what is this strange thing i stumble upon late in life

i have always come to the dance late, unsure
a bit slow, awkward
i step in holes
and on feet
i fall

so what is this thing of poetry?
i don't really know
not really interested in googling
someone else's definition
i have not been prone to read it
when i do, i find most to be disconnected
but a few plunge me deep into being alive
i usually weep when i read these
some i can only respond by
writing back

i wept when i read judith krull's the clothes

Of course they are empty shells, without hope of animation.
Of course they are artifacts.

Even if my sister and I should wear some,
or if we give others away,

they will always be your clothes without you,
as we will always be your daughters without   you.

i respond
to excerpts of rilke

The transformed speaks only to relinquishers.
All holders-on are stranglers.

thomas merton

'then what do you know about our courage and our fear? Where do you come from? What is the basis of your statements about us? You say you wrote what you see, but no two men see the same street here. What do you see that you write? What do you mean when you talk about our courage and our fear?'

'i am still trying to find out: and that is why I write. '

'how will you find out by writing?'

'i will keep putting things down until they become clear.'

'and if they do not become clear?'

'i will have a hundred books, full of symbols, full of everything I ever knew or ever saw or ever thought.'

'If it never becomes clear, perhaps you will have more books than if it were all clear at once.'

'no doubt. But i say if it were all clear at once, I would not really understand it, either. Somethings are too clear to be understood, and what you think is your understanding of them is only a kind of charm, a kind of incantation in your mind concerning things. This is not understanding: it is something you remember. So much for definitions! We always have to go back and start from the beginning and make over all the definitions for ourselves. '

jerry webber

My life cracks open.

I stand in it,
careful not to run.

or mary oliver

Listen -- are you breathing just a little
and calling it a life?

but what is it
what is this thing i only read
when for some other reason than my own seeking
it sits below my swimming searching hunger
what is it
that pulls and tares at the threads
of my being

what is it
this thing called poetry

it is an uncovering
laying bare

laying bare my physical senses assaulted by vividness of being, here
laying bare my depth of intertwining and lack of being, with
laying bare the throbs of life and death that enter me, my being

it invites other into this space of laying bare
and in this bare-ness of being
if it is powerful
if the language wraps round
guides and tugs
lingering in the folds of living
if it is real enough
raw enough
it connects and reconnects me to a living presence

but why do i partake
why do i write

no different

it is to uncover
i so want to know
lay bare
i so want to see
lay bare my physical senses in the ways they ground me in presence
i so want to be immersed, grounded
lay bare my depth of intertwining and lack of
i so want to feel its threads, its roots
to smell the fragrance of life deep within
lay bare the throbs of life and death that enter me
i so want to move into presence of being
to be awake, alive
bare and connected

to see, feel, smell, taste the threads of these living, anchoring, fluid connections

is this different than my making, my art
no different
is this different than my seeking, my faith
no different
is this different than my being, my living
no different

it is not drama
it is entering a living presence
and i want to be present
i want to be living

yet in these my primary internal drives
i find my own oddity

i have no habit of reading (poetry)
and haven't really cared to spectate
i have no habit of to go viewing
and haven't really cared to spectate
i have no habit of claiming a knowing that i know,
and haven't really cared to spectate
i have no habit of history or current events
for i haven't cared for this form of what i experience as a nonliving, a spectating
yet i know i "need" to spectate upon these things
for there is living in the things i call nonliving

there are
the runners before
the runners now
i know they will move me
i am a runner
but not a racer
i do not need to be ahead of you
i am willing to step aside to let you fly
but i am looking for my pace
my own limping gate
the one in which when i find myself old and withered
i am still running in the writing, making, seeking, loving
i am living even if i limp

this laying bare is a digging
i have been digging for as long as i can remember
for i am a digger but not of backpacks or cartrunks
i am a digger in laying bare
this can be frightening and threatening
some misunderstand it as judgment
for me it is simply a laying bare
of an unknowing knowing
through, sometimes, a not so gentle digging
and i am certainly not always "right"
but i am honest to what i can see in the bare-ness
sometimes i have thought what lays there bare
must belong to my history, my habits, my internal home my own running
and spent decades trying to see how and how to heal from this thing exposed
only to discover that what lay there in the bare-ness belonged to another
it did not live in my history, my habits, my internal home, my running

i am honest in my seeing
but my understanding can be blurred with an unknowing
missed-understanding

laying bare is my work
my running
my being
my ground
my digging
my dance

in it is my call

i must find a way around Søren Kierkegaard's definition of the poet.

from this to that in 30 minutes

throw me in a different world

and I really miss the Linus blank effect of my truck. I miss my truck. but the hit and run sites are gorgeous. the weather is perfect. and we will see if the replacement camera phone resolves the macro autofocus issue on the 4.

will i continue to prepare my internal ground for the day I leap, fall or trip over the edge of my unreadiness.

things i am learning counter to much of my research into both mainline faith and non-faith based psychobabble and spirituality. i simply believe that forgiveness, giving and receiving, is simply not solely an internal work within the self for the benefit of...the self.

counter things i am learning

a reduction of hostility is not forgiveness; it is simply an abatement of hostility within… the self.

tolerance is not forgiveness; it is simply the edge of the abyss of hatred. whether falling into or climbing out of, tolerance is simply a standing at the edge of the emotional abyss within...the self.

a mental no longer holding against is not forgiveness; it is simply a letting go within...the self.

no longer needing to proclaim the other’s offense is not forgiveness; it is simply a subsiding in the need to profess one's deep woundedness. it is a slow settling within…the self.

an internal empathy, an understanding, of/for another's real or perceived offense is not forgiveness; it is simply an internal expansion of compassion within...the self.

the diminishing of vivid emotions is not forgiveness; it is simply a waning of memory, and/or a waning of negative energy within...the self.

moving on in one's life is not forgiveness; it is simply moving on for...the self.

to stop punishing another or one’s self is not forgiveness; it is simply an abatement in the pursuit of the punitive.

silence is not forgiveness; it is simply withheld words.

the passage of time is not forgiveness (and does not heal); it is simply the ticking clock in which memory fades within...the self.

words are not forgiveness; they are simply empty vessels, symbols, vehicles to potentially carry amazing, mundane, or hurtful meaning.

many of these things are good and necessary and in them is the preparation of the ground within, yes, the self. and from this ground is the place in which forgiveness to be given, to be received, may spring.

forgiveness is not just an ego-centrical work, it is far more, far harder, far more powerful, far scarier.

it would be nice to believe that forgiveness is simply an internal work--that is safe, it is easier to hold onto than the truly frightening work of forgiveness. faith based and nonfaith based psycho/spiritual babble would like to tickle your ears with forgiveness as purely an internal work, a work of self improvement, self health, spiritual obedience. but that is incomplete and rings with the sounds of hollow clanging cymbals.

i realize there are some exceptions. there are truly some people who forgiveness may only play out internally and it is a hard, powerful work in its own unique way. as much as many of us would like to believe because of our enormous hurt and fear that we are in the realm of the exception, that forgiveness can only be an internal work, it simply is not true.

forgiveness is very hard work. it is hugely risky for its pursuit and outcome can not be predicted. it is actually quite uncommon. we like to believe we are a forgiving people, but most things we claim as forgiveness are simply the forerunner, necessary but incomplete in and of themselves. most of us stop with one or more of these internal forerunners because it is socially acceptable. others pat us on the back for being such a tolerant, forgiving person. we’ll feel like we are a little better for. and we'll walk away. yet if we are honest with ourselves, we know we have begun the work yet simply walked away with it half finished. we know.

when we are old, we will regret the incompleteness, the loss of opportunity, the absence of things that may have played out differently if we'd found our way to walk more fully into forgiveness. yet with that age we will be merciful with ourselves and forgive ourselves for our incapacities and lack of courage in our woundings. we will be kind with our regrets. perhaps if the other still lives, we will find the courage to workout forgiveness.

forgiveness is a terribly uneasy work. it is scary. it is risky.

it alters the path of those involved. it changes the future. it softens the blows of memory.

but what will forgiveness really bring? i do not know for it is not to be controlled or predicted. it cannot be manipulated. we can hope for goodness it might bring; but it may not bring goodness?

will the process of forgiveness heal? or rip open? bring peace? or conflict? subside pain? or increase? calm? or expand anxiety? alter future courses? or hold steady? ease memory? or harden it? change relationships? or lock them down? build something new? or replicate the old? or sever? create bridges? or damns? open us to compassion? or close us in? mercy? or coldness? love? tolerance? or hate? will it move us out of our self? or into? will it create humility? or pride filled? open? or defensive? strip falseness away? or create more? expose a more whole truth? or diminish it? will it create hope? or dash it? will it open eyes? or close them?

will it give? or take away? both?

will it move us closer to the divine? or distance us? what of our humanity? our gifts? our strengths?

will we only be more frightened? or brave? more at risk? or safer? more codependent? or interdependent? more doormatish? or welcoming?

what does forgiveness bring? anything? or nothing? something unknown?

is it worth the uneasy internal preparation of our ground of being? or not? is it worth following through? or not? is the risk worth taking? or not?

what might forgiveness bring? i do not know for it’s outcome cannot be controlled, managed, predicted or manipulated.

am i doing the work to prepare my internal ground? will i ever be ready enough? probably not. but as with most things in my life worth doing, i am never ready, or smart enough, or knowledgeable enough, or wise enough, or undefensive enough, or open enough, or loving enough, or compassionate enough or healed enough or humble enough or stable enough or silent enough or clearly spoken enough or know myself enough or the other. i am never enough? they will never be enough? i am never ready, i simply leap or have tried and sometimes i don’t even leap. sometimes i get knocked or trip over the edge of my unreadiness. it scares the hell out of me. it scares the hell out of me that i might leap, fall, trip before i am enough, before they are enough. i know when i start to land, i will be so glad i got knocked, tripped or leap over the edge of my unreadiness.

i will continue to prepare my internal ground for the day i leap, fall or trip over the edge of my unreadiness? or someone leaps, falls or trips into my unreadiness.

yes preparing my ground is what i think i am and should be doing. it will not be enough, it never will be, but it is all i can do. and forgiveness has never been about being enough; no one is ever enough to forgive or be forgiven.

------

forgiveness is a way of living; it is not an event or words. it is a way of living. if you cannot forgive in little things, than surely you cannot forgive when the wounds are not little. perhaps suffering alters one's relationship with living forgiveness or choosing to live without it? i don't know.

i just believe forgiveness is a way of living, any other for me is simply a clanging empty cymbal.

Beautiful but seemingly early sunset

I am so impressed

with my students. I leave at the end of the day, and they stay to work. They experiment, try things they never imagined they might. They work hard, work to improve their craft, to expand their thinking.

My students continue to impress me, challenge me to be better and make me laugh. YES.

Location:S 67th St,Houston,United States

Hmmm iphone 4 vs 3gs camera

iphone 4...blurred, over polarization of image, colors blownout, etc. both images shot while driving (i shot a whole series and this is best of set-ouch)

iphone 3gs...even caught in focus the water on the road...got a great shot in almost every click

iphone 4 macro autofocus isn't working correctly...it keeps focusing on the background. but wow on how clear the fence is. but i don't want a picture of the fence, i wanted the tomatoes. i shot it with the built in software, camera genius, and camera plus pro...baaaaaahumbug.

iphone 3gs macroautofocus is working awesomely...see hairs on plant. amazing. the iphone 3gs camera white balance is so much more accurate as well! sure i get more pixels with the 4; have a flash for evening shots, but what good does that do me if i can't capture normal shots as beautifully as the 3gs. is it worth the video. nope. i use the camera all the time; my 4 just kind of sucks in my opinion.

am super frustrated with iphone 4 camera. if i can get my 3gs screen fixed, i am returning the iphone 4.

returned; replaced with new iphone 4; new camera works excellently!

Eeeeeek

Never drop a light fixture on your fire extinguisher's trigger. At least I now know it worked and was fully loaded. Ummm but I am not sure all ever get this fine yellow dust out of my studio. Eeeeeek

My first sugar snap

Waiting a poem and performance by Faith Wilding (Womanhouse)

Waiting
A Poem by Faith Wilding
(early 1970s)

Waiting . . . waiting . . . waiting . . .

Waiting for someone to come in
Waiting for someone to hold me
Waiting for someone to feed me
Waiting for someone to change my diaper Waiting . . .

Waiting to scrawl, to walk, waiting to talk
Waiting to be cuddled
Waiting for someone to take me outside
Waiting for someone to play with me
Waiting for someone to take me outside
Waiting for someone to read to me, dress me, tie my shoes
Waiting for Mommy to brush my hair
Waiting for her to curl my hair
Waiting to wear my frilly dress
Waiting to be a pretty girl
Waiting to grow up Waiting . . .

Waiting for my breasts to develop
Waiting to wear a bra
Waiting to menstruate
Waiting to read forbidden books
Waiting to stop being clumsy
Waiting to have a good figure
Waiting for my first date
Waiting to have a boyfriend
Waiting to go to a party, to be asked to dance, to dance close
Waiting to be beautiful
Waiting for the secret
Waiting for life to begin Waiting . . .

Waiting to be somebody
Waiting to wear makeup
Waiting for my pimples to go away
Waiting to wear lipstick, to wear high heels and stockings
Waiting to get dressed up, to shave my legs
Waiting to be pretty Waiting . . .

Waiting for him to notice me, to call me
Waiting for him to ask me out
Waiting for him to pay attention to me
Waiting for him to fall in love with me
Waiting for him to kiss me, touch me, touch my breasts
Waiting for him to pass my house
Waiting for him to tell me I’m beautiful
Waiting for him to ask me to go steady
Waiting to neck, to make out, waiting to go all the way
Waiting to smoke, to drink, to stay out late
Waiting to be a woman Waiting . . .

Waiting for my great love
Waiting for the perfect man
Waiting for Mr. Right Waiting . . .

Waiting to get married
Waiting for my wedding day
Waiting for my wedding night
Waiting for sex
Waiting for him to make the first move
Waiting for him to excite me
Waiting for him to give me pleasure
Waiting for him to give me an orgasm Waiting . . .

Waiting for him to come home, to fill my time Waiting . . .

Waiting for my baby to come
Waiting for my belly to swell
Waiting for my breasts to fill with milk
Waiting to feel my baby move
Waiting for my legs to stop swelling
Waiting for the first contractions
Waiting for the contractions to end
Waiting for the head to emerge
Waiting for the first scream, the afterbirth
Waiting to hold my baby
Waiting for my baby to suck my milk
Waiting for my baby to stop crying
Waiting for my baby to sleep through the night
Waiting for my breasts to dry up
Waiting to get my figure back, for the stretch marks to go away
Waiting for some time to myself
Waiting to be beautiful again
Waiting for my child to go to school
Waiting for life to begin again Waiting . . .

Waiting for my children to come home from school
Waiting for them to grow up, to leave home
Waiting to be myself
Waiting for excitement
Waiting for him to tell me something interesting, to ask me how I feel
Waiting for him to stop being crabby, reach for my hand, kiss me good morning
Waiting for fulfillment
Waiting for the children to marry
Waiting for something to happen Waiting . . .

Waiting to lose weight
Waiting for the first gray hair
Waiting for menopause
Waiting to grow wise Waiting . . .

Waiting for my body to break down, to get ugly
Waiting for my flesh to sag
Waiting for my breasts to shrivel up
Waiting for a visit from my children, for letters
Waiting for my friends to die
Waiting for my husband to die Waiting . . .

Waiting to get sick
Waiting for things to get better
Waiting for winter to end
Waiting for the mirror to tell me that I’m old
Waiting for a good bowel movement
Waiting for the pain to go away
Waiting for the struggle to end
Waiting for release
Waiting for morning
Waiting for the end of the day
Waiting for sleep Waiting . . .

“Waiting” was performed at Womanhouse in Los Angeles sponsored by the Feminist Art Program, California Institute of the Arts.

-------

each time i have seen the womanhouse video of this performance i have wept; each time my heart has broken

for waiting is my habit
for as long as i can remember
it has been my habit to wait
and to work to understand, sympathize,
care, make room for, rationalize,
explain away

it has been a silent waiting

my waiting has been different than in this poem
there never were children; they did not come and
i don't think any one else is responsible for me
i never have; though some have come alongside
but i have waited none the less

my form of waiting has been an unhealthy habit
but i have believed (and still do) to wait is compassionate, giving,
caring, making room for imperfections
and so i have waited for as long as i can remember
for it is my habit

it has been my habit to wait to see
that person with whom the other claims to be,
manifest within our relationship
it has been a waiting to see that kernel
of all the goodness i can see buried there,
surface
it has been a waiting for the things that cover
over, that muddy, that distract, that alienate, that distance,
melt away

my form of waiting was meant
to deflect my hurt without blaming;
deflect disappointment without burdening
another with my hopes or needs;
to deflect anger at what appeared as disregard
because anger didn't resolve it simply alienated;
any hint of anger, disappointment or hurt
appeared experienced as threat;
my form of waiting was to hope in goodness uncovered, made real

my form of waiting appears to
not uncover goodness,
does not make room for it to become real
but instead enables
i do not understand this

hope and waiting have always been linked for me
i think my habit of waiting stemmed from hoping
but how does one stop waiting
without giving up hope
i experienced that once
the loss of hope
it was devastating

yet i repeatedly return to my habit of waiting
if i stop waiting
were will hope go
isn't hope a form of waiting
how do the different forms of waiting separate themselves
so that i can hold on to a healthy waiting
one that is not enabling
i want to hold on to
the one that is hopeful
the one that is believing
the one that is trusting
and let go of the waiting which enables

honestly, i have no idea how to do this

maybe i am not suppose to wait

isn't waiting a form of not living in the present
but living instead in tomorrow
where no one else resides?

maybe i am not suppose to wait

but what is hope then?

Setting up for BOX 13 resident artists' group exhibition

BOX 13 ArtSpace opening
Saturday, Nov 13, 2010
7 to 9:30 pm
6700 Harrisburg Blvd (77011)

Also open for
Artcrawl Houston
Saturday, Nov 20
10 am to 8 pm

Come on out!

Why did the chicken cross the road?

Pecking order!

I don't like when I catch myself doing this to some with others as I try to peel back my own surface and stuff some value generated by the illusion of "better thans" in there. I really dislike when I've caught myself doing that again. It never makes me more valuable and it certainly doesn't gauge my actual worth. It just makes me feel very petty and cry. And have you ever seen a chicken cry? Its not pretty. I hope I will stop crossing the road.

I haven't decided about the new phone

Camera. It captures in low light, were as before I would have gotten black, but it blows out the colors even in broad daylight my internal jury is out still. But i have a friend whose husband will change out my old screen. if it works i may just return the new phone...it may be more megapixels but i don't like how the four blows out the colors and all the digital noise, my 3gs images are smaller but seemed so clean and the colors rich and correct.

a responsive flapping

Jerry writes...

Don't Do a Thing

The time has come to be quiet
to let the stillness wash over you
cover the noise
and unsettledness
in thunderous silence.

Don't do a thing;
Just sit there
out of the way
Spacious presence
to what cannot be seen
in the turmoil
and
the flap of lips
waving of arms
pace of feet.

Can you not go away,
wait and watch
for a span of time
to bring yourself
more fully real
to pure presence?

But you're talking
mad-talk now,
the kind of thing that happens
to the disengaged.

And i tap with my lips flapping cross the keyboard.

aaagggh! Jerry, you've been inside my head this month or reading my unposted posts and prophetically hitting the mark. awe what a mess right when i was starting to wake up in my life i fell over and skinned my whole being!

i flap, stamp, and pace with my mad internal talk for in my head I must again overlook, overstep…celebrations of life entry points for those who only still linger…in my mind. i see them laid out before me, they alter my path for the unwelcome must be set aside, and i must step over, around these days, these moments. i must pretend i don't care without a hardening. how? i don't really know. i flap. i pretend. i tuck my flapping feelings and pacing wishes into a tiny box. i work them into the small mundane space between the dirty corrugated walls of used imagined cardboard, yet the feelings are so fricking loud, remaining vividly fresh. but i get them in, holding the flaps of the lid down tightly as the box becomes softened with it’s soggy emotionally ladened content; i quickly wrap the silver duct tape round and round with blog postings and unpostings leaking, spilling out, of every gap. lifting with both hands, i put the saturated squashed up box up over my shoulder and slide it into the pack with the others. i cinch the pack closed, tussle it a bit to even out the load across my back, a few of my wrapped boxes continue to spill out onto my blog. i stand anyway. aren’t i suppose to pick up my mat. i am walking again, navigating around the day, over the absent celebrants. i travel now on a new path for the unwelcomes will lead me to new unexpected places where i am welcome. or at least this is what i tell myself as i try to loosen my flapping grip on mental lingerings so that i can move and breathe stepping into the open space of his spacious presence. i know it is true. i look for these welcomings. i must open myself to new welcomes no matter that i can't imagine them. pace. pace. i will believe they will come. i know they are already here but i am blind by my need to box and attempt to put away, so tired of seeing. so i wipe and flap at the blindness. boxes sometimes scatter and spill back out. i know i have had many welcomes the last two years but they have been hard to hold onto for my blind flapping leaves me so distracted by the uns...they overwhelm me. i simply haven’t learned to hold loosely, sit still beside the quiet waters. but two years means, dang it all, it's time to shut off the overwhelms of the uns before it becomes the place i live and can't crawl out of. i haven't known how to do that. shutting people off, or simply shutting off, is counter to how i am built. this boxing isn't who i am. and not finding a way to work it out is counter to how i am built. my flapping arms feel bound. so i struggle flap. the boxing is counter to all i believe but i don't see an avenue to work through. i am built to see not to box. i am built to work through not box. but now i keep catching myself disengaged in my boxing. these boxes i carry shouldn’t be here but i can’t unpack them without seeing and seeing means i am "suppose" to do something with it and what it seems i should do is unwelcome within the body of the unwelcomes. flappingly i disengage. sit still. but then i get flapping for there is the way my calling and practice of art are so intricately linked by inner listening, seeing, a place where i catch hold of the throbs of patterns in culture, in others, in self with life working it's way in and out of them. i have always seen these patterns and flows in others and myself with the hand of history and the nows tugging the individuals and groups. i suppose this kind of seeing is suppose to be a gift, this seeing or being sensitive to. but i am still raw and i don’t want to see what i can do nothing about. boxedly i disengage. over-seeing again flappingly, pacingly disengaged. need to stop seeing all the connections, sit still in that washing stillness. yet living and my practice are so intertwined with the seeing which is a type of still sitting, that it is hard to know how to take my fingers off the throbs of seeing into what is art and life, for art is harvested from living. they are so interconnected -- how do i pull out some of the threads or cut them out without severing the entire cord? how do i gaze else where? or even simply to harden or disengage one area for me would simple make all of me hard and brittle so instead i end up soggily flapping my keyboard for fear of hardening and disengaging. i don't seem to find an inbetween place of “don’t do a thing” of stillness. i do grow more gentle and merciful with each of my failed attempts and others. today i am soggy again with the paced flapping, flapping as i pretend to have stepped over and around with my mad talking these historical celebrations. and i realize getting lost in the seeing is just as disengaging. were my gifts, my calling, are, there to is my sin. ramble, keyboard lips flap, pace, with my own mad talk. aggggh. why is it that stitching tubes with my hands moving, the scents of rubber and grime, move me into a stillness that washes over my inner noise of seeing, boxing, flapping? now i must get back to sewing.

flap. flap. stitch. stitch.

Stitch stitch

So I sew of

A series distended 10 foot nipples...it is the interior I find most fascinating...

Wash away.

Like the Wash Away (reprise) at end of list. Haven't listened through the others.

I got troubles oh, but not today
Cause they're gonna wash away
They're gonna wash away

And I have sins Lord, but not today
Cause they're gonna wash away
They're gonna wash away

And I had friends oh, but not today
Cause they're done washed away
They're done washed away

And oh, I've been cryin'
And oh, I've been cryin'
And oh, no more cryin'
No, no more cryin' here

We get along Lord, but not today
Cause we gonna wash away
We gonna wash away

And I got troubles oh, but not today
Cause they gonna wash away
This old heart gonna take them away

Oops

Well so much for my internal debate for a phone upgrade. Decision has been reach via Umm i just dropped (accidentally...really) and shattered the face of my phone enough so pieces are falling out. I think that qualifies as a legit excuse to a phone upgrade

Give me a compound sliding miter or table saw and I'll figure it out...

But what the heck am I suppose to do with a burner? So I bought this one pan cookbook. Ha. One pan multiple cutting boards, knives, a sink and what the heck is allspice which I did not have. Ah. Google -- so I throw in some ground clove, cinnamon, and nutmeg and waaaam = allspice. Naturally I didn't measure--I sew tire tubes with baling wire...who measures!? Well it tastes great so far but what the heck give me back my table saw or find me a good wife to take care of the woman's work. Ha. Don't tell any one I said that especially since I presented and discussed first generation feminist art and we watch the womanshouse video today with my first year art students. Highlights personally for me were faith wilding's piece on waiting...I tear up everytime I've watched it and there is a performance piece I'll call push that is conceptually, visually and auditorally just beautiful. And of course I love the kitchen installation.

aaaaagggh. sitting on my bum all dayresearching first wave feminist art

funniest thing (arrogant pleasure on my part) is when you image google search some of my art heros who are to be included in an upcoming lecture, eva hesse and lee bountecue, images of my work actually pop up on the first page, though you do have to scroll down :) that made me laugh

i am ok with that

i did get off my bum long enough to walk out and see i totally have more tomatoes...

i am ok with that as well

Ha. You guys thought I was kidding

about grilling everyday. It is especially nice and colorful after sewing tire tubes all day.

i sent my grand girl friends (60+ years of wisdom and grace) pictures of my last two meals with a standing grilling and sunset invitation. not a one of them turned me down and since i am a wine newbie and don't know what's what, they'll provide. :)

Gray morning on my porch

Sipping diet coke, actually writing the old fashion way, scratching pen to paper, a little thumb typing here while trying to get myself to pick up and read my post modernism art text in prep for a lecture I am responsible for this friday, but instead i am watching birds in the low hung thick sky flitting about before the rains fall.
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It started and stopped quickly enough though I don't think it's done.

Location:Capitol St,Houston,United States

Watching this while tasting that

all the while sitting indian style on my make shift lawn furniture made up of industrial sized wooden discs with the wind in my hair in my wife beater white tank. ahhhhh the breeze and steak really couldn't be any better.

gosh. i was just going to post some student samplesbut there were to many wonderful ones

students spent a week or so exploring mark making and then brought a quote of their choosing into the work. the goal was to express the quote in a way that mimics actual speech in creating breath (space) and emphasis, etc and yet maintain readability.

each work is 2 to 3 feet by 3 to 5 feet in size.

no computers were harmed in the manufacturing of these works. though students printed source text from computer they used xerox copier for scale shifting and scissors, cutting out the paper and then exploring physical and visually all there options for arrangement. though this seems an archaic method, the physicality and the ability to move tweak adjustments extremely well. computers come later and one must remember they are simply just a tool.

Jasmine made this texture using ink on the bottom of her shoes (i like that!)

students then blow these up with an architectural printer (at fedex, office depot, etc) for about 5 bucks (on bond paper)

See the rest

family gathering celebrating my gram's 99 years lived (and still kicking and walking and thinking and doing crossword puzzles and craft projects) over pizza

Really she requested pizza for her party.

son (mi' dad), gram (99 years old today), great grans (niece-nicole and nephew-troy)

 

grandson (mi' brother-paul), great grands (my niece and nephew)

daughter in law (mi' mom), grandson (mi' brother)

no she isn't dead dead--she is just dead asleep in the middle of it all, literally (kind of reminds me of a Robert Longo image). i contemplated puting a white chalk line around her but figured that might miff my folks on whose carpet she lays. i swore to myself i wouldn't post this, but then said to myself, "naaaa."

naming me with its soul quieting sounds of stillness

faintly the remembered wind whispers
naming me with its soul quieting
sounds of stillness
it gently touches flutteringly with its caress
across my dried salt streaked cheeks and
as i allow it, the space opens to me

even from yesterday and before tomorrow
god's lips blow breath far into my future
carrying me from the weight of another
wound filled thought whispering
comfort to me even now
he lifts from me my mountain, my seas
as i sit still in this weightless moment
with tendrilled strands gently stirring the surface of my face
my fingers hushed and dirty with making
i carry the wind this autumn day

excerpt from exquisite heart: cultivating compassion

“I forgive you, completely and utterly.  May you be forgiven.  May all of your apparent mistakes and shortcomings be dissolved and trouble you no more, and may my misperceptions of mistakes and shortcomings within you be erased or made irrelevant to my love for you.”

working toward it but way suck at it right now.

seconds have been harvested and eaten!

yeah arrugula!

sugar snaps are looking a little peeked -- apparently i was suppose to be feeding them (fertilizers)...i just thought that was why i bought fertile soil. anyway i have since fed them and hope they green up a little. the squashes are producing fruit like structures, i can't tell if they'll go to term. i think i need a few more of each plant next season so there are more opportunities for cross pollination and such...

so i'll finish this season in a month or two and harvesting what i've learned i'll be on to veggie gardening seconds for a late winter planting.

Firsts

My first salad of my own homegrown freshly washed arrugula.

My first ever tomato.

My first ever honey bear and winter squash.

My first ever jalapeno.

A new one