an ATC, created on an actual playing card. If you'd like it--as a trade or just a gift-- either shoot me an email or post a comment to that effect. I'll wait until next week's challenge is posted in case more than one person wants it. Warning: I might not have resisted playing with it more by then.... Want to see more work completed "In Good Time"? Click here.

Parenting

Graduation day is tough for adults. They go to the ceremony as parents. They come home as contemporaries. After twenty-two years of child-raising, they are unemployed.

~Erma Bombeck

A couple of weeks ago, while I was loading groceries in my trunk, a young woman came up to me, her face a mixture of uncertainty and expectation. "Aren't you Elisabeth's mom?" she asked.

"Elisabeth's mom."

It's been a long time since someone called me that. Mostly, these days, adults I know ask me what Elisabeth will do this fall, now that she's graduated. "She might go to New York," I say. I really don't know.

And that's ok. But it's hard.

I used to know (almost) everything about my sweet girl: Her favorite color, even when it changed. The foods she liked (and didn't). Her political beliefs. Her favorite (and unfavorite) classes. It was just she and I for so long, in a small house, with a set curfew and lots of time for talking. We used to play cards while waiting for her friends to pick her up in high school. Gin or two-handed spades. Lots of wishes get discovered over a hand of three 7's and a run of hearts. Mostly hearts. My heart.

I'm feeling raw these days. It's the natural order of things, I guess. It's just come so much faster than I thought it would. What am I, if not Elisabeth's mom?

I left home at 18--it's a long story--and seldom saw my parents through the years. No role models there. I learned to be a parent through reading, asking, watching, through not doing what had been done to me (as much as I was able to--life lessons are hard to unlearn). But there are few guides for this next (and hopefully very long) stage.

Just how does one parent an adult child? Where's the line between being supportive and caring--being "there" for one's adult child--and being overbearing and intrusive? How do you let go while still holding on? When does letting go become living separate lives? Or is separate lives the goal?

Too many questions. Too much emotion for so early in the day.

Art tomorrow. I promise.

Wishes

Don't you wish this were a pathway in your yard?

Imagine a twilight stroll under well-pruned vitex, heady in early summer from scented blossoms just over your head. Soon the path would be strewn with tiny lavender petals; later seed pods would attract cardinals, blue jays and Carolina chickadees to accompany your morning walks.

Just lovely.


Btw, it's in the Dallas arboretum.

Fun in the Arboretum

Hey, wait a minute. Is that rabbit real?

Flag Day

I won't wax too philosophic about today. Suffice it to say I've always thought it a bit bizarre to pledge allegiance to a flag, but I'll stand up for with liberty and justice for all any day.

With emphasis on the for all.

So how about some food for thought, courtesy of the Betsy Ross Homepage Resources from USHistory.org:

• from the Supreme Court decision Texas v. Johnson: We do not consecrate the flag by punishing its desecration, for in doing so we dilute the freedom that this cherished emblem represents.
  
• Robert Ingersoll: The emblem of equal rights. It means free hands, free lips, self-government, and the sovereignty of the individual.
  
• from Henry Miller in "The Air-Conditioned Nightmare": We have two American flags always: one for the rich and one for the poor. When the rich fly it it means that things are under control; when the poor fly it it means danger, revolution, anarchy.
  
• S.I. Hayakawa: Patriotic societies seem to think that the way to educate school children in a democracy is to stage bigger and better flag-saluting.
  
• from The United States Supreme Court: A person gets from a symbol the meaning he puts into it.

Now I guess I'm gonna go let my freak flag fly....

Kids & Straightening Up

Yesterday, I kept a colleague's young daughters (5 & 7) for the afternoon. I'd forgotten how productive I could be when kids are around.

The older girl sat in my now-grown daughter's room and feasted on Elisabeth's old books for most of the afternoon, surfacing only for an apple and some popcorn and later a bit of Lego building. The younger one and I sat in the open living/dining together--she watched The Secret Garden and later drew a picture and played with dolls while I worked on a report.

It surely took me back. I got through graduate school sitting at a table with books, paper, and computer listening to the movies my daughter watched, stopping now and then to have a chat over snacks and dolls or coloring and building Lego towns. I loved those days. They were busy, hectic, and full of productivity. We had a purpose, my girl and I. Working just doesn't feel the same with no accompaniment but the TV or stereo.

I also learned an important lesson after they left: To straighten up after myself. I have two main spaces where I work on collages or cards, and it seems both get cluttered within seconds of my sitting down. I often find myself working in a spot about 5 by 7 (hence the small work I do, no doubt). What I realized yesterday is that I need to clean the space every day, whether a project is finished or not. If I walk in the office and my desks are cluttered, I sit down at the computer instead. But if there's open space, a sort of blank canvas of possibilities, I'm more likely to sit down and start puttering, which leads, within minutes, to working in earnest.

So here I go...to clean the desks. Let's see what I cook up.

P.S. The photos are from a trip to the Dallas Arboretum last week.

Woman

This is a new collage--very intuitive, just grabbing images that grabbed me, layering and trying not to think about it too much. No theme, no point, just abstract.

It's on matboard, 5 by 7". The papers are all vintage except the tissues: A page from a turn of the century catalogue, a snippet of a shape-your-bust guide, old dictionary illustrations, a replica of famous art... It's all painted and stamped and glued and rimmed with ink.

I'm calling it Woman. It appears that a theme will emerge even when I'm not trying. So be it.

Fabulous!

I don't remember how I found Randel Plowman's Collage-a-Day blog, but I'm glad I did--because as of yesterday I'm the happy recipient of my very own 4 by 4" one-a-day collage.

It's a wonderful piece, and it came matted and shipped perfectly. I love it. Can't wait to get it framed and hanging on the walls.

See more here.

Functional Art

Here's my interpretation of Inspire Me Thursday's Functional Art challenge this week: Collaged Shoes. I'm not sure how functional they are, having just worn them into the back yard to take the photos, but I'm willing to try!

I started with a pair of black sandals from Target that I never wear anymore. I sanded and gessoed them and let them dry overnight. The first layer of paper is text from an old booklet on making shoes. I painted a wash of quinacridone gold on top, and let everything dry overnight. On top of that I layered shoe images from the booklet (near the toes). To add more depth, I used three tissue paper patterns--clocks, stars, and black with dots cut out. I put a thicker wash of paint on everything this time and blotted it a bit for variance.

When the paint was dry, I coated the shoes with layers of matte medium; then, after another night of drying (the shoes, not me), I sealed the shoes with an acrylic spray. As a final touch, I added criss-crossed snippets from the spine of an old book and large vintage buttons.

There you have it: Art ready to go. To see more functional art, click here.

More Some Days than Others

Productivity

You know how some days you just can't seem to get anything done? That's what I thought yesterday was going to be. Boy was I wrong.

In the afternoon, I found myself lying on the sofa, trying to catch up from another sleepless night. As usual, the hamsters in my brain wouldn't cooperate, so I jumped up, raced to the study and got to work. I wasn't sure what I was going to do. I was just going to do it.

I started by grabbing the functional item I'm collaging for the Inspire Me Thursday challenge this week. I went outside, sanded it, brought it back in, and gessoed it to get ready for papers and paint. (No peeking until it's finished.)

While I had the gesso out, I decided to paint several matchboxes to get them ready for the women writers' shrines I'm making for Somerset Studio. Between coats, I found a 5 by 7 piece of matboard and layered it with ephemera I had set aside the other day. I didn't know what I was going to do with the pieces, but they grabbed me, so I had made a little pile. I placed the pieces on the board, looked for a few more to cover the surface, and adhered them. I used a bit of gesso as a wash since the brush was still wet, and left it to dry. It's the most intuitive piece I've ever started--I have no idea where it's going next!

Finally, I made my very first real mail art. I'm taking part in an ephemera swap with Kelly Kilmer, and one of the conditions is that the large envelope has to be decorated. Gulp. I tend to be a name-and-address-in-block-letters type of gal, but I thought, ok, I'll give it a try. I sat at my desk staring at the lovely garden scene outside my window and--well--that's what I drew. I lightly sketched the main shapes, then grabbed a child's watercolor set and painted. After it all dried, I used Pigma pen to add a bit of definition. There was a lot of envelope showing, and I didn't like how blue washes on Manila, so I added a bit of tissue paper, which lead to stamping some dots ... and then I was through. How fun.

The best part of all? I was absolutely, completely, and amazingly happy while I was busy.

I need to do that more often.

Gone but Not Forgotten

Maggie. Daughter of Joseph and Eleanor. Aged 15 months.

Clara Edwards. Born April 10, 1862. Died June 2, 1862. Rhoda Edwards. Died Sept. 2, 1882. Farewell dear mother.

Geo. A. Brown. Born Dec. 6, 1850. Died Nov. 24, 1871. Farewell.

A. J. Evans. Gone but not forgotten.

I visited a large historic cemetery in my town yesterday. I've been there before, but this time I took my camera. Mostly I just walked and read the tombstones, thinking about the lives they represent. It's so easy to see them as just names, simply the past, not flesh and blood. But if you look closely enough, you see the lives behind the weathered stones.

The young man born in Russia. The many Germans. A whole section of small tombstones for Chinese workers. The segregated Jewish section. Two long rows of CSA soldiers. The family that lost two toddlers in the same number of years, a little lamb atop the first sweet child's stone, but only the name and dates on the other. Maybe money had grown tight. Or perhaps sadness won out, and they simply couldn't face the carving of another lamb.

And the hands. Untold numbers of hands. I had to look them up to see what they mean. Index fingers pointed upward indicate the pathway to heaven. There weren't very many of these. Clasped hands indicate farewell or the bonds of marriage or friendship. The gender could be detected by the clothes on the wrists--lacy sleeves, stiff plain shirts, neatly buttoned jackets, soft bedclothes.

(I just hope there's no significance to the few clasped hands that had one index finger pointing downward instead of up.)

I think my favorite was the fully carved dog, resting at his master's immense gravestone. Nearby were wife and children, but at his feet, the faithful mutt.

Now there's a story.

The Lucky Gardener

It's raining this morning. Just a soft rain, little more than a drizzle. But I'll take what we can get.

Yesterday afternoon I was feeling out of sorts, so I took a walk in the garden with my camera right before dusk. I had gone to a ladies tea room luncheon with two of my neighbors, which was nice but not really me, and I felt the need to wear disheveled clothes and gardening clogs and kneel in the dirt for a while. There was no time for actual gardening before it got dark, though, so I got to be lazy and just enjoy the flowers instead.

Almost everything is in bloom. The Knockout roses, Simplicity, Fairies, and rugosas have already had their first strong blush, but they've come back for another go before it gets too hot. The red monarda are spent, but the lavender ones are in full force, as are the buddleia, yarrow, and zexminia. All of the salvias are flowering, and even the Greg's Blue Mist is starting to attract butterflies with its soft blue fuzz. I've never seen the four nerve daisy bloom this long, but I'm enjoying the yellow bookends of the four-nerve on one side of the skull's cap, lantana, and lavender, and the cotton lavender on the other.

I found a few Turk's cap blooms in the shade yesterday, and the white altheas are better than ever this year. The purple cone flowers are beginning to wane, but the white crepe myrtles are just starting to blossom, and the elderberries are finally rebudding--happily recuperating from the hail storm a month ago. The cashmere bouquet and hypericum aren't blooming yet, so I have a few flowers to anticipate. As the summer winds down, the ginger, Mexican marigolds, and Copper Canyon daisies will take over the scene, their heady scents luring us into unbearably hot August nights.

Right now a blue jay and male cardinal are taking turns at the feeder and birdbath right outside my window, white-winged doves resting on the overhead wires, waiting their turn. Yesterday afternoon I watched a hummingbird flit among the Black and blue salvia, and--my favorites--Carolina chickadees--flocking to the mix of nuts and seeds. A small squirrel with an odd black smudge on its face has taken to walking atop the abelia under my study window. I can see him calculating the force needed to jump from the shrub to the feeder above, but he never gives it a go, just roots along searching for seeds fallen among the tiny leaves. Sometimes he stands on his back legs like a little dog, happily chewing on a prize peanut or sunflower seed. If I move, he turns toward the window, but he's long figured out that the glass protects him, I guess.

And that's just the back yard... I am a lucky girl indeed.