Drying Out

New items purchased often have small packets of silica gel inside them marked desiccating gel, along with the words "Do Not Eat."  These days I think if I just stand near a new item, I could probably dry it out very nicely.

As we age, we oxidize, and moisture flows from us in all directions.  At this point I should have a small cloud of evaporation following me around.  I swim in lotion, to try (though I am currently failing) to keep my skin from bleeding from the cold weather cracks.  The latest victim of my shriveling humidity; my eyes.

Some of you have seen the photos of my new glasses (which I no longer own). I went to the optometrist to ask her why I do not see sharply and am totally aware of the orbit of my eye. She gave me new prescription for glasses which I had filled;  then I could not see anything farther than five feet away.  Frustrated I went to see the ophthalmologist who cares for my accident prone men (one who had a horrible little group of amoebas take up residency in his eyes and one who had a tennis ball shatter the contact lens in his eye).  This is the doc who said I have dry eyes; I just thought I was middle aged and had become hard-hearted.

He tested my eyes for moisture levels by placing tiny little pieces of watercolor paper inside my lower eyelid, sticking straight up like paper columns.   I waited five minutes in the dark for the paper to absorb my irritation tears;  a weird test, especially for an artist.  One of the strips eventually dropped onto my cheek, the other remained at attention; that eye is the really dry one.  I wanted to try to paint  a teeny little painting in my tears, but they tossed the strips.

Now I use eye drops.

Does this mean I will no longer cry at movies?  I hope so, it has always been so embarrassing.

Average Goodies

The prodigals are starting to roost; mine are simply expanding their domains in healthy, though sometimes stormy ways.  Normal stuff, so the fatted calf is quite safe to become a nice chubby milk cow.  Thank you prodigals, for lavish, constructive exuberance.

Perhaps it is time to invent new ways of celebrating the expected, which is after all the original question of the responsible son in the old story; why him and not me?  He was lost, his brother steady; they both got to chow down, but I understand the question and I comprehend the purpose of the parable.  Still, celebrating those who are steady and trustworthy seems fair.  Their lives may not be dramatic, but their accomplishments are usually remarkable.

We rarely celebrate the incremental.  Barring the tortoise and the hare, we often celebrate the quick, marveling at the young author, singer, medical student....rarely at the mid thirty or forty, center of the pack people who make up the lion share of the population.  Average is disdained.  Why? Lower than average - well, I won't even go there!

When my children started in school, I recall a meeting of parents of the elementary school. They were concerned about helping their children cope if they came in number two in the class; two.  I waited a bit as they voiced further concerns, until I finally mentioned that "ONE person is number one, one is number two and everybody else is in between until we come to number, last.  They are all wonderful children, children being the key word, and they are all of equal value as human beings. I could have chilled a martini with their stares; I could have used a cool one just about then also.

As we gather for the national celebration of dinner, my turkey will be a simple roast, the Cordon Bleu need not fear competition; it will be average.  My stuffing, which I should refer to as dressing, but I hate that word, will be a repetition of the last twenty years.  I will use canned, jellied cranberry sauce and Pillsbury rolls, because we love Grands biscuits.  The pies will be homemade and the crusts' edges will be oddly shaped.  Our wine will be inexpensive and our butter salted.  This will not be
gourmet, but it will feel good.

With any luck our average dinner will follow a tremendously winning Eagles game. Then, our average day will end with  a screening of  "It's A Wonderful Life."  We will be glowing with typical, average, national warmth; prodigiously.

The Runaway

12. The Runaway

(From The Amherst Monthly, June 1918.)

ONCE when the snow of the year was beginning to fall, We stopped by a mountain pasture to say, “Whose colt?” A little Morgan had one forefoot on the wall, The other curled at his breast. He dipped his head And snorted to us. And then we saw him bolt.         5 We heard the miniature thunder where he fled, And we saw him, or thought we saw him, dim and gray, Like a shadow across instead of behind the flakes. The little fellow’s afraid of the falling snow. He never saw it before. It isn’t play         10 With the little fellow at all. He’s running away. He wouldn’t believe when his mother told him, ‘Sakes, It’s only weather.’ He thought she didn’t know! So this is something he has to bear alone And now he comes again with a clatter of stone,         15 He mounts the wall again with whited eyes Dilated nostrils, and tail held straight up straight. He shudders his coat as if to throw off flies. “Whoever it is that leaves him out so late, When all other creatures have gone to stall and bin,         20 Ought to be told to come and take him in.”   Thanks to:  http://www.bartleby.com/155/12.html

Sounds Fishy

Phrases I never, ever thought would emanate from my lips, have become a part of my life. Many ideas may be crossing your mind, none of which are likely to be accurate.  To be sure there are many more strange possibilities, which thank fortune are not a part of my life.  I have taken up hang gliding (I fly only as I fall), I enjoy tight rope walking (my friends can tell you that walking consistently without falling has been a life-long challenge.  I love doing accounting - yeah, no.

So what are the phrases?  I have taken up surf fishing, yup;  I even bait my own hooks. I have caught a couple of young blue fish, which is gratifying, but it is being by the ocean and participating in it in a new way that has been so exciting.  Now, adding to awe and joy, is a cooperation of give and take and a different understanding of the ebb and flow of the waves and the wildlife.  I can sit for hours throwing out a line of hope, with a somewhat evil intent of ending a fish's life.  Bear in mind, I have not kept a fish I have caught, we (I still have a problem taking the fish off the hook) have thrown them back.

Another odd phrase, related to the fishing is:  I am so glad I learned lacrosse.  Now never, ever, in my life has that thought crossed my mind.  I played goalie because I did not understand the rules (I must have been absent that day).  I could not cradle and I hate running.  I could manage to comprehend the concept of - keep the ball out of this small area, backed by a strangely shaped net.  I was not half bad at goal tending.

How does lacrosse relate to surf fishing?  Casting ten foot surf rod with two baited hooks and a sinker is juts like throwing a lacrosse ball out of the crease of the goal; don't rush, focus, aim high and throw far.  The nice thing about the surf is that my target, unlike finding a tiny stick in lacrosse, is very wide; my kind of sport. I have actually mentally thanked my lacrosse coaches - another first - for teaching me how to throw. Finally I am good at it.

Once the line is in the water, I walk back to my chair, my chair, sit down, gently hold the rod and wait for a nice little tug on the line.  I pull sharply to set the hook and then work the fishie into the shore. Sitting, waiting, watching the water, the sky, the birds, I think have I have found my sport.

My husband says I am a natural.

Let The Painting Win

Oh my I have been silent for a while.  I have been involved in a fiasco of visual nonsense.  I knew I could not see as well as I would like and went to the optometrist to see what was wrong.  I described being aware of the orbit of my left eye and my concern that I might have some sort of infection.  She wrote me a new prescription for glasses.  I bought them. Not only were the frames a little scary (people stopped smiling at me in public) but I could not see more than five feet with them on.  At five feet everything was crystal clear, but beyond that - nothing!. Thank goodness my optician is an ethical businessman who refunded me the entire price!

Back to square one, went to the ophthalmologist who have saved the vision of my son and of  my husband. He gets it right with a diagnosis of dry eye; a condition which he said is caused by eighty percent of prescription drugs.  Since I am on many prescription drugs, this was a good bet.  Two drops a few times a day and I can see again and I no longer feel my eye saying hello all the time. What a journey; but the end is happy.

In the meantime, I have been working like crazy trying to get my large canvasses in shape for a show in January.  They are arguing with me.  Today, I finally, in a fit of  rage, gave in to the largest one.  It wants to be something different than I had in mind.

I had to speak to another person in the building, about a small, but important item.  When I walked into her office she said to me "You look mad."  I said 'I am, the painting and I are arguing and it's no use, the paintings always win.  I just have to get used to it and I am mad." At that point, though she looked intrigued, I think the dominant theme in her mind was  - this woman is nuts!  The reality is though, that I can waste hours trying to make it do what I want, with a net result of compliance but not excellence, or I can let it be what it wants and find something new, of which I had never conceived. The duty of the artist is to listen.

Rather than painting right away, in rage, I went out to help a friend with her art, as she prepares for an exhibition that has to be set up tomorrow.  Seeing her beautiful work and spending time with her got me into the right frame of mind to be brave; and loving.  I have reworked the image.  It is better, unusual, but better.  It has a way to go, and it is not what I wanted, but it is better.  In humbling my ego, the painting wins and so we both win.

Art is less inanimate than you might think.