Portrait of the Artist as an Old Man

A Poem and a Painting for my Grandson Simon Devol

2012-01-04T09:20:00.000-08:00

Advise to My Grandson

If you’re a man,

Even the tight, green bud of a man,

You’ve got to love the snake

And embrace the skull.

You’ve got to check into

The Motel Diablo,

Shoot craps at the crossroads,

And light a candle for El Maximo.

Whisper in San Simon’s pink plaster ear,

“No tengo miedo, cabron, No tengo miedo.”

Blow cigar smoke in his face.

Leave him a tumbler of Havana Club.

If you’re a man,

Even the tight, green bud of a man,

You gotta fight the devil everyday.

Let me Polonify your skinny ass.

Remember, "The soft and the pliable will defeat the hard and strong."

If you fight him head on,

You’ll get hog tied, up a creek, flat on your back.

T’ia chi the fucker,

Yin and then yang his shiny red behind.

High five him, buy him a beer, put an arm around his shoulder.

You call the shots.

Then,

Walk away.

If you’re a man,

Even the tight green bud of a man,

Then,

You can walk the dog,

Rock the cradle,

Go round the world,

Learn to dance in three languages.

Kiss your best buddy smack on the lips.

Play air guitar like Johnny B. Good and Jumping Jack Flash.

Let your heart break while singing,

“I couldn’t sleep a wink for trying.

I saw the rising of the sun.

All night long my heart was crying

You’re the one, You’re the one, You’re the one.”

And then…

When Artists Go Bad

2011-10-31T08:38:00.000-07:00

When Artists Go Bad

While passing through

The Albuquerque airport

I saw Dale Chihuly in chains;

Thick ones on his wrists,

Thin ones that tinkled

Around his ankles

Checking his stride as he walked.

He was being transported

By federal marshals.

One was muscular, handsome, Hispanic.

The other wore a Hawaiian shirt

And an expression

That said

To maintain law and order

Murder is always justified.

In this context

Dale’s eye patch

Seemed somewhat sinister.

So did the tears tattooed

In the corner

Of his visible eye,

And the spider web on his elbow.

The artist and his two guards

Were given special handling

At security.

I lost sight of them.

But later they were seated

On stools at the counter of

All Aboard Noodles.

Dale was seated in the middle

Eating from a steamy glass bowl

With a porcelain spoon,

Slices of pink pork

Like poker chips

Floating in golden broth

White noodles looped

Like calligraphy.

Tying not to stare

I passed them by.

When first class was called

For my flight to DC

I made a last minute trip

To the bathroom.

Dale stood at the urinal

Dick in manacled hands

Pissing loudly.

The Hispanic marshal

Stood one step behind him

A respectful distance

But within easy arm’s reach.

They spoke like

Business acquaintances

Which I suppose they were.

“When we woke up this morning

I had to scrape the ice off

The fucking windshield.”

“Where did you guys

Stay last night, Los Alamos?”

“I don’t know where the hell we were.

He was driving.”

The marshal spoke perfect English,

But Dale had a heavy Spanish accent.

Strange I thought at the time

For a one-eyed glassblower

From Tacoma.

I wanted to say,

“Mr. Chihuly,

Over the years

Your art has given me

So much pleasure.

Thank you for creating

All that beauty.”

I wanted to say

“That bowl of noodles

Made my mouth water.”

Under the circumstances –

The US marshal,

The chains,

Dale vigorously shaking his dick –

I said nothing.

They walked out together

Law enforcement holding the elbow

Of a ground breaking artist

Gone bad.

I was filled with regret

For gratitude unspoken.

For passing on the noodles.

(I did spot Dale Chihuly in an airport recently, but it was Newark not Albuquerque and he was not in chains. I do regret not having spoken to him.)

An Old Guys Love Poems

2010-12-18T11:06:00.000-08:00

This is a self-portrait I drew when I was in my mid to late twenties. The drawing is close to forty years old.
I've been writing Portrait of the Artist for a full year now. I started it last December as a way of paying attention to and celebrating aging. I turned 65 in May making me officially an old guy.
With this posting I am bringing this project to and end. However, this blog will go on as a place where I can write about anything that is on my mind. And...

In January I will be launching Portrait of the Artist as an Old Man - Part II, in which I will be writing about and presenting portraits of working artist over the age of 65. So my focus will be shifting from autobiography and memoir to biography, to an examination of aging and creativity not just in myself, but in others. I'm very excited to be working on this project and grateful to everyone who has supported it with donations and suggestions.

Now to close out this portion of Portrait of the Artist as an Old Man:

An Old Guy's Love Poems

Stories

Deb, long before I knew you

I spent a weekend on Block Island

With Miranda.

I think she was three.

That makes it thirty-five years ago.

We climbed down the bluffs

And built driftwood sculptures on the beach.

(In a snapshot, she wears

A tiny red and white plaid bathing suit.

Her hair,

That refused comb or brush,

Halos her head)

That night, thunder rattled the windows

Of our hotel room

And lightening toppled a chimney near by.

Miranda slept through it.

I stayed awake to protect her.

I’ve told you this story

A hundred times.

I want you to know all my stories,

To be proud of me

And to forgive me.

II.

“Deb, tell me about the time

Lars fell asleep riding the bike.”

“We had been directing camp in Barnes.

The Dutch families gave us a bunch of bikes to use.

We had been riding bikes all summer.

At the end of camp,

The Dutch families said they would pick them up.

We decided it would be fun

To ride a couple of them to their house.

It was a two or three hour ride.

Lars had Helen in a seat on his bike.

I was pregnant with Jesse.

It was the end of camp

So we were exhausted.

Lars was leading and he just fell over.

I said, ‘Are you alright? Is Helen alright? What happened?’

He said, ‘I fell asleep.’

That was about it.”

You’ve told me that story

A hundred times.

I want to know all your stories.

I want to know about when you and Loie

Were “the little girls.”

I want to know about you getting stoned with Janet

And running the tollbooths on 95.

I want to know about the time you and Lars

Didn’t have thirty-five cents to cross the Mt. Hope Bridge.

I want to know about Helen and Jesse jumping from the hayloft

And crumpling the roofs of the antique cars.

III.

Deb, last September 2^nd , before dawn,

When you were home in Rhode Island,

I pedaled my bike a couple of miles

Out into the Nevada desert

To an art oasis of upholstered couches and chairs

And fake palm tree umbrellas.

Just as the sun was raising

I sat next to a skinny

Sixteen-year-old boy.

In lieu of shaking hands,

He hugged me

Like the prodigal son coming home

To his long lost father.

This boy had two names.

The name given him at birth

Was Alexander, my middle name.

It means, he tells me, ruler of many.

But his desert name in Shanghai.

He is too stoned to talk much.

He is sweet and spacey.

He is much too thin.

If it were possible,

I’d take him out for a cheeseburger.

He would order

The brown rice, tofu, organic shitake, goat cheese burger.

“Have I told you this story?”

“Only about a hundred times.”

I want you to know all my stories.

Living the story is half the story.

Telling you the story completes it.

IV.

Deb, remember when…

Remember when…

Remember when we got massages

From the blind guy in Truth or Consequences?

Remember when we climbed Cadillac Mountain

To watch the sun rise?

Remember when we saw a palliated woodpecker

From our canoe?

Remember when we got robbed

On the beach in Guatemala?

Remember when we dropped Miranda and Helen off

At U-Mass?

Deb, remember everything that happened in Honduras?

I want to remember all our stories.

I want to tell them to each other

A hundred times.

Husband in Winter

In the middle of the night

I wake up in my warm bed.

I nudge Deb softly.

Yeah, she is still there.

I get up to pee,

Walk past the coats in the hall,

The door to the basement.

The clock on the stove says 2:10.

My old bladder knows the hour,

If not the minute.

There is moonlight coming in the back door.

I can make out the silhouette of the big rosemary plant.

I sit.

No sense in trying to steer

When I’m half asleep.

The thermostat is set at 58.

I’m cold

When I slip

Back under the covers.

But, Deb is warm.

I press against her,

Snuggling, spooning.

One day,

One of us

Will be alone

In this bed.

One of us

Will have to wait

While the heat of one body

Warms it up.

Honduras, November 2010 - Part II - Cruz Bermudez

2010-11-24T07:34:00.000-08:00

Cruz Bermudez is a self-taught artist who lives and works in a small, wooden house just outside of downtown Tela, a beach town on the north coast of Honduras. He is proprietor of an art gallery called El Aura, which takes up the living room of his house. Cruz, his wife Maria Lopez, also an artist, and their two young children, live in a couple of small rooms behind the gallery. Paintings are hung and stacked all over the house. The yard functions as a studio and arts workshop where Cruz, Maria and a couple of brothers from each side of the family gather to paint.

Cruz’ paintings are distinctive and easy to spot around Tela. Most of the hotels have a couple on display. Typically, he depicts life along the north coast of Honduras, especially the life of the Garifuna, an Afro-Caribbean community that has as much in common with the cultures of Haiti and Cuba as with Latino Honduras.

He paints men fishing from canoes and from the beach with nets, thatched huts, roosters, musicians and dancers. He is particularly adept at painting night scenes; houses glowing against near black foliage, deep blue water reflecting moonlight, clouds back lit against nighttime skies.

This is Cruz’ bread and butter work. There isn’t much of a tourist industry in Honduras except for the island or Roatan, but those who do travel on the mainland often pass through Tela. Hondurans of means, from San Pedro Sula and Tegucigalpa, also come to the beach here, especially for Semana Santa, the week of celebration around Easter. Cruz supports himself as an artist. He is proud that his paintings have been taken home to the United States, Canada, Germany, France and Spain, rolled up in tubes, stuffed into suitcases or back packs.

Certainly these are commercial paintings, created to sell, to remind people of their experiences in Honduras. However, within this context, Cruz is often after something deeper.

For example, in a painting he recently completed it is nighttime. Off to one side a man paddles a small canoe out into the bay to fish. In contrast to his adult responsibilities, four boys are playing on a pier. The two oldest boys, probably teenagers, are in mid air, having jumped from the pylons. They seem to be at that exact moment of weightlessness before gravity overtakes the momentum of their leap. The next boy in line is a little younger. He is considering jumping. It seems likely that he will follow the older boys and take a swim in the perfect blue of the nighttime ocean. The fourth boy, younger still, hangs back. His posture indicates hesitancy. He is not ready. Maybe he is too young. Maybe he is timid by nature.

Here in the guise of a lush painting for tourists, is a perfect portrait of that moment when you realize that your life is waiting for you. It is yours for the taking. Will you dive in? Will you hesitate, play it safe?

This description is based in part on Cruz’ explanation of the themes of the painting and in part on my extrapolation.

If this painting was hanging above your couch and you looked at it every day, I believe you would find yourself making braver choices. Even if you never thought of it metaphorically, you would develop a yearning to join those boys in mid air, in that moment where anything could happen and nothing is retractable.

Cruz has been an artist since he was seven years old. Throughout his boyhood he drew and sold a comic book featuring a character named Jeiko. Jeiko was a Honduran Tarzan. He was born in the mountains and could talk to the animals. His adventures included combat with giant snakes, plunges into jungle pools from the tops of waterfalls, and swims across crocodile infested rivers. He swung a mean machete.

Cruz sold photocopies of his comic to his schoolmates for one cent. He always had plenty of pocket money. His buddies pestered him, “When will the next one be ready?” There are no surviving issues of Jeiko.

Cruz has two children with Maria Lopez. They are eight and ten. He had them show me their drawings. Both the girl and the boy had drawn themselves trying on outfits from a closet full of colorful clothes. They draw very well.

Cruz has two older children from a previous relationship. I asked him if they were artists, too. He replied, “Yes they play guitar and sing. We are a family of artists. All of this - painting, sculpture, music - comes naturally to us.”

Cruz, who is 55, has been with Maria for seventeen years. I’m guessing she is fifteen to twenty years younger than him. I asked if she was already an artist when they met. He said, “She liked to paint, but didn’t think she could. Now she is better than me because women are more perfectionistic. I can do it if I want to, but it doesn’t satisfy me. In fact Maria’s paintings are meticulous and yet seem fresh and lively. She specializes in portraits of Honduran women often at work. These portraits have strong psychological and social resonance.

I told her that Cruz and I had been discussing why he paints and that I wanted to ask her the same question. She said, “At first, I painted because I liked it and to make money. Now I paint because I want to show how things are at this time in this community.”

After a couple of hours of talking, Cruz said, “I make paintings to sell, but I also make paintings for my private collection. These I make for myself and for my children after I am dead. I show this work to close friends.”

Cruz had shown me some of his private work on previous visits. This time he went into a back room and brought out a half dozen canvases. One is a large painting of a boat with slack sails full of refugees, people with sad faces making a desperate journey. The boat is becalmed. It seems to be making little forward progress. Cruz said the name of this painting is El Viaje de Esperanza (The Journey of Hope).

Cruz said that all over Latin America people are leaving one place and going to another in hopes of a better life. Hondurans leave for the United States or Spain. Haitians leave for the Dominican Republic. Nicaraguans leave for Costa Rica. Cubans leave for where ever they can land. Many die just because they want a better life.

“I painted this for my children because I hope they never have to make such a journey.”

Maybe all the best paintings are prayers.

I asked Cruz about his plans for the future. He said that he would like to be an artist outside of Tela, outside of Honduras, outside of Central America. Visitors have said they will help him organize shows in Canada and Germany. He said that he would like to have an exhibition in the United States. I guess I’ve got my work cut out for me.

Here is a link to photos of more paintings by Cruz and Maria:

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=251446&id=669761364&l=8a0dab474b

Honduras, November 2010 - Part I - Four Poems

2010-11-24T05:21:00.001-08:00

Honduras is Green

Honduras is green

In the same way that

Blood is red,

Snow is white,

The night is dark.

Essentially green.

Without the green

It wouldn’t be Honduras.

Honduras is poor

In the same way that

Babies cry,

Drunks stagger,

Dogs gnaw bones.

Essentially poor.

Without the poverty

It wouldn’t be Honduras.

Honduras is joyful

En lo mismo manera que

Kids kick futbols above the tree tops,

Lovers dance close,

A gray haired woman swims in the sea.

Essentially joyful.

Without the joy it wouldn’t be Honduras.

I visit Honduras

In the same way that

Los sacerdotes oran el rosario,

Los gallos gritar a la madrugada

Palabras cruzar los labios y forman frases.

My visits are essential.

I make these trips to know who I am.

Waiting and Hoping

In Spanish, esperar

Means to wait.

Espereme, mi amor.

Wait for me, my love.

In Spanish, esperar

Means to hope.

Espero que regreses

A mi, mi amor.

I hope you will come back

To me, my love.

Si estas esperando,

Hay esperanza.

If you are waiting,

There is hope.

Si su esperanza

Esta terminado,

If your wait is over,

You know,

Sabe.

There is nothing more

To wait for.

Nothing more

To hope for.

Por eso espanol es

Una lingua mejor

Por amores

Que ingles.

Spanish can break your heart

El espanol puede romper su corazon.

Gringo Time, Honduran Time

El tiempo del gringo

Es bien organizado.

It has a beginning, a middle and an end.

Honduran time flows and loops.

Si Dios quiere.

Gringo time falls on the beat.

At best it waltzes.

1-2-3, 1-2-3.

El tiempo Hondureño baile la bachata.

The feet execute a sexy little two-step

While the hips elaborate.

But Honduran time is a

Bromista cruel.

Its jokes are merciless.

The hours glow.

The days rhyme.

The weeks nap in their hammocks.

The months pass in ciclos de sol y lluvia.

But the years kill you.

You are old at forty.

At fifty you look seventy.

Before long,

There is a tent in the street

In front of your house.

Your family weeps in rented folding chairs.

A black bow droops on your door.

Gingo time is a negotiator.

(Even time knows that gringos are powerful.)

In the end it is all the same.

Time has nothing to loose

By relenting a little

Here and there.

Five years if you go to the gym

Three times a week.

Ten years if you take your

Lisinopril daily.

Gringo time is patient.

It’s all the same in the end.

Cielo

In Spanish cielo means

Both heaven and sky.

It’s a smoke ring word.

Say it with a Cubano

Between your teeth.

A ring of cloud

Floats toward the sky,

Toward the heavens above.

Guillermo died in Honduras.

I helped carry his coffin.

His brother unscrewed the face plate.

We said good bye through

A plastic window.

Reflections of clouds and sky

Floated over his face.

Cielo y cielo. Cielo y cielo.

In the dirt school yard,

Boys climb the flagpole.

Thirty feet up,

They become

Skinny silhouettes

Against el cielo.

As close to el cielo

As a hungry ten year old

Can get.

The 24 Hour Comic Book Challenge

2010-10-06T09:45:00.000-07:00

I was only at the 24 Hour Challenge for about 12 hours. So sue me. I’m old. I had other things I had to do. But, for the time I was there, I had a blast! Next year I’ll plan my time so I can stay for the whole thing.

These 24 Hour Challenges occur around the world on the same day – this year Saturday, October 2 – coordinated by ComicsPro, “the only trade organization dedicated to the progress of direct market comic book retailers, allowing us to move forward together.” Huh? The challenge is to create a 24 page original comic book in 24 hours.

Annex Comics on Broadway in Newport, Rhode Island hosted the event I attended. Wayne Quackenbush is the proprietor of Annex Comic Books. He has gone out of his way to help some of the kids I work with at the East Bay Met School. He gives them internships in his store and encourages them to display their artwork in his shops windows.

I drew at a table in the back of the store surrounded by racks and racks of comics, graphic novels, obscure science fiction and horror videos, and pulp fiction of several genres. Eventually, gathered around the table were six young men in their late twenties and early thirties, one fifteen year old, and me. There were an equal number of artists working at another table in the front of the shop.

Here was another situation where I was at least 30 years older than everybody else. I love times like this where I’m the outlier. For example, I like going places where I’m the only gringo and everybody else is Hispanic. I think the reasons I enjoy this status are complicated and perhaps to some small degree suspect. The positive pay off for me is that I get to hear and see things that I wouldn’t otherwise come across. I value and seek out experiences that make me reconsider my default perceptions of the world. If I spent all my time with old, relatively well off, white guys, I wouldn’t get much of that. Also, being a bit off to the side, makes for good observation. I get a little distance that allows me to take it in while not being 100% in it.

The things to watch out for in being an outlier, it seems to me, are being a poseur and/or being a voyeur.

I’m clear that if I hang out with young comic book artists, that doesn’t make me a young comic book artist. I’m still an old artist who happens to appreciate what they do. Likewise, when I’m with Hispanics, I’m clear I’m still a gringo. So I’m not too worried about being a poseur.

Voyeurism is one of my great pleasures. I love to watch, take it all in, soak it up, but I’m almost always a participant-observer. I might be an outlier, or a bit off to the side, but I’m not sidelined. I take part.

You are supposed to come to a 24 Hour Comic Book Challenge without having prepared anything. It is billed as a marathon of creativity in which the concept, the characters, the story, the drawings emerge on the spot. For me, it was impossible not to do some thinking ahead of time. I had recently seen a story on the news about a poet that writes by selecting words on a newspaper page. He blacks out the whole page except the words that appeal to him. He then indicates what order the words should be read in and that is his poem. I decided I’d adopt this approach for the Comic Book Challenge. I’d work on newspaper and select words from the text on the page. I also decide to do self-portraiture. I had hopes that a monologue would emerge and that I could use speech balloons or thought bubbles to indicate that I was delivering the monologue.

I did six pages in this way. While I was working, there had been a lot of conversation at the table about a chair in the woods. The fifteen year old said that when he bunked school he would go to the woods and sit in his favorite chair. There were many jokes about what one could and should do while bunking school and sitting in a chair in the woods. The older artists encouraged him to drop his plans to do a zombie comic book and do an autobiographical story about the chair in the woods. I asked him to describe the chair and it turned out to be an ordinary folding chair. I drew one and went to Staples to make copies of my drawing in various sizes. The chair in the woods got incorporated into all my pages.

I wasn’t getting anywhere with the monologue idea. However, I was enjoying my time at the table more and more. I decided that I would use my pages to document the 24 Hour Challenge. To the self-portraits and the chair drawings, I added portraits of the other artists. I had thought I’d throw in samples of the banter that was flying around the table, but I ran out of time and energy.

Is what I did even a comic book? For many people the preferred term for comic books, comic strips, and graphic novels is sequential art, but can it be sequential art if it has no narrative and no obvious sequence?

Whatever. It was fun to be there and I’m proud of the work.

One of the things that made my time at the Annex so enjoyable was watching the interactions between the fifteen year old and the guys in their late twenties and early thirties. Frankly, the younger guy was a pretty obnoxious kid. He’d insert nonsequiturs into ongoing conversations and break silences with random remarks that had little meaning to anybody, maybe not even himself. (“Hey do you guys know Justin Thompson?” “No whose that?” “He was in my math class last year and…” “How in the hell would I know some random kid in your math class last year?”) Although he was at the table the whole time I was there (and talking pretty much non-stop the whole time) his total output was the title “Zombie Invasion” and a few ballpoint pen stick figures drawn in a tiny notebook with lined pages. He could really try your patience, but the more accomplished artists at the table were great with him. They made jokes about the things he said and teased him mercilessly, but during this they advised him, cajoled him, encouraged him the whole time. They also paid him the respect of not talking down to him. It was like he instantly had six older brothers who were totally on to his shit, but at the same time were sticking with him in a very positive way. I didn’t see any improvement in the kid’s social skills, but I think the time was good for him, better than therapy.

Road Trip - East Bound

2010-09-26T10:08:00.000-07:00

Cross Country Haiku

Road Trip

Nevada

Poker, blackjack, slots,

Kids living on neon streets,

Too many hard luck tales.

I’m hot and dusty

Thirsty, too. My home is far.

Time to hit the road.

Utah

Seagulls of Salt Lake

Are polygamists and must

Moisturize their feet.

Sunrise in my eyes

I’m headed east, aiming home.

Sunset behind me.

Colorado

That road kill is huge!

What the hell was that before?

Deer? Moose? Harley?

Landscape fills my eyes,

Makes the miles pass quickly by.

The leaves are changing!

Nebraska

Windmills make lazy

Circles in the sky. Lovely!

Please, build one next door!

Miles and miles of corn

Grown to marbleize beefsteak.

Pollan says, “Eat plants.”

Iowa

Nina Simone sings

Out over the dry corn fields.

They never heard better.

Flat is not boring.

All around variety.

Sunflowers everywhere.

I had to get in

The word “prairie”. Now that’s done,

Good bye Iowa.

Illinois

East of the mighty

Mississippi the states are

Smaller. Why is that?

It’s a long, long way

From Reno to the east coast.

Half way in three days.

Indianna

Adult Super Store,

Huge sign erect in the sky.

Excited farm boys.

U.S. tis a mall

Same shit, under god, for all.

Small towns took the fall.

Ohio

Ohio, you seem

Surprised. Your two Os look

Like big popping eyes.

I’m so skinny here.

The rust belt comes in one size,

Triple XXX

I’m so skinny here.

Fried chicken is the state bird.

Fat is fabulous

I’m so skinny here.

Sandusky could be my town.

I got to loose weight.

Pennsylvania

Freight trains pass by me

Headed west. I am going east.

I can’t count that fast.

Coming back seems fast.

Faster than going. Tail winds?

Anticipation?

New York

New York, the cool state.

Just a corner of it is

Cooler than Texas.

Connecticut

Connecticut is

So, so sophisticated.

Would never date Georgia.

Crossed the U.S.

Fueled by Frappachinos.

Starbucks is my friend.

Rhode Island

Little Ol’ Rhody

In and back out in an hour.

That’s my kind of state.

Little Rhody! I

Land after adventuring.

Its good to be home.

The Social Lives of Cities

Charlotte and Macomb
Charlotte was sorry
About her night with Macomb.
She had too much wine.

But he fell for her.
She didn't return his calls
or answer emails

Spurned, he raged,
"Some day, some way, she will pay,"
Proving she was right.

Philadelphia and Cheyenne
Philly and Cheyenne
On a date. She swallowed hard.
His boots had gold spurs.

Cheyenne and Philly
On a date. He blushed red.
Her heels were six inches.

Philly and Cheyenne
On a date. Later, in bed,
They kept their shoes on.

Gary and Newark
Gary could be pals
With Newark. They both have abs
and bad attitudes.

Newark could be pals
With Gary. June at The Shore.
July at The Dunes.

Gary and Newark
Could be pals, but they would fight:
Knockwurst or calzone.

Akron and Bayonne

Akron and Bayonne

Had a bromance. Back slap hugs.

No way no kisses.

Bayonne and Akron

Had a bromance. Screw some girls

Brag who did it best.

Macho guys in a big

bromance. “Hey, look, once don’t count.”

“Especially drunk.”

Biloxi and Austin

Two towns up a tree

K-i-s-s-i-n-g.

One thing then another.

A well-known story,

A different order for the

Carriage and marriage.

Biloxi loved

Austin. Austin loved Biloxi.

But still, would it last?

Minneapolis and St. Paul
Minneapolis,
Long wed to St. Paul, yawns, sighs
Flirts with the waitress.

St. Paul, long wed to
Minneapolis, sighs, yawns
Knits for the grandkids.

The venerable pair,
With hearts full of love, know they
Will go on spooning.

Road Trip - West Bound

2010-09-19T07:31:00.000-07:00

I was recently away for three weeks on a road trip that included a week at the Burning Man Festival in Nevada. As part of this trip I did two writing experiments.

On the way out, I took characters invented by my friend Mike Becker named Wanda and Randy and wrote a short story in the form of post cards from Wanda. I copied it on to actual postcards that I mailed to Mike. He was a character in the story, too. You can read "Wanda On The Road" below. It has some sexual content.

I did the second experiment on the drive back. My friend Birkin Diana was at Burning Man with me and he told me he was writing his journal about the experience in the form of haiku as an exercise in being succinct. I decided to barrow this approach and document my return trip in haiku. I'll put these poems up in a week or so.

There will probably be a third installment based on this road trip; my reflections on the Burning Man Festival, but these are still peculating.

Wanda On The Road

Randy Baby, I’m going to send these postcards to Mike. Maybe you’ll never see them. After what they did to your brother maybe nobody we know is safe. I miss you so bad, baby. I guess I got to just keep moving and trust in the lord. I love you with all my heart, Wanda

My Sweet Baby Randy, If these postcards was to fall in the “wrong hands” they’d know where I had been, but they’d never guess where I was going, because I don’t know myself. I don’t know where I’ll wake up tomorrow or if I’ll wake up tomorrow. I just know I won’t be with you. Good night, baby boy. I just got to trust in the lord that someday, someway we will be together again. Love, Wanda

Randy Honey, All my life I been poor as dirt. Now I got more money than I know what to do with. I paid cash for this car. I’m eating $20.00 dinners and staying in $100.00 a night motels. But I don’t have you. It don’t do a bit of good to think about turning back the clock, but I would in a minute. Your one and only, Wanda

Sweet Heart, I thought I saw that fat fuck Butch this morning. I just came out of the motel and was headed for the car and he stepped out of the room next door. Except it wasn’t him, just some fat tourist on vacation with the wife and kids. Still it made me feel like death had a hold of my heart in his icy fist. How is this all going to end? I pray the lord helps us through this. All my love, Wanda

My Dearest Randy, I’m here in this hotel bed all alone. How I wish I could feel the whiskers on your chinny, chin, chin tickling the back of my neck and feel Mr. Pink and Pointy making my earlobe all wet and feel little Randy knocking at my back door. I know I should be glad to be alive, but it ain’t really living without you. Hugs and Kisses, Wanda

Mike, You four eyed pervert, I know you liked that last one. You miss looking down my blouse like you always use to do? That’s alright. I always thought you were pretty cute for a geek. You can look at my titties all you want. Besides you got the advantage of being Randy’s only acquaintance who ain’t a spic drug dealer, ain’t a con, or ain’t beat nobody to death with a baseball bat like that fat fuck Butch did to Randy’s brother, Charlie. Hope you’re safe, Professor. Wanda On The Road

Randy Honey, I think we ought to just give it all back. I know Mr. Ortiz would still want us dead, but it’d have to like make him less motivated. You know what I mean? Mr. Ortiz has got to be eighty if he’s a day. How long can he live? Butch could drop dead of a heart attack tomorrow. I guess I’m just grasping at straws, but that and praying to Jesus is all that gets me through the day. God bless you and keep you safe, Wanda

Dearest Randy, I can’t hardly look at food. I drink coffee all day and have dinner in a restaurant at night that I don’t eat but half of. Don’t worry, honey. My jeans are loose, but I still fill out them “D” cups. Miss you, Wanda

Randy, my sweet baby, You was on my mind so much today, I was driving with just my left hand. You know what you always said, “Two in the pink, one in the stink, and thumbkin working overtime.” And they say using your cell phone is a distraction. Yeah, honey. I’m still your dirty girl. Wish you was here. Wanda

Hey Mike, That last one get you off good? I got to admit I wrote it partly for you. I know you got off on those stories Randy wrote for your class in the joint. They was just his wet dreams and jerk off fantasies from missing me so bad. Even though you got that one published for him, he never wrote another one once he was out. Still, he never forgot what you did for him. He trusted you more than anybody. I’m going to call you up one of these nights when I’m lonely. Wanda

Dear Randy, I had a real bad day today just filled with regret and sorrow about everything that’s gone down. I’m sorry Mr. Ortiz’s grandson got in all that trouble down in Juarez. I’m sorry he picked Charlie to deliver the ransom. I’m sorry the kid was already dead when Charlie got there. I’m sorry Mr. Ortiz told Butch to get the money back and kill Charlie, too. I’m sorry that when Charlie figured out what was gonna happen he ditched the money in your truck. I’m sorry that when Butch was beating him, he gave us up. Most of all, I’m sorry to be apart from you. Wanda

Oh shit, baby. I just figured it out. I’m so dumb. I know why you sent me off on this “one year, all expenses paid vacation.” Why you made all the rules about never spending two nights in the same place, never calling anybody, not even my mama, and never trying to find you. You’re trying to keep that fat fuck Butch away from me. You want him following you and leaving me alone. God bless you, Randy. I love you so much. Wanda

Mike, I’m going to call you in two weeks. Friday, August 28, at 8:00 AM. I promise I’ll use a phone nobody can trace. Be there. Wanda

Randy and Mike, Thank god you’re both alive. I wish I could of talked to you Randy, but Mike gave me your instructions and I’m going to do just what you said. Of the towns you gave me to pick from, I pick the second one. As soon as I set it up, I’ll send you the box number. I’ll stay away from it for a month and then I’ll go back and check it. I won’t call no more. Mike, I wrote down that woman’s name and number. If you say she can help me, I believe you. I miss you both so much. Wanda

Randy and Mike, The box number is 514. Wanda

Dear Randy, I got on the scale in Walgreen’s today. I lost twenty-five pounds. I been buying a bunch of new clothes because my old ones is too big. I like being skinny. I hope you like me this way, too. Love you, Wanda

Randy honey, Ol’ Wanda got her hands on a sweet baby boy hitch hiker and kept him with me for three days. I didn’t card him but he couldn’t have been no more than eighteen. By the time I was done with him he was Wanda certified in the reverse cowboy, the pearl necklace, around the world and the meaning of life. I dropped him off at his front door with a smile on his face and a dick that looked like something you’d buy in a butcher shop. I don’t know what he told his mama. You proud of me baby? Wish you were here, Wanda

Hey Mike, You shocked? Or had you already figured out from his stories that Randy likes to watch me with other guys? I always thought he was going to try to get me and you to put on a show for him, but he never did. I’m about two days drive away from the post office box. Wanda

Randy and Mike, I’m so scared now. I picked up the package. I was real careful. Nobody followed me or nothing, but Randy why did you send me all that money. I must have it all now. I’m driving around with close to a million in the trunk of this car. Mike, why aint you answering your phone? I know I said I wouldn’t call no more, but I’m scared and I don’t know what to do. Please answer your phone. Wanda

Randy and Mike, I can’t do this alone no more. I’m going to see that woman Mike said could help me. I love you, but I don’t think I’ll ever see you again. God bless you, Wanda

Randy and Mike, I’m with “Donna” now. I didn’t write no postcards for a long time, but I got sadder and sadder. It was like admitting I’d never see you again. “Donna” said if it made me feel better go ahead and write them. Don’t think the postmark on this card will tell you where “Donna” lives, because I ain’t nowhere near where this was mailed from. Wanda

Randy honey, Are you out there? Are you alive? Will I ever see you again? Will I ever get to hold you in my arms again? You fill up my heart and dreams and prayers everyday. I sure ain’t forgetting you or getting over you. May God keep you safe wherever you are. Wanda

Randy and Mike, Everything is different now. I ain’t Wanda Sykes no more. I got a new name. My hair is a new color and new style. I got a birth certificate, a social security card, a driver’s license, a high school diploma from a Catholic girls’ high school, and a gun I can carry in my purse all legitimate in my new name. I got another gun can’t be traced to nobody. “Donna” knows how to get all that stuff. I miss you, Wanda

Randy and Mike, I’m on the road again. I was with “Donna” two months, but a week ago she told me it was time to leave. She said somebody is looking for her, asking people about her in Berkley and Madison. Somebody called the people that publishes her poems. She ain’t scared. She’s an expert on disappearing, which she calls “going underground.” She says she’ll “surface” again when the time is right. I got some more news, but I’m saving it till later. Wanda

Randy and Mike, I know you’re probably both dead, but I keep talking to you in my head and keep writing these damn postcards. I ain’t scared no more because I know what I got to do. “Donna” told me how to disappear, but I’m tired of all this shit and I’m going to bring it to and end. I pray for you guys. I hope you’re looking out for me. Wanda

Randy and Mike, It was real easy to kill that fat fuck Butch. He did come looking for “Donna” but of course she was long gone. I followed him back to his motel and pulled into a parking spot right next to him. I gave him a big smile. He came around to my window and I shot him between the eyes. He never recognized me. He died thinking, “Why is this skinny red head with the big tits pointing a gun at me?” I drove away real slow. I don’t know what Mr. Ortiz will do but I think it is over. God Bless you, Wanda

Randy and Mike, I thought that last card postcard was going to be my last but I forgot to tell you my news so this one is the last one. O.K. I’ll just spit it out. I’m going to have a baby! That fucking little hitchhiker knocked me up! Seems like years and years since I been this happy. I know it’ll be a boy and I know I’ll name him Randal Michael. Hey you guys, rest in peace. Wanda

Ode to an Aged Artist - Part VII

2010-08-19T06:25:00.000-07:00

Thursday, August 19, 2010 - The Final Installment

It is time to bring this series of postings to a close. I hate to see Ode to an Aged Artist come to an end, but the painting, now titled Odas Elementales, is finished and it is hanging in the window of Annex Comics on Broadway in Newport, Rhode Island. It is a good place for it.

The proprietor of Annex Comics, Wayne Quackenbush, has been very supportive to the alternative high school, The East Bay Met School, where I work. He has provided internships to some our students and encouraged other students to display their artwork in his shop. If you are in Rhode Island and looking for a comic book/graphic novel/sequential artwork, you know where to go.

I have enjoyed the process of making and writing about this painting. The title comes from a series of poems by Pablo Neruda that I have quoted frequently in these postings. Odas Elementales is usually translated as Elemental Odes, but I’d translate it as Odes to Basic Things. In the making of this piece, I was trying to do the visual version of what Neruda does in these poems: describe everyday objects in an accessible style. The amazing thing about Neruda’s odes is that in one moment they seem to be nothing more than lovely, clear descriptions and in the next moment they seem full of deeper meaning.

I think of my painting as a self-portrait that I don’t appear in. I’m telling you about whom I am by presenting some of the everyday things from my life: roosters, elephants, the cup I drink my morning coffee from, the quilt design called tumbling blocks, Honduran clowns, some tile patterns that have stuck in my head, tomatoes from my garden, and a little doll bought in a tourist market in Guatemala. These things are present in my mind and attached to some of my sweetest memories.

Can you tell this from the painting? Do these objects seem full of deeper meaning?

Alive

This painting uses all the conventions of the old side show banners that lined circus midways advertising amazing and disturbing attractions. Like them, it is painted on unstretched canvas and has grommets for hanging it. I’ve copied the painted banner within the actual banner that these signs always had and also copied the style of lettering that would have proclaimed, Dickie the Penguin Boy, Jack Joyce’s Performing Horses, Amazon Snake Charmer, Huey the Pretzel Man, Rasmus Nielsen Scandinavian Strong Man, Professor Price Tattoo Artist, Alligator Girl, and Shella Queen of the Jungle.

(My reference was Freaks, Geeks & Strange Girls – Sideshow Banners of the Great American Midway, by Randy Johnson, Jim Secreto, and Teddy Varndell.)

Almost all of the midway banners contained another element, a circle containing the word “alive.” This appeared as assurance to the rubes who were going to pay a nickel to enter the sideshow that they would see the living, breathing, genuine article, not a painting or a statue or a work of taxidermy. However, I think it carries another meaning. I think it is a declaration of existence.

I’m alive! I’m here! I woke up this morning on the right side of the grass! How amazing!

And finally, it is all that matters.

Ode to an Aged Artist - Part VI

2010-08-15T03:58:00.000-07:00

Saturday, August 14, 2010

The Tomato

it’s time!

come on!

and, on

the table, at the midpoint

of summer

the tomato,

star of earth,

recurrent

and fertile

star,

displays its convolutions,

its canals,

its remarkable amplitude

and abundance,

no pit,

no husk,

no leaves or thorns,

the tomato offers its gift

of fiery color

and cool completeness.

This is a fragment from Pablo Neruda’s Ode to the Tomato.

In the painting, will people recognize this heirloom variety as a tomato or will they think it some kind of little, red pumpkin? It would seem that this is what Neruda thought a tomato looked like when he wrote about “its convolutions” and “its canals.” I haven’t got anything against a big, perfectly round beefsteak, but I swear you can’t beat the flavor of these old varieties. Besides, they are much more fun to draw.

The tomatoes from my garden have been bringing me an inordinate amount of joy this summer. I’ve been eating about two a day, usually as tomato sandwiches for lunch. Here is my recipe: I get some good, crusty bread and saw off half inch slices. I spread the bread with some honey mustard to get off on the right foot. Then, I add cottage cheese, or humus, or avocado, or all of the above. Finally, I slap on a slice or two of tomato and finish it off with a generous amount of salt and a splash of balsamic vinegar. Of course a few strips of crispy bacon will make this sandwich even more memorable, but then there is not much that bacon won’t improve. I’ve been known to wash this down with a mid-day beer, but ice tea is good, too.

I’m getting close to being done with the painting. I think I can add details and polish it up in another day or two.

Ode to an Aged Artist - Part 5

2010-08-11T15:16:00.001-07:00

(I figured out recently that if you click on the picture you can get a larger version of it. If you click on the enlargement, you get a good close up that will let you see the texture of the surface and the details of the painting.)

Monday, August 10

Here come the roosters! I love roosters. When I was living in Honduras they were everywhere and not a day went by that I didn’t actively admire them.

“Damn,” I’d say to myself or to Deb. “There’s a handsome bastard,” meaning I’d just spotted a rooster with dramatically shaped plumage, an eye catching comb, intimidating spurs, and a combination of iridescent colors that took my breath away. Some of these guys stood knee high to me. Occasionally, I’d run across an aggressive one, but usually they gave their full attention to scratching and pecking and doing the other thing roosters do. Only a few had the time to spare to charge a gringo.

I saw a rooster

with feathers of Spanish

luster:

black and white cloth

was the stuff

of its shirt,

knee britches,

and arching tail feathers.

its feet sheathed

in yellow boots

displayed the sheen of defiant

spurs.

The

proud

head

crowned

with blood

intensified

its scornful stance:

a statue

of pride.

I love Neruda’s “Ode to a Rooster”, but my perception of roosters is very different from his. The cock he anthropomorphizes so eloquently is a regal character, a kind of benign monarch or the barnyard. Neruda describes him finding a crumb of bread which he passes on to his hens, “keeping nothing for himself / but pride...”

I’ve observed a lot of rooster behavior and I’ve seen nothing that I’d describe as generous or even unselfish. In fact everything in a rooster’s behavioral repertoire seems to have to do with satisfying a limited number of biological imperatives: scratch, peck, scratch, peck, jump a chicken, scratch, peck, scratch, peck, jump a chicken.

Oh yeah, and crow. I don’t know what the biological imperative behind crowing is, but I’m sure there is one.

Remember learning that roosters crow at dawn? Forget it. They crow any damn time they feel like it. However, at dawn they crow in unison, every one in town and there are hundreds, thousands.

Interestingly, in the US, when roosters crow, they say cock-a-doodle-do, but in Latin America they say ki-ki-riki-ki.

Here’s Neruda on rooster sex:

swift movement

of love, ravishment

of feathered shadows,

I praise you,

black

and white

rooster,

strutting

sum

of virile rural honor,

father

of the fragile, egg…

He got the “swift”, “ravishment” and “strutting” right. The rooster jumps on the hens back, pens her head into the dirt, flaps his wings wildly three or four times, and he’s done. The hen gets up, shakes herself off, and goes back to scratching and pecking. The father of the fragile egg struts around bragging about what he’s just done. I know. I am anthropomorphizing, too, just like Neruda, but you watch a rooster right after he’s jumped a hen and tell me that he not thinking, “Yeah, baby! That’s what I’m talking about. I gave it to her good! Call me the love machine.”

Maybe roosters are viewed differently in every epoch. Writing in the fifties, Neruda described a dignified, benevolent, patriarch, a kind of pre-feminist cock. I’m a sixties/seventies/eighties kind of guy. I think about equality, self-determination, and empowerment for the hen. And yet I love roosters and think they are beautiful. Maybe my rooster admiration is post-feminist.

Ode to an Aged Artist - Part IV

2010-08-09T06:45:00.000-07:00

Ten Questions About This Painting

Does San Simón look like a person or a doll? I mean, does he look too alive, or too inanimate?
What should it say on the banner?
In the center, where there is a circle sketched in, should I paint a tomato, a heart, a crown, a rose?
Same area, should I do just the object or the object as represented on a loteria card?
How come there is no skull in this painting?
In the areas where I sprayed Krylon over acrylic and then painted over the Krylon again with acrylic is it going to peel?
I'm thinking about an unauthorized display of this painting. Just wire it up somewhere, maybe a chain link fence around a playground, and see what happens. Where?
How am I going to bring this series of blog entries to a close if I never finish this painting?
If some one saw this painting and had no idea who had painted it, how old would they guess the artist was?
For me, there are a lot of stories that go with this painting. Does it make other people want to tell stories, too?

Ode to an Aged Artist - Part III

2010-08-06T09:21:00.001-07:00

Thursday, August 4, 2010

San Simón, a.k.a. Maximón, has made an appearance. I was sort of expecting him to show up in this painting. So far he’s only an outline, but once he has a foot in the door, you can expect him to manifest himself in a more solid form.

Mam was the most beautiful man in the village. All the young women wanted him in their beds, feeling sure he would be more pleasing than their boyfriends or husbands. Those who let their curiosity get the better of them were not disappointed. All the old women thought he’d be a perfect son, more attentive than the ones they had raised. In fact Mam did go out of his way to do favors for the grandmothers. Rather than see one go hungry, he would spend half a day fishing for her and share the soup she made, sitting with her by her fire and asking her for stories of days gone by. He thatched many a roof to keep an elder dry.

Among the men he was also popular and respected.

How sad then that when the Spanish came ashore and the misunderstanding occurred about whom would bow down to whom, Mam was the first to die.

When the villagers heard the explosion from the arquebus and saw the top of Mam’s head disappear in a spray of blood and bone and brain, they didn’t wait around to see what would happen next. They grabbed his body and faded away into the jungle.

By evening, the people were miles down the coast. They laid Mam on a pyre and the priest set it on fire. All the women gathered around and sobbed. Quite a few men did, too. The tears quenched the flames and flowed over Mam’s body. He was wet and glistening with the tears of everyone who loved and respected him. Cry as they might, they could not bring him back to life. But, he was transformed. His body was changed from ephemeral flesh to one made out of clay, wood, bone, shell, and coral. As beautiful as ever, he became a muñeco that could stay with the villagers forever.

Since he was neither dead nor alive, neither fully on earth nor in the afterlife, not quite human, but certainly not a god, he became a go between, an intermediary. He couldn’t move so he was a good listener. If you came to Mam, spoke to him of your troubles or concerns, lit a candle so he wouldn’t have to sit in the dark, left him some whiskey, blew some smoke in his face, placed something sweet on his tongue, he would plead your case to the ones in charge on a higher plain. More times than not you’d find your situation improved.

Years went by, then decades, then a century or two. Most of the people who were there before the Spanish arrived died of small pox. The Catholic Priests didn’t like the people attending to Mam. They didn’t even like them referring to him, so the people started saying “San Simón” when they wanted to talk about him. For reasons that no one can remember they also started calling him Maximón. Regardless of what he was called, he went right on listening to peoples’ troubles, accepting their offerings, and doing what he could to lighten their load.

With San Simón, a.k.a. Maximón, you didn't need to be ashamed of your foibles. Nor did you need to be laid low by them. If you had a tendency to drink too much, get high too often, share your body too indiscriminately, suffer too much from love gone wrong, you could just turn it over to this beautiful, old muñeco and proceed unencumbered by regret or guilt.

As his body wore out, the people refurbished it. Eventually, he had more than one body and he lived in several locations.

Once in about 1963, a gringita with long, straight, black hair visited him at his house in Guatemala near the lake. She was sad because her husband had recently died in a motorcycle accident. She was a little drunk and a little stoned. She blew marijuana smoke in his face and sang him a song.

Oh but if somehow

you could pack up your sorrows

and give them all to me
You would lose them

I know how to use them

give them all to me

“Yeah”, he thought. “If I had a theme song that would be it.”

It took some time, but things got better for the young woman after that.

I'll write more about San Simón as he comes into focus.

Ode to an Aged Artist - Part II

2010-08-05T12:14:00.000-07:00

Wednesday, August 4, 2010

The Tiles

I’m an hour into painting the third of four colors that will make the tile pattern under the elephant.

It is killing my back. I raised the painting, but I still have to bend over to work on the bottom. I’m into it so it is hard to make myself stop and take breaks to stretch. Is this painting worth a month of chiropractic adjustments?

The first time I can remember being aware of tile as a decorative motif was in Cuba in 1958. I was twelve or thirteen. I was living in Miami at the time and my dad was working as a mechanic for Pan American Airlines. There was some deal where airline employees could fly to Havana dirt-cheap and also get a bargain rate at Hotel Nacional. My dad went to gamble. While he was in the casinos, I wandered around Havana. I remember the tile that covered the facades of buildings and paved courtyards and plazas. My dad lost all his money and we went home early.

When I think back on this trip, two aspects of it puzzle me. The first is why my dad took me. It seems out of character. I suspect it had something to do with the endless machinations of my mother and father’s on again, off again marriage. Probably, I was thrown into the mix to balance the scale in someway, but what that way might have been is a mystery to me.

The second puzzling aspect is the timing. There was a revolution going on. I’m not sure of the season of the trip, but it was probably in the summer. Castro’s forces would triumphantly enter Havana in less than six months. From all the reading about the Cuban revolution I’ve done since, I know there were bombs going off in Havana, people being shot down in the streets. But there I was, an oblivious thirteen-year-old kid from the US, wandering down the Malacon, watching boys my age swim naked in the sea.

When I went back to Cuba in 2000 and again in 2001, I looked for the tile. It was there, but like everything in Havana, faded and broken. I took lots of pictures and tile patterns keep finding their way into my paintings.

This painting is a mess.

I always think that at some point during a project. Sometimes I’m right. Sometimes it is just me recalibrating my ego as I spend hours doing something that there is no reason to do other than that it brings me pleasure.

When a painting is a mess, sometimes I can fix it and sometimes not.

This picture has two chances to succeed. First it might end up being a good painting that I can show to people and get a smile, or a nod, or a conversation out of them. The second shot at success is that it can be a catalyst for this blog, a jumping off point for telling some good stories and sharing some thoughts.

Ode to an Aged Artist - Part I

2010-08-04T15:09:00.000-07:00

Tuesday, August 4, 2010

I am working on a big painting in my studio. I’ve decided to document the making of this painting as part of Portrait of the Artist as an Old Man. Each day that I work on it, I’ll take a photo at the beginning of the session and write about the process. I’ll also share information about the imagery.

I am starting to think about this painting as a self-portrait that I don’t appear in. Sure, that is true about any painting, but this one more than others.

It is hard to paint and write at the same time. I keep needing to wash the paint off my hands before I can tap the keys.

I wish I had started earlier. I’m already a couple of days into the painting and some of the early laying on of color was interesting.

The Title

Over the course of his long career, Pablo Neruda wrote in many styles. At one point he composed a series of simple, accessible, observational poems describing everyday objects. In 1954 he published these poems as Odas Elementales, Elemental Odes. He was only 50 at the time and would live another nineteen years. However, these poems are referred to as “late career” works. One is called Ode to an Aged Poet and contains the lines:

There I left him

hurrying toward death

as if

death awaited,

she too, almost naked,

in a somber park,

and hand in hand

they would make

their way to

a decaying resting place

where they would sleep

as every man

of us

will sleep:

with

a dry

rose

hand

that will also

crumble into dust.

How’s that for looking mortality in the eye?

The Tiles

I started painting a tile floor underneath the elephant. To get the pattern I want, I will have to paint equal amounts, more or less, of four colors; purple, white, light green and dark green. I did the purple part and it took me an hour. There are three more hours to go on this one section.

Here is another nice mess I got myself into.

I saw this tile design in Guatemala and sketched it into a notebook. It has been in my mind since then.

The Elephant

Here is a paragraph from something I wrote when Deb and I came back from Botswana. I’ve only been to Africa once, for two weeks, but the images stick with me.

I was surprised by the emotion I felt at seeing the animals. The African Jacana was a brown so warm and rich it was reason enough to feel joyful. Giraffes were so improbable that they confirmed life is essentially a mystery that can’t be explained by theory or faith, a notion that brought with it a lovely melancholy. Many of the animals were giggle inducing, only one step removed from Disney cartoons. The monkeys, the mongoose, the secretary bird, seemed to be auditioning for the next version of the Lion King. The old elephants with their tattered ears and battered tusks seemed enduring in a way that only someone over sixty could really appreciate. They made me feel proud and courageous to be old and in Africa.

But this elephant seems to be wearing a lace unitard. What’s with that?

My Career in Education

2010-08-02T08:02:00.000-07:00

My friend Bill Eyman and I took a day trip to the Katonah Museum of Art in Katonah, New York. We were going to see an exhibit of Cuban art and to celebrate Bill’s 70th birthday. At some point during the drive, we were discussing my blog and Bill said, “You should write about your career in education.” Since I have been an educator since I was 21 years old, 44 years and counting, it caught me by surprise that I had not thought of this myself. I keep a list of ideas I want to write about, and education was nowhere on the list.

However, Bill’s suggestion appealed to me. I work part-time as the arts coordinator of the East Bay Met School, an alternative High School in Newport, Rhode Island. I had just finished a summer painting tutorial with a couple of my favorite students. I met for eight afternoons with Kat Desrosier and Christian Pidru. We painted two, 5’ X 5’ canvases.
One of these big pictures we painted in a loose, gestural style. It is a busy, playful composition of elephants and monkeys that looks like an old time circus poster. We titled it “Los Monos Locos.” Christian was the driving force behind this one.
The second has a single image of a large, sensual flower imposed on a geometrically patterned background. Kat did most of the work on it.
The flower painting we plan to donate to a fundraising auction to support The Newport Art Museum. We have hopes of exhibiting the one with the monkeys in the storefront window at Annex Comics on Broadway.
During the eight afternoons I met with Kat and Christian, we discussed color, line, texture, pattern, scale, perspective, composition, transparency and opacity, spontaneity, planning, patience, art history, community arts, and the economics of art. We also goofed around, made a lot of silly jokes, gossiped about some of the students who graduated this year, and we went out for sushi.
I heard a lot about Kat and Christian’s life outside of school. I felt trusted. I taught them a lot about painting. I think my adult presence may have also given them some support as they deal with coming of age.

Painting with Kat and Christian this summer was one of those experiences that make me recognize what a privilege it is to be an educator.

I retired from the Coventry School Department in 2003. I had been employed in Coventry for twenty-eight years. I worked there as a school psychologist and special education administrator. I think I got out of public education just when the getting was good, just before the tail began to wag the dog.

The early part of my career in Coventry coincided with the passage of The Education of All Handicapped Children Act, also known as EHC and Public Law 94-142. This was a truly revolutionary piece of social policy that sought to expand the benefits of free, public education to all children regardless of their needs. Along with The Americans with Disabilities Act passed in 1990, 94-142, fundamentally changed the treatment of atypical students in our schools. How deeply challenging 94-142 was to the status quo can be measured by the amount of resistance and resentment it generated. It really shook public education up.
I am proud that for nearly three decades most of my work focused on making schools more inclusive, more appreciative of variation, more flexible, and more creative in meeting individual needs. Of course I also did a lot of mundane stuff, but over all the seventies, eighties, and nineties were a time in public education when you could go to work with a sense of purpose and mission.

In contrast, by the end of my career, American public education was dominated by No Child Left Behind, a reductionist, simple minded, political sound bite masquerading as social policy. Routinely referred to as No Child Left Untested by educators, this legislation posits that the value of education can by judged by how students score on reading and math tests. Period. End of discussion.

PL 94-142 sought to distribute the benefits of public education as broadly as possible so all students would have an equal chance of succeeding. At the core of this legislation is a generosity that I believe to be quintessentially American.

No Child Left Behind justifies high stakes testing as a way to make American students “competitive” so they can be better than students from other countries in pursuit of… of what? Economic gain? Power? How did we get to the point where the best we hope for from the process by which we help our young people come of age is that they can beat somebody else out of a job? That is a stingy, mean spirited, un-American way of viewing the world.

(It is no small irony that the same people who advocate “competitiveness” as a goal for education, sold American manufacturing out from under American workers, outsourcing our best jobs to the lowest bidders, typically to developing countries whose only “competitive” advantage was that they were so poor and uneducated they had to work for next to nothing.)

I am going to say some things that are heretical under No Child Left Behind. Sure, Kat and Christian need to have functional reading and math skills, but the life stories they live out will be little effected by their scores on standardized tests. No one out in the real world is ever going to ask them how they scored on National Assessment of Educational progress.
While it is way too early to know what these stories will entail, it is easy to envision Kat becoming an artist and arts educator. Maybe Christian will end up as a chef and restaurant manager. However, if they are like most people, the most important aspects of how they live will not be what they do for income. It is more likely that the quality of their lives will be determined by how they relate to other people in friendship, in partnership, in family, and in community. Further, making money will probably be of secondary importance to having a passion, something they care deeply about and would do even if they never made a dime off it.

It seems likely I’m going to die an educator. How fortunate then that late in my career I work at the Met School, that my job is making art and helping others make art, and that I get to know and offer guidance to some really wonderful kids.

Sammy and Bob

2010-07-22T04:43:00.001-07:00

Two years ago when he was eight, my grandson Sammy started coming to Rhode Island to spend a week or ten days with Deb and me during the summer. He made his third visit this July, flying as an unaccompanied minor from his home in Portland, Oregon.

The first year he came was also the year he turned into an avid sports fan. Some developmental leap took place and rather than baseball and football being activities he participated in, they became his lens for viewing and understanding the world.

One day he went to work with Deb at the Alternative Food Coop. They waited on a very small woman who was shopping there. Deb noted that Sammy was scrutinizing this person. When her order had been rung up and she left the store, Sammy said, “I really like small people.”

“Why,” Deb asked.

“Because they have such small strike zones,” Sammy replied.

I believe this change was due to a new level of physical skill that allowed him to really play the games and to know kinesthetically what was going on when he watched professional sports. Also, he learned to read. He knew all the teams, all the players, and all the statistics. He immersed himself in strategy, history, and endless speculation. There was no fact too obscure to be of importance to him and no rule too arcane to get his attention. In fact, the more obscure the more arcane the better. Moreover, he wanted to talk about it endlessly. He wanted to engage in deep discussions of the repercussions of a particular trade the Sea Hawks had made. He wanted to think through, week by week, how an injury could be accommodated to minimize its impact on a team’s chance at the pennant.

Neither Deb nor I had the knowledge to participate in these discussions. We didn’t have the interest either. But I knew who had both: Bob Cohen. Bob has been my friend for more than thirty years and he is the only person I know whose passion for sports matches Sammy’s. I recruited him to be Sammy’s sports buddy during the summer visits.

Here is a scene that took place about 20 years ago. If my memory serves me right, it was probably 1990. Bob Cohen and I were both between relationships. I was forty-five and he was a couple of years younger. His marriage with Suzie had ended for the second and final time. I was near the end of my long, painful unraveling with Mariellen. We were having a beer on the deck of the Coast Guard House on a sunny afternoon in the middle of the summer. I don’t usually go there, but I remember it was hot and the breeze off the ocean felt great.

As we sat there drinking and talking, a woman approached our table. She was dark, pretty, a little round, and a decade younger than us.

She slipped Bob a business card and said, “I’ve been watching you for the last half hour. You’re the best looking man I’ve seen in along time. I decided that if I left without giving you my number, I’d kick myself later.”

Bob gave her a big smile and said, “What a great compliment! Thanks you so much. You made my day. Unfortunately, I just started seeing someone.”

The part about just having started to see someone was a lie, but a generous one. It was more like a gift than a lie.

Bob likes them skinny. I could have told the woman she didn’t stand a chance. Me on the other hand… she could have had me at ‘”I’ve been watching you…”

This guy who gets approached by strange women and turns them down in a gentle, chivalrous manner is part of who Bob is to me. However, I doubt my grandson Sammy will ever recognize that part of him. To ten-year-old Sammy, Bob Cohen is the old guy, his grandfather’s friend, who goes to Red Sox games with them.

During his yearly visits, Sammy sits next to Bob at Fenway Park and they talk baseball.

July 17, 2010. Red Sox vs. The Rangers

Sammy: Lets say Ortiz hits a high fly ball right down the third base line, you know. And Josh Hamilton goes to catch it just before it goes into the stands, but it bounces off his glove and it goes fair, you know. Like if he hadn’t touched it, it would have been foul, but it bounces off his glove on the fair side of the line, you know. Would that be a home run?

Bob: Yes that would be a home run. And that has happened. What a sad moment that would be for the left fielder. Can you imagine how he’d feel making an error like that?

The Ranger’s catcher, Bengie Molina came up to bat.

Sammy: Oh, this guy is so slow!

Bob: He says himself he is the slowest guy in the world.

Sammy: He’s not that great a hitter.

Bob: True, but you can’t forget yesterday he hit for the cycle. He’s a threat.

Sammy: Yeah. Even if he’s slow he can win games.

Bob: It’s a good lesson. You can use your strengths to over come weaknesses.

Sammy took an inning out of the game to cruise the souvenir stands with Deb. He was looking for something to take back to Portland for his younger brother and sister. However, he ended up spending $2.50 of his money on a grab bag of baseball cards for Bob. He presented Bob with a brown paper bag that contained about fifty cards.

It was a great game. Maybe the best game I’ve ever seen. Certainly the best I’ve ever seen in person. It was full of tension, possibility, hope, disappointment, and finally triumph. The Sox won in the eleventh inning. A sacrifice fly by Kevin Youkilis with the bases loaded brought in the winning run.

It was late, about 11:00. We walked to the T station that took us to our car parked at the last stop. On the crowded train, Sammy stood in front of Bob and they went through the grab bag of baseball cards. They conversed about each card. Even if the player was so obscure neither had heard of him, they talked about the teams he had played for, looked over his stats, speculated about what had become of him.

An old guy and a young boy, sharing affection, the afterglow of a great game, sleepiness, and a deep understanding of how baseball informs life.

The Portrait: This is a portrait done of me by the artist Jane E. Harrold, A.K.A. Calamity Jane. Besides being a terrific artist, she also makes amazing cowboy shirts, and has a radio program. Look for her on Facebook.

Clowning Around

2010-07-18T06:16:00.000-07:00

I've got to start writing shorter posts.

Politics

2010-07-09T04:28:00.000-07:00

Looking back over the postings in Portrait of the Artist as an Old Man, I realized none of them are very overtly political. Since I consider this blog a self-portrait, that fact is misleading. Actually, I spend a good portion of my time thinking about politics. However, I tend not to enjoy political discussion all that much. It seems to me they either end up being preaching to the choir or trying to score points against someone you have no intention of really listening to. In my experience political discussions close more doors than they open.

Obviously, I’m leading up to writing about politics and I am challenging myself to do it in a way that is personal and invites people in rather than slamming a door in their face.

I just finished reading Blackwater, The Rise of the World’s Most Powerful Mercenary Army by Jeremy Scahill. The gist of what Scahill presents is that Bush came into office with an agenda to “privatize” as much of the federal government as possible, including functions traditionally carried out by the armed services. This was an overt goal that Bush and his neoconservative administration claimed was based on their belief that competition in the market place results in more efficiency than central planning, that corporations, given a free hand, could do everything that government does better and cheaper, including defend the country. Bush, Chaney, and Rumsfeld stated all this before the World Trade Center was destroyed on September 11. After that traumatic event, privatization of the military was put on a fast track so that by the time the US invaded Iraq the State Department and Department of Defense were set up to give out billions of dollars to private corporations to take over functions that had historically been performed by the armed services. Many of these contracts went to a new corporation named Blackwater founded by a man named Erik Prince. Prince was a very wealthy man with deep involvement in right wing political and religious causes.

Not surprisingly, like everything else about the invasion of Iraq, the move to privatize essential military functions went very wrong very quickly. However, it made the people who were awarded the contracts very rich. They profited mightily from the war even as it spiraled downward into chaos. Scahill, whose writing is clear and engaging, tells this story in great detail and with solid documentation. He makes it clear that privatization of the military is a terrible idea, on many, many levels.

My usual response to reading a journalistic expose like this, where powerful people are revealed to be doing terrible things to the rest of us, is anger. I certainly felt anger while reading Blackwater, but much more I felt sadness. I kept muttering to myself, “My poor country. What are they doing to my poor country?”

My most personal connection to the book came as I read about the recruitment and training of Hondurans as mercenaries to send to Iraq. Honduras had initially been part of the “coalition of the willing.” However, it quickly withdrew its regular army troops due to domestic opposition to the war. Despite this decision that the country would not take part in an unpopular war, by 2005 military contractors had set up training bases in the mountains outside Tegucigalpa and were recruiting the same soldiers that Honduras had brought home to go back to Iraq as contracted soldiers. Scahill reports that the Hondurans were paid about $1,000 per month, a small fraction of what people from other parts of the world were being paid to do the same work. So even as cannon fodder, Honduran lives aren’t worth as much as other lives.

I was in Honduras during this period. I had hiked in the mountains where the training base was located. I had no idea what was going on, but I had some contact with the Honduran military and had been thinking and writing about young soldiers.

From my Peace Corps journal- September 25, 2005:

I'm at a Honduran army base in the city of Siquatepeque to give a four-hour presentation on AIDS to the soldiers. This is part of an initiative of the Peace Corps to deliver preventative information to sexually active adult men. I'm at the base with thirty other participants of a “train the trainers” workshop. This is our practicum.

(The manual for the workshop is titled "Aqui Entre Nos... Ideas and Tools for Prevention of HIV/AIDS in the Adult Man." It is illustrated with my Platano Y Tomate drawings.)

We’ve divided up into teams of five and each team is presenting to about fifteen soldiers. I'm working with three Hondurans and another Peace Corps volunteer.

The workshop is fun. It is physically active, packed with games and exercises. The soldiers are having a good time. It has become clear that about half of them can't read or read very poorly. They have trouble counting off by fours. When presented with true or false questions it takes them awhile to realize that the answer will either be true or false. One game involves repeating a well-known tongue twister. Maybe a third of them never manage to say it correctly. They are young and small. Despite the uniforms and the berets worn low over one eye, they strike me as touchingly vulnerable. I'm told later that only the very poor enter the army at this level. If you have more money you can be an officer. These are poor boys from isolated villages a long way from home.

From Siguatepeque, where the Honduran army base is located, it is a twenty-minute bus ride to Comayagua where there is a large American army base. Comayagua is, not coincidentally, a center of prostitution. It is estimated that among prostitutes in Honduras the rate of AIDS infection is 30%.

I'm doing an activity that leads up to the condom demonstration. I ask them to line up in order from the oldest to the youngest with the youngest near the door and the oldest near the window. This relates to condom usage because we are going to give them a sequence of directions for the correct use of a condom and ask them to perform them in order. They like trying to get in order by age, but they can't do it. Two people will ask each other how old they are and stand next to each other, but it won't necessarily relate to the next two. Finally, an officer takes over and organizes them, but when I ask them to go down the line and say how old they are, several are out of order. They think this is very funny, especially the twenty-three year old down between the seventeen and eighteen year olds. Next I ask them to line up by how far their home is from Siguatepeque. Surprisingly they do better at this. There are some energetic discussions about which place is more distant, but in the end they all agree the order is right. I have no way of knowing. Finally, I ask them to form a line with the man with the biggest penis near the door and the man with the smallest penis near the window. The silence lasts three or four beats too long. Then they figure out it is a joke, start laughing, calling for rulers, and jostling to be as near the door as possible.

A young Honduran man named Melvin who came to the workshop with me from Sonaguera takes over and does the condom demonstration. It is soon obvious that many of the soldiers have never seen or handled a condom. They have trouble opening the tin foil packets. They can't figure out which side is up. We are using platanos for penises and they try to put them on with the roll facing the wrong way.

This is all done with great humor, not to mention homoerotic charge. Picture a room full of hot young Latin men holding huge green bananas and helping each other get rubbers over them.

I’m left with the impression that, while it would probably take any of these guys five minutes to get a girl pregnant or infect himself with HIV, their chances of getting a condom on in the dark in a state of excitement are pretty slim.

Perhaps because these boys are young enough to be my grandchildren, all of this strikes me as poignant and some how hopeful. There is so much to do and it needs to happen at such a basic level that it should be possible to make a difference.

I have heard that commercial sex workers charge one price for sex with a condom, but for a little more will let you go "carnita a carnita." At least now, if offered the choice, these soldiers can make an informed decision. That is progress. Right?

("Carnita" is the diminutive of "carne" so it translates as "little meat" or in the phrase for unprotected sex "little meat to little meat." However, the diminutive is used with terms of endearment so perhaps a better translation is "sweet little meat to sweet little meat." I have to admit I like that.)

From my Peace Corps journal – 10/10/05:

I sent out a group email today that described working with a group of Honduras soldiers. (The email was based on the journal entry above.) I wrote about my perception of them as vulnerable young men, poor, uneducated, a long way from their homes and the support of their families. This was an accurate description of my feelings as I stood in front of the group, talking about HIV/AIDS and hoping that the information, to some small extent, would make these young men safer.

However, as I was writing the email a couple of weeks later, another set of more complicated perceptions had crept in.

I’d been reading Inevitable Revolutions by Walter Lafeber. It is a detailed history of the long, sad story of the United States’ exploitation of Central America. For about 200 years now we have had one goal in Central America: profit. We have done anything and everything to keep the balance of cash flowing from South to North. Up until about the 1950’s if anything happened that threatened to interrupt our money making, we literally sent in the marines with few if any apologies or rationalizations. In the 1950s and 60s, in the context of the cold war, with the Soviet Union and China emerging as rival super powers, direct, armed intervention in the internal affairs of Central American democracies became harder to pull off. Our solution was to choose a right wing politician or general, covertly support him in overthrowing the legitimate government, buy him an army and auxiliary paramilitaries, train them at The School of The Americas, arm them to the teeth and turn them loose on their own people. Thus assuring that Central America was a “stable” place for US corporations to make big bucks. Due to this arrangement, hundreds of thousands of Central Americans, especially during the 1980’s and 90’s, were tortured, “disappeared”, lined up on the edges of mass graves and shot in the back of the head, herded into churches that were then burned to the ground, dropped out of airplanes and helicopters, etc.

Inevitable Revolutions, among many other books, tells this history at much greater length, in minute detail, in more academic language, but there is no mistaking that this is the story.

The soldiers who did the killing across Central America must have been just like the sweet, not very bright boys I gave the AIDS workshop to. The victims of the killing were for the mot part poor and powerless, just like the killers themselves.

What is the greater sin, for a boy to be a murderer or to turn a boy into a murderer? I’m glad I don’t have to come up with the answer to that question.

(Speaking of great sin, John Negroponte was US ambassador to Honduras during the 1980s, but his responsibility for the process described above was much greater and included overseeing the US’ bloody role in Nicaragua and Salvador. In 2004 he was appointed ambassador to Iraq. Scahil suggests that his appointment was made with the goal of implementing the “Salvador Option”: getting Iraqis to kill other Iraqis.)

I read the last page of Blackwater and closed the cover. How can it be that this information is available in such an accessible form and nothing changes?

But maybe there is some reason to be hopeful after all. From the New York Times, June 8, 2010

WASHINGTON — Burdened by lawsuits, criminal investigations and negative publicity stemming from its private security work in Iraq and Afghanistan, Blackwater Worldwide is being put up for sale, the company has announced.

Blackwater, which changed its name to Xe Services and brought in new management last year in order to remake its image, is pursuing a sale in part because that overhaul has failed to change perceptions of the company, most critically inside government, which is its main customer.

Erik Prince, the former member of the Navy Seals and heir to an automotive fortune who founded Blackwater, said in a statement given to The Associated Press late Monday that making the decision to sell the company was difficult, but that he no longer wanted to deal with the intense criticism the business has faced.

Portrait Swap #2: William Schaff

2010-06-17T14:34:00.000-07:00

At two o’clock on a Thursday afternoon, Will Schaff was drinking whiskey, smoking cigarettes and drawing me. He had a good-sized piece of paper set up on and easel and worked on the portrait with a lot of energy. His eyes flicked rapidly between my face and the pencil portrait he was creating. He stepped back to study me for a second or two then lunged forward to make more marks.

“Boy, I’m out of practice,” He said. “It’s been ten years since I did this. I use to draw from models all the time, but I never do any more.”

I had asked Will to do this portrait swap as a way of getting to know him better as an artist. I think of him as a young artist and wanted to compare him to myself as an old artist. I also hold the opinion that he is one of the best artists in Rhode Island. I’m going to describe some of his work, but there is no substitute for looking at it. I urge you to visit his website.

When I described to Will what I wanted to do, he said, “I’m 37 so you are older, but I’m living fast. The way I live is hard on my body. I smoke a lot and drink a lot and I don’t see that changing. My father died from lung cancer when he was 56. You could out live me.”

We met in his studio in Warren. The storefront space is also Will’s gallery and apartment. Every square inch of wall is taken up with his artwork. Adding to the visual intensity of the room are collections of esoteric objects that often find their way into all the forms Will’s art making takes: drawings, paintings, embroideries, scratchboards, dioramas, and books. Prominent among the objects that Will surrounds himself with are bones, skulls in particular, religious statues from a variety of faiths, keys, masks, and toys.

It was my impression that Will brought the same level of intensity that he showed while drawing me to everything he did. However, when it was my turn to draw him, he was a surprisingly good model. Who would have thought that a guy with so much electricity running through his circuits could calm himself down and sit so still?

In any meeting with Will there are bigger paradoxes than this to resolve.

I said to Will, “It seems to me there is less separation between you life and your art than with anyone else I know.”

He muttered something I didn’t quite get. He may have said, “That explains a lot.”

It wasn’t until a later meeting that I asked him to clarify what he had said.

“It could explain why I’m broke, why I’m cranky, why I’m socially inept.”

Before Will made the decision to do his art full time, without back-up employment, he had been a parking lot attendant, a pizza delivery man, a construction worker, a photocopy guy at Kinkos and, for ten years, a bouncer and head of security at Lupo’s.

“My mother was happier,” he said. “Sometimes I even had health insurance, but I was always broke and I wasn’t making much art. So I decided I might as well be broke and make all the art I want to.”

For most of my life I have been a part time artist, very consistent, very dedicated, but only doing it a couple of days a week. While I have made art my whole life, I also had a career in public education, raised a family, and worked on political causes. I lacked the singularity of purpose that Will brings to his work. With no sense of regret, I sometimes speculate what my life would have been like if I had opted in 1967 to move to Avenue C, paint all day, and hang out at Max’s Kansas City all night. Maybe I would have been buddies with Larry Rivers, Richard Serra, Donald Judd and Dan Flavin. Maybe, one night after a Patti Smith concert, I would have slept with Dorthea Rockham or Carolee Schneeman or Ray Johnson or Robert Mapplethorpe, maybe with all of them, maybe with all of them at the same time. Maybe by now museums would be lining up to pay Gagosian six figures for my rooster paintings.

I’ll never know what would have happened if I had thrown myself into art making in NYC, in 1967, with the same energy and single mindedness that Will puts into his now.

I told Will this fantasy of an alternative life and asked him if he had any. He said, “Yeah. I’d like to live in a little house in the woods. Forty-five minutes from whiskey and cigarettes. No nearer. No further.”

There is a reoccurring image in Will’s artwork. It is of a cascade of corpses or skeletons, clearly echoing the piles of dead bodies familiar to us from the holocaust and all the other genocides that have occurred since the invention of photography. Will studied the Nazi genocide of World War II. His arms are tattooed with the names of the death camps. He also did deep studies of atrocities in Cambodia and Vietnam. In many paintings and drawings he shows the dead pouring forth from the orifices of a central figure. They are vomited from wide-open mouths, spurt from ears, noses, and eye sockets. In some particularly powerful images, pregnant women give birth to streams of carnage. It is as though the subject of the drawing, who is often themselves mangled or deformed, has been force-fed on atrocities and can no longer hold them in. A kind of projectile purging takes place, but there is no end to the sorrow and horror that pours forth.

Will is a Christian. He is deeply thoughtful about his faith. It is imperative to him to pay attention to man’s inhumanity to man. He said, “Everyone should have my tattoos. Pick your genocide. It doesn’t matter which one. There are so many to choose from. The important thing is never to forget.”

This is the same guy who regularly dresses up as “Chop Chop the Chimp” and beats drums while marching through the streets with an eighteen-piece brass band named What Cheer? Brigade. The group does up to three performances a weekend and will be touring in Europe soon. This is not your average marching band. Their latest album is entitle, “We Blow, You Suck.” Injuries have occurred. Lungs have collapsed. Will explained, “I can get away with so much more as a cute drumming chimp than I could as me.”

Will is given to making misanthropic statements like, “I don’t really like people.” When I said that my experience with him was different than that, he said, “This isn’t easy for me. This is work.”

Will has mentored one of my high school students all year. He uses her as a studio assistant, but also gives her time, space and materials to do her own work. He is gentle and encouraging to her, like the best big brother you can imagine. From week to week you can see her artwork gain confidence and complexity.

Later in the conversation about misanthropy, Will said, “Maybe I say things like that to lower peoples expectations. I know I can be an asshole. When people find that out, I don’t want them to be disappointed.”

Will’s most tender and loving drawings are of his late dog, Corrina. She came into his life at a rough time, just after a divorce he didn’t see coming. He had her for six years before she died of a tick born blood disease. He said that with Corrina, “I never thought I was alone. If I took her to the bar, I wasn’t drinking alone. If she was in my bed, I wasn’t sleeping alone.”

There are several portraits of Corrina done in cut paper. Like all of Will’s work, they are wonderfully observed and executed with great skill and commitment, but beyond the technical level, they have an unquestionable intimacy that is very moving. Great pictures of a great dog.

Some links related to William Schaff:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mWnSjH9k1SE&feature=related

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AmeQZEfmbqU&feature=related

http://www.whatcheerbrigade.com/

http://www.flickr.com/photos/samsa1973/

Portrait of the Artist as a Young Zombie

2010-06-08T06:04:00.000-07:00

You’d think that after all these years I’d be better at predicting my own reactions. Not the case. I keep getting surprised. When they got dad, I was all business. I took the chainsaw to him, neatly severing his head from his body, soaked him in gasoline and lit him up. A half hour later I was back inside the perimeter, drinking a beer, toasting him with some of the other hunters just back from patrols. Of course dad was damn near seventy years old and had no business still going hunting outside the perimeter. I could say he’d led a good life and died a good death and believe it.
Moses was a whole different story. He hadn’t check in for more than a day and a night so I pretty much knew he was gone. I should have been prepared. Then I spotted him. He was part of a group of four who were tearing apart a fresh kill. I just fell apart. Well not really. I got the job done. I sprayed them and lit them up, I kept the spot light on their flaming corpses until I was sure their brains had boiled out, but the whole time I was shaking and I felt like I couldn’t suck in enough air.
After they opened the gate for me, I drove up the road a hundred yards, pulled into a field, and turned off the headlights. I took my Smith and Weston out of the waistband of my jeans and put the barrel in my mouth. This was my way of posing a question to myself, “Live or die, motherfucker?” The question had more urgency than usual because Moses was the last of my family and because he was only twenty-one years old. Some girl once referred to him as the Peter-Pan of the Scranton stockade. More than once, I had said to him, “When you going to grow up, asshole?”
He’d respond, “You ever notice how when people say that, they mean they want you to stop doing something you’re having fun doing? So John, I’d say maybe never.”
Sitting in the pick-up with the gun barrel clattering against my teeth, I thought, “That’s sure as shit true now, you little prick.” Then I started to cry. Really squirting them. It’d been years. I wet my cheeks, the barrel of the gun, my shirt. Then I started to laugh at myself and I had to take the gun out of my mouth because I was gagging on it.
“I’m alive,” I thought. I bet twenty years ago, people thought alive was the opposite of dead, but of course I knew that alive was the opposite of un-dead. So I stuck the gun back in my pants and drove on toward the barracks.
It was only then that I thought, “Who in the hell were they eating? Who was out there? Were there survivors?”

For the last two years Moses Leonard-Fritzmeier has been assisting me with the art program I run at the East Bay Met School. He graduated from the school just about the time I started, but has extended his involvement with the school by taking on a part time job there. When I first met Moses I thought I would talk him into going to art school. These days I’m less convinced I know what is best for him.
Late in the school year, on a quiet day, we worked on a portrait swap. I drew him and he drew me. Earlier in the year, Moses had done a large poster of a zombie pizza boy delivering to a cemetery, where a fist clenching dollar bills to pay for the pizza stuck out of a fresh grave. I much admired this piece of artwork. We decided to portray each other as zombies. As we worked, I asked Moses questions and tried to develop more of a sense of who he was as a young artist. I hoped to learn more so I could write about our similarities and differences and compare him as a young artist to me as an old artist.
Zombies were also on my mind. I found myself starting conversation with friends with questions like, “Will zombies eat any body part or do they feed exclusively on brains?” “How do you kill a zombie?” “Do zombies reproduce?” I found a surprising number of men, even men my age, have very strong opinions on zombies. Women tended to roll their eyes.
One day, Lily Quinn, an art student, joined us and said, “Moses, you are the Peter Pan of The Met School.”
I asked, “So, Moses, what would it mean to you to grow up?”
He said, “That’s a good question. I always want to have a child like attitude. When you are little and people tell you to grow up, they usually mean to stop doing something you’re having fun doing. I don’t want to grow up in that way. Of course there is a part of growing up that is about physical maturity and taking responsibility for your own actions.”
Mose is twenty-one. As he spoke I thought about myself as a twenty-one year old. I was married. I had an apartment that I paid the rent on. I took a full load of classes at Queens College. I worked in a community center in a Black and Puerto Rican section of the borough. I protested the war in Vietnam. On weekends, I went into The Village to attend Jefferson Airplane concerts at the Fillmore East. In the summer, I heard Nina Simone sing at the Wolman Skating Rink in Central Park. I took myself very seriously. Too seriously. I wanted to be an artist, but decided it would be a socially irresponsible choice. I thought my work should contribute to the community. I studied sociology and later education. I became a teacher.
When I was twenty-one, if someone had referred to me as Peter Pan or in some other way indicated I needed to grow up, I would have been incredulous and hurt. Forty-four years later, I’m going around initiating conversations about zombies.

In the morning I woke up bereaved, the last of the Buckinghams. I also woke up pretty suicidal-slash-murderous due to the fact I had to get up and had to do something about the slim possibility that there might be living people outside the perimeter. Let me be clear, I don’t mind getting up and I don’t mind running patrols, as long as I’m doing it of my own free will. However, to be compelled to do it because some idiot was out there offering himself up as a brain sandwich really pissed me off. Maybe I’d like to mourn my brother, maybe I’d like to get drunk, maybe I’d like to go into town and look for some company. In lieu of these options I went out to the courtyard of the barracks where there was a swimming pool, a basketball court, and an old neon sign that said Top of the 80’s Motel, which is what the barracks was before the perimeter was expanded and my group of hunters started using it as our headquarters. I turned the volume of the sound system way up and started dancing. The first tune was Volunteers by The Jefferson Airplane:

Look what's happening out in the streets

Got a revolution got to revolution

Hey I'm dancing down the streets

Got a revolution got to revolution

One generation got old

One generation got soul

This generation got no destination to hold

Got a revolution, got to revolution

Who will take it from you?

We will and who are we?

We are volunteers of America

I danced all over the basketball court, strutting and high kicking from one end to the other. I did leaps and spins. Dropped to my knees. Did splits. Walked on my hands. Clapped along. Played air guitar.
Next up was Nina Simone singing Sinnerman.

Oh sinnerman, where you gonna run to

Sinnerman, where you gonna run to

Where you gunna run to

All on that day

So I run to the lord

Please help me, lord

Dont you see me prayin'

Dont you see me down here prayin'

But the lord said

Go to the devil, the lord said

Go to the devil

He said go to the devil

All on that day

So I ran to the devil

He was waiting

I ran to the devil, he was waiting

I ran to the devil, he was waiting

All on that day

By the end, I was drenched in sweat and panting. However, I was motivated, energized, and ready for what lie ahead. There is no better way to get ready to do what needs to be done.
While Nina was singing and shaking the tambourines, Cary, Graham, and Julian had come out of their rooms. Like me, they had woken up early, put on a pair of gym shorts and sneakers, and were ready to start the day dancing. Without discussion, we stood in a two by two formation, leaving Moses place in the center empty, and waited for the first notes. Without missing a beat we started the routine. We knew every move; every glide, every twitch, every thrust of the hips. We’d done it hundreds of times.

It's close to midnight and something evil's lurking in the dark

Under the moonlight, you see a sight that almost stops your heart

You try to scream but terror takes the sound before you make it

You start to freeze as horror looks you right between the eyes

You're paralyzed

'Cause this is thriller, thriller night

Darkness falls across the land

The midnight hour is close at hand

Creatures crawl in search of blood

To terrorize y'alls neighborhood

I'm gonna thrill ya tonight, ooh baby

I'm gonna thrill ya tonight, oh darlin'

Thriller night, baby, ooh!

The foulest stench is in the air

The funk of forty thousand years

And grizzly ghouls from every tomb

Are closing in to seal your doom

Moses said, “In the morning, I’m pretty suicidal-slash-murderous due to the fact I have to get up.
In general, I have a pretty weak work ethic. I’m lazy. Sometimes I try and make myself do something, but usually I just wait until I want to do it.”
I asked him how often he draws.
He said, “Sometimes everyday. At least every week.”
He added, “Sometimes I get stuck and do the same thing over and over again. That’s pretty good because it becomes second nature.”
I have been drawing continuously, at times obsessively, for more than fifty years. My choice of materials comes and goes and comes back again: pencils, charcoal, conte, ink, crayons, china markers, pastels, chalk. Over the years, I have drawn anything and everything (with the human figure as a constant) : portraits, self portraits, apples on reflective surfaces, Chinese take out cartons, Wonder Woman’s glass airplane, rubber animals, nuns, swimming goggles, copies of Caravaggio, Velasquez, Homer, Hopper and Diego Rivera. Through all the changes in materials and subject matter, what has always been true is that I love making marks and seeing them accumulate to reveal an image.
I asked Moses to tell me three events that had affected him.
He said, “Some bad things have happened to me like my sister dying and my parents getting divorced. Some people can turn that negativity into art, but I need positive energy. If I think about the negative stuff, I don’t want to do anything.” He says one place that he gets positive energy is from music. “Just listening to it or playing it helps me get going.”

“How could you fuck a zombie even if you were a zombie?” This was a question Julian frequently posed ever since it became clear about ten years ago that they were reproducing. It was triggered this time because our rescue mission involved extracting a group of the living from an attack by a group of second generation undead.
In deference to my state of mourning, it had been decided that I should have company while looking for anyone else who might have been with the guy Moses and his buddies were eating. I went out in one Hummer with Julian. Cary and Graham were in the other. At the gate, a couple of regulars decided to come along in their army SUV.
We were traveling north toward the New York border on what used to be route 84 when we came upon a ravaged caravan of four armored school buses. One was on its side, one was on fire, and flat tires immobilized the other two. All the vehicles were being swarmed by a group of about fifty second geners.
The second geners were about fifteen years old, but sleek and muscular like good high school athletes. They were also faster and better coordinated than their parents. They were less exclusively nocturnal and maybe a little smarter. While the virus had totally scrambled the upper brain of everyone it originally infected, leaving them with only lower brain functions, the second geners actually seemed to be able to think. It scared the shit out of me to think what the third generation would be like.
Laying waste to the undead is my art form. I do it so well that it transcends all the individual moves and becomes performance on the level of the best athletes, dancers, or musicians. I get into a zone where I am pure action, unmitigated by thought.
The first step was to shoot their legs out from under them. Standing up through the hatch of the Hummer, I aimed my machine gun for their knees and watched them go over like bowling pins. We had one team circling clockwise, one going in the opposite direction, and one on an over pass firing down. It looked like total mayhem, but we were being careful not to shoot each other or fire into the school buses. Soon the ground was covered with crawling, clawing undead. I jumped out with a chainsaw in one hand and a flamethrower in the other and went about assuring that no head was left attached and no brain matter was intact. Julian did his part by driving back and forth over any who had crawled into the road, popping their skulls like cantaloupe. Between the three teams it took us about a half hour to reduce the attackers to a six-inch thick blanket of glistening gore spread across the width of the highway.
We had to do away with about half the travelers as well. The teenage brain munchers had gotten at them through the windows and they were as good as undead. Finally, we divided the fifteen shaking, weeping survivors among our three vehicles, packed them in, and drove them back to Scranton, fifteen of the living who would go on living in safety, well relative safety.

“Sometimes I think of myself as an artist. Not necessarily when I’m drawing. It could be when I’m doing anything. If I’m doing a really good job, really concentrating, I feel like an artist. Anybody can be an artist at what they do if they bring the right attitude to it.”

I have thought of myself as an artist since third grade when my classmates started asking me to draw things for them. For awhile, maybe it was only a week, I spent every recess drawing pages of airplanes, aircraft carriers, and battleships. My friends would then play war by covering the drawings all over with arcing lines that indicated a shot had been fired and scribbles that showed a hit. I missed getting to fight the battles myself, especially making the sound effects, but I loved being recognized for drawing the best armaments.

“I do the best stuff if I’m not trying. I’ll just be drawing and not thinking if it is good or not and I’ll be surprised at how good it comes out. If I try, nothing happens. Athletes say the same thing. After you’ve done it enough, you just get in the zone and let it happen.”

“When I was a kid, I was into fantasy; Star Wars, stuff like that. I used to wish magic was real. It was a natural progression to read philosophy, quantum physics and it turned out magic was real.”

“I try to get in a zen mode where you are always seeing something for the first time. I try not to get in a rut. I look at the world differently

Journal of My Trip to Honduras

2010-05-31T17:48:00.000-07:00

May 22, 2010

(My wife, Deborah Drew, and I were Peace Corps volunteers in Honduras from 2005-2007. We went back in November of 2008 and again last week. This post is based on journal entries I made during the latest trip.)

I am sitting on the second floor balcony of the Hotel Guadeloupe II, the hotel where I always stay in Tegucigalpa, Honduras. It is not really a balcony. The hallways are open and there is a low wall and railing that looks out over the street. The doors and windows of the rooms open onto this open hallway.

(How many journal entries have I started with “I am sitting on the balcony of the Hotel Guadeloupe II”?)

There is thunder and lightening. The power is going off and on.

Why am I back in Honduras? Is this the last time or the continuation of an ongoing commitment? Is this the trip where I say good-bye and let Honduras become part of my past or is this the trip where I get clear that international work is a permanent part of what I want my life to be about?

We are in Tegucigalpa to see Hector, a young man from Sonaguera who is in the capital studying medicine. I have my old Honduran cell phone with me. I have at least three numbers for Hector none of which are working. He knows we are here and I feel confident that he will contact us, but what a drag if he doesn’t.

Wait a minute. This is Honduras. Of course things go wrong. Of course the numbers I have for Hector don’t work. Of course the lights are going to go off and on.

May 23, 2010

We spend the day with Hector doing ordinary things that feel extraordinary.

He talks with passion about his studies. Many students have to repeat courses they haven’t been successful in, but he is moving steadily ahead. His only complaint is that he has to share a cadaver with 35 other students and it is in bad condition. It is hard to see the structures they are supposed to be learning about.

We go to the Gourmet Grill for breakfast, walk on Boulevard Morazon looking without success for internet and a new chip for my cell phone, take a taxi to Mall Mega Plaza and see Robin Hood. Then its back to the Guadeloupe for a game of Oh Hell and out to dinner at El Patio.

We say good-bye to Hector.

Deb and I watch the finale of Lost with rolling horizontal stripes on a channel whose signal clicks off periodically.

In other words nothing exceptional happens, so why does every minute feel so resonant? It is not like I don’t have great, full days in my life in Rhode Island. I certainly do, many of them. And yet I can’t deny the power of Honduras for me. I also don’t understand it fully.

May 24, 2010

Eight hours on the bus from Tegucigalpa to Sonaguera. I look out the window the whole time. Taking in the combination of gorgeous scenery and poverty. Memories come to me with every mile. When Deb isn’t reading or knitting, we hold hands and talk. The greenness fills me with emotion. There is no way of holding this greenness in memory. If you are not looking at it, it is gone.

We get off the bus in the afternoon in Planes in a deluge of rain, thunder and lightening. We wait under a shelter where uniformed workers stop cars to check for fruit. We are still a half-mile to the turnoff to Sonaguera, but this is the only shelter. There is a bus coming behind us that will take the turn and go into town. When it arrives 40 minutes later, the rain is still coming down. We know the ayudante on this bus, a heavyset guy who has always been friendly to us. He is glad to see us and surprised that we have returned. We explain, for the first of many times, that we are not staying another two years. We are only visiting.

May 25, 2010

In the afternoon, I sit on the porch of Ligia and David’s house writing. Everyday it is in the 90’s. Every afternoon there are thunderstorms.

The sky turns to slate. All the colors are muted, shifted toward gray.

Yeah! Here comes the rain, just as Legia pulls up on her motorcycle. The dogs are happy to see her. Davissa comes out to unlock the gate. Both Davissa and her mother get speckled with the rain, but it is not until they have the bike under the roof of the porch that the deluge really starts.

I sit and watch the street through their gate. This is the parade that passes:

A boy in a red shirt carrying a large stem of bananas over his shoulder. The bananas must weigh half as much as he does.

A three-wheeled moto-taxi with a sheet of plastic stretched across the door to protect the passengers in the back seat.

A green pick-up truck with steamy windows and a red pick-up with a plastic, five-gallon water jug rolling around in the bed.

A boy on a motorcycle going too fast to catch any details. After he passes, it registers; he was wearing a helmet!

A girl on a bike carrying a huge black umbrella and wearing the universal public school uniform: white blouse, blue skirt. The basket of her bike is full. She stops at the gate and calls out to Davissa. She is delivering tortillas on her way to night classes. Davissa sends her around to the other side of the house where the gate is unlocked.

Two girls on bikes pass going in opposite directions. One has a purple umbrella and wears a green skirt. The other has no umbrella and is wearing a black tank top. They sing out to each other, “Adios,” “Que le via bien.”

The same moto-taxi comes back again.

A few more nondescript pick-ups.

A full sized, bright yellow school bus with lettering that reads Walker-Hackensack Valley, Minnesota Regional School Department.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see something moving through the puddles in the yard. It is a frog about the size of a grapefruit. It hops to the gate and squeezes through the bars. Why did the frog want to leave the yard? Why did the frog cross the road?

It is too dark to write. Mosquitoes I can’t see are probably biting me. Earlier in the day, I saw a map of Sonaguera at the Centro de Salud. It was stuck with two hundred pins clustered in groups around villages. Every pin indicated a case of malaria. I could become a pin in a map.

May 26, 2010

One reason for coming back to Honduras at this time is that William Alvarenga died in a motorcycle accident six weeks ago. We want to see his family, especially his brother Melvin, with whom we are very close. We want them to know that in some small way we share their grief.

The accident happened right in front of the house. Melvin saw it happen. William pulled out of the gas station across the street and rode his motorcycle into the path of an oncoming truck.

We go to the cemetery with the family. I ride in the back of the pick-up with the two youngest kids, Jairo and Jessica. We cross the highway from the house and go into the gas station.

Jairo says, “That’s where my brother was killed.”

I say. “I know. Do you miss him?”

He nods his head and starts to cry.

I say, “I miss him, too,” and start to cry.

William’s grave looks very fresh. It is a mound of loose dry soil covered in plastic flowers, some already fading in the sun. We add our bunch of white plastic lilies. There are no words to say.

May 27, 2010

(In November of 2008, Deb and I went to Honduras with a group of students from The East Bay Met School where I work part time. My good friend and co-worker Mary Vieira went, too. This past February, Mary and her husband, Glenn Spear, had their first child, a little boy they named Rio Hunter. For her baby shower, Mary asked that in lieu of gifts donations be made to help children in developing countries. She designated half of what was raised, $500, to the Clinica Maternal y Infantil in Sonaguera.)

Deb and I talk to several people about Rio’s money. We want Silvia Bardales, a businesswoman and teacher of business at the high school, to manage it and account for how it is spent. We also talk to Nelly, the head of nursing for the town, and to Rosa, the new director of the clinica. They are in agreement with setting up an account with Silvia that they can draw on. Nelly says there is no oxygen in the health center. If babies are born who could use a little oxygen there is no way to give it to them. Maybe they will use the money for a tank and a regulator. It could be used with asthmatics, too. She also mentions that there are a couple of HIV positive mothers in town who can’t breast feed their babies, the money could be used to make sure the babies get formula. Deb reminds her that emergency transportations is often needed. The only ambulance in town is a private one and prohibitively expensive. Rio’s money could fund gas to get to the hospital in LaCeiba.

We plan to find ways to replenish this fund.

Everyone we visit gives us coke. If they know we are coming they feed us soup or fried chicken. I estimate this is a six hen visit. At least six hens give up their lives to make us feel welcome.

May 28, 2010

We leave Sonaguera and go to Tela, my favorite beach town in Honduras. We have a long lazy day at the Hotel Sherwood, looking out at Tela Bay. Tomorrow morning we will go to the airport in San Pedro Sula and fly home by way of Miami and Charlotte.

Here is what I realized on this trip: it is very important to me to go south. Not south to Key West or New Orleans or San Diego, but south to Havana or Managua or Bogotá. It is especially important to me to go south to Sonaguera in Honduras. It is important to me to know the world beyond the boundaries of my own country, to smell other odors, hear other languages, taste sweeter fruit, listen to opinions informed by other experiences, sway to unfamiliar rhythms, learn the names of birds that never fly north of the Rio Grande, feel heat that is only approximated in Miami in August, stand out for the whiteness of my skin, share the street with roosters, cows, horses, pigs, dogs that haven’t been neutered, in addition to bicycles, motorcycles, pick-up trucks and recycled school buses from the US, feel deeply connected to people who are different than me in all particulars, and recognize that they are no different than me.

About the Drawing: The drawing was done by one of the young men in my old neighborhood of Barrio Abajo. His name is Cesar.

Contemplating 65

2010-05-16T10:26:00.000-07:00

For my birthday, I asked some friends to give me their thoughts on turning 65. Here are the responses I got. I hope you will consider adding your own thoughts.

I don’t think my imagination is that good.

Dave Spier – 17

Three Haikus Inspired by John on his 65^th Birthday

Aging man, gorgeous

Stories told of life well lived

Long in wisdom’s youth

At sixty five years

Plátano knows how to make

Tomate horny

Wide world spinning fast

Easy to see the goodness

Now that I am old

Mary Vieira - 30

I don’t feel close to 65. But nonetheless at 36, I’ve stared down a couple of numbers. I'm not sure if it's been like your facing 65, but I've looked a few birthdays in the eye for a few more seconds than I was comfortable with, sorts of awkward pauses of self-perception. Maybe I’m risking revealing myself as merely an ignorant whippersnapper, but part of me believes (with full conviction) that 65 IS just a number. If you feel you have to stare it down, then you can certainly make it much more than that. The extra hesitation and consideration infuses the number with a mythical quality, but why should it be that much different than 64 or 66? The number itself is just a classic beginning to Social Security benefits or a wide road from Mobile Alabama to Gary, Indiana. The other part of me thinks that, like you John, 65 will feel like a lot more than a mere number. I’m pretty certain that 37 will be a little eerier than 36, and I’m hoping that 65 feels like a hurricane or some sort of pre-dusk glow. Something powerful or beautiful... more alive than ever before, despite some biological evidence to the contrary...

Jeff Taber – 36

John,

Thoughts about age are relative.

This week I asked my students what they thought about 65 years olds. (a number of them asked if I was turning 65…)

Here are some of their answers:

Spending your savings
Retirement
Wise
Old folks home
Golf
Pension
“Been there” – experienced a lot
Floral furniture
Cruises
Over the hill
Sports car
That smell
Florida
Grandchildren
Old people
Intelligent
Time to find a new song (when your 64 doesn’t work anymore)
Decaying
books
wrinkles
mid life crisis
sitting on the porch
AARP insurance
Vacations
Cats
Lamborghini
Gardens
Mothballs
Walking sticks
Bingo
knitting
rocking chairs
game shows
$5 Tuesdays at movies

Love and a big hug,

Andrea Place - 45

(Andrea teaches high school.)

Dear John,

As a kid, I thought all my worries would be over once I finished school. I would find a job I loved and love it for the rest of my life. I also thought that by the age of 30 I would have a husband and kids. Clearly none of this is true. In fact, my life has been far more exciting than that. So now when I think of turning 65 I think of the multitude of possibilities and hope to make the best of all the opportunities – and it is wonderful to watch you and Deb do just that.

Happy Birthday, John

Love, Remke

Remke Remmelts - 47

At 47 I can’t exactly reflect on turning 65. But I can reflect on growing older, growing up.

When I turned 30 I was happy. I felt like I had finally become a “real adult”.

When I turned 40 I needed to throw myself a big birthday party complete with presents just to get through it. I thought that by 35 my life was supposed to be “all set”. I even gave myself a 5-year “grace period” and by 40 my life was still a work in progress.

At some point between 40 and 47 I wizened up. When I was younger I felt like I had to prove my myself, become something, “arrive”. Now I realize the reality is that I “arrived” the day I was born. Life is really about using what you’ve got to experience and learn stuff, good and bad.

So I actually look forward to the prospect of some day turning 65. I know the aches and stiffness I already feel will intensify, but somehow it will be worth it because I will be even more comfortable in my own skin, I will have experienced some pretty cool stuff and hopefully I won’t give a damn about what others think of me!

Cheryl Wojciechowski -47

Dear John,

Greetings and felicitations on your 65^th birthday.

Here’s why I think you excel at living life:

· You dream big

· You fart loudly

· You bring joy to those around you

· You choose wisely (Deb)

· You share with others

· And finally, you make interesting art!

Fred Chubay - 55

Notes on being 65, chocolate, and the art of the ancient spatula

No Gump, youth is like that proverbial box of chocolates; many sweet surprises, but a fairly limited menu. By 65, if you really pay attention, you’ll learn the art of the ancient spatula. (Not some plastic thing, but real wood and shiny steel!) Rue, stew, perhaps a rice ceviche – simply sautéed or stirred (not shaken).

Result: rich texture with a subtle complexity that’s got taste.

Although at some point you become master of your ancient spatula domain, you can still flip burgers, flip pancakes or just flip out! Sadly, you will disappear someday… but… RICE KOTULA WILL LIVE FOREVER!

Bob Cohen – 63

“65 – 2”

Here I am approaching the crest of the hill… and 65 is just over that crest.

Here I am… still able to check off the 60 – 64 box on the survey form… and not the endless 65 and over box.

Here I am… all systems still functioning but listening carefully to any precursors of disorder… and there is 65, an age lost in the din of precursors.

See you on the other side.

Bob Rafeal - 64

Ode for a Fellow 65

A time of freedom

A time for reflection

Understanding who you are

Imagining how you want to live that out

Faced with mortality

Living out life immortally

Tom Comisky – 66

Happy Sixty-Five

John Kotula, few men coolah,

A guy with many talents.

He paints, he draws, he writes, he blogs.

How does he keep his balance?

A teacher, father, husband, artist,

Traveler, there’s no end

To Johnny’s presence in the world.

His greatest talent? Friend.

John’s one of the rarest dudes

Who, once he gets to know you,

Gets together, keeps in touch.

Loyalty? He’ll show you!

John is known around RI

Switzerland, Nicaragua,

Honduras, Coventry and beyond.

Tierra, cielo, agua.

Now John not only gets around,

He brings the world home.

There’s always someone living here

From Munich, Mumbai, Rome.

As he moves around his world

He seems to be at ease.

Some of that’s within the genes,

And some from his main squeeze.

Debbie Drew, as John will say,

Is terminally cheerful.

She’s got a way of being up

When other are most tearful.

Together they have built a life

Both down-to-Earth, ideal.

The greatest compliment to them,

They’re very, very real.

John comes by it naturally.

Did you know his mom, Maizie?

Boyhood at the carnival

And moving around like crazy.

Detroit, Miami and Jamaica,

Queens, not Caribbean.

Oddball relatives and friends

Shaped Johnny’s way of seein’.

“Life’s a party, come on in!”

This attitude unlocks

The secret way to inner youth,

To life outside the box.

So, John, although the number’s true.

Yes, you are sixty-five.

Sometimes you seem like twenty-two,

You always seem alive!

In your heart you’re every age,

Sometimes mature, then not.

Other seniors cool down, retreat.

You keep your irons hot.

Happy Birthday, Johnny K.!

Your life’s a work of art.

Forever young in spirit, you.

And never an old fart.

Happy Birthday, Johnny Boy!

Thanks for being our (dad, husband, grandpa) friend.

You’re one of life’s great gifts to us.

We love you without end.

Bill Eyman – 69

My thoughts on becoming 65

-You aint seen nothin’ yet.

-I can’t remember that fr back

Or I think of Robert browning

“Come grow old with me,

The best is yet to be,

The last of life for which the first was made…”

BULLSHIT

65 is better than 66 and a lot better than 70.

So live life to the fullest now and fuck tomorrow.

Jim VanWest – 70

The Portrait - This self-portrait is my first attempt at stop motion animation. It was great fun to do and I am excited by the possibilities of putting some of my drawings - and the process of drawing - into motion. I predict there will be more to come.

Memento Mori

2010-05-08T08:36:00.000-07:00

Memento Mori – Remember, You are Mortal

As you are now, I once was; as I am now you will be.

Words on a New England gravestone

If I take death into my life, acknowledge it, and face it squarely, I will free myself from the anxiety of death and the pettiness of life, and only then will I be free to become myself.

Martin Heidegger

I don’t want to achieve immortality by living on in the hearts of my fans. I want to achieve mortality by living on in my apartment.

Woody Allen

Thomas Cathcart and Daniel Klien quote both Heidegger and Woody Allen in Heidegger and a Hippo Walk Through Those Pearly Gates. (This version of the Woody Allen quote is somewhat different than the one they use. I’ve been repeating it this way for years and like it better.)

My sister-in-law, Loie Drew gave me this book when I was visiting Portland, OR. She said she thought it would “feed the blog.” Turns out she was right.

I think death is just the ultimate lights out. When my body gives out I’ll be gone. Just as I didn’t have any existence before I was born, I won’t have any existence after I die. I accept this as a fact. When I think about it, I feel some sadness about the things I won’t be around to experience, but no great fear, no anger. I don’t feel any tendency to “rage against the dying of the light.” In fact it seems like a good plan to “go gentle into that good night.” Dylan Thomas was only thirty-seven when he wrote those lines of advice for his dying father. Despite the fact that Dylan was a hell of a poet, I bet the older Thomas had a different perspective than his son. The poet was dead at 39. He never got to have an old man’s perspective on dying.

Heidegger and a Hippo… points out that even people who believe as I do are likely to find themselves wanting to negotiate about their life coming to an end. Sometimes I’ll catch myself saying in my mind, “Just let me make it to 75 in good health and whatever happens after that I won’t complain.” I have no idea who I could be addressing those words to. I don’t believe there is anybody rolling the dice and even if there is, the dice only obey the rules of chance.

My favorite ploy in my negotiations with death is planning my own funeral. My pleading goes something like this, “I know I’ll be dead and gone, but it would be so cool to have a great funeral. I can sort of enjoy in advance an extra week or so of life by visualizing the amazing send off I’ll have.”

I love the scene in Tom Sawyer where Tom and his sidekicks attend their own funeral. They had gone off to play pirates on the Mississippi and stayed away long enough that the town decided they had drowned. A funeral was organized. With exquisite timing the boys sneak back into the church and hear themselves eulogized. The pastor re-imagines the “dead” boys as lovable, well intentioned, and upstanding. The whole town buys into this revisionism. There is not a dry eye in the house. However, reality makes a quick rebound when the boys walk down the aisle as healthy and rascally as ever.

I don’t actually want to make an appearance at my funeral. I just want to control what happens. Below are some ideas about how my funeral should be organized.

Things should start off with my friend Bob Cohen singing “I’ll Be Seeing You.” Bob sang this song at my wedding as a way of acknowledging that our friend Francis Giambroni was no longer among us. It seems to me to be the quintessential mourning song. If I out live Bob anybody with a suitably soulful voice can fill in.

I'll be seeing you
In all the old familiar places
That this heart of mine embraces
All day through.

In that small cafe;
The park across the way;
The children's carousel;
The chestnut trees;
The wishin' well.

I'll be seeing you
In every lovely summer's day;
In every thing that's light and gay.
I'll always think of you that way.

I'll find you
In the morning sun
And when the night is new.
I'll be looking at the moon,
But I'll be seeing you.

Following the song, let the eulogizing begin: open mike, anybody can come up and say anything they want about me. I make this suggestion in full knowledge that the same spirit that gripped the Pastor in Tom Sawyer will take over. Only the best things about me will be remembered. Besides as you get older people cut you more slack. They hold fewer things against you.

During the eulogy vendors should circulate selling cotton candy, grilled corn on the cob - Honduran style rubbed with butter, lemon, salt and chili - and clam cakes, preferably from Aunt Carries (www.auntcarriesri.com). Someone should be in charge of calling a break in the eulogizing from time to time so the Mariachi Band can perform.

After everyone has had their say let the dancing and the drinking begin. The open bar should serve a variety of beers, of course, and Cuba Libras made with Havana Club, mojitos, and margaritas on the rocks with salt. For a while, do whatever kind of dance you want, but eventually it is going to come down to the punta.

The punta is the Honduran national dance. There is a popular version of it for parties and clubs. I did it a couple of times and Hondurans said I wasn’t bad. Of course they are way too polite to have told me anything different. There is also a performance version. There are national punta troupes, which I still hope to see someday. Apparently they verge on the pornographic. But my real interest in the punta being danced at my funeral lies in its origins. Everyone agrees it comes from the Garafuna, the people who populate the North Coast and are descendents of black Caribbeans, black Africans and indigenous people of the coastal area. They have their own language and in many ways are quite distinct from other Hondurans. Beyond the fact that the punta was originally a Garafuna ceremonial dance, everyone has a slightly different version of what it means, but here is my distilled version. It started as a dance to the dead. Nine days after the passing of a member of the community there is a big party/memorial service. There is food, drink, drumming and punta. The dancing goes on all night and passes from sensual, to erotic, to sexual and eventually blends into lovemaking. This is quite intentional and is rooted in the Garafuna belief that when someone dies a new life will come into the community to replace that person. The punta is the conduit. It is the ultimate tribute to the one who has died. Obviously, I love this image of life and death bridged by sexuality. Those of you who plan to outlive me should start practicing. Here are a couple of You Tube videos to get you started. The first one is for technique. The second one is for attitude.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9GIQHlJFMgo&feature=related

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i2vk0r8grYk&feature=related

As people leave the funeral they should be encouraged to take a baggie of my ashes. Anytime they go to a movie they should sprinkle a little of me on the floor of the theater. I’ll live on at the multiplex.

The Portrait

This is a composite of six self-portraits. Three were done about ten years ago and six were done last week. I have plans for these babies. Stay tuned.

Turning Sixty in Honduras

2010-04-29T04:11:00.000-07:00

I’ve begun thinking of this blog as a book. Not that it’ll be published as a bound, paper book that you could hold in your hand, lay in bed reading or take to the beach with you. Rather that it is being published in installments for any one who comes across it and cares to peruse it.

There is a Cuban saying that in his life every man should plant a tree, raise a child, and write a book. So I’m counting this as my book.

I am two weeks away from my sixty-fifth birthday. May 14, the date I officially become an old man, is the focal point of this year long project; a slightly off center focal point since I started Portrait of the Artist as an Old Man at the beginning of January, 2010 and plan to run it through the end of December, but close enough.

I really like to stretch out my birthday. Therefore, I’m anticipating that the next couple of posts will focus on birthdays, on hanging one more year on the line, on getting to the point where I am eligible for all the senior discounts. In this spirit, what follows is a description of my sixtieth birthday. I wrote it while I was in the Peace Corps in Honduras. It was one of a series of emails that I sent home to family and friends describing my life during those two years, January 2005 through April 2007.

Turning Sixty in Honduras

Most of you know that I really like to stretch out my birthday. My celebration this year started a couple of days in advance and ran through the following weekend. Leading up to it, Thursday (5/12) was La Dia de las Enfermeras (Nurse’s Day.) They closed the Health Center so we could have an outing. Health delivery for greater Sonaguera is organized into the Cesamo, a large supervising health center with doctors, and Cesars, smaller affiliated centers staffed by nurses or nursing assistants. There are seven of these smaller centers. The outing was for personnel for the whole system, about twenty people showed up, Deb and me the only gringos, me the only man. We were headed for El Sostre one of my favorite villages, where there is a popular cascada, an area where the river tumbles over big boulders and spills down a couple of impressive falls, forming a series of natural swimming holes.

(In November of 2009, a flood swept through El Sostre and destroyed this whole area. Reportedly, the waterfalls and swimming holes no longer exist.)

We spent the day playing in the water, eating carne asada (grilled beef,) chismol (a salsa of tomatoes, onions, green peppers, lime and salt,) beans and tortillas.

I’ve been waiting for the chance to describe the Honduran outdoor grill of choice. It consists of the rim of a car or truck tire with legs welded on. I think the bigger the rim and the fancier the legs the more prestigious the grill. The central hole in the rim is covered with the top from a five pound coffee can and the surrounding holes for the lug nuts provide ventilation. The standard grilling practice requires non-stop fanning. A lot of street food is cooked on this type of grill. Most days in Sonaguera you can find a smoky corner where someone is selling carne asada or grilled corn on the cob.

After lunch with the nurses, Deb and I went down to the river alone. Getting to the swimming hole at the bottom of the falls involved climbing over and around boulders and down some steep inclines. My knees complained the whole way, but I could do it. We swam across the pool and pulled ourselves up on some mossy rocks at the base of the falls. I felt so grateful that, approaching my sixtieth birthday, I was there, in the sunshine, with the water beating down on me, with Deb. I was Grateful that I was capable of climbing and scrambling and swimming. Certainly, it wasn’t elegant, but I could still do it.

When we got back from the outing I stopped to check my email. My favorite Internet place is in a former motel. The rooms have been converted into small businesses, a dental "consultant," a beauty parlor, a lawyer’s office. This is Sonaguera’s equivalent of a strip mall, with the obligatory chickens, cows and pigs grazing in the courtyard.

(Since then, the main streets of Sonaguera have been paved and this old motel has been rebuilt into startlingly modern, two story, mixed use property that looks like some of the fancier buildings in LaCeiba. Thankfully, the chickens, cows and pigs are still there.)

I had a birthday email from my friend Ted Bronsnick. We’ve had a thirty-eight year friendship, having met when I was twenty-two and Ted was twenty-four. Attached to the email was a photograph of Ted and his motorcycle. They were together in a roadside rest area off some back road. He was dressed in his high tech riding gear, helmet under his arm, white hair, white beard, big smile. I’m not sure it is correct lingo to call his type of bike a "hog," but it should be since it is only slightly larger than some of the bigger pigs that wander around Sonaguera. Knowing Ted and seeing this photo of him reinforced my thought from the waterfall about living fully and with appreciation. I think the depth of my gratitude comes from the awareness that I’m operating in a window of opportunity that isn’t going to stay open for ever. The odds that I could be doing any of this ten years from now are slim.

(Now five years down the line, I’m feeling more optimistic that I’ll still be having adventures when I’m seventy, but seventy-five is questionable, eighty is a long shot, and eighty-five is down right improbable.)

The morning of my actual birthday, Deb served me coffee in bed under the mosquito net. While I was sipping and reading Paul Farmer’s Pathologies of Power, she prepared my present which involved banging a lot of nails into our cinder block walls. Every once in awhile a nail would ricochet out of the wall and she’d curse at it. After about twenty minutes she was ready. There were two arches between our dinning area and kitchen, one forming the doorway, the other over the counter. She had strung colored lights over the arches and wove in multicolored plastic flowers. It was beautiful and tacky and very Honduran and my mother would have loved it. My other presents were a ceramic wall clock with a rooster on it, a spatula, and a big bottle of Cuban rum (not Havana Club, but Cuban just the same.) That night Deb and I and Adam, the other volunteer in town, put a pretty good dent in the rum.

We spent the weekend in Trujillo, staying at a great, but rundown hotel, The Villa Brinkly, up in the hills overlooking the bay and the tourist islands off shore. The owner was an eighty-six year old American woman named Peggy Brinkley. According to her son, thirty years ago she was traveling around Central America in a jeep, pulled into Trujillo, pointed at the hill and said, "That’s where I’m going to live." Peggy told us she was going back to the States for a week to participate in the senior Olympics. Her sport was ping-pong. Since Hurricane Mitch and 9/11, tourism had been way off in Trujillo. At the Villa Brinkley, the pool was cloudy, there were weeds growing between the paving stones of the patio, everything needed a coat of paint, but I thought it was just the right place to commence my seventh decade.

One of the afternoons in Trujillo, we walked down to a beach bar and settled into hammocks slung under a thatched palm shelter. I drank a mango licuado (milk shake) and read some more Paul Farmer. I thought about how to save the world. Now that’s the way to turn sixty!

The Portrait

This is a portrait that Tony Janello did of me in 1982, twenty-nine years ago. I thought about it last week because I used a self-portrait from around the same time when I was studying with Tony. Then I remembered that I had commissioned Tony to draw me as a birthday present to myself. It would have been my thirty-seventh birthday if my math is right.

At that time Tony had a studio just off Broadway near the Columbus Theater, which in those days, before DVDs, before the Internet, was a porn house. He had a very aggressive dog. To cater to the dog’s aggressiveness, Tony kept a stuffed rabbit suspended from the ceiling by a pulley. There were many stuffed rabbits all of them named “big Bunny.” Tony would lower Big Bunny down into the dogs strike zone and the dog would go crazy, first chomping down on one of Big Bunny’s extremities and shaking it from side to side until stuffing flew, then humping it wildly.

I haven’t been in touch with Tony in a long time.

Why I'm an Artist: A brief History of my Mother

2010-04-19T10:48:00.000-07:00

My mother, Maizie, valued a good story more than she valued the unvarnished truth. If there were two ways to look at an occurrence and one was full of drama, intrigue, unspoken motives, and double crosses, while the other was mundane, day-to-day life, just people getting by, she would always go for the juicier interpretation. I mention this because what follows is based, in large part, on stories she told me. I have no way of verifying their voracity. That is OK with me because true or false, fact or fiction, they are my stories. I grew up on them and was well on my way to being an artist before I realized they might have been less than one hundred percent factual.

The Barrel

My father was an inarticulate guy. He spoke Polish until he was five years old. When he went to kindergarten the nuns taught him English. However, he continued to live in a family and community, Hamtramck, Michigan, where everyone spoke English as a second language. Expressing himself in words never came naturally to him. I think this explains perfectly his technique for picking up women. This was back before the war, maybe 1940. He was already in the navy. He would go to Jefferson Beach Amusement Park in St. Claire Shores and hang out in The Barrel. The Barrel was a rotating tunnel about eight feet in diameter and maybe twenty feet long. It wasn’t hard to master the trick of getting through the barrel. All you had to do was walk into the spin, step up the wall as it was coming down and gradually move in the direction you wanted to go. However, it was totally believable that you might trip up, tumble at the feet of the girl next to you, causing her to go down on top of you, scramble to your feet and try to help her up only to trip again and end up in a tangle of arms and legs on the smooth curve of the polished wooden floor. After all that physical contact, before a word was spoken, it was an easy next step to go o the dance hall for beers and more physical contact. That was how Johnny met Maizie.

Shot From Guns

My mother was orphaned by the time she was two. Her father died hopping freight trains. Her mother, a very young and beautiful widow, caught the attention of an older, politically connected man. When she shunned his advances, he killed her and went unpunished. These events took place in southern Ohio around 1919. An older sister of my murdered grandmother, Callie Stevens, and her husband, Daddy Jim Stevens, raised my mother. They lived in Detroit. My mother’s status in the family was less than an adopted child, maybe more like an indentured servant. She was reminded frequently that she should be grateful to have a roof over her head and food on the table. Another cousin, Hobart, was also raised in the Steven’s household. My mother was very fond of Hobart. The only thing that I can remember about him was that he was obese, fat enough to make an impression on a young child. He was older than my mother and she was older than Callie and Daddy Jim’s three biological children, Jim Jr., Frank, and Mary Jane.

By 1945, my mother and father had been married for five years. I’d been born. The war was over, although my father hadn’t made it home yet, and my mother was sharing a house with Hobart, his wife Lou, and their daughter Sandy, who was only a month or two older than me. Lou was my wet nurse. My mother’s milk hadn’t come in, but Lou had plenty for Sandy and me. We all lived right across the street from Jefferson Beach Amusement Park where my parents had met. Lou worked at the park.

In those days, Jefferson Beach had a carnival midway and Lou performed in two acts. In the first act she was the human cannon ball. Wearing a sequined, red, white, and blue bathing suit, she would wave to the crowd, salute them patriotically, then slide into the barrel of the cannon. The cannon would be raised to the correct angle and a spring mechanism, timed with an explosion of gun powder, would launch her twenty feet over the heads of the spectators and into a huge net. This spectacle served to draw a crowd who would then be enticed to step inside the tent to see several sideshow attractions.

Lou’s second act took place inside the tent where she performed in a tableau entitled The Woman From 10,000 BC. Her performance consisted of donning a wild blond wig and a skimpy leopard skin bikini and lying motionless frozen in a block of ice. Actually there were two blocks of ice with a hollow space in between for her. A coating of Vaseline prevented frostbite for the three minutes the rubes were allowed to ogle her prehistoric curves.

I imagine Lou getting home from work, scooping up Sandy and me and putting us to breast. We would have sucked greedily. At first, the milk would have come out cold from having recently been kept on ice, but as we sucked, it would quickly have warmed up, within seconds it would have been warmer than her nipple. Was the milk a little creamier when feedings followed the human cannon ball act? I think it was. Was there a lingering odor of gunpowder? I think there was.

Little Toot

My favorite ride at Jefferson Beach was Little Toot the kiddy train. Every night part of my bedtime routine was kissing Little Toot goodnight. Every night my mother would carry me across Jefferson Avenue and into the park with its swirling lights, the clacking noise from the big wooden roller coaster, screams and laughter, and smell of cotton candy. She would hold me tight as I leaned out of her arms and planted a smooch on the train’s round, red, plaster cheek. Now, that made for a good nights sleep.

Queen for a day

My mother carried many a grudge in her day. One long running one was against her youngest cousin, Mary Jane. Maizie was a young teenager when Callie and Daddy Jim had Mary Jane. Much of the responsibility for raising her was delegated to my mother. Mary Jane got pregnant and married her boy friend, Tennessee Bowman, by the time she was seventeen. Their first child was named Janet. I can’t reconstruct the sequence of events, but for some period my mother took Janet and was raising her. Then Mary Jane and Tennessee took her back. My mother felt the return of Janet to her parents as a profound loss. About this time it came out that Janet was actually my father’s child. Mary Jane had gotten Johnny drunk and seduced him. She only married Tennessee because Johnny was already married to my mother. I heard my mother make this accusation to my father more than once. He would just mutter, “You’re crazy.”

There was a rift between my mother and her people that lasted several years. Eventually they all reestablished contact and my mother was in touch with both Mary Jane and Janet when she died.

Mary Jane and Tennessee had five more kids. He got lung cancer and was told he’d be dead in a year. Before he had a chance to die of cancer, the furnace in their house blew up on Christmas Eve, killed him and badly burned three of the children. Janet was spared. Mary Jane went on Queen For a Day and asked for money for plastic surgery for the children. As measured by the applause-o-meter, her story was judged far more pitiable than the stories of the other contestants. She won hands down. I don’t know how much money she got for plastic surgery, but she did get a complete make over and a two-week trip to Hawaii.

Later, Mary Jane spent time in prison for passing bad checks. Once, in the early seventies, she called me. I don’t know how she got my number. She told me she was taking care of a very wealthy, older woman. She said when the woman died she would inherit all of her money, but until then she needed money to buy a car. She asked me to loan her a thousand dollars. The next day Janet called me and said not to loan her mother money under any circumstances.

I haven’t been in touch with anyone in Michigan since my mother died.

Art lessons

Maizie and Johnny broke up the first time when I was about nine or ten. We left in the middle of the night and went to live on a farm with my mother’s friend Estelle. I liked it on the farm. Estelle had four or five kids near my age and I have a lot of good memories of our adventures together. Estelle’s partner was a man named George. She had met him in prison where she had gone to do Christian missionary work. She fell in love with him and when he was released, she moved her husband off the farm and moved George on. George had a former Mexican cellmate named Al. Al became my mothers boyfriend.

There was a falling out between my mother and Estelle. We left the farm and moved to the Crocker Hotel in Mt. Clemens. This hotel dated from the era when Mt. Clemens was famous for its mineral baths, but by the time we got there, it was pretty run down. We had a one-bedroom apartment in the back of the building on the first floor.

Al was around a lot. I don’t think he actually lived there, but he stayed overnight plenty. My mother was happy when he was around. He plucked his eyebrows and used my mother’s eyebrow pencil to darken his mustache. I attributed this behavior to his being Mexican.

What Al and I had in common was drawing. Some mornings when he had stayed over, my mother would get up to go to work and I’d get in bed with Al. We would copy my Wonder Woman comics. He would draw Wonder Woman herself, accurately capturing all the positions she got into when she deflected bullets with her bracelets. I was intent on drawing her glass airplane. Once, I did a rendition of the airplane that was spot on. Al said, “That the best one you ever done.” This complement made me so happy I bit his big toe through his sweat sock.

With this background, becoming an artist was inevitable and I’m grateful to my mother for this.

That is the Kind of Grandfather I Want To Be

2010-04-09T09:38:00.000-07:00

I didn’t have much direct experience with grandparents growing up. My mother was orphaned by the time she was two. My father’s mother died before I was born. That left only my paternal grandfather, whom, as far as I can remember I only saw a few times. And yet, my middle name, Alexander, comes from him and I feel some familial magnetism, some draw of the blood between my father’s father and me. For example, given that he has been dead for more than sixty years, how many other people are thinking about him at this moment? Is there anyone else searching their memories and trying to understand how he contribute to who they are?

Since my father never had much to say, what I know about Alexander Kotula comes from my mother. He was born in Poland and never learned to speak English. He could play the violin. He worked for The Ford Motor Company his whole adult life. He had fourteen children. His wife, whom my mother referred to as “that old woman,” as in “That old woman was mean as a snake,” ruled the three-bedroom house in Hamtramck where they all lived.

My mother never had anything bad to say about my grandfather. From this I assume that he also accepted her despite her twin sins of being non-Catholic and non-Polish. I imagine him meeting his son’s new twenty-year-old bride for the first time. He wouldn’t have understand a word she said, but he would have seen that she was five feet, nine inches tall, blond, and had big white teeth. I imagine him thinking, “leggy.” Was there ever a Polish girl you could describe as “leggy”? I bet he said to himself that Johnny, his cocky, second oldest surviving son, in his bell-bottom navy uniform, had done all right for himself.

Obviously, it doesn’t take a lot of direct experience with you grandfather for him to live large in your imagination.

I have nine grandchildren so far. Six live in Rhode Island and three live in Portland. Oregon. They all call me Papa John. None of them are related to me biologically, but that doesn’t seem to be part of the equation when calculating their affection for me or mine for them.

My stepdaughter, Helen, does art projects in her sons’ charter school in Portland. Sammy is in a 4th/5^th split classroom and Simon is in 1^st grade. Helen’s third child, Tess, is still in nursery school. During a recent visit, Helen invited me to present some of my artwork as an introduction to a unit she wants to do on faces. I chose twenty-five images to show the kids. Some were my self-portraits. Some were portraits I had done of other people and portraits others had done of me. Finally, I included, well known, iconic self-portraits: van Gogh with a bandage wrapped around his right ear, Gauguin standing in front of a yellow, crucified Christ, Max Beckman in a tuxedo looking like he just stepped out on an early Hitchcock movie, a double portrait of Frida Kahlo with her hearts exposed and dripping blood.

I projected thumbnails of the twenty-five portraits and asked the kids to choose one they’d like to talk about. To start the discussion, I asked them why they had picked that one. In the first grade I got first grade answers.

“Because the baby is bald.”

“Because he’s naked.” (Actually, it was Gregory Gillespie and he was only shirtless.)

“It’s orange.”

“It’s funny.” Everyone was having such a good time that eventually everything was funny.

Next, I said, “Sometimes a portrait is like an illustration for a story, but you have to make up the story. Lets make up a story about this one. I’ll start and any one who wants to can add on.”

The story they told involved the character in the portrait alternately growing to huge proportions then shrinking to the tiniest possible dimensions. Back and forth. Back and forth.

“He got so big he was bigger than the whole universe!”

“He got very, very small like a mouse, like a tiny baby mouse.”

“He got bigger and bigger. First he was bigger than the Empire State Building. Then he was bigger than a mountain. Then he was bigger than the moon.”

That was the whole plot, but it went on and on until every child had a turn maximizing or minimizing the hero.

Helen gave out paper and colored pencils. She instructed the kids to draw someone at their table. My grandson Simon and his buddy Jack invited me to sit at their table so they could draw me. This pair, Simon and Jack, have something of a reputation. They are active, adventuresome, and full of ideas about how to have fun. Sometimes it is said that they are a “bad combination.”

At our table the archetypical 1^st grade conversation prevailed; who had wiggly teeth.

As Simon and Jack drew me, I drew both of them. I blackened out the same tooth in each of their smiles. I gave Simon a mustache and Jack a goatee. I also adorned Jack with a pirate’s gold hoop earring. I wrote at the bottom of the picture, “Jack and Simon 18 Years Old.”

I said to Helen, “Do we have time for a story.”

She said, “Always.”

This is the story I told my grandson’s 1^st grade class:

This is the story of how Simon and Jack lost the same tooth on the same day when they were eighteen years old.

Simon and Jack had been friends since they were two years old. They were friends in nursery school. They were friends in elementary school. They were still friends in middle school and high school. When they graduated from high school they both wanted to be doctors so they went to college to study medicine. Jack went to The University of New Mexico and Simon went to Brown University in Providence, Rhode Island. Simon chose Brown because he wanted to be near his grandfather, Papa John. (That’s me.)

The two friends had a lot of fun their first year in college and got very good grades, but they couldn’t wait to get back to Portland and see each other. The first day of summer vacation they met downtown and gave each other a big hug…

(As I told this, Simon and Jack were standing beside me acting it out. They gave each other a big hug.)

… then they looked at each other.

“You changed,” said Simon. “What’s that thing in your ear?”

Jack said, “You know I always wanted to get my ear pierced.”

“And what is the stuff on your chin?”

“I grew a goatee. You can’t talk. What is that thing on your lip?”

Simon said, “I grew a mustache.”

Jack said, “Well it looks like a caterpillar crawling across your face.”

Simon said, “Yeah. My dad said the same thing.”

The two friends started walking down the block trying to decide what they were going to do on their first day home in Portland. They hadn’t gone too far when two men in ski masks ran out of a bank and almost knocked them down. The two masked men jumped into a car at the curb.

Without thinking, Jack yelled, “Hey! You can’t get away with that!”

He yanked open the passenger door and threw one of the robbers to the ground. Still wearing his mask, the bad guy pulled a gun out of the waistband of his pants and pointed it at Jack. Simon saw that his friend was in danger and sprang into action. He charged the robber and kicked the gun out of his hand. Unfortunately the guy was bigger and stronger than Simon. He punched Simon right in the mouth. Simon spit out his tooth and fell to the ground bleeding.

Jack ran to his friend and said, “Are you all right?”

“Yeth,” Simon said. “But they are getting away.”

“Jack said, “Don’t worry I got their license plate number.”

Just then a police car pulled up and the boys told the policemen what had happened. Jack gave them the license plate number.”

One of the cops said, “Thanks, boys, but from now on leave fighting criminals up to the professionals.”

The police took off with their sirens wailing in pursuit of the bad guys.

Simon said, “I got an idea lets follow them.”

“Yeah,” said Jack. ‘I want to see how this story ends.”

Simon had barrowed Helen’s car for the day, so the two friends jumped into the van and took off after the cop. They didn’t have to go far. Just a few blocks away, the cops had the robbers at gunpoint, down on their knees in the grass with their hands behind their heads.

One of the officers was saying, “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be used against you. You have the right to a lawyer…”

The boys opened the car door and got out. At the sound of the door slamming, both officers turned their heads to see who was behind them. This gave the bad guys all the opportunity they needed. They leaped on the policemen, knocking them off their feet and causing them to drop their guns. They were all rolling on the ground throwing punches, kicking and butting heads. Simon and Jack jumped on the pile to help the policemen. Simon drew back his fist and shot it forward with all his might aiming straight for the mouth of robber who had knocked out his tooth. Unfortunately, the bad guy ducked and Simon’s fist connected with Jack’s face instead of the bad guy’s. Jack went over backwards, did a summersault and jumped to his feet bleeding from a split lip. He stuck his fingers in his mouth and withdrew his tooth.

Eventually, the police retrieved their guns, the robbers gave up, were handcuffed, and taken away in the squad car.

The boys were declared heroes and had their picture in the paper.

(“This picture,” I said, holding up my drawing of Simon and Jack.)

The two friends had a great summer. At the end of August they went to the airport together.

When Simon’s flight to Providence was staring to board, he said to Jack, “I don’t think I’m going to get this tooth fixed. I’m just going to leave the gap, because then every time I look in the mirror, I’ll think of you and how much fun we had this summer.”

“Great idea,” said Jack. “I’m going to stick with the gap, too, but please shave that mustache.”

The two friends hugged goodbye.

(The seven-year-old versions of Simon and Jack hugged too and took a bow.)

What if after I’ve been dead a long, long time, Simon, now a grandfather himself, remembers this story? What if he calls up his brother or sister and says, “The other day, I was thinking about Papa John” and Samson or Tess says, “Yeah. He was a great grandfather.”

God, that’d be so sweet.

That is the kind of grandfather I want to be.

What's A Guy Like You Doing In A Blog Like This?

2010-03-30T05:52:00.000-07:00

I started Portrait of the Artist as an Old Man at the beginning of January. It is a yearlong project of self-portraiture and writing to mark my sixty-fifth birthday, which will happen on May 14. This is the year I officially become an old guy and the blog is one means of paying attention to an important milestone in my life. My original concept was that I would document the year by creating a self-portrait once a week and writing a reflection on aging. Now I am one quarter of the way through and it feels like a good time to do some assessment and course correction.

A guy I know, Jeff Elsbecker, sent me an update of what he has been up too over the last year. He is an artist and designer. The document he emailed me was a well put together collection of words and pictures telling about his art, his teaching, and his family. It included a sweet story of taking his son out for his first legal beer on his twenty-first birthday.

In a subsequent email, Jeff wrote me, “I'm always conflicted about sending out my now semi-annual 'journal entry'. It's basically the same as a 'Christmas letter'. The reluctance may be midwestern self-effacement. Maybe it's low self-esteem. Maybe it's a healthy check on being egotistical that I should listen to.

Beyond whether I should do it, I have a continuing curiosity as to why I do it. The urge to blog … hmmm . . . where do you think that comes from? Why do you? “

I wrote back to Jeff as follows:

I decided to do the blog for a few reasons:

1. I wanted to pay really close attention to this year in my life. I think of turning sixty-five as a big deal. Like your son’s transition to manhood at 21 that you wanted to pay attention to. This year is my transition to being officially old. Oldguyhood?
2. For quite a while the idea of doing a series of self-portraits as a way of documenting a year had been floating around in my head. I tried it once before. Actually, I tried to do one a day for a year, but I ran out of steam around #30. One a week seems more manageable
3. I love to write and this gives me a discipline that keeps me at it.
4. I thought other people would find it interesting and maybe get something to think about out of it.

So how has it been going?

For me, great! I love doing this blog.

Coming up with a self-portrait a week is a challenge. I’ve been fudging it by using old ones and portraits that other people have done of me. I may bend the rules even further and say that since any artwork is a self-portrait on some level, this painting of roosters counts. (I gave one of my rooster paintings to a friend for his birthday and wrote on the back, “Old Roosters: Too tough for stew, but still able to cock-a-doodle-doo.”)

I am very gratified and stimulated by the comments that people share with me. For example Jeff wrote:
"I wanted to comment when I read your first entry, way back, but didn't explore how to sign up and then just kept forgetting to check in.
In particular I was thinking about Miss America. As a kid she was the icon that we males were to desire. And it wasn't an egregious duty, at least for me. The point where I jerked the end of my leash was when I realized if I pursued her now I'd be a pedophile."

This is a good point for you to share your assessment of Portrait of the Artist as an Old Man. I’d love to hear comments, suggestions, questions, and/or criticism.

Snake Oil

2010-03-23T04:49:00.001-07:00

Thursday, March 18, 2010, 6:30 A.M. – Debby and I are playing cribbage at the breakfast table. My appointment calendar is open and I’m making a “to do” list for the day. The list includes, “Write the blog about high blood pressure.” Debby notices a yellow post-it stuck in my calendar. Written on it is “3/17/10” and “120/74”.
She says, “Did the school nurse take your blood pressure.”
I say, “Yeah.”
She says, “Those numbers are great!”
I scowl.
She says, “What is that face about?”
I say, “I don’t care if it is working. I still hate it. I fucking hate it.”

Since Wednesday, March 3, 2010, I have popped a petite, pink pill every morning. It looks like a pill an eleven-year-old girl would feed her Barbie to prevent Ken from knocking her up.

I usually bring the plastic pharmacy bottle with the childproof cap to the breakfast table and wash the pill down with a gulp of coffee. Some times I combine taking my medicine with the morning cribbage game. I say, “I’m only taking it if I’m in the lead.” Debby rolls her eyes, otherwise ignoring me. I have adopted this routine after about five years of resisting my doctor’s advice.

(This is Dr. Maguire’s second appearance in this blog. I also wrote about him on January 1, 2010. Probably only in a blog on aging would a physician make such frequent appearances. I certainly hope he stays a minor character. In the movie version I’d like him to be played by Richard Jenkins and not Tom Hanks.)

So, now I am “on” a daily dose of 5 milligrams of Lisinopril. Supposedly, this is going to keep my blood, which courses through my veins with more pressure than is good for me, from bursting through a vessel, pooling in my brain and depriving me of the ability to talk and/or walk. You’d think I’d be grateful, but instead of being full of gratitude, I’m full of resentment.

The only positive reaction I have to going on medication to control my blood pressure is due to Lisinopril being made from the venom of a poisonous pit viper found in Brazil, Paraguay, and Argentina. I am literally taking snake oil to lower my risk of a stroke. For me, that carries a certain juju mystique.

The model for western medicine tends to be the sucker punch. Hit the damn disease straight in the face with everything you got. This is in contrast to the taekwondo of more holistic approaches; eat a lot of garlic, drink green tea, meditate and soon the body will heal itself. Personally, if I’m going to take anything, I’ll go with the knockout approach. I once went from feeling the worst I ever felt to feeling the best I ever felt in about a half hour just by downing a fistful of steroids. Nonetheless, I have a strong preference for taking nothing at all.

Let’s get back to the snake, Bothrops jararaca by name. If it bites you, it is not unusual for you to die of internal bleeding or kidney failure. If it doesn’t kill you, typically the site of the bite will bruise, blister, and fester. There will be spontaneous bleeding from your gums and eyes. There is also a belief that the jararaca is a kind of vampire snake. It is said to live not off of blood, but off of breast milk from sleeping women. If you’re lactating below the equator in South America, you can’t be too careful. This is all pretty cool, if you ask me.

I am not accusing my doctor of being a snake oil salesman. First off, it is not the case that the labs at Merck Pharmaceuticals employ snake milkers to extract the venom from withering jararacas. It all happens scientifically, through patented processes, in test tubes and petri dishes, without a viper in sight.

(In the spirit of full disclosure, someone from the Merck family once gave me $100 to support an art project I was working on.)

To compare Dr. Maguire to someone selling elixirs out of the back of a gypsy wagon, would be to imply that he was trying to pull a fast one on me, getting me to do something that he knew to be useless or even detrimental for his own gain. The opposite is the case. Dr. Maguire has counseled me over the years to “embrace the benefits” of an angiotension converting enzyme (ACE) inhibitor because he is a good physician who believes this will keep me alive. I resisted going on medication because…

It has taken me a while to articulate this. For a long time I just didn’t want to do it, because I didn’t want to do it. Now, I don’t want to do it because it is old guy stuff. I took pride in being medication free. Now, I am “on” a medication. Instead of focusing on how fortunate I am that there is such a medication and that I can afford it, I say to myself, “It is a slippery slope. This is the beginning of the end. You are old!”

Yep. I am.

William Alvarenga

2010-03-16T05:14:00.000-07:00

This week, I'm not writing about getting older, but about dying young.

I got a very sad phone call from Honduras. William Alvarenga was killed in a motorcycle accident. He was 20. William and his brother Melvin were members of a Red Cross youth group that Deb and I trained to give HIV/AIDS prevention presentations. We became very close to the boys and friends with their family. About once a week, William and Melvin would ride to our house on their shared bike for a visit. We would drink cokes or orange juice and play cards. When they left for home I'd go down with them to lock the gate. Melvin would pedal the bike and William would run for a few steps then jump onto the cross bar. Once he was on-board, he'd take over the steering. Melvin would rest his hands on Williams shoulders. I think Melvin got to pedal because he was a couple of years older.
William was very smart. I know this because he could always understand my Spanish. No matter how badly I butchered the grammar or how impenetrable my accent, he knew what I was trying to say and could translate it so that others would nod their heads and smile in recognition, "Oh. That's what the gringo was trying to say." Also he learned the card games really quickly.
Below, is one of the emails I sent to friends and family while Deb and I were in Honduras. It describes some of the work I did. I'm sharing it here because it is one specific day that I remember having had with William.

World AIDS Day

1, December, 2005

Dia Mundial Contra VIH/SIDA

Sonaguera, Colon

Greetings to Everyone!

El Sastre is my favorite of the villages surrounding Sonaguera. El Sastre means the tailor. We've been told that before there was a village, it was the home of a very skillful tailor. People from miles around would say, "I'm going to the tailor." The village grew up around the name.

A river runs through the middle of El Sastre. There is a shallow ford that buses and four wheel drive vehicles can usually splash through, but it is the rainy season so for now you have to cross the hanging bridge to reach the pool hall. In the afternoon, Billares Churito is the gathering place for a large percentage of the male residents of El Sastre.

I'm carrying a large plastic tote bag full of the tools of my new trade: John Kotula, AIDS educator to the developing world. It contains a thick roll of "charla papers;" a series of posters covering the basics with as many pictures and as few words as possible. There are other visual aids, too, including cards depicting the symptoms of AIDS and other cards with pictures of high risk behavior -unprotected sex, sharing needles, breast feeding by an infected mother - and risk free behavior - kissing, hugging, sharing household utensils, etc. There is a gross of condoms and the obligatory large, green platanos to use as dildos during the condom demonstration.

Eight of us, Peace Corps volunteers, Health Center Personnel, and two young AIDS educators from Cruz Roja, Melvin and William Alvarenga, have come to this aldea to present El Campeonato de Billar Contra El VIH/SIDA. We are going to put on a single game elimination pool tournament, starting with 16 players. It'll take us five rounds to determine the champion. Between each round there is a presentation about AIDS and during the final game, whenever a contestant sinks a ball, in order for it to count, he has to answer a true or false question based on the information that has been presented. We've arrived at 2:30 to set up for a tournament that starts at 3:00, a sure sign that a gringo is at the helm. However there is no electricity in El Sastre and it is going to be too dark to play by 6:00.

The manager of the pool hall has lined up 16 players, but he explains that the weather has been good so they are out cutting oranges. A man rides by on a bike carrying a wooden latter that is at least sixteen feet long. The manager yells out the door to him, "Hurry up. We're starting." By 3:15 everyone is there. The players range in age from about sixteen to their mid forties. Many are shirtless and some are barefoot. Some are very skilled and some are just knocking the balls around. Everyone is in a good mood, with much bantering and laughing. One man plays his games with his diapered toddler hanging onto his knees. Through out the afternoon more and more spectators crowd in. Both the windows are full of heads watching the action.

As part of the educational presentation after the first round, Melvin, William and I hang signs around the necks of some of the players and spectators, designating them as "healthy body," "white blood cells," "viruses," "microbes," and "HIV." Then we coach them through a scenario in which a healthy body is well protected by its immune system until infection with HIV kills off its white blood cells and leaves it vulnerable to opportunistic infections. They act out each stage in the progress of the disease. The men participate enthusiastically, particularly during the battle between the white blood cells and the microbes and during the murder of the white blood cells by HIV, which is accomplished by pantomimed machete chops and pistol shots. Through this drama, they seem to understand the biological mechanism through which HIV leads to AIDS and eventually to death. While it is a serious topic, they are having a lot of fun while learning.

Most of you know me well enough to know that the low brow, raunchy humor in all of this has great appeal to me. I can't pass up the opportunity to make penis size jokes or resist the temptation to strategically place the condom-encased platano between two pool balls. Fortunately, Hondurans seem to share my fifth grade sense of humor.

By the time the final game was played there were fifty people in the room. The man who won was an excellent player. He made a couple of jaw dropping shots. However, he had to sink two balls twice, because he missed two of the questions - Can you get AIDS from a mosquito bite? and Can you get AIDS from a virgin? This led to a lively discussion with members of the audience supplying the right answers and the rational behind them.

One of the reasons I judged the El Sastre event to have been a success is that I think the players and spectators both found the educational presentations as engaging as the pool games. I also loved the high spirits and the community camaraderie of the event. It felt like a sound combination of valuable information sharing and fun.

I hope everyone is doing great. Things continue to go well here, with a growing sense of focus and purpose. Take care. J.

When I went back to Sonaguera in 2008 I stayed with the Alvarenga family for a few days. Cruz Roja had gotten some funding to start their own HIV/AIDS education program. William was on the staff. I accompanied him to an event he had helped organize and took the photo of him sitting in the sun with his coworkers.

To live a long life is a great privileged. I'm thinking it comes with some obligations. Pay attention. Savor it. Don't take it for granted. Do some good.

The Life-O-Meter

2010-03-09T04:46:00.000-08:00

I’ve been making comfort food for Mary and Glen.
Lasagna, chili con carne, tamale pie, beef stew, macaroni and cheese.
I drop it off at their house, sometimes stay for a beer.
By the time you read this, their baby will have been born.
(Yes, indeed! His name is Rio Hunter Vieira Spears. I knew they would have a boy.)
In the ninth month, cooking for them means one less thing they have to do for themselves.

Brie is 87 or 88.
He can’t tell me which.
He can only remember the last thirty seconds of his life.
When I say, “Brie, its John Kotula, from your Sunday morning drawing group,” he remembers “…morning drawing group.” Then he forgets that.
A year ago he knew he knew me.
That level of recognition made him smile.
Now he doesn’t know who he doesn’t know.

Even without the pregnancy, Mary and Glen are full of life.
They are young, beautiful, physical.
You don’t have to know them long to learn that they first made love on the ground, in a vineyard, during a rainstorm.
Mary was keeping her distance when they met working for a landscaper.
Glen had faith in his motorcycle.
If he could get Mary to go for a ride, she would realize being with a tattooed, bow hunting, air force veteran was better than being with girls.
Mary got on behind.
The rains came.
Glen was right.
Who would have bet on that?

I met Brie when he was in his late sixties.
He was a great storyteller.
Even though he told the same stories, retold them and then told them again.
Brie joined the American army as soon as Germany invaded France, his mother’s homeland, the place of his birth.
He ended up in Texas.
He got stuck there because the army found out he could draw.
He stood at a blackboard on a drill field in front of illiterate recruits.
He drew each part of their rifles.
He drew how all the parts fit together.
What did they make of him in Texas with his French accent, his Harvard education and his Cary Grant looks?
He kept asking to fight.
Finally, the army agreed he could go.
They even asked if he wanted to go to Europe or the Pacific.
“Most certainly to Europe,” he replied. “I want to kill Germans.”
In France, Brie was again over qualified for killing or being killed.
Anybody could do that.
Few could read, write, and speak perfect French.
He spent the war as an aide-de-camp to a general.

Mary and Glen moved to Alaska, to a town you have to fly into, a town with no alcohol, but plenty of kids with fetal alcohol syndrome.
Mary was the town’s schoolteacher. Glen also worked for the town, in a training program for dropouts.
A year of isolation, of being the only white people, was a long time.
They almost stayed, but in the end they came home.

After the war Brie went to art school in New York City on the GI Bill.
He taught at several top tier art schools.
Andy Warhol once tried to give him a painting. He turned it down. He thought it was ugly and thought Warhol was trying to pay him for sex, making an already awkward situation worse.
He surprised Leonard Bernstein by refusing to sleep with him two nights in a row. He found Bernstein’s sense of entitlement unbearable.
He wrote an influential article about the “new plastic paints” before serious artists were using acrylics.
Brie’s book on the design principals of natural objects is still in use.
He moved to the Midwest to be the dean of art schools in Chicago and Indianapolis.
Eventually he retired to Rhode Island where he had kept a summerhouse for years, a short bicycle ride to the beach.

Mary wanted a cast of her pregnant torso.
She knew I could do that kind of thing, so she asked me to help.
I went over armed with a jar of Vaseline and plaster of Paris gauze strips.
Glen and I dipped the gauze in a bowl of warm water and smoothed them onto Mary’s body from neck to thigh.
I asked Glen for a beer.
He said, “So, you’re going to feel up my wife and drink my beer.”

Mary is worried about her students at the alternative high school where she works.
They are seniors and when the baby is born she will be on leave for several weeks.
There is no question that several of her students lean on her and won’t function as well without her daily support.
She is the teacher you wish you had when you were sixteen.

Brie lives in The Carriage House at The Elms in Westerly.
He used to have his own room. Now he’s in a double.
He used to have one of my drawings over his bed. Now there’s no decoration.
I don’t know how to decode these changes.
We sit together on a small sofa across the room from a big screen TV.
Several residents sit in front of the TV watching bowling.
I talk to Brie.
He occasionally mumbles polite phrases that don’t quite match what I said.
“Yes, yes… I’m sure,” “How nice… Thank you.” “Good… yes, good.”
Soon he closes his eyes and lets his head fall to his chest.

I have an image of myself teetering between Mary and Glen on one end of a seesaw and Brie on the other.
If the unit of measure is years, I’m closer to Brie.
If we use the Life-O-Meter, I’m closer to Mary and Glen.
In the wink on an eye, I could lose my grip, slide down to Brie’s end, hoist Mary and Glen up into the sky, full of life, laughing, all by themselves.

About the Portraits:
It took me awhile to find these. I had to go through a lot of old drawings, which is always a pleasant process for me. A couple of time Brie and I got together and took turns drawing each other. The top picture is one of my portraits of him and the next is one he drew of me. I think they are from about 2001. That is a guess, based in part on me looking pretty thin. I was skinny for a couple of years around that time.