A tale of two snowboarders...

Let me start by saying I know how to get off a ski lift. Whether I believe in any other ability that I have when skiing, I know I can get off the list. My sister taught me to ski and the one thing she was adamant about was that I wouldn’t be afraid of the chairlift. Well she was also adamant about always skiing in control so I wouldn’t hurt anyone. So chairlifts, despite things like a fear heights, a complete lack of confidence, and sometimes ability, have rarely been a problem for me. Because Beth told me I absolutely would not be afraid of chairlifts. She simply wouldn’t have it.

And I’m fairly decent about getting out of the way of beginner, and have been known to take sharp turns off to avoid crowds and fallen folk. And even that horrific couple of newbie snowboarders who strapped in both feet to their snowboards before exiting the lift, the guy talked about jumping from the lift while we were way up high… they weren’t too much of a problem for me. I was convinced we were all going to die but in fact as they took each other out I skied away unharmed. It was the beginner lift and anything goes on that one, I once just stood and watched as chair after chair emptied the content onto the snow in heaps. I mean they stopped the lift between the pile ups but still it was like a circus.

But somehow I knew the snowboarder next to me was going to be trouble. He couldn’t keep his board off of my skis while riding up. It was annoying and his lack of trying to move it off was pissing me off. But I thought he’ll move it when we get off he has to. And he did… sort of… he moved it under my skis. So I sat back on the chairlift and lifted my skis so he could move his board which he did for a second, because when I stood up the board was back under me. He whipped the board out from under me, which send me back on the chair which at this point was starting to turn. I let out a yelp and realized quickly that I had to jump onto the ramp… where he was standing, not moving about 5 feet ahead of me. And he was staring at me. Like this was my bad. I narrowly missed him and skied off to the side and looked back at him. There was no apology, no my bad… just him looking at me like I had almost hit him. Because it was somehow my fault that his board was under my skis?

That’s not really how exiting a lift works. We all have our own allotted space and clearly he was in my space. Because my feet on skis are set straight ahead and that is my space, I can’t move them anyplace else.

He was a newbie. He didn’t know what he was doing, and that shouldn’t have pissed me off as much as he did. But he was an arrogant newbie. His friend had mentioned that they should have started on the bunny slopes, which we weren’t on. He was very confident that he should be on these slopes. He was arrogant. And back in the day, when I was a newbie, I let people know just in case I screwed up getting off a lift. Just to give them the heads up. I wouldn’t have been nearly as pissed off as I was if he had attempted an apology. Or if he had warned me or showed something akin to humility. But he was just a jerk. It’s guys like that who give snowboarders a bad name.

Other snowboarders are awesome folk… weeks ago I had one of those moments. You know those moments when you recognize something wonderful in a stranger. I was on the chairlift, the slow one, the one that takes 15 minutes to get up and I was sitting next to the most darling snowboarder. He was a doll, so young and fresh and sweet… after about two minutes of talking to him I was confused as to whether I wanted to adopt him or marry him.

It was early in the morning and about 15 degrees out. No one was there. I just wanted someone else on the lift with me so I rushed to load on with him.

We must have looked like quite the pair on the lift, each of us had about an inch of skin showing. He was wearing a ski mask and goggles like me, all I could see was his beard and his mouth, and yeah he was young enough that I’m pretty sure I shouldn’t have been looking at his mouth. At least not the way I was looking at it.

We talked about skiing, and snowboarding, my friends who were learning to snowboard, my own ski lessons, where he had snowboarded so far, where I was going to go next. We talked about conditions on the mountain, and his dad who was demoing skis. We talked about how it can be traumatic to wipe out and how fear is the biggest obstacle and building confidence is the key. He told me about his dad wiping on Ralphs run, and that’s why he was back on the bunny slopes. He talked about Hitchcock being a wonderful trail, I hadn’t been on it yet, it might be too steep I told him (weeks later this would become my favorite trail). It was all very ordinary stuff. Stuff I’ve said to many other people on the lift. There was nothing special about it at all. It’s just I could have talked to him for hours based on that 15 minute conversation. And it was with great reluctance that I told him to have a good run and skied off the lift.

I couldn’t tell you what was so darling about him (and believe me darling he was) or what I found so attractive; remember I could barely see him through the layers or why these 15 minutes stuck with me. It’s always wonderful to make a connection like that, and on a cold and quiet morning it warmed a part of me that wanted warmth.

So my darling snowboarder whoever you are, thank you for that warm moment.

Playing possum...

I should post here more often. Between my Illustration Friday Blog and my tumblr log, I neglect this blog the most. And it's the oldest, most important and least read of my blogs.

So what's with the possum?

Well the possum is me. Or it's how I think of myself artistically a good deal of the time. Yeah, I tend to think my work looks like it was drawn by a small animal without opposable thumbs with a broken crayon.

Anyway, I was disparaging my work the other day and I said this about my drawing compared to a friends:

Mine look like a possum drew them! Your bodies look human, mine look like weird dolls that are broken or made by another no talent possum!

And this image sprung to mind. The possum holding his hand out in the classic "no photographs please" pose as she drew some of my work for me. You know the world can't know I've been letting a possum do my work for me. PETA would be furious. And catch my cute little loop there what is the possum drawing? Me no doubt drawing the possum.

But what this little exercise made my think about is what animal other artists would think drew their work for them. Would the long and elegant lines of my friend be a lemur? A greyhound. A sparrow?

I'm growing fond of my little alter ego... I'll think about possums a little longer.

The spirit of Christmas or...

The filthy whore of Christmas.

I love Christmas, I love the whole Christmas season. You don’t come up with a crazy plan to do all new art for an online advent calendar without loving Christmas. You just don’t. But sometimes I find it hard to keep in the Christmas spirit.

I don’t have a car, some people call this poverty, some people call it being green, I call it an extreme sport, especially at Christmas. I have to plan in advance when I start bringing Christmas presents to my mom’s house. Because if I try to do it all at once… well… I won’t be able to carry everything. I can only bring what I can carry. Lucky for me I have broad shoulders and a strong back.

That’s what led me to be standing on the corner, carrying a heavy backpack (full of beer, sketchbooks and my laptop) and two heavy shopping bags full of colorfully wrapped presents. I was wearing my favorite sweatshirt, the one with long cuffs with the holes cut into them to hook onto your thumbs, a blue sherpa jacket, with my Red hat with white trim, with the furry pompom and red and white scarf. I must have looked like a vagabond santa gone rogue. The patron santa of the homeless and restless. The light had just turned and I had carefully stepped away from curb to let the cars pass.

The next three or four cars passed and the next car stopped. I glanced up at the light thinking, that it had been so short, only to see that the cars still had the green light. This car was asking me to cross against the green. She gestured for me to cross but I didn’t. There were about twelve cars behind her. She gestured again. I pointed to the light. As she drove by me she shouted angrily “I WAS TRYING TO BE NICE!!!” I couldn’t help shouting back “YOU HAD THE LIGHT!!!” And then she yelled “YOU FILTHY WHORE!!!” I was shocked.

Now I could have handled that better, she was trying to be nice but it’s not really nice as a pedestrian, to be forced to cross against the green light. It really isn’t. It can be dangerous, it’s not nice to the cars behind you, it puts the person crossing on the spot. There is a reason we have traffic lights. It was a nice day out, and I had been waiting patiently for the light to change. I’m sure I did look burdened by my heavy bags but I’ll tell you something about carrying a lot of stuff. It’s not easy to move it all quickly. It’s a lot of energy to get it all going and to hustle across the street. And I was enjoying my break from moving all of this stuff. Yes she was trying to be nice to me, but she wasn’t being nice to the folks behind her. I was just obeying the traffic laws. But I’m the filthy whore?

If I were to it over again I would have shouted Merry Christmas instead of you had the light. I would have kept to the spirit of the season. But I still wouldn’t have crossed the street. If I’m a filthy whore I think I should stand on street corners.

Explore a cave badge...

I went to Portland to visit my sister for her 30^th birthday. She and her fiancé John have been out there less than a week. They have a cute apartment in a nice neighborhood, close to the train and the bus, and near some nice places to eat and drink, a golf course and parks.

But I don’t feel like writing about that. Because when I went to visit, I crossed off an old goal that I have long felt I’d been cheated out of achieving. It was a Girl Scout badge. I was only a Girl Scout for a year. I quit when I realized my radical feminist agenda didn’t mix with the girls of my troop. Well it manifested it a single vote.

I was inner city Girl Scouts in Worcester, MA. I only mention this because the Girl Scouts in the more affluent neighborhoods seriously rock. They take trips to Paris. They have camps at dude ranches. They go the Grand Canyon. We made lousy crafts that a good percentage of the time my mom send me in with the instructions and the supplies to do them. I could do that stuff at home. Maybe the other girls couldn’t but I could, so I wasn’t impressed. I wanted to learn how to tie knots, and recognized poisonous plants, and learn tricks to mark a path to find your way home. I wanted to be a scout of some sort. But more than anything. I wanted badges. In the year I was there, we worked on one badge. One.

It was a big deal our one badge. We voted on what it would be. There we three choices:

Explore a Cave Badge

Climb a Mountain Badge

Babysitting Badge

I would have settled for that Climb a Mountain Badge. There are only little mountains around us, but it would be fun. But I was gunning for that Cave Badge! A cave! That’s scary and exciting! Anything except for the Babysitting badge. Out of our troop there were two hands up for the cave. None for the mountain and the rest were for the Babysitting badge. Those traitorous girls! How wretched! How gender rolled they all were! Did none of them crave adventure? My best friend was the only one who supported me. The rest were more concerned with changing diapers. We were too young to even learn CPR. And I never explored a cave.

Until now.

It was my first trip up to Portland, OR and Beth thought it might be cool to drive up to Mt. St. Helen. And hike around look at the volcano etc. Except it’s not really the season for that. Roads were closed and not everything was open. But Ape Cave is up there and Lava Canyon, so we thought we’d see those at the very least. We dressed in layers and I had thin fleece gloves on, and a fleece jacket, a sweatshirt and leather shoes, not boots, not sneakers… shoes. We each had a small LED flashlight. Beth and John had sneakers on, and Beth had thin fashion gloves, poor John had no gloves.

When we got to Ape Cave it had started to rain, well, sleet and hail a bit. And we raced to cave to get out of the rain. You can count that as our first mistake. Because it was raining just as hard in the cave as it was outside. It was pitch black and wet. We turned our flashlights on they were bright and strong and utterly necessary. And we looked at the sign. Or rather Beth and John looked at the sign. It was supposed to read “Upper Cave Difficult walking 1 ½ MI to Upper Entrance, Return Trail on surface.” But something must have rusted out the 1… so we thought this was a half mile trail. And difficult walk might have been a misnomer two as this was definitely a hike, or even at times a climb. Maybe the people of Washington are just tougher than us New Englanders. Or maybe they have special shoes that allow them to walk up walls. But you couldn’t really walk this.

So let’s review. None of us are wearing waterproof anything. We have not signed in or registered anywhere, so no one knows where we are. John has no gloves. I have shoes on, not sneakers, and I’m carrying my purse. We think it’s a half mile walk. And we are in a pitch black cave. I think that’s the making of a horror movie. Unprepared hikers with a cavalier attitude climb into a cave to escape the rain. Can you see something going wrong?

So we walk along easy enough, and suddenly there is this huge pile of rocks to climb over. Sort of. It looks like you can go around them. But you can’t. You have to climb over it. Beth and John scramble over like monkeys. Me being of little balance, stagger over reaching down frequently to steady myself before I fall. But it’s fun and easy and fun the first five or six times we hit these big piles of rocks. It turns out in varying degrees of difficulty there are 27 of these boulder piles to climb over.

Let me blog this timeline style.

5 minutes into the cave – our first boulder pile. Oh look we get to climb on the rocks. Oh well, that’s fun… oh crap that rock was wet, well. One wet glove isn’t too bad. My flashlight hand is still dry. That’s good.

20 minutes into the cave – flat flat flat, boulder boulder boulder, flat flat flat.

30 minutes into the cave – Beth tells us she hears a waterfall. I wonder if we’ll have to exit trough it. Maybe we just pass behind it. I don’t see a waterfall but it’s really loud now. Oh that’s because it’s pouring rain inside the cave here. Pouring. I flip up my hood and we run through and I wonder how waterproof these flashlights are. It’s pitch black in here without them.

40 minutes into cave – Oh crap, I’m getting hot. I take off my hat and jamb it into my pocket.

50 minutes into the cave – I am so sick of this hood cutting of my peripheral vision. I reach up to flip it back. What the? Three more time I reach up before I realize I had already taken off my hood. It’s the arc of the flashlight that rounds off into perfect darkness. It’s like having blinders on.

60 minutes into the cave – Each of us is having private thoughts about how long a half mile is. Even a difficult half mile should have surfaced by now. Beth has now taken the lead and is scouting ahead. I can see her light in the distance. I keep hoping it’s daylight. But I know better. I want to rest but the end has to be near.

1 hour 15 minutes into the cave – Oh no. No no no no no. I am not climbing up that rock path with the twelve foot drop on the left side. I’ll just squish through the right side. Right, note to self, 5 inches isn’t the width of any part of me. I manage to squish through the tight rock and climb over the rest. It takes me about 10 minutes, I’m wet but not cold. I am getting tired. How much longer can this half mile be?

1 hour 30 minutes in the cave – Beth comes back from her scouting mission and tells me not to panic. Too late! I’m panicking! Oh no! Oh no! What horror is about to about to befall me? I’ll tell you what horror. It looked like a bad movie set. In the darkness there was a wall and 8 feet up the cave continued. Hanging down was an old rope to help you up. It had a couple of knots and a loop, and looked old and frayed. There was no way I was getting up there. And Beth knew it. I’m not a real upper body strength kind of person. Beth scrambled up like a monkey. I stood there shaking my head. There was a single foothold to the left side, about 3 and half of the ground. From there you get to pull yourself up the rope and then… I have no clue what then! There are only imaginary footholds that John keeps pointing to that I can reach and that my feet slide off of. It’s not working. I have no way to get up. John offers my his hands to step on but I think that would be too unstable. I’m too heavy for that. I’m not comfortable with that. Beth decides the rope loop needs more knots. Then I can climb it like a ladder. It works, but not quite the way we thought. The knots shorten the rope and once John helps me get my foot into the bottom loop I push up into the rope I can get my knee high enough to pull myself up to top. I will never be able to get down this way. John scrambles up after me with a jaunty look of that’s easy. Both and John have both been real champs helping here but I feel a sense of self loathing growing. I hate not being able to keep up. I hate them for making it look easy. I hate them for not being tired. I feel like a failure. I hope to hell that was hardest part of the cave.

1 hour 40 minutes into the cave – Beth and John are ahead and I’m feeling down. I look up at one of the 27 piles of boulders I have to climb up, and it looks like the cave divides into two parts. I tell myself if it does I’m going to sit down and wait until they come back for me. But it’s only one cave. I press on. This ½ mile trial has been going on too long. How much longer would the trial actually be?

1 hour 50 minutes into the cave – I’m reminding myself to practice ahimsa – non violence. In yoga we are often told to practice ahimsa, non violence to yourself, both physically and mentally. I’m having a debate with my inner voices. The devil on my shoulder is hissing “Where’s your yoga now?” and angel keeps whispering “This mental violence isn’t helping. Practice ahimsa.” I go back and forth listening to both voices.

2 hours in into the cave – Oh shit. John just scrambled up this rock and wall formation that looks tricky if not impossible. Beth follows and gets stuck for a minute or so. My skinny little sister just got stuck in the tiny 3 and half foot tall opening that you have to squeeze through as you pull yourself up. Did I mention the cave wall curling down over you as you do this? On the bright side there is an enormous foothold on the side of the wall. Unfortunately that places your feet in the opposite direction that your torso has to go to hold on pull yourself up. I try getting my foot into the opening, but it pitches me back and I can barely hold onto the rock with my hand. I wedge my knee in, but my torso can’t fit into the crevasse. I wedge myself in as far as I can and start freaking out. I climb back down and Beth comes to rescue!

2 hours 5 minutes into the cave – I climb back up to my wedged position and Beth looks for ways to help me from below. We joke a lot at this point. It looks like this will just be impossible. I can’t flip my foot to push off of and my back foot is just useless. Beth tries to help me place it but my hips are tight and my legs aren’t flexible. I struggle. But I’m now firmly wedge in. I can lift my arms and one leg and be entirely secure. I laugh and tell them I’m lengthening form my spine and maybe if I break a couple of ribs I could do this.

2 hours and 10 minutes into the cave. I’m still stuck but my feet are closer to each other. I push hard with my back leg and my foot keeps sliding off and almost kicking Beth. Determined to help me she patiently catches my foot and tries to place it back for me. I’m exhausted. But all of our spirits seem to be holding. As long as I keep trying Beth is unbelievably supportive of me. How she could be so encouraging when this was going so wrong I’ll never understand. Really John too. He’s patiently waiting at the top looking to see if there is a better way and laughing joking. It really makes a bad situation a million times better. I keep pressing down with me back foot and pulling myself up on rock.

2 hours and 15 minutes into the cave – Something magic happens. Suddenly I’m getting the pressure I need on my back foot. I’m able to flip my front foot and push myself into the space. I’m free! Hurray!!! Thank god!

2 hours and 15 minutes and 15 seconds into the cave – Are you kidding me? The very next thing… THE VERY NEXT THING is this enormous rock that you have to climb over. I manage to flop myself onto the rock and roll off the other side. Take that rock! My spirits are officially lifted.

2 hours and 20 minutes into the cave – John shouts I found the exit! We scurry forward and see light! Light! From a skylight 45 feet up! There is a long skinny tree trunk to help you climb. You have got to be kidding me. I would never in a million years be able to climb this. I would die trying. And I can’t go back, I wouldn’t be able to climb down the way I came up. I could picture Beth and John scurrying up. We decide that there has to be another way.

2 hours and 30 minutes into the cave. John shouts he found the real exit! I tell him I don’t believe him. I’ve been down this path before. And we see it. A ladder about 8 feet off the ground. REALLY? No it’s just the shadows. The ladder goes down to the ground. As we climb up I ask John to let me go before him. He is a gentlemen and I explain that the cave trolls always get the last one up the ladder. I never said I was nice!

When we get outside it’s sleeting and snowing. We walk back the “half mile” in a wet sleeting rain, thoroughly soaking us. Which takes us about 40 – 45 minutes and where we see the entrance of the cave. The kiosk that we had run past in our haste explains the hike we had just been on. It was a mile and half, included 27 boulder piles an 8 ft lava fall and a dangerous skylight that people have been seriously injured trying to climb up. I wouldn’t have attempted it if I had known how hard it was. I’m glad we didn’t because it was fun. Despite the rough spots, or maybe because of the rough spots I think it was the highlight of everyone’s week. If you choose to go to Ape Cave, they recommend you bring the following things.

• Three sources of light – Clean-burning lanterns (propane or white gas) or flashlights with strong batteries and bright bulbs.
• Sturdy shoes/boots – The lava tube floor is uneven and covered with jagged rocks.
• Warm clothing – The temperature remains near 42ºF/6ºC year round. It can also be windy and wet in the lava tube.
• A friend – Also, let someone else know where you are going and for how long.

I finally earned my Explore a Cave Badge! Take that stupid babysitters badge! It was long time coming but it was really worth the wait. It’s like what dad used to say… whatever doesn’t kill you makes a great story.

Amusement...

Some of the drawings I do start to remind me of people I know and I end up saying this is losely bases on so and so.

This one is losely based on my parents. Although my dad would never wear a yellow tie and mom would keep her hands in the ride.

I used to love the scrambler, that moment you had where you might make eyecontact with someone you were hurling towards... the way you could snuggle up against a boy without explaining yourself.

Where is love?

I have a memory that isn't mine. It's a picture from my parents wedding. Due to a um... well do to a small budget there was no professional photographer, and due to something... we'll call it the theft of the camera. The one person designated to take pictures... well he wasn't able to produce any photographs. So there aren't too many pictures of the wedding.

But one photo always caught my fancy. A nice candid shot. Some blurred faces in the foreground and a moment between the bride and groom in the back.


If you ever doubt that I'm a romantic... I am. I always believed my parents were in love. I wanted them to be in love. It gave me hope. That there was love in the world. Maybe even for me. Love existed in my mind because I could almost see it in this picture.


I think my grandparents were in love too. A long while back when one of their daughters asked them how they stay close through all of the years. My grandmother told her... that sometimes when they are watching TV at night, they hold hands. It helps keep them connected.


I'm a pile of mush just thinking about it. Don't tell me I'm not a romantic. Maybe just not for myself.


So when I think about my sister getting married. I think I hope she gets a shot like this. And I hope she remembers to hold hand with him as they get older.

You want to see something scary?

You want to see something really scary?

I went and saw Paranormal Activity. This is the $15,000 low budget that is sweeping the nation. I was impressed. People will say it’s a knock off of the Blair Witch Project, and other shaky cam mocumentary films like Cloverfield. It is in that vein.

What I liked about it is was it scared me. It was a small audience but soon into the film you started hearing the little gasps, the soft swearing, and the nervous laughs. I started playing with my hair. It’s a scary movie with a formula, namely night and day. Boy and Girl live together in San Diego, girl is haunted by something. We watch their surveillance style video of the haunting. Couple bickers by day, and cling together at night. It’s a great formula. Because it brings you into that cycle with them. Everything is fine now, but you know the night is coming. Every time it switched to the night cam, you sit there feeling the dread rise. There is something really creepy about things happening while you sleep. There are no real special effects in the movie it just plays upon the most primal fear. Are you afraid of the dark?

Yeah I am. Maybe that’s why the theater didn’t fully dim the lights.

So I’m on the train with my sketchbook. And I’m listening to these three guys talking about the time they’ve done in prison. They are three young tough looking guys, a bit of a thug look to them. They are loud and sit near me but not close enough to really annoy me. I listen as they talk about the trouble of sneaking cigarettes into the prison. The tallest, best looking of them gets up and sits across from me.


We make brief eye contact and I smile, because I don’t any trouble, and they look bored and restless. Things can get weird on a train. But he smiles back and asks me politely if that’s a sketchbook?

I answer yes it is.

And here’s where it gets funny. He asks if he can look through it. Now I don’t know if any of you have ever asked me if you can look through one of my sketchbooks before but typically I grow fangs hiss at you and threaten to bite you. Or I carefully sit next to you and flip past personal notes and pages. I don’t just hand them over.


But this sketchbook is different. This sketchbook is the one that I instituted a no fail policy on. What? Yeah, I went a little crazy and decided that any page I put pencil to, I would finish the drawing, and ink it before I moved on to the next page. It’s hard. It’s intimidating as all hell. It’s now the best sketchbook I’ve ever had. I don’t love every drawing. Some of them do fail as compositions. But I don’t fail in follow through and it’s a huge accomplishment for me. It also contains no words. So I feel free to hand it around. But to hand it to this thug, my drawings are usually so sweet, I couldn’t imagine that he would be interested in it.


I asked him if really wanted to see it and he said yes and I handed it over, and watched him look at them. Tough thug, sweet drawings. Who better to review you're portfolio on a train?


One of the other guys glanced at the sketchbook and said "He's looking for the dirty pictures"


I laughed. "Good luck, you won't find any in there."

He looked me up and down and announced with some confidence "You don't draw dirty pictures."

With a smirk I told him "I have a different sketchbook for the dirty pictures."


The third friend laughed "My kind of girl!"

And we all laughed. The thug looking at the sketchbook pauses for the first time at this image.

"This one is about to get dirty" he said.







This one is the all liked. My dirty martini. They like the olives, they say.

That amuses me.



He had be flipping though with polite interest. But this one caught his eye. It's my crocodile welcome. He looks excited to his buddy, who looks bored.
I think he liked the impending doom of the fishes. The contrast of sweet and violent.

He tells me it's really good.

I'm pleased, my ego likes to be pet.





The next one he stops at is one of my favorites.

It's my flying squirrel. It's simple, but I have trouble with perspective, and drawing this from slightly underneath was a challenge for me.

And he appreciated something about it. He asked if I drew it free hand.

I did. I always do.

This one caught their interest too. The whole group again. Sex sells.

He told me the girl in the bathroom is the girlfriend. And the blond is her best friend, cheating with the boyfriend.

I told him that was exactly it. Because it worked, and it doesn't really matter what my story for it is.

My favorite though was the swift breath he took in for this one.

He sighed "Marilyn..."

She's still got it.

I drew this to illustrate "Legendary" and his sigh made me feel like I succeeded.

We parted ways at the next stop. Shaking hands and smiling, exchanging names. And I felt better than I have in a while. It left me feeling glad that I had something to share.

Fleet Foxes...

So my brother was visiting. It was a good visit. We love each other, just sometimes... sometimes we don't get along. Sometimes we get under each others skin. Sometimes we push each other. Sometimes it harder. The last time it was mostly good but... it got dicey at the end.

We talked about that after it happened. We both promised to try a little harder... our efforts were rewarded. The visit was good. And it wasn't so much harder. We talked about our little connections. The things we both like, horror movies, and TV shows, True Blood. And we shared our music with one another. We'd listen to music he liked, we'd listen to music I liked.

And so my brother introduced me to a song... Fleet Foxes - White Winter Hymnal

I was following the pack
all swallowed in their coats
with scarves of red tied around their throats
to keep their little heads
from falling in the snow
And I turned around and there you go
And, Michael, you would fall
and turn the white snow red as strawberries
in the summertime...

I'm not a music person. That is to say I don't go out of my way to listen to music. I never listen to the radio, I hardly pay attention to the song in the now. And usually the songs I end up liking are the songs that I've heard a thousand times. Songs on TV shows, commercials, in movies. Bludgeon me enough with a song and I'll usually like it. Although it may take me 10-15 years to get there. Sometimes... I don't know that I'll ever actually like the song. Take Losing my Religion, by REM, but I can sing every lyric with maniacal glee and a vicious mocking tone. Songs usually need to grow on me. And I miss a lot.

But not that one it was so shocking lovely. So swiftly moving... about 30 seconds in, I declares "I like this!" my brother agreed it was good. But I needed this song, I had to have it, right now. He looked at his ipod for me and told me it was Fleet Foxes White Winter Hymnal. We were in the car and I wrote it down on a scrap of paper and promptly forgot about it. Until I found my scrap again. Anyway check it out if you haven't heard it. And maybe you'll fall in love with it too.

I need a drink....

This post goes out to Marcie who enjoys a martini or two...

Like Dorothy Parker said, I like to have a martini, two at the very most, after three I'm under the table, after four I'm under the host!

I had a little a little problem drawing that crowed martini. I originally had the olives in the crowded martini having less fun. That little one at the bottom wasn't smiling. But I changed it because it made me sad. That poor little olive trapped at the bottom made me sad. What is wrong with me? Artist's should be able to express anything. I shouldn't care that I drowned an imaginary olive. I need to work on some mean images.

The other image is a dirty martini. I'm not sure if it turned out dirty or sweet though.

Oh well.

Cheers Marcie!

Hilo Hattie

I did this illustration for IF, the word was strong. And I immediately thought of a line from the Hilo Hattie Hop.

When Hilo Hattie does the Hilo Hop
There's not a bit of use for a traffic cop
For everything and everybody
Comes to a stop
When Hilo Hattie does the Hilo Hop

The sugar raises cane
Palm trees sigh
The ukuleles fret
And the birds won't fly
The humuhumunukunuku stop swimming by
When Hilo Hattie does the Hilo Hop

That wahine has an opu
With a college education
There's no motion she won't go through
She doesn't leave a thing to your imagination

Now when Hattie does her stuff
They cry for more
And everybody knows
What they're crying for
The sailors leave the ships at sea and swim for the shore
When Hilo Hattie does the Hilo Hop

Now when Hattie oni onis
There's no doubt
That she's a girl who knows what it's all about
Babies hush, women blush
Strong men pass out
When Hilo Hattie does the Hilo Hop

All the folks in Hilo said "We love it"
But your dance is causing trouble
Hattie said "Think nothing of it
I'd do a bubble dance if I could find a bubble"

Now Hattie said she'd like to quit someday
And settle down for good on her old punee
The folks won't let her go because she's really okay
When Hilo Hattie does the Hilo Hop

When Hilo Hattie does the Hilo Hop
When Hilo Hattie does the Hilo Hop

"When Hilo Hattie Does the Hula Hop" was written by Don McDiarmid, Sr.

Ancient...

Grew up a few blocks from the Worcester Art Museum. When I was a kid I was all about the modern section. It was bold, full of color, and wild stuff. What I didn't like was the room of ancient Greek and Roman heads and vases. I had no problem with the ancient and stunning mosaics in the museum. But the vases... bored me.

It's funny though.... the way things stick with you. Even if you didn't like it... especially if you didn't like it.

When I saw the word ancient I thought of old medival spoon head art. But that was just old. Ancient made me think of those Greek vases.

So here's the thing. Why would I think of two things I don't particularly enjoy? And I was excited by the idea of doing a spoon head drawing. What is it about nostalgia that mixes up the good and bad and timges them both with longing. Anyway here it is... ancient.

Three and a half...

Three and a half…. go on and take a guess at what 3.5 means.

It could be anything. Inches, yards, miles, days, months, years, candy bars, drawings, pages, novels. The prequel to Eight and a Half.

It’s hours.

It’s hours of yoga I did today. It’s the most yoga I’ve ever done in a day. It doesn’t sound like much does it? But it’s a lot to me. I wish I did I more everyday. Maybe it’s the number of hours I should do yoga. It’s a lot. I feel exhausted but great. I’ll sleep well tonight.
I helped two Iyengar instructors with mock assessments. Each was 40 mi
nutes but we did 20 minutes of warm ups. So hours of yoga. An hour and forty five minutes and then my regularly scheduled 90 minute yoga class. It was Nadja’s first day back. And I couldn’t miss it. I love Nadja, she’s so great. I brought her flowers to welcome her back.

Carin and Cathy were doing mock assessments. And I participated in both. They were exhausting and exillerating and more nerve wracking because Patricia Walden was the one assessing them. Yes THE Patricia Walden. She is incredibly intimidating to me. She’s very beautiful and very kind and imperious in a way that is charming and commanding. She had us sing happy birthday to Rhanni (whose studio we used) and gave her a warm hug. She observed us during the assessment. She observed me. I can’t begin to express how that felt. I was nervous but focused, and I tried to listen and pay attention to the details of my asanas.

I f***ed up my shoulder stand on blanket that slid out from under me. There were comments that I rushed my set up. But I didn’t. I don’t rush that and I lined up the edges of my blankets evenly, In my class I help new folks with this. When I lay down to adjust my shoulders the blankets slide and when I went into plow pose I slid right to the floor and had to come out. I was frazzled and it took me a while to figure out the blankets has slid. I barely touched into what is normally my favorite asana.

The next assessment I used different blankets. I went up easy and it was fine.
Patricia commented. “You were much improved on your second shoulder stand” But it didn’t come out like that. It came out like “ Yoooooooooooou were muuuuch improooooooved on your second shoooooulder stand” It was imperious, it came out like a royal proclamation. I hastily explained my blankets had slipped. She said “But you improved on the second one” Yeah I used grippy blankets. And it really hit me that I had practiced in front of one of the great yogis. It felt great and a little horrible and I felt proud and humbled. She commented to another girl about her neck and another her knees. I felt I got off light. She’s amazing, she’s over 60 and I’ve seen her to a series of 30 plus backbends that were so beautiful I almost cried just observe. And she seems wonderful but I’m so intimidated. It was quite the experience and it renewed a certain energy to my spirit.

Cling...

The word was cling and I thought of being soaked and clinging clothes... and clingy men and starfish.

Theater...

I have three active blogs. One is in strictly for Illustration Friday images. Images that I often repeat here. One is new... its over at Tumblr I'm trying to post an image a day but slip up now and again. Often the images are old and have been posted here too. This one is the catch all. And oddly the most neglected. It's probably my favorite too.

So the image is theater. It's an old IF word. I'm trying to work through some of the old ones in between my active Illustration Friday Blog.

What a dull post. I think I'll go to bed now.

Wild...

Sometimes I think my wild ride needs more animals. I'm not sure what the tiger is talking about but clearly he is disgusted. Maybe he's upset about deforestation or global warming or what someone was wearing at the Oscars.

I'm sad about this...

Teddy Kennedy died last night. We knew it was coming, it's not a surprise and I sit about a mile away form the Kennedy compound feeling sad. I'm sad for the people of Massachusetts. I'm sad for the Kennedy family. I'm sad for the lack of privacy they have when they mourn. I'm more sad about that than anything.

We knew this day was coming but I couldn't help but gasp when I saw that he died. PBS had run a program on the Kennedy's a few months ago. It was a love letter to Teddy. They talked about how Teddy was very like his Grandfather Honey Fitz, the former Mayor of Boston and avid Red Sox fan.

Teddy the only Kennedy I ever met. Everyone in Massachusetts seemed to have met Teddy. He was everywhere.. he really was. If you ever wonder why we love Kennedy's here its because they were everywhere.

On the street where I live..

I have lived on my same street for 11 years. It's a small and lovely street, it's green with beautiful old houses... it ends with a church. I have often marvelled at the beauty of the street where I live. But it took me 11 years to notice thate there no telephone phone poles on the street that I live. There are tall street lights but no electical wires. My street is so small that they run the lines on live trees in the back yards. It's a wonder that we don't have more power outages. It only took me 11 years to notice that they weren't there.

Dr. Horrible is sweet!

No really, check it out at Cake Wrecks!

Wrapped up...

So the IF word was wrapped... and I knew I wanted to do an apron scene. I love aprons, in a bizarre way. I love all types of aprons. And there are so many cute aprons in the word! They are sassy aprons, sexy aprons, baking aprons, prison aprons, aprons for working with different substances, dyes, metals, glass, fire... the list goes on and on.

Somehow when I tell people I love aprons they are shocked. It goes against my feminist view points in their minds. I love my prison apron, you know the type dark blue heavy canvas one poket made in a prison? It's my favorite.

So I couldn't resist puting an apron on this poor fellow.