February 24, 2003

"A Fun Question"

One of my weekend accomplishments was finishing reading Blackwood Farm, Anne Rice's newest book. It is a thoroughly engaging book, and all the characters are delightful. Okay, I don't like Patsy, nor do I like Petronia, but they are well depicted, in Rice's vivid style. But Quinn is a charmer. I look forward to her next book.

Quinn's 'uncle' Tommy, who is actually much younger than him, poses an interesting question to him one day.

'' 'Who's your favorite painter in the whole world?' he asked.
'' 'Hard to say,' I answered.
'' 'Like if you could only save one painting from the Third World War,' he pushed, 'what would it be?'
'' 'Have to be Renaissance. Have to be a Madonna,' I replied, 'but I'm not sure which one. Probably one by Botticelli, but then maybe Fra Filippo Lippi. But there are others. Just not sure.' . . .''

Tommy posed an interesting question. I first thought of 'Venus on the half shell' by Botticelli, but I'm sure others will take that one. My next thought was of MARIUS GRATIDUS LIBANUS AND HIS WIFE, a funerary Monument from end of 1st century that's in the Vatican Museum, for the eloquent depiction of the emotions of this couple during their time of crisis. But that's a sculpture, so that doesn't count.

Young Woman with a Water Pitcher c. 1664-65

So, then, what one painting sums up all that art can be? I've spoken of Renoir before, but I think I will go with Vermeer (1632-1675). I'll select his 'Woman with a water pitcher' for the wonderful way with color and shadow and the 'serene sense of compositional balance' one informative website mentions.

February 25, 2003

"If These Words Are Not In A Common Tongue"

If you have not ever been there, you can not know. What brilliant stars exist, unseen, unknown? But exist, they do, even if we have not eyes to see them.

I cannot explain, magnify, clarify it if you can not see it. Should I put a mirror to it that you can see a dim reflection of it in yourself, would that work?

I am the stray one. I am always the stray one, wandering to a hundred visions of her own, seeing paths where others see only jungles, mesmerized by the unique and different. Should a daydreamer be misunderstood, how can the dreams crystallize?

But I have tried to do this. In sixteen hundred thousand ways, I've done this. I put a light here, put a light there, and if only fuzzy patches remain, then I do not know what to say. I cannot make it any clearer. I shall try, God knows I'll try 'til there is nothing left of me.

But if all you can do is look and shudder, then what remains? Is there any beauty? Is there any softly lit wisdom that rings true in your ear? I don't know. I do not see with your eyes, I only see with mine.

And so is that the wall? Distances of perception, mileages made greater by fear. We fear what we do not understand. Can I bring it any closer? Do you want it closer? All that I am is saying there is this wonderful world. I see it. I see it with my clear brown eyes, tinged gold and green. I rejoice in the myriad of beautiful things. I rejoice like a kid on Christmas, so many expectations met and surpassed in the glory of new things to explore.

If I haven't made this clear, if these words are not in a common tongue, then what? I should seek a new dictionary, a new defining rod? Perhaps a better measure, here then this six inch ruler is too small. A yard stick, measure your yard, I measure my yard. Maybe my yard is smaller. Maybe it is bigger. These are our worlds, that which surrounds us.

In my world, wonderful things happen. I hear tell from the distances, wonderful things happen in yours. Bravo! That is good, and all good is to be celebrated. From this distance, I wave a salute. Maybe the fog will clear. Maybe we will see the distance is only an illusion. Thousands of sages would say so. But it is only our words that count.

Never go back, when you can go forward. Take any light you can and journey into the unknown. I, and others also unknown, will be waiting. The invitation is open.

(Honoring what would have been Laura's and my sixteenth anniversary. In the heart, it is still so.)

February 26, 2003

"Yokel Color"

A early morning rising, restless legs sending me out of bed, I wrote some e-mail and caught up with some news.

An Arizona Representive, Republican Jeff Flake, is making a big stink about the $800,000 grant that was awarded to the GRAMMY Foundation of Santa Monica, California. This is the non-profit branch of the Recording Academy, which sponsors the prestigious yearly Grammy Awards.

The way it was reported on the radio here, it sounded like this money was being funneled directly into fat cat wealthy recording executives' pockets. It's not. A web search revealed it is for music and arts education programs for young people that will preserve our rich cultural legacy.

The cause is worthy. Flake, I will resist any comments about his name, is just adding to the misconception we're all a bunch of rednecks out here in the desert, who don't care about culture, and whose big amusements are drinking cheap beer and shooting holes in street signs.

But enough of the impersonal world issues, other than not wanting MY STATE associated with the unwashed and uncultured. You'd be surprised to learn how many people do not wash. Working one year as a convenience store clerk, I never saw so many filthy people. I cringed as I beheld their dirt encrusted hands touching food they were eating. I'm sure these people are in every state, province, and shire, however.

Now before I begin to sound like a snooty culture snob, I will end this topic. After all, I'm not about passing judgment on people. I'm really trying to be more spiritually advanced than that. Let's think about the Thought Of The Day:

The concept, the label, is perpetually hiding from us all the nature of the real.

Joyce Cary

So then, how can I apply that to my daily life? The label, 'The Unwashed', what's behind that? I can cringe at their dirty hands, but what is the real truth of the situation? Why are they like that? It's so easy to 'get on the pedestal' and tsk-tsk, but I'm sure there are deep reasons behind their situation. This, then, is the test, to always retain the heart of compassion as I look around me.

I suspect 'the real' is often quite unimaginable. But I'll try to be open for hints of it, wherever they come. Whether they point to heights of glory, depths of pain and shame, whatever mysterious underpinnings of the ultimate Truth, I'll keep my eyes and ears open.

And now, jumping from the serious to the silly, I found this test from a link from a link from a link. Who could have guessed that I am Cletus, the slack jawed yokel? I only masquerade as a 'culture snob'. It's the deep seated shame, ya know, that makes me hide the deeper reality.

What lesser-known Simpsons character are you?
Brought to you by the good folks at sacwriters.com.

What do I have to say for myself?

''BURP!''

''Pff-f-f-f-f-ft!'' (the sound of escaping gas!)

March 1, 2003

"Artful Adventure"

I've had such fun doing research for my lovely vamps. While in New York City, after a rescue mission, Goldie and Sonya decided to go to the Art Museum. What wonders they beheld there! The museum has put their collections on the web in digital form, so everyone can enjoy them, too.

A special exhibition is there until March 30th, "Leonardo da Vinci, Master Draftsman". Goldie and Sonya were right on time for that. Here is the horse and rider that so impressed them:

A Rider on a Rearing Horse Trampling on a Fallen Foe
(Study for the Sforza Monument)
Metalpoint on blue prepared paper; 151 x 188 mm (5 15/16 x 7 7/16 in.)
(Lent by Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II, Royal Library, Windsor Castle)

And the drawing that ellicited the comparision to Sebby's hooked nose:

Head of Man in Profile Facing to the Left
Pen and brown ink over charcoal or black chalk; 120 x 50 mm (4 3/4 x 2 in.)
The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. Rogers Fund, 1909

Head of Sebastian in Profile Facing to the Left

When our other computer is back from the shop with a brand new hard drive and all programs in place, I will upload Sebby's profile for comparison. His slight frown indicates he wasn't happy to pose with this prominent feature of his so exposed. But he did it anyway, for 'any kind of attention is better than no attention'.

Also, the young vamp ladies were impressed with my favorite painting, as well. Yes, the permanent home of the lovely VERMEER is here in the United States, at the Metropolitan Museum!

I'm not sure why, but I was surprised.

March 2, 2003

"Morning Meander"

This will be a meander, for I'm not sure what the destination is. I'm just out wandering the fields of my mind.

I'm upset, the computer isn't ready. I've accumulated FOUR pictures to scan now. I have a close-up of Michael's eyes, a portrait of Sonya, the profile of Sebastian, and a two and a half inch high (6.35 Cent.) little cartoon of the six vamps.

(Looking for the centimeter equivalent of 2.5 inches inspired me to do a centimeter and kilogram conversation for the characters' fact sheet.) But I am frustrated, for I want to get those pictures uploaded. The technician working on the computer has been sick, we are told. Well, I hope he gets well soon.

Today, I want to seek a lightening of the mood, as well as a lightening of the weight. Yesterday, after a big meal, I felt like I was a small thing shoving my enormous belly around as we walked around in Old Town. I'm scared to look at the scale. Am I nearing the big 200, (90K)?

Even the horoscope said ''It's time to reform and improve your diet.'' It could be the astrologers wanted to put practical advice in for those not too in touch with reality. As an example, yesterday's told me to take a bath. I haven't counted the times it says that, but I bet it's weekly! They want to remind the reader the daily sink bath isn't enough, periodically it's time for a total immersion.

In any case, I did dutifully take my total immersion bath yesterday.

Who knows what today will bring? Yesterday, we had a pleasant outing. I turned in seven game advice books for games we don't play, and got 25 dollars credit at a local used book store. I didn't find Rice's The Vampire Lestat there, but did find a story called Violin which looks intriguing. A ghost that plays the violin haunts this woman. Handsome dude with long black hair, but I understand he gets creepy later on.

The story starts off creepy. The woman's husband dies, and she lets the body lay there in her house for two days, even laying beside it. Finally she did call the authorities, because it was getting smelly. But I can't imagine anyone doing that. Now, I was glad to see Laura after she passed away, but there was a very distinct feeling that her spirit was no longer in that body. She'd suffered so much, and her weary, but now free, spirit soared right on out of there.

No, two days alone with the corpse wouldn't have done anything for me. Though I wish they'd have taken that damn tube out of her mouth.

Oh, such grisly detail, and I was trying to keep this light. Julia found some interesting travel and history books, so we received a good deal on books we didn't want that others could surely use better.

We also found a new wine shop opened up in a just built cubby hole of Old Town. I urged a selection of Aussie wine simply because the colorful label with a leaping Kangeroo appealed to me. The wine is described so poetically on small tag labels at each bin. And another purchase of cheap South African blush wine was brought about by an odd dream in which unusually pinkish red wine featured.

Extremely odd, that dream. Shall I relate it? I've already mentioned I sometimes find myself playing various of my story characters in my dreams, influenced by whatever current episodes I've just written. In this dream, Goldie and Sonya are at the art museum. I am playing the part of Goldie. She wanted to attend a lecture on art history. I studied art history in college, so this isn't strange. She walked into the classroom, which at first looked normal, with its tiered rows of long tables and seats, descending lower the closer to the speaker's podium, except for the black painted walls. Maybe black walls aren't that odd.

What was odd for certain, was the professor and students weren't there. Goldie heard noises beyond a door at the front wall of the classroom, and found the professor and two other students there. The aging sparsely gray haired man had a small bottle of pinkish red wine from which he filled tiny goblets. Upon seeing Goldie, he poured her one, and he began to put the make on her. Somehow the other students either disappeared, or were paying them no attention.

He began by laying close to Goldie (where did the bed come from?) and telling Goldie how good she smelled. (It's those outdoorsy farm smells, which had intrigued Sebby on his return from Sardok's lair.) Goldie, possessing an acute sense of smell, didn't know how to respond. She couldn't say the professor smelled good, for he smelled of advanced age, not well, and soon to die. He somehow knew what she was thinking, and said, ''I'm glad you understand.''

At this point, Laura took over, and she was laying beside me, saying those exact words,''I'm glad you understand.'' Just for a moment, that familiar full embrace of cuddly expressive warmth was so wonderful. Then I awoke.

Later, when relating the dream to Julia, I cried. It was Laura's spirit, telling me once again how she didn't want to leave, but she was so sick and couldn't help it. ''I'm glad you understand,'' she was telling me, being freed of worry concerning any anger I might have over her death. Yes, the embrace was two-way. It was good. I'm glad she came.

My dream door is always open, waiting for her to come again.

Shall I end this meander now? I have travelled a good ways, from reality to fiction to dream and back out to reality. They are all a part of my reality. And now, if you have read this far, my tale is a part of your reality. We enrich each other that way.

I feel enriched, to learn of your tales. I am glad to share mine. It is wonderful, this two-way exchange.

Someone on one of the Anne Rice discussion lists gave her name as fadingsun03. Besides being a reader of Rice's books, the eighteen year old also shares the commonality of living in Arizona. She is in Tucson, however, possibly a student of UofA. I like what she (or he?) had to say:

. . .I feel that any writer, whether amateur or professional, needs to discover the one thing that drives them and use it to create the best work possible. For some, happiness, for others, grief. Anyway you look at it, our emotions play out in what we write. And somehow, writers are able to inflict those feelings into the readers and they understand what we want them to. It is an amazing feeling to know that someone out in the world, whom you may never meet, has the ability to create emotions in you that you never knew. Those are the truly great authors, the ones you can know, without even knowing them.

I answered her:

Yes, I feel as though I've been right inside Anne's head, for with her great skill, I have. It is a rare intimacy indeed, and one for which I hope to strive as a writer.

Do I succeed? It's one thing that practice over time will only improve. And time, will at last, reveal that answer. I will certainly practice as long as I'm able.

March 3, 2003 A

"A Picture To Share"

Yes, I at last have a picture I can share with you immediately (unlike the growing pile of ones which must be scanned.). I got busy last night. I don't know if there was a new 'Charmed' show or not, for I was busy, making a mandala:

Click on thumbnail to see the full size version.

And there are new vamp adventures. Someone in Los Angeles is certain Sebastian is An Angel.