Sanctuaries, Dreams and Shadows

Transition by Dorothy Parker

2012-01-25T23:28:00.000-06:00

Too long and quickly have I lived to vow
The woe that stretches me shall never wane,
Too often seen the end of endless pain
To swear that peace no more shall cool my brow.
I know, I know- again the shriveled bough
Will burgeon sweetly in the gentle rain,
And these hard lands be quivering with grain-
I tell you only: it is Winter now.

What if I know, before the Summer goes
Where dwelt this bitter frenzy shall be rest?
What is it now, that June shall surely bring
New promise, with the swallow and the rose?
My heart is water, that I first must breast
The terrible, slow loveliness of Spring.

Campaign has forced Governor Scott Walker of Wisconsin into special recall election with one million Wisconsin citizen's signatures.

2012-01-17T22:35:00.000-06:00

A campaign to force Wisconsin Republican Governor Scott Walker into a special election has gathered an estimated one million signatures, nearly one quarter of the state's electorate, in 60 days. Of course Mr. Walker was not in town to see the many, many boxes of signed petitions arrive by truckload, 3000 lbs. of signed petitions! He had fled the state capitol and was in New York City for another fund raiser with his big money Republican donors for his special election. It was just one year and one week ago that Walker came into office and it was only a few weeks later, in the deepfreeze of Winter, that Wisconsinites started protesting his actions around the capitol building keeping it up by the tens of thousands throughout the Winter and Spring. It was exhilarating, empowering, and grass-roots. When we chanted, "This is what democracy looks like!", we knew we were right. Walker will be only the third State Governor to be recalled in United States history. Along with the Governor, there is also a recall against his Lieutenant Governor and 4 Republican state senators, including the Senate Majority Leader.
It has been a long, highly emotional battle and we have a ways to go still. But if Wisconsin is successful in the recalls, the tide will turn building up to the November, 2012 Presidential election. Wisconsin is a leader in this people's revolution, and the birth place of collective bargaining which is a right the Republicans want to take away. A lot is riding on this. It's about who we want to be. What we want our state and country to be. What we want to leave to our children. There is no turning back. We will not give up. The sleeping giant has been awakened for a while now, there are no plans to hibernate again. Along with Wisconsinites, other impassioned, patriotic citizens in the states of Ohio, Michigan, Florida, Tennessee, Indiana, Nevada, New Jersey, Maine, and others, along with the phenomenal Occupy Movement nationally together make up the front lines - there are many more recruits and volunteers coming along everyday. This has been a heartbreaking, aggravating, painful decade. We may have not even hit bottom yet. In spite of everything, this is still an exciting time to be alive. Change is definitely underway. Just as nothing else has been predictable since 2007- 2008 when the nation was left in ruins by the Bush administration and Wall St. bankers, this country's future is perilously up in the air. The only way forward is for us to take our Democracy back. That has started here in Wisconsin.

An Old Man's Winter Night by Robert Frost

2012-01-04T21:50:00.000-06:00

All out of doors looked darkly in at him
Through the thin frost, almost in separate stars,
That gathers on the pane in empty rooms.
What kept his eyes from giving back the gaze
Was the lamp tilted near them in his hand.
What kept him from remembering what it was
That brought him to that creaking room was age.
He stood with barrels round him -- at a loss.
And having scared the cellar under him
In clomping there, he scared it once again
In clomping off; -- and scared the outer night,
Which has its sounds, familiar, like the roar
Of trees and crack of branches, common things,
But nothing so like beating on a box.
A light he was to no one but himself
Where now he sat, concerned with he knew what,
A quiet light, and then not even that.
He consigned to the moon, such as she was,
So late-arising, to the broken moon
As better than the sun in any case
For such a charge, his snow upon the roof,
His icicles along the wall to keep;
And slept. The log that shifted with a jolt
Once in the stove, disturbed him and he shifted,
And eased his heavy breathing, but still slept.
One aged man -- one man -- can't keep a house,
A farm, a countryside, or if he can,

It's thus he does it of a winter night.

Year's End by Richard Wilbur

2011-12-27T23:31:00.000-06:00

Now winter downs the dying of the year,

And night is all a settlement of snow;

From the soft street the rooms of houses show

A gathered light, a shapen atmosphere,

Like frozen-over lakes whose ice is thin

And still allows some stirring down within.

I’ve known the wind by water banks to shake

The late leaves down, which frozen where they fell

And held in ice as dancers in a spell

Fluttered all winter long into a lake;

Graved on the dark in gestures of descent,

They seemed their own most perfect monument.

There was perfection in the death of ferns

Which laid their fragile cheeks against the stone

A million years. Great mammoths overthrown

Composedly have made their long sojourns,

Like palaces of patience, in the gray

And changeless lands of ice. And at Pompeii

The little dog lay curled and did not rise

But slept the deeper as the ashes rose

And found the people incomplete, and froze

The random hands, the loose unready eyes

Of men expecting yet another sun

To do the shapely thing they had not done.

These sudden ends of time must give us pause.

We fray into the future, rarely wrought

Save in the tapestries of afterthought.

More time, more time. Barrages of applause

Come muffled from a buried radio.

The New-year bells are wrangling with the snow.

Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays to all!

2011-12-18T18:46:00.000-06:00

Presenting Digital Whispers at Creative Souls New Calendar!

2011-12-13T11:02:00.000-06:00

Some of the artists of Digital Whispers / Creative Souls ( including me) have created an absolutely gorgeous calendar in book form - not a wall type. Each artist had 4 pages to create including the calendar pages, a notes page and an artwork page - all pages are beautifully decorated. This is a real treat to the eyes! Please check out the entire calendar at the URL below, just click on it! Enjoy!

DigitalWhispersCalendar

Occupying History!

2011-12-09T17:29:00.000-06:00

We are all seeing history being made before our eyes in the "Occupy Movement". I find the whole thing thrilling to watch the movement grow and change almost organically. This is the moment! There's no going back!

Above is a recent photo of Occupy Washington DC, just one of many cities having been "occupied" this year. The movement is expanding into many different places - from Congressmen's offices to foreclosed homes. It is exciting to see where it goes next. This makes me proud to be an American! It is thrilling to see my fellow citizens stepping up. That's what "we the people" is all about.

But this isn't the first big occupying movement in our history. The nation's Great Depression in the 1930s had it's own mass movement that spread into many large cities. They were called "Hoovervilles" after President Herbert Hoover who was president at the start of the Depression. These shanty and tent communities were made up of many of the country's countless homeless people who had nowhere else to go. The citizens needed to be near the soup kitchens and other charity sites so that is one reason why so many were drawn to the large cities.

"Hooverville" Washington DC 1930s

Other "Hoovervilles" around the United States

As I said in an earlier post, we've been here before. We can do it again. Thanks for stepping up America!

Christmas dinner in midst of the Depression

2011-12-06T08:58:00.000-06:00

We have been through bleak times before in our history. We will get through this misery too and take inspiration from those who came before us and weathered the Great Depression.

Ballade Of A Great Weariness by Dorothy Parker

2011-11-30T12:51:00.000-06:00

There's little to have but the things I had,
There's little to bear but the things I bore.
There's nothing to carry and naught to add,
And glory to Heaven, I paid the score.

There's little to do but I did before,
There's little to learn but the things I know;
And this is the sum of a lasting lore:
Scratch a lover, and find a foe.

And couldn't it be I was young and mad
If ever my heart on my sleeve I wore?
There's many to claw at a heart unclad,
And little the wonder it ripped and tore.
There's one that'll join in their push and roar,
With stories to jabber, and stones to throw;
He'll fetch you a lesson that costs you sore:
Scratch a lover, and find a foe.

So little I'll offer to you, my lad;
It's little in loving I set my store.
There's many a maid would be flushed and glad,
And better you'll knock at a kindlier door.
I'll dig at my lettuce, and sweep my floor,
Forever, forever I'm done with woe.
And happen I'll whistle about my chore,
"Scratch a lover, and find a foe."

                  L'ENVOI

Oh, beggar or prince, no more, no more!
  Be off and away with your strut and show.
The sweeter the apple, the blacker the core:
  Scratch a lover, and find a foe!

Let America Be America Again! by Langston Hughes

2011-11-17T23:29:00.000-06:00

Let America be America again.
Let it be the dream it used to be.
Let it be the pioneer on the plain
Seeking a home where he himself is free.

(America never was America to me.)

Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed--
Let it be that great strong land of love
Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme
That any man be crushed by one above.

(It never was America to me.)

O, let my land be a land where Liberty
Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath,
But opportunity is real, and life is free,
Equality is in the air we breathe.

(There's never been equality for me,
Nor freedom in this "homeland of the free.")

Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark? 
And who are you that draws your veil across the stars?

I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart,
I am the Negro bearing slavery's scars.
I am the red man driven from the land,
I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek--
And finding only the same old stupid plan
Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak.

I am the young man, full of strength and hope,
Tangled in that ancient endless chain
Of profit, power, gain, of grab the land!
Of grab the gold! Of grab the ways of satisfying need!
Of work the men! Of take the pay!
Of owning everything for one's own greed!

I am the farmer, bondsman to the soil.
I am the worker sold to the machine.
I am the Negro, servant to you all.
I am the people, humble, hungry, mean--
Hungry yet today despite the dream.
Beaten yet today--O, Pioneers!
I am the man who never got ahead,
The poorest worker bartered through the years.

Yet I'm the one who dreamt our basic dream
In the Old World while still a serf of kings,
Who dreamt a dream so strong, so brave, so true,
That even yet its mighty daring sings
In every brick and stone, in every furrow turned
That's made America the land it has become.
O, I'm the man who sailed those early seas
In search of what I meant to be my home--
For I'm the one who left dark Ireland's shore,
And Poland's plain, and England's grassy lea,
And torn from Black Africa's strand I came
To build a "homeland of the free."

The free?

Who said the free?  Not me?
Surely not me?  The millions on relief today?
The millions shot down when we strike?
The millions who have nothing for our pay?
For all the dreams we've dreamed
And all the songs we've sung
And all the hopes we've held
And all the flags we've hung,
The millions who have nothing for our pay--
Except the dream that's almost dead today.

O, let America be America again--
The land that never has been yet--
And yet must be--the land where every man is free.
The land that's mine--the poor man's, Indian's, Negro's, ME--
Who made America,
Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain,
Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain,
Must bring back our mighty dream again.

Sure, call me any ugly name you choose--
The steel of freedom does not stain.
From those who live like leeches on the people's lives,
We must take back our land again,
America!


O, yes,
I say it plain,
America never was America to me,
And yet I swear this oath--
America will be!

Out of the rack and ruin of our gangster death,
The rape and rot of graft, and stealth, and lies,
We, the people, must redeem
The land, the mines, the plants, the rivers.
The mountains and the endless plain--
All, all the stretch of these great green states--
And make America again!

My November Guest by Robert Frost

2011-11-03T10:50:00.000-05:00

My sorrow, when she's here with me,
   Thinks these dark days of autumn rain
Are beautiful as days can be;
She loves the bare, the withered tree;
   She walks the sodden pasture lane.

Her pleasure will not let me stay.
   She talks and I am fain to list:
She's glad the birds are gone away,
She's glad her simple worsted grey
   Is silver now with clinging mist.

The desolate, deserted trees,
   The faded earth, the heavy sky,
The beauties she so truly sees,
She thinks I have no eye for these,
   And vexes me for reason why.

Not yesterday I learned to know
   The love of bare November days
Before the coming of the snow,
But it were vain to tell her so,
   And they are better for her praise.

The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe

2011-10-28T21:30:00.000-05:00

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door-
Only this, and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;- vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow- sorrow for the lost Lenore-
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore-
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me- filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
"'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door-
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;-
This it is, and nothing more."

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you"- here I opened wide the door;-
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering,
fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"-
Merely this, and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice:
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore-
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;-
'Tis the wind and nothing more."

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and
flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed
he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door-
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door-
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore.
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no
craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore-
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning- little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door-
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as "Nevermore."

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered- not a feather then he fluttered-
Till I scarcely more than muttered, "other friends have flown
before-
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."
Then the bird said, "Nevermore."

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore-
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of 'Never- nevermore'."

But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and
door;
Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore-
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then me thought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee- by these angels he
hath sent thee
Respite- respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!- prophet still, if bird or
devil!-
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted-
On this home by horror haunted- tell me truly, I implore-
Is there- is there balm in Gilead?- tell me- tell me, I implore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil- prophet still, if bird or
devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us- by that God we both adore-
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore-
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend," I shrieked,
upstarting-
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!- quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my
door!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the
floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor

Shall be lifted- nevermore!

The Lake by Edgar Allan Poe

2011-10-25T20:39:00.000-05:00

In spring of youth it was my lot
To haunt of the wide world a spot
The which I could not love the less -
So lovely was the loneliness
Of a wild lake, with black rock bound,
And the tall pines that towered around.

But when the Night had thrown her pall
Upon that spot, as upon all,
And the mystic wind went by
Murmuring in melody -
Then - ah then I would awake
To the terror of the lone lake.

Yet that terror was not fright,
But a tremulous delight -
A feeling not the jewelled mine
Could teach or bribe me to define -
Nor Love- although the Love were thine.

Death was in that poisonous wave,
And in its gulf a fitting grave
For him who thence could solace bring
To his lone imagining -
Whose solitary soul could make
An Eden of that dim lake.

From the Genius of Dr. Seuss

2011-10-15T21:52:00.002-05:00

"I know,
up on top
you are seeing great sights,
but down at the bottom
We, too,
should have rights.”

Dr. Seuss

It's Domestic Violence Month Again - and Topeka, Kansas Honors It By Decrimalizing Domestic Violence

2011-10-10T14:57:00.000-05:00

Yes that headline is correct! In order to save money, Topeka, Kansas has chosen to decriminalize domestic violence! With the US economy stagnant and so many more families suffering, domestic violence has increased dramatically. This is the worst environment in which to decide to stop protecting women and children in the home. A woman is abused every 15 seconds in this country, one in four women are abused at some time. And now their abusers have been given a free hand, and their victims no recourse. How abandoned those women must now feel. Their abusers have tried repeatedly to convince them they were worthless, of no value, and now those who have sworn to serve and protect have validated their abusers. Things have deteriorated so badly in this country I hardly recognize it anymore. The welfare of it's citizens, especailly the most vulnerable among us, no longer seems to be a priority. Power and the bottom line seem to be all that matters to the elites and those who do their bidding in this country anymore. What happened to ..."with liberty and justice for all."

We are the 99 % !

2011-10-06T22:12:00.000-05:00

Village Mystery by Elinor Wylie

2011-10-03T14:18:00.000-05:00

The woman in the pointed hood
And cloak blue-gray like a pigeon's wing,
Whose orchard climbs to the balsam-wood,
Has done a cruel thing.

To her back door-step came a ghost,
A girl who had been ten years dead,
She stood by the granite hitching-post
And begged for a piece of bread.

Now why should I, who walk alone,
Who am ironical and proud,
Turn, when a woman casts a stone
At a beggar in a shroud?

I saw the dead girl cringe and whine,
And cower in the weeping air--
But, oh, she was no kin of mine,
And so I did not care!

An Artist of Today Reflects on the WPA of Yesterday

2011-09-22T10:30:00.000-05:00

This economy has been debillitating this country and the world for at least 5 years. If you are wealthy, you are not feeling the effects much if at all - while many others are worrying about food for their children. Among many folks, their jobs disappear in an instant - others have to watch helplessly as they dissolve slowly. As an artist I know what I produce is at the bottom of the list for most Americans when they can barely afford groceries, gas and housing every month. Art is not a necessity, you won't starve without it - but one's soul might hunger for it silently. It's enough to make an artist yearn for a new WPA!

In the early days of the Great Depression (1929-1943) with unemployment at 32% President Franklin Delano Roosevelt established the Works Progress Administration or WPA to provide work and relief to citizens. Several months later in the Spring of 1935, he started the subdivision of the WPA, the Federal Art Project (FAP). A number of U.S. politicians had proposed a combining of art and patriotism which inspired FDR to create the program. The purpose was not just to supplement artists incomes but to rally the sinking spirits of the American citizens. For an artist to be considered for the FAP, they had to apply for Home Relief to prove they were impoverished, and then submit samples of their work to show they were actively creating art at the time. Once accepted into the program an artist's stipend was $24 per week. By 1936 there were 6000 artists employed by the WPA.

During the Depression, the federal government paid writers, photographers, painters, and scupltors to chronicle life in America and at the same time beautify public buildings across the country. The WPA was much larger than the art project, WPA workers built state parks, roads, bridges, dams and other vital contributions to our infrastructure and more. They cooked and served lunches to schoolchildren, and taught adults to read. But the art project, particularly the murals, left a real legacy depicting men and women at work reflecting the time and place and the values of Americans as the world changed into the modern era. And they remain so today in many places.

Many artists created posters for public health programs, tourism, and educational purposes. At the time Social Realism was the favored style and the WPA preferred figurative work rather than the newly developing genre of Abstract art. It was a challenge to some artists who were working in abstract art but the program also helped those artists develop and later to define the Abstract Expressionist era following WWII such as Jackson Pollock, Diego Rivera and Willem de Kooning.

Murals are probably the most recognized survivng results from the WPA program. Artists had to submit sketches and compete against eachother for the work. There were an estimated 2,566 murals commissioned by the federal government mostly for post offices, but also schools and other government buildings around the country where they could be appreciated by everyone. Many of the murals were actually oil on canvas paintings afixed to the wall. One of the best known post office wall murals is "Woodsman in the Woods of Maine" by Waldo Peirce originally installed in the post office in Westbrook, Maine.

The painting, the whole wall - door and all - was removed from the Westbrook post office in 1980 when the building was demolished and is now residing in the Portland Museum of Art on loan from the U.S.Postal Service.

Another Maine mural in a school in Portland.

Mural in a library in Queens, NY

The FAP disbanded on June 30th, 1943. In December of that year the federal government auctioned off thousands of WPA funded artworks in a warehouse in Queens, NY. Paintings were sold by the pound, not individually. It is reported that a plumber purchased large quantities of the canvases in bulk for the purpose of insulating pipes but discovered when the pipes got hot the paint let off bad smells. Framers also bought in quantity paying about $3.00 per canvas and acquiring some works by artists who later became famous after WWII such as Jackson Pollock.

Roosevelt's WPA put about 8.5 million people to work - about 1/5 of the nation's adults between 1935 and 1943. The FAP created over 100,000 paintings and 18,000 sculptures. These works of art are now turning 75 years old. For many years this work had been virtually ignored, not maintained very well, and even destroyed. The living history of this work is dying out leaving the artwork on it's own to speak for itself. Thankfully people are starting to realize what they have in their communities and are working to restore and preserve this work. If you are lucky enough to have a WPA mural in your community, go visit it and spend a few moments appreciating the artists who left the legacy for you and the governmental leaders who had the foresight to give them the opportunity to create it.

Autumn Daybreak by Edna St. Vincent Millay

2011-09-16T13:24:00.000-05:00

Cold wind of autumn, blowing loud
At dawn, a fortnight overdue,
Jostling the doors, and tearing through
My bedroom to rejoin the cloud,
I know—for I can hear the hiss
And scrape of leaves along the floor—
How may boughs, lashed bare by this,
Will rake the cluttered sky once more.
Tardy, and somewhat south of east,
The sun will rise at length, made known
More by the meagre light increased
Than by a disk in splendour shown;
When, having but to turn my head,
Through the stripped maple I shall see,
Bleak and remembered, patched with red,
The hill all summer hid from me.

We Will Never Forget

2011-09-11T10:13:00.003-05:00

Personally when I say "never forget" - I will never forget all the heroic souls taken from us that day in that demonic act. I will never forget all the families that lost their loved ones as they watched on the television screen, as some spoke to them on their cell phones. How helpless they must have felt. I will never forget the heroes including the police, EMTs and firefighters - to see the firefighters pouring into ground zero, company after company, even after the first tower fell they came - ready to go in knowing the second tower could also fall.

Sadly, abhorently, there's another awareness, a consciousness, that will never be forgotten either. The lies we were told by our leaders - lies that cost too many more deaths and wounded warriors, countless more heroes hewn from the best and the bravest from all over this country who made us all proud ... and other truths that have left many of us with an acknowledgment of shame as well as an understanding of the debasement of this our beloved country. And a deep grief that goes far beyond the sorrow for the victims of 9/11.

A Late Walk by Robert Frost

2011-09-06T14:02:00.000-05:00

When I go up through the mowing field,
  The headless aftermath,
Smooth-laid like thatch with the heavy dew,
  Half closes the garden path.

And when I come to the garden ground,
  The whir of sober birds
Up from the tangle of withered weeds
  Is sadder than any words.

A tree beside the wall stands bare,
  But a leaf that lingered brown,
Disturbed, I doubt not, by my thought,
  Comes softly rattling down.

I end not far from my going forth
  By picking the faded blue
Of the last remaining aster flower

To carry again to you.

Dark August by Derek Walcott

2011-08-31T09:05:00.000-05:00

So much rain, so much life like the swollen sky
of this black August. My sister, the sun,
broods in her yellow room and won't come out.

Everything goes to hell; the mountains fume
like a kettle, rivers overrun; still,
she will not rise and turn off the rain.

She is in her room, fondling old things,
my poems, turning her album. Even if thunder falls
like a crash of plates from the sky,

she does not come out.
Don't you know I love you but am hopeless
at fixing the rain ? But I am learning slowly

to love the dark days, the steaming hills,
the air with gossiping mosquitoes,
and to sip the medicine of bitterness,

so that when you emerge, my sister,
parting the beads of the rain,
with your forehead of flowers and eyes of forgiveness,

all will not be as it was, but it will be true
(you see they will not let me love
as I want), because, my sister, then

I would have learnt to love black days like bright ones,
The black rain, the white hills, when once
I loved only my happiness and you.

The House of Dreams by Sara Teasdale

2011-08-21T22:34:00.000-05:00

I built a little House of Dreams
And fenced it all about,
But still I heard the Wind of Truth
That roared without.

I laid a fire of Memories
And sat before the glow,
But through the chinks and round the door
The wind would blow.

I left the House, for all the night
I heard the Wind of Truth;
I followed where it seemed to lead
Through all my youth.

But when I sought the House of Dreams,
To creep within and die,
The Wind of Truth had levelled it,
And passed it by.

Olive Thomas, My Latest le Belle Epoque Beauty

2011-08-10T23:13:00.000-05:00

Olive Thomas was born October 20, 1894 into a working class Irish-American family in the Pittsburgh area steel town of Charleroi, Pennsylvania. When her father a steelworker died, 15 year old Olive was forced to leave school to earn a living and support her mother and 2 brothers. She worked in several department stores as a clerk. She married at age 16, living and working in a small mill town for 2 years when she divorced. At that time, Olive moved to New York City and found a job in a Harlem department store. A year later she answered an ad in the local newspaper and subsequently won, "The Most Beautiful Girl in New York City." She was soon modeling for well known commercial artists which landed her on the cover of the Saturday Evening Post. All of that exposure brought her to the attention of Flo Ziegfeld and she became a member of the Ziegfeld Follies where she danced in the more risque Midnight Frolic, an after hours show staged in the rooftop garden of the New Amsterdam Theatre. Dancers in those shows were often clad only in balloons where the male patrons could burst the balloons with their cigars. The Midnight Frolics were staged mainly for famous male patrons with plenty of money to dole out to the beautiful performers! It wasn't long before Olive was the center of attention in those shows and frequently bestowed with expensive gifts.

Soon Olive was signed with the International Film Company as a leading lady. She appeared in over 20 Hollywood films in the next 4 years. Olive met the actor Jack Pickford, brother of the very famous and powerful actress, Mary Pickford, and they were soon wed to the consternation of the Pickford family.

In 1918, Olive signed with Selznick Pictures Company where her husband was also signed. She soon became Selznick's first movie star. In 1920 Olive starred in the film, The Flapper. She became the first actress to be called a "flapper" and soon became defined by the flapper role. The formula worked since she was soon earning $3000.00 a week.

Olive and her husband Jack Pickford were known for their wild parties where alcohol became and ever increasing part. She had 3 automobile accidents in 2 years possibly with alcohol as a cause. Olive and Jack were much more interested in playing and partying so much so that the two together were known to be trouble. They eloped in October 1916 with none of their family members present.

By all accounts, Olive was the love of Pickford's life; however the two of them together led a stormy, conflict charged, drama fueled relationship which in the end always involved lavish making up sessions.

Because the couple were frequently separated with their conflicting movie work schedules, they decided to take a trip, a second honeymoon it was called. In August 1920 the pair headed for Paris. On the night of September 5, 1920 the couple went out for a night of partying at the famous Paris bistros. Events of that night have always been questionable due to alcohol and drug ingestion. The two returned to their room at the Hotel Ritz about 3:00 A.M. Pickford was either asleep or outside the room. Cocaine might have been an element in the tragedy. An intoxicated and exhausted Olive Thomas accidentally ingested a large dose of mercury bichloride liquid solution. It had been prescribed for Jack as a topical ointment but it was kept in a flask and the label was in French. Olive may have confused it for something to drink. When she realized what she had done she screamed "Oh my God!" and Jack ran to her side but it was too late. She had already ingested a lethal dose. Measures were taken to induce vomitting and her stomach was pumped 3 times to no avail. She was taken to the American Hospital in Paris where with Jack at her side Olive succumbed to the poison a week later. There were rumors of suicide and murder but an investigation ruled her death an accident. The truth of her death would never be known, except that it was too soon and too horrid!

Thanks to Wikipedia for the history of Olive Thomas.

Only occasionally do I get political on my blog but...

2011-08-02T14:20:00.000-05:00

Sanctuary by Dorothy Parker

2011-07-27T01:38:00.000-05:00

My land is bare of chattering folk;
The clouds are low along the ridges,
And sweet's the air with curly smoke
From all my burning bridges.

"Nobility" new on Red Bubble

2011-07-15T18:49:00.000-05:00

My Hydrangeas Found a Home in my Art! On RedBubble!

2011-07-12T18:23:00.000-05:00

Kittens and Puppies!

2011-07-07T15:11:00.001-05:00

For anyone who needs a smile, this youtube video reminds me so much of my daughter's year old pup, Oliver when he gets together with my 10-month old kitten, Sophie!

Sophie and Oliver

A Moment of Beauty in Time

2011-07-06T12:45:00.000-05:00

A Visitor by Mary Oliver

2011-06-30T18:56:00.000-05:00

My father, for example,
who was young once
and blue-eyed,
returns
on the darkest of nights
to the porch and knocks
wildly at the door,
and if I answer
I must be prepared
for his waxy face,
for his lower lip
swollen with bitterness.
And so, for a long time,
I did not answer,
but slept fitfully
between his hours of rapping.
But finally there came the night
when I rose out of my sheets
and stumbled down the hall.
The door fell open

and I knew I was saved
and could bear him,
pathetic and hollow,
with even the least of his dreams
frozen inside him,
and the meanness gone.
And I greeted him and asked him
into the house,
and lit the lamp,
and looked into his blank eyes
in which at last
I saw what a child must love,
I saw what love might have done
had we loved in time.

My Father's Passing

2011-06-24T21:00:00.001-05:00

My father finally passed.

His death was predicted many times by Doctors over the last 30 years since he and my mother suffered simultaneous heart attacks one day in May 1980. My mother died that evening at the age of 54. From then on we would have to learn how to relate to dad individually, apart from mom who had always been the source, the connective tissue that bound us all together as a family. She smoothed the rough edges and in doing so unknowingly instilled the beginnings of denial. She dutifully fed the myth of our family. Maybe she needed it to be real too. But it wasn’t. I long ago grieved my last for what might have been.

For those who knew him in a different light, I envy you. From one whom he never had a good word to say about, again, I envy you who he cherished. You were indeed lucky.

I will search for peace. Our war is over. There was no winner. The battle scars remain.

For My Father, "Grief"

2011-06-19T07:42:00.000-05:00

Red Bubble - My Newest Venue for My Artwork

2011-06-11T20:49:00.005-05:00

I am very pleased to share my new endeavor with all of you my blog friends! I have listed my artwork on RedBubble.com and am very excited to realize the potential of this new site. With Red Bubble I will be featuring my new digital artwork for viewers and buyers. Red Bubble is headquartered in Melbourne, AUS with printing facilities also in the US, UK and Canada. This opportunity makes my artwork available to buyers from around the world for the first time. Red Bubble is a marketplace community for everyone interested in creativity and learning, and for artists and writers from all around the world. With this site I just have to send them my digital files and Red Bubble does the rest from printing to shipping and meeting all customer needs. My favorite thing about this new venue is that buyers can now order my work in 9 different presentations, from a simple greeting card for $2.79 to a large framed print. And especially exciting is that on the site the buyer can actually see the artwork in the option they choose whether it be a greeting card, matted print or framed artwork - even T-shirts in some instances. I truly love working digitally - I hope you enjoy what I have created and am now offering for purchase. You can find my Red Bubble site at - http://www.redbubble.com/people/maureentillman

Some of my work now available at RedBubble.com

The group Fantasy Fine Art Composites from Red Bubble featuring two pieces of my work this week!

It's Peony Time Again!

2011-06-09T11:59:00.000-05:00

From the Chinese Poet, T'ao Yuan Ming

2011-06-06T12:43:00.000-05:00

"I built my cottage among the habitations of men,
And yet there is no clamor of carriages and horses.
You ask: "Sir, how can this be done?"
"A heart that is distant creates its own solitude."
I pluck chrysanthemums under the eastern hedge,
Then gaze afar towards the southern hills.
The mountain air is fresh at the dusk of day;
The flying birds in flocks return.
In these things there lies a deep meaning;
I want to tell it, but have forgotten the words."

A Taste of a Tornado

2011-05-27T12:59:00.000-05:00

Local residents here were always told we were pretty much safe from tornados even though we are in the midwestern US where such twisters are fairly frequent. Because we are sandwhiched between the Wisconsin bluffs and the Minnesota bluffs that bound the Mississippi River, we always believed that any tornado would hop from one bluff to the other right over us. Some also believed the old Indian belief that tornados don't appear where 3 rivers meet like here. However there was a tornado here in 1966, not any since though. So it was a shock Saturday, May 21 when we were struck by a tornado. Luckily it was not as powerful as those recently experienced in Alabama and Missouri, but it was frightening enough to make us all thank God we were spared to the extent we were. It awed and humbled all of us. I missed being in the path by not much more than a mile, but there were 200 homes and many businesses that were not so lucky. We lost over 600 trees, many of them were huge and over 100 years old. Considering the degree of trauma this community has suffered, it is inconceivable to imagine the pain and loss felt by so many this Spring in this country who lost so much more. They can all use our prayers and assistance any way possible. The following photos are reprinted from the La Crosse Tribune.

We Are Seven by William Wordsworth

2011-05-23T11:19:00.000-05:00

A simple child,
That lightly draws its breath,
And feels its life in every limb,
What should it know of death?

I met a little cottage girl:
She was eight years old, she said;
Her hair was thick with many a curl
That clustered round her head.

She had a rustic, woodland air,
And she was wildly clad;
Her eyes were fair, and very fair;
—Her beauty made me glad.

"Sisters and brothers, little maid,
How many may you be?"
"How many? Seven in all," she said,
And wondering looked at me.

"And where are they? I pray you tell."
She answered, "Seven are we;
And two of us at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea.

"Two of us in the churchyard lie,
My sister and my brother;
And in the churchyard cottage, I
Dwell near them with my mother."

"You say that two at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea,
Yet ye are seven! — I pray you tell,
Sweet maid, how this may be."

Then did the little maid reply,
"Seven boys and girls are we;
Two of us in the churchyard lie,
Beneath the churchyard tree."

"You run about, my little maid,
Your limbs they are alive;
If two are in the churchyard laid,
Then ye are only five."

"Their graves are green, they may be seen,"
The little maid replied,
"Twelve steps or more from my mother's door,
And they are side by side.

"My stockings there I often knit,
My kerchief there I hem;
And there upon the ground I sit,
And sing a song to them.

"And often after sunset, sir,
When it is light and fair,
I take my little porringer,
And eat my supper there.

"The first that died was sister Jane;
In bed she moaning lay,
Till God released her of her pain;
And then she went away.

"So in the churchyard she was laid;
And, when the grass was dry,
Together round her grave we played,
My brother John and I.

"And when the ground was white with snow,
And I could run and slide,
My brother John was forced to go,
And he lies by her side."

"How many are you, then," said I,
"If they two are in heaven?"
Quick was the little maid's reply,
"O master! we are seven."

"But they are dead; those two are dead!
Their spirits are in heaven!"
'T was throwing words away; for still
The little maid would have her will,
And say, "Nay, we are seven!"

My latest listings: 14 Best Fairy Friends!

2011-05-16T15:42:00.000-05:00

BFFF: Best Fairy Friends Forever!

Hortense and Prudence

Sophronia and Theodosia

Lydia and Winnifred

Pippa and Hester

Flora and Edwina

Alva and Almyra

Eudora and Lulu

Such fun to create! These wee fairy folk were constructed using fine fairy parts from Paper Whimsy's Gothic Fairy Collection!

The Hill Wife by Robert Frost

2011-05-10T12:32:00.000-05:00

I. LONELINESS

Her Word

One ought not to have to care
So much as you and I
Care when the birds come round the house
To seem to say good-bye;

Or care so much when they come back
With whatever it is they sing;
The truth being we are as much
Too glad for the one thing

As we are too sad for the other here --
With birds that fill their breasts
But with each other and themselves
And their built or driven nests.

II. HOUSE FEAR

Always -- I tell you this they learned --
Always at night when they returned
To the lonely house from far away
To lamps unlighted and fire gone gray,
They learned to rattle the lock and key
To give whatever might chance to be
Warning and time to be off in flight:
And preferring the out- to the in-door night,
They. learned to leave the house-door wide
Until they had lit the lamp inside.

III. THE SMILE

Her Word

I didn't like the way he went away.
That smile! It never came of being gay.
Still he smiled- did you see him?- I was sure!
Perhaps because we gave him only bread
And the wretch knew from that that we were poor.
Perhaps because he let us give instead
Of seizing from us as he might have seized.
Perhaps he mocked at us for being wed,
Or being very young (and he was pleased
To have a vision of us old and dead).
I wonder how far down the road he's got.
He's watching from the woods as like as not.

IV. THE OFT-REPEATED DREAM

She had no saying dark enough
For the dark pine that kept
Forever trying the window-latch
Of the room where they slept.

The tireless but ineffectual hands
That with every futile pass
Made the great tree seem as a little bird
Before the mystery of glass!

It never had been inside the room,
And only one of the two
Was afraid in an oft-repeated dream
Of what the tree might do.

V. THE IMPULSE

It was too lonely for her there,
And too wild,
And since there were but two of them,
And no child,

And work was little in the house,
She was free,
And followed where he furrowed field,
Or felled tree.

She rested on a log and tossed
The fresh chips,
With a song only to herself
On her lips.

And once she went to break a bough
Of black alder.
She strayed so far she scarcely heard.
When he called her --

And didn't answer -- didn't speak --
Or return.
She stood, and then she ran and hid
In the fern.

He never found her, though he looked
Everywhere,
And he asked at her mother's house
Was she there.

Sudden and swift and light as that
The ties gave,
And he learned of finalities
Besides the grave.

The Swan by Mary Oliver

2011-05-01T00:06:00.000-05:00

Did you too see it, drifting, all night, on the black river?
Did you see it in the morning, rising into the silvery air -
An armful of white blossoms,
A perfect commotion of silk and linen as it leaned
into the bondage of its wings; a snowbank, a bank of lilies,
Biting the air with its black beak?
Did you hear it, fluting and whistling
A shrill dark music - like the rain pelting the trees - like a waterfall
Knifing down the black ledges?
And did you see it, finally, just under the clouds -
A white cross Streaming across the sky, its feet
Like black leaves, its wings Like the stretching light of the river?
And did you feel it, in your heart, how it pertained to everything?
And have you too finally figured out what beauty is for?
And have you changed your life?

William Morris - Father of the Arts and Crafts Movement ; "Have nothing in your home that you do not believe to be beautiful or useful."

2011-04-25T13:23:00.000-05:00

William Morris was born on March 24, 1834 in Walthamstow, England into a well-to-do family. He loved playing in the out of doors and observing animal and plant nature close up. Throughout his life, Morris was happiest in his garden or relishing life along the banks of the rural River Thames submercing himself in the sensory delights of the natural world.

In 1852 he entered Exeter College at Oxford where he met fellow student and aspiring artist Edward Burne-Jones with whom he became life long friends.They shared an interest in theology, ecclesiastical history, medieval poetry, visiting English churches and continental cathedrals. They were both influenced by the pre-Raphaelite movement, the poetry of Alfred, Lord Tennyson, and the essays of John Ruskin who rejected the industrial manufacture of decorative arts and architecture in favor of a return to hand-crafted affordable art where artisans were elevated to fine artists. In 1856 Morris began working for one of England's leading Gothic revival architects headquartered in Oxford. Also that year Morris became editor and publisher of a new Oxford and Cambridge Magazine where he met another life long friend and pre-Raphaelite painter, Dante Gabriel Rossetti, a magazine contributer. Rossetti eventually persuaded Morris that he was better suited for painting rather than architecture; so Morris threw himself into his painting.

Rossetti met and recruited Jane Burden, a striking beauty, to become a model for him. Soon Morris met Jane and was smitten. They wed in 1859. Their happiness did not last the first 10 years of their marriage but divorce was out of the question so they remained married until Morris's death even though Jane had a long affair with Rossetti, often spending long stays with Rossetti at Kelmscott Manor, William Morris's beloved country house while Morris was away on business.

La Belle Iseult, Jane Burden as model.
The only surviving Morris easel painting.

In 1861, the decorative arts firm of Morris, Marshall, Faulkner & Co. was established with Morris, Rossetti, Burne-Jones, Ford Maddox Brown, Philip Webb, Charles Faulkner and Peter Marshall as partners. The firm would undertake carving, stained glass, metal work, paper hangings, chintzes or printed fabrics and carpets much of it for the decoration of churches. Later the firm expanded to include murals, furniture, glass wares, cloth and paper wall hangings, embroideries, jewelry, silk damasks and tapestries. By 1866 the firm was making a profit. In 1874 Morris bought out his shareholders in order to take sole control of the firm which he held as principle owner and design director. The firm's designs are still sold today.

William Morris was a prolific writer of poetry, fiction, essays, and translations of ancient and medieval texts. He continued to write until his death.

In the 1870s Morris started to take an active interest in politics as a member of the National Liberal League. In the 1880s he advanced into socialist politics founding the Socialist League in 1884 but by the end of that decade he had broken away from that organization over their goals and methods.

Morris was deeply devoted to preservation both in architecture and ancient buildings; but also was interested in preservation in the natural world with great disdain for polution and industrialism and their ravages to nature.

In 1881 Morris expanded to include tapestry in his business where he discovered another means of expressing his love of medievalism that inspired all of his work. Next he developed an interest in typography and the arts of illumination and calligraphy. He designed typefaces based on 15th century models. Soon he added a private printing press and established the Kelmscott Press. Only the best selection of papers, inks, decoration and type made Kelmscott the most famous of private presses of the Arts and Crafts movement. It operated until 1898 and produced over 18,000 copies of 53 different works. Some Kelmscott editions are counted among the most beautiful books ever produced

By 1883 furnishing textiles were an important offering of his firm for which Morris was the chief designer. For this he had to learn the theory and practice of weaving, dyeing and textile printing. He spent much of his time at the Staffordshire dye works learning to master the process and experimenting in reviving the old methods of indigo dyeing and the use of other vegetable dyes which had been driven almost out of use by then. He highly valued rich color, perfect gradation and depth of tone along with crisp, abundant detail as was found in medieval art. Morris taught himself embroidery, working on a frame he had custom built based on an old example. Once he had mastered the art he trained his wife, her sister and others to execute his designs to his specifications. The firm offered designs for embroidery and finished work. Morris became active in the movement toward originality and mastery of technique in embroidery and became one of the first designers with the Royal School of Art Needlework. Additionally Morris revived the art of carpet weaving and the production of woven and printed fabric of the highest quality.

Morris Tiles

Morris Tapestry and Wallpaper Designs

Morris Stained Glass

Morris Chairs

Many of the Morris's designs utilize flowing meandering lines, the idea of which stems from the meandering of the River Thames and all of its tributaries. In Morris's work these lines become the stems of plants, flowers and folliage that wander through his repetitive designs.

What was revolutionary about Morris's designs was that they came at the time of the Industrial Revolution where mass-production and lower quality was the rule. Morris became committed to reforming the domestic environment. In changing the way we looked at our homes, Morris changed the way we looked at the world. Many other English decorative artists of the time imbued their work with a rigid formality and often stale symmetry. So although not unique in his subject matter, Morris was and still is beloved for his sense of visual poetry and passion for the natural world with which he colored our world. He was a genius pattern designer whose work has had an enduring appeal and has been a staple of the Arts and Crafts Revival during the 20th and 21st centuries. William Morris died at Kelmscott House in 1896.

Much of the information for this post came from Wikipedia

Happy Easter!

2011-04-23T13:55:00.000-05:00

My first book!

2011-04-15T19:20:00.000-05:00

I've been so inspired by my work on the soon to be published poetry book that I have decided to publish my own first book. I actually wrote this one about twenty years ago, so I am happy to finally see it in print. It comes from troubling memories of my childhood. It is 42 pages in length but only the first 15 pages are presented here in this book show. I expect this will be the first of many books I will write and publish through online software such as Blurb which I used here.

If He Really Loved Me by Maureen Kavaney Tillman | Make Your Own Book

The Stolen Child by William Butler Yeats

2011-04-13T15:44:00.000-05:00

Where dips the rocky highland
Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,
There lies a leafy island
Where flapping herons wake
The drowsy water rats;
There we've hid our faery vats,
Full of berrys
And of reddest stolen cherries.
Come away, O human child! To the waters and the wild With a faery, hand in hand, For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Where the wave of moonlight glosses
The dim gray sands with light,
Far off by furthest Rosses
We foot it all the night,
Weaving olden dances
Mingling hands and mingling glances
Till the moon has taken flight;
To and fro we leap
And chase the frothy bubbles,
While the world is full of troubles
And anxious in its sleep.
Come away, O human child! To the waters and the wild With a faery, hand in hand, For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Where the wandering water gushes
From the hills above Glen-Car,
In pools among the rushes
That scare could bathe a star,
We seek for slumbering trout
And whispering in their ears
Give them unquiet dreams;
Leaning softly out
From ferns that drop their tears
Over the young streams.
Come away, O human child! To the waters and the wild With a faery, hand in hand, For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Away with us he's going,
The solemn-eyed:
He'll hear no more the lowing
Of the calves on the warm hillside
Or the kettle on the hob
Sing peace into his breast,
Or see the brown mice bob
Round and round the oatmeal chest.
For he comes, the human child, To the waters and the wild With a faery, hand in hand, For the world's more full of weeping than he can understand.

This is What Democracy Looks Like!

2011-04-07T13:10:00.000-05:00

My most favorite chant at the Wisconsin protests has been - "This is what Democracy looks like!"

On Friday, April 1, 2011, La Crosse, WI area (my home town) Democrats filed a petition of more than 21,700 signatures at the capital in Madison calling for the recall of Wisconsin State Senator Dan Kapanke (R-La Crosse). Mr. Kapanke is just the first of 8 GOP senators now facing recall in response to their support of WI Gov. Scott Walker's over-reaching union busting supposed budget bill to be successfully targeted. There were 15,588 signatures needed for the recall and 60 days to collect them - the over 21,700 signatures were collected totally by volunteers in less than 30 days. The Democrats just need 3 Republican senate seats in Madison to flip to regain control of the senate; then next year when he is eligible for recall with any luck Mr. Walker will be ousted too.

To be at the capital during the protests has been a transforming uplifting experience and I definately feel that very same spirit has filled many state capitals across the midWest - all with newly elected Republican governors who have recently seen their own poll numbers plummet just since taking office in January and after their own union busting tactics created their own firestorms. This disgusting over-reach has started a movement - awakened the sleeping giant - and has confirmed that the GOP 2010 gains and so-called "mandate"will be short-lived. The following article from Alternet.org details the viewpoint of many who feel as I do. It is a very timely eye-opening report.
http://www.alternet.org/story/150456/have_the_wi_protests_changed_americans'_political_perspectives?page=1

New Opportunities and Exciting Challenges

2011-03-27T18:37:00.001-05:00

I have been quite busy the past 6 weeks working on an exciting project. I was selected along with another 11 artists from Creative Souls to illustrate a book of 42 poems by a British poet. Each artist chose the poems they wanted to work on - I chose 4 pieces. The poet's work is epic, very allegorical and has a medieval quality I believe. Needless to say, it has been a real challenge connecting with another person's mental and emotional images arising from his own imagination and incredible breadth of vocabulary. The latter has doubly challenged me this past week as I volunteered to proof read the approximate 75-80 page work. First of all I was amazed at how many words - English words - that we Americans spell differently from the people of Great Britain. For instance words such as "color" or "harbor" the Brits spell with a "u" in them, "colour", "harbour". That is just one difference. I soon got used to checking the dictionary and seeing the British spelling at the end of the definition. Then too even though I was an Art major in college I was also a Creative Writing major at that time - many years ago. I have spent my life writing and many times while working as a free-lance graphic artist I was called upon to proof-read text for the printers - long before computers or spell-check. So proof reading comes natural to me. But as I mentioned, this British poet has an incredibly voluminous vocabulary. I learned at least a dozen new words - words that I never saw or heard before. Plus like many creatives, myself included, he makes up his own words occassionally when "real" words just don't suffice. So it has been an interesting experience. As far as the actual book to be produced and published, I will keep you posted. I have produced many digital pieces for this assignment, many more than were needed, but again I was learning along the way. I am sharing one of my pieces here that was excluded from the final selection. It is a favorite of mine.

Choices

2011-03-23T11:44:00.000-05:00

Under Siege

2011-03-15T15:53:00.001-05:00

Note: For days now as the radiation settles over Japan, I have been preoccupied, haunted by thoughts of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. And my heart cries. Maureen

Excerpts from "Under Siege"

by Mahmoud Darwish
translated by Marjolijn De Jager

Here on the slopes of hills, facing the dusk and the cannon of time
Close to the gardens of broken shadows,
We do what prisoners do,
And what the jobless do:
We cultivate hope.

A country preparing for dawn. We grow less intelligent
For we closely watch the hour of victory:
No night in our night lit up by the shelling
Our enemies are watchful and light the light for us
In the darkness of cellars.

Here there is no "I".
Here Adam remembers the dust of his clay.

When the planes disappear, the white, white doves
Fly off and wash the cheeks of heaven
With unbound wings taking radiance back again, taking possession
Of the ether and of play. Higher, higher still, the white, white doves
Fly off. Ah, if only the sky
Were real [a man passing between two bombs said to me].

Alone, we are alone as far down as the sediment
Were it not for the visits of the rainbows.

Oh watchmen! Are you not weary
Of lying in wait for the light in our salt
And of the incandescence of the rose in our wound
Are you not weary, oh watchmen?

A little of this absolute and blue infinity
Would be enough
To lighten the burden of these times
And to cleanse the mire of this place.

Resisting means assuring oneself of the heart’s health,
The health of the testicles and of your tenacious disease:
The disease of hope.

Greetings to the one who shares with me an attention to
The drunkenness of light, the light of the butterfly, in the
Blackness of this tunnel!

Greetings to the one who shares my glass with me
In the denseness of a night outflanking the two spaces:
Greetings to my apparition.

My friends are always preparing a farewell feast for me,
A soothing grave in the shade of oak trees
A marble epitaph of time
And always I anticipate them at the funeral:
Who then has died...who?

©Maureen Kavaney Tillman

The Layers by Stanley Kunitz

2011-03-12T23:41:00.000-06:00

I have walked through many lives,
some of them my own,
and I am not who I was,
though some principle of being
abides, from which I struggle
not to stray.
When I look behind,
as I am compelled to look
before I can gather strength
to proceed on my journey,
I see the milestones dwindling
toward the horizon
and the slow fires trailing
from the abandoned camp-sites,
over which scavenger angels
wheel on heavy wings.
Oh, I have made myself a tribe
out of my true affections,
and my tribe is scattered!
How shall the heart be reconciled
to its feast of losses?
In a rising wind
the manic dust of my friends,
those who fell along the way,
bitterly stings my face.
Yet I turn, I turn,
exulting somewhat,
with my will intact to go
wherever I need to go,
and every stone on the road
precious to me.
In my darkest night,
when the moon was covered
and I roamed through wreckage,
a nimbus-clouded voice
directed me:
"Live in the layers,
not on the litter."
Though I lack the art
to decipher it,
no doubt the next chapter
in my book of transformations
is already written.
I am not done with my changes.

Madison, Wisconsin, March 5th, 2011: What A Lovely Day for a Protest

2011-03-06T16:34:00.000-06:00

It was thrilling! Wrapped in solidarity 50,000 like-minded, commited people converged on capital square in Madison on a cold, crisp Saturday morning to show their passion and love for their home state of Wisconsin. Unity, pride of purpose and a long history in this state for labor's rights brought people out in droves for the 19th straight day of protest against Gov. Walker's union busting agenda. And I was honored to participate.

I do not intend to get "political" on this blog very often, in fact in two years this is the first time. But one cannot live in Wisconsin these days and ignore this firestorm. Every community no matter how small seems to be hosting their own protests repeatedly. It's everywhere and it's hot.

A group of us drove the two hours from our homes early Saturday morning to Madison. We were excited to experience the demonstration and to finally be a real part of it. The crowd was lighter in the morning but still huge. It grew exponentially throughout the day. So did the fervor. There was a continual line throughout the day to get inside the rotunda. Once inside we were immediately put through a search and metal detectors, police passing the detection wands over our bodies.

To explain briefly what the protests are really about - it's not about the budget as the Governor and his people like to parrot - the Democrats have very early on agreed to the concessions the Governor requested. But he stubbornly refuses to drop his demand that unions give up their collective bargaining rights. Their rights! Americans do not like anyone curtailing or stealing their rights. What this really is is a Republican Governor trying to turn the future Wisconsin electorate forever in the Republican's favor. It is really a nation-wide anti-democratic, anti-American effort at an abhorrent, disgusting power grab by Republican Governors and the National Republican Party. You see if you can bust the unions in Wisconsin, you can bust them everywhere. Why would they want to do that? Because the unions are the only source of "big money" for the Democrats at election time. In 2010, of the top 10 big money donor institutions for campaign coffers only 3 of them went to Democrats - and they were all unions. The other 7 were corporate interests and they all went for the Republicans. If you kill the unions you can desimate the Democratic Party! But I believe their greedy power grabbing has awakened a sleeping giant in this country and the Republicans will come to regret their actions!

Unions and Wisconsin have a long and bloody history. Some of the "perks" every working American enjoys that came from unions in Wisconsin are: the Worker's Compensation Law won in 1911 in Wisconsin, the first state in the union (USA) to achieve it; unemployment benefits, a right won in Wisconsin first in 1932; collective bargaining rights granted in 1959. Wisconsin had the first national union to survive established in 1859. And that everyone have the concept of "weekends off" or the equivalent, the securing of a 40 hour work week, 8 hour work day. It was a hard fought nation-wide battle won in 1886 in Miwaukee, Wisconsin. Following is a short discription of that bloody episode that took place at Bayview Rolling Mills in Milwaukee when 7 people including one child were killed by the Wisconsin state militia.

On 1 May 1886 about 2,000 Polish workers walked off their jobs and gathered at Saint Stanislaus Church in Milwaukee, angrily denouncing the ten hour workday. They then marched through the city, calling on other workers to join them; as a result, all but one factory was closed down as sixteen thousand protesters gathered at Rolling Mills, prompting Wisconsin Govorner Jeremiah Rusk to call the state militia. The militia camped out at the mill while workers slept in nearby fields, and on the morning of May 5th, as protesters chanted for the eight hour workday, General Treaumer ordered his men to shoot into the crowd, some of whom were carrying sticks, bricks, and scythes, leaving seven dead at the scene. The Milwaukee Journal reported that eight more would die within twenty four hours, and without hesitation added that Governor Rusk was to be commended for his quick action in the matter.

(from lutins.org/labor.html)

This is why this battle is being fought in Wisconsin, why it has to be fought here, why so many of us are so passionate about this issue! It's in our DNA!

We may lose this battle, but we must, we will win this war! Beware, the awakened sleeping giant awaits! On Wisconsin!

Sophie and Mr. Oliver

2011-02-27T12:46:00.000-06:00

My daughter's dog, Oliver, and my Sophie are becoming great buddies. Eventually I expect they will curl up together and just sleep, but for now they love to torment eachother! Sophie is quite fearless and Mr. Oliver should be called Mr. Tolerant!

Solidarity Forever

2011-02-24T14:17:00.000-06:00

The Peace of Wild Things by Wendell Berry

2011-02-23T09:16:00.000-06:00

When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

On Wisconsin!

2011-02-17T21:50:00.000-06:00

I am SO PROUD of my fellow Wisconsinites!

I know why the caged bird sings by Maya Angelou

2011-02-11T12:05:00.001-06:00

A free bird leaps on the back
Of the wind and floats downstream
Till the current ends and dips his wing
In the orange suns rays
And dares to claim the sky.

But a bird that stalks down his narrow cage
Can seldom see through his bars of rage
His wings are clipped and his feet are tied
So he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings with a fearful trill
Of things unknown but longed for still
And his tune is heard on the distant hill for
The caged bird sings of freedom.

The free bird thinks of another breeze
And the trade winds soft through
The sighing trees
And the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright
Lawn and he names the sky his own.

But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
His shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
His wings are clipped and his feet are tied
So he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings with
A fearful trill of things unknown
But longed for still and his
Tune is heard on the distant hill
For the caged bird sings of freedom.

Maude Fealy, American Actress

2011-02-06T14:40:00.000-06:00

My next beauty of the Belle Epoque period is the American actress Maude Fealy. But since the actual le Belle Epoque was a period in European social history from the late 19th century and lasting until WWI, this time period was the overlap of the Victorian Era and the Edwardian Era in Great Britain and in the United States this period was known as the Gilded Age.

Maude was born Maude Hawk in Memphis, Tennessee on March 3, 1881. She was the daughter of Margaret Fealy, a stage and film actress herself who conducted acting schools around the country, frequently out of their home and later was in charge of theTabor School of Acting in Denver, Colorado.

Maude and Margaret Fealy

Maude made her first stage appearance at the age of 3 in an adaptation of Faust and Marguerite with her mother playing Marguerite. At the age of 5, Maude had roles in East Lynne and in Rip Van Winkle. In 1906 Maude signed a 5 year contract and soon became a well known actress appearing on many magazine covers and other publicity. She became a Thanhouser Films player in 1911 and through the prominent, well respected independent film company, Thanhouser Company, Maude received extensive publicity being featured in advertising more than any other of the company's players. Many of those photos are still popular among artists and collectors.

In 1901 rumors of a secret engagement flourished throughout the press so much so that her mother had to cable denials to leading press agencies in the United Staes and England. The marriage never took place.

In July, 1907 Maude secretly married a young English drama critic in Denver whom her mother did not approve of, referring to him as a "nobody" who could not provide for her daughter. Her mother forced the young husband to live separately for a year during which time he moved east. Maude filed for divorce stating desertion and non-support as the reason and the decree was granted in September 1909.

In November 1909 Maude married a young actor in Washington D.C. of whom her mother approved by the name of James Peter Durkin. Mr. Durkin later also secured a position with the Thanhouser Company in the New Rochelle, New York studio. Maude appeared in many Thanhouser productions from 1911 to 1914. She then briefly joined and performed in a stock company in Detroit, Michigan; starred in moving pictures in 1915, 1916 for Paramount, and 1917 for the Jesse Lasky Picture Company, and was a headliner on stage around the country. Using Maude's financial assets the couple formed the Fealy-Durkin stock company which performed in Denver and elsewhere. Nevertheless, the marriage ended in divorce in Denver in June 1917.

Maude made one more attempt at marriage to James E. Cort but the marriage ended in annulment in 1923.

Maude was on stage throughout the country in numerous plays from 1917 to the 1930s when she was involved in the Los Angeles Theatre Project. There she became the center of a bitter undisclosed controversy and was seemingly demoted to a job in the sewing division of the Works Progress Administration (WPA). During that same period she did perform in such films as Laugh and Get Rich, The Buccaneer and Southern Pacific. In the early 1940s Maude returned to Denver to teach dramatics and later moved to Hollywood to open a dramatics studio. Her mother died in 1955.

Maude continued to act in films for many years and had roles in many Cecil B. DeMille movies during the sound era including the 1956 release of The Ten Commandments. In that film she also did a number of voice overs which were dubbed for other actors. In 1957 she returned to Denver to retire but before long was on stage again in Colorado as well as giving lecture series at a local college. She last appeared on stage in 1961 in Denver. She told a reporter: "Actors never give acting, it gives them up."

Maude Fealy died in her sleep on November 9, 1971 in Woodland Hills, California. She had been hospitaized at the Motion Picture Country House and Hospital with arteriosclerosis. At her death she was interred in the Hollywood Memorial Park cemetery Mausoleum close by her mother. The expenses were provided for her by a provision in the will of Cecil B. DeMille. No close relatives survived her.

Freedom

2011-02-03T20:40:00.001-06:00

"Freedom is never voluntarily given by the oppressor; it must be demanded by the oppressed."

Martin Luther King Jr.

Democracy by Langston Hughes

2011-02-01T01:11:00.000-06:00

Democracy will not come
Today, this year
Nor ever
Through compromise and fear.

I have as much right
As the other fellow has
To stand
On my two feet
And own the land.

I tire so of hearing people say,
Let things take their course.
Tomorrow is another day.
I do not need my freedom when I'm dead.
I cannot live on tomorrow's bread.

Freedom
Is a strong seed
Planted
In a great need.

I live here, too.
I want freedom
Just as you.

Lost by David Wagoner

2011-01-28T10:09:00.000-06:00

Stand still. The trees ahead and the bushes beside you
Are not lost. Wherever you are is called Here,
And you must treat it as a powerful stranger,
Must ask permission to know it and be known.
The forest breathes. Listen. It answers,
I have made this place around you.
If you leave it, you may come back again, saying Here.
No two trees are the same to Raven.
No two branches are the same to Wren.
If what a tree or bush does is lost on you,
You are surely lost. Stand still. The forest knows
Where you are. You must let it find you.

Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening by Robert Frost

2011-01-24T22:32:00.000-06:00

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

A Magical Shadowbox

2011-01-20T22:26:00.000-06:00

Seldom do I tout my own work but occassionally I grow attached to a piece and find it difficult to part with. This shadowbox is one of those pieces. But I've kept it to myself long enough so I listed it today on ETSY. It does inspire me to get busy and create more shadowbox pieces. I was also deeply touched by the print here that I hand colored with colored pencil. The scene of the little boy, although from a much earlier time period, probably medieval, moved me with the couriosity of little boys - and girls - of the birth of exploration and discovery throughout the ages and the lamblike innocence of children.

http://www.etsy.com/listing/66128425/the-nest-collage-shadowbox

Mindful by Mary Oliver

2011-01-16T16:15:00.000-06:00

Every day
I see or hear
something
that more or less
kills me
with delight, 
that leaves me
like a needle
in the haystack
of light.
It was what I was born for -
to look, to listen, 
to lose myself
inside this soft world -
to instruct myself
over and over
in joy, 
and acclamation.
Nor am I talking
about the exceptional, 
the fearful, the dreadful, 
the very extravagant - 
but of the ordinary, 
the common, the very drab, 
the daily presentations.
Oh, good scholar, 
I say to myself, 
how can you help
but grow wise
with such teachings
as these -
the untrimmable light
of the world, 
the ocean's shine, 
the prayers that are made
out of grass?

Reaching for White by Lisa Shields

2011-01-12T22:41:00.000-06:00

The sun rose on fields
snow blown and misted
ghostly swirls and dervishes.
No fog this---
for fog simply lies.
No---this was living
as it arched and twisted,
fingering out to the road
and reaching for me
like the shade of a beloved friend.
There was white inside,
trying to seep out of pores,
I felt it strain
trying to mesh and meld
with this sentient wraith
fingers touching
joining
and suddenly
I am the morning mist
dancing in the crystal air.

Tragedy in Tucson

2011-01-09T12:20:00.002-06:00

Blessing the Boats

by Lucille Clifton
(at St. Mary's)
may the tide that is entering even now the lip of our understanding carry you out beyond the face of fear may you kiss the wind then turn from it certain that it will love your back may you open your eyes to water water waving forever and may you in your innocence sail through this to that

In memory of Christina Taylor Green, born Sept.11, 2001, a day of tragedy in America, and murdered Jan. 8, 2011 tragically in Tucson, Aizona, USA. At 9 years of age, she was already interested in politics and went to the "Congress on the Corner" event in Tucson to see how our political system works at a grassroots level.

William Holman Hunt, Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood Co-Founder

2011-01-04T13:38:00.000-06:00

William Holman Hunt (1827-1910) was an English painter and one of the founders of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood in 1848. He gained admission to the Royal Academy art school on his third attempt and there he met artists Dante Gabriel Rossetti and John Everett Millais with whom he formed the brotherhood. They sought to revitalize English art focusing on detailed observations of nature along with a religious devotion to the truth as influenced by the spiritual qualities of earlier medieval art. Of the three, Hunt remained the most faithful to the Pre-Raphaelite ideals and techniques; as he put it he held an uncompromising dedication to the principles of truth in preference to beauty. His paintings were mostly religious or moralistic and executed in exacting detail. His use of light was considered by some to be inordinately bright almost to the point of being harsh. His work was created painstakingly, laboriously, with an intense devotion to symbolism and metaphor, gaining him a reputation and worthiness of much respect. However, his work was not often considered typically pleasant or beautiful to look at by critics.

Photograph by Lewis Carroll

In 1851 Hunt began one of his best known works, The Light of the World which Hunt did to symbolize his religious conversion or salvation coming to a sinful world. Hunt came to describe his style as "symbolic realism"and with it he hoped to bring religious painting into the post-industrial world and thus give present day churchgoers their own modern iconography.

Many art critics of the period took exception to Hunt's devotion to extreme detail or his religious naturalism and considered it distasteful. Some even found it shocking that Hunt would attempt to show scriptual history with such complete accuracy and material truth. Others were concerned that the artist would risk the emotional expression that was essential for success in favor of ornamentation and pure surface detail. Critics felt such a method worked for lesser works but not for any ambitious or high art. To the contrary Hunt believed that the best of contemporary high religious art required this naturalistic technique to challenge the great artists of the past. Conservative art critics of the British Academic tradition found any naturalistic detail to be distracting and showed a lack of imagination. But to Hunt and the Pre-Raphaelite principles truth and accuracy were most important. There were however, some critics of his time who considered Hunt's work extraordinary and of crucial importance to Victorian art. He considered himself to be an art pioneer or even an art prophet. In time many art critics came to accept Hunt's work because it found favor with his Victorian audience.

The above painting, "The Finding of the Saviour in the Temple", exemplifies Hunt's belief that it was the artisit's responsibility to accurately portray many physical details of a scene because such details generated essential atmosphere and meaning. This painting came to represent the epitome of a new school of religious naturalism to English art critics of the time.

Isabella and the Pot of Basil

Hunt's position toward naturalistic detail was the catalyst in his many trips to the Middle East which he found to be a land of wonder, fantasy and exotic life. He believed artists should go and see for themselves and depict what they saw so they could bring back to England the records of man and place with which most were unfamilier. He insisted his travels and immersion into Orientalism permitted him to confront nature more directly and more truthfully in a simpler, less sophisticated way, place and time as yet uncontaminated by convention. Hunt made four extended journeys to the Holy Land over his career following his desire to find and paint locations where Biblical events occured in his naturalistic representation of Bible history.

Hunt's Uffizi Self-Portrait

Hunt married twice. First to Fanny Waugh who later modeled for the above Isabella. Fanny died on December 20, 1866 in childbirth in Florence, Italy where the couple was forced to stop on their journey to the Holy Land when an outbreak of cholera halted their expedtition. Hunt painted his portrait of Fanny as a companion piece to his self-portrait so his infant son, Cyril, would have both mother and father likenesses in the future. The devastated widower sculpted her tomb and had it brought back to England where she was buried beside the tomb of Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

Fanny

Hunt's second wife was Edith, Fanny's sister, whom he was forced to travel abroad to marry since it was illegal at that time in England to marry one's deceased wife's sister. This led to an unfortunate breach with other family members including his Pre-Raphaelite colleague Thomas Woolner who had married Fanny and Edith's other sister Alice.

Edith

Miss Gladys M. Holman Hunt (daughter)

William Holman Hunt died on September 7, 1910 in Sonning-on-Thames, England.

All Sophie Got for Christmas Was this Dumb Box!

2010-12-30T13:50:00.000-06:00

And she absolutely LOVED it!

Peace on Earth, Good Will Towards Men.

2010-12-22T20:08:00.000-06:00

Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night!

Some Beautiful Victorian Santas

2010-12-19T12:42:00.000-06:00

Vintage Glass Christmas Tree Ornaments

2010-12-12T14:55:00.000-06:00

For those folks interested in collecting vintage Christmas tree ornaments, some of the most popular of all were the lightweight glass ornaments produced in and around Lauscha, Germany by glass blowers from the region in eastern Germany. This area is considered to be the birthplace of the Christmas tree ornament in general and the glass ornament in particular. This glassblowing center was established in 1590 in Lauscha by German Protestant glass blowers who settled there to escape religious persecution.There they created a lucrative industry in glassblowing toys and ornaments. In 1847 Hans Greiner began producing glass ornaments in the shape of fruits and nuts. The immense popularity in the U.S. of these fanciful glass ornaments was the result of the enterprising American businessman F.W. Woolworth who was surprised by their popularity. Between 1890 and 1909, the Woolworth company made $25 million on ornaments which cost the eager buyers ten cents or less.

The Magical Wonderland of Department Store Windows at Christmas Time

2010-12-11T00:16:00.000-06:00

I love this old photo! I remember waiting expectantly back in the 1960's for the local department store to unveil it's annual Christmas store windows! My uncle was in charge of the design of the windows and went to New York City every year to select that year's magical display. What fun that would have been to accompany him there! In this early 20th century holiday photo, it is interesting that most of the children with their faces pressed up against a window that is filled with dolls and doll furniture are boys! There are a couple of young girls there, probably about 12 years of age who were probably appreciating the toys; but the one little girl standing in the back would have been so enchanted to find some of those gifts under her Christmas tree. She seems so timid and shy and very sweet! I hope she found the doll of her dreams that year!

The Frosted Pane by Evaleen Stein

2010-12-07T21:26:00.000-06:00

      When I wakened, very early,
     All my window-pane was pearly
With a sparkling little picture traced in lines of shining white;
     Some magician with a gleaming
     Frosty brush, while I was dreaming,
Must have come and by the starlight worked through all the quiet night.

He had painted frosty people,
     And a frosty church and steeple,
And a frosty bridge and river tumbling over frosty rocks;
     Frosty mountain peaks that glimmered,
     And fine frosty ferns that shimmered,
And a frosty little pasture full of frosty little flocks.

It was all touched in so lightly
     And it glittered, oh, so whitely,
That I gazed and gazed in wonder at the lovely painted pane;
     Then the sun rose high and higher
     With his wand of golden fire
Till, alas, my picture vanished and I looked for it in vain!

A Surprise Christmas Gift Named Sophie

2010-11-30T17:48:00.000-06:00

I have a new little buddy in my life. Her name is Sophie. I had had cats in my life for 50 years when two years ago I had to put down my 19 year old Zoey, a petite fluffy gray cat with peach colored highlights in her fur. After my divorce she had become my shadow, my sole companion, my touchstone. Her passing was one more loss in a life seemingly filled with them. I decided I was done with pets - not only that, I was done with falling in love with anything or anyone ever again - except for my as yet to be born grandbabies - there would always be a place in my heart for them. I accepted my solitary life as my choice and where I would find my joy in my work. By it's very nature the work of an artist or writer requires isolation to a large degree. I have always been happy with that. I did occasionally miss the presence of a pet in my life, a greeter cat when I came home, but I had committed myself to no new loves. It was ok. Until last week when I was visiting my children and my daughter wanted me to accompany her to the pet store where she needed dog food. I said I would wait in the car, and she said I should come in and look at the kittens. I had done this before with her so I thought little of it. I went in and thought I would just wander around the kiosk of pet cubicles and leave. But as I rounded the corner of the framework of windows, I was stopped in my tracks by the sweetest little face. I was captivated! If she hadn't been gray and fluffy I would certainly have walked right on by. But she had me mesmerized. If I had collected my thoughts and walked away to think about it, I may have been strong enough to walk away. But as it was, my feet never moved. I couldn't take my eyes off her. I allowed my daughter to talk me into adopting the kitten. Generously she even offered to buy it for my Christmas present. So I left the pet store as a new pet owner! I was rather in shock for a few days. I couldn't believe I had done that. I did come to my senses and freaked out a couple of times - afraid that I had done the wrong thing. My heart felt locked up in a way it never had been before when welcoming the previous 6 kittens in my life. I didn't understand it. After several days of trying to understand my resistance to bonding with my new kitten, I realized how much I had closed my heart to love. I hadn't realized it went as far as encompassing 4 legged creatures too, as well as the 2 legged variety. I had to admit that maybe I needed the kitten even more than she needed me. That it probably wasn't the healthiest way to live to commit oneself to no new love in my life, at least the 4 legged kind. I had room for a little 1 lb. 6 oz. kitten in my life and heart. She would be my new shadow, my new greeter cat. Since bringing her back home, I am happy I have her in my life, and she's finding her place in my heart. I'm glad my daughter talked me into adopting her.

November 1968 by Adrienne Rich

2010-11-26T10:10:00.000-06:00

Stripped
you're beginning to float free
up through the smoke of brushfires
and incinerators
the unleafed branches won't hold you
nor the radar aerials

You're what the autumn knew would happen
after the last collapse
of primary color
once the last absolutes were torn to pieces
you could begin

How you broke open, what sheathed you
until this moment
I know nothing about it
my ignorance of you amazes me
now that I watch you
starting to give yourself away
to the wind

Adrienne Rich

Happy Thanksgiving Everyone!

2010-11-22T00:54:00.000-06:00

Letter in November by Sylvia Plath

2010-11-18T14:11:00.001-06:00

Love, the world
Suddenly turns, turns color. The streetlight
Splits through the rat's tail
Pods of the laburnum at nine in the morning.
It is the Arctic,

This little black
Circle, with its tawn silk grasses - babies hair.
There is a green in the air,
Soft, delectable.
It cushions me lovingly.

I am flushed and warm.
I think I may be enormous,
I am so stupidly happy,
My Wellingtons
Squelching and squelching through the beautiful red.

This is my property.
Two times a day
I pace it, sniffing
The barbarous holly with its viridian
Scallops, pure iron,

And the wall of the odd corpses.
I love them.
I love them like history.
The apples are golden,
Imagine it ----

My seventy trees
Holding their gold-ruddy balls
In a thick gray death-soup,
Their million
Gold leaves metal and breathless.

O love, O celibate.
Nobody but me
Walks the waist high wet.
The irreplaceable
Golds bleed and deepen, the mouths of Thermopylae.

Sylvia Plath 1932-1963

Cleo de Merode, Beauty of le Belle Epoque

2010-11-12T12:25:00.000-06:00

She was born Cleopatra Diane de Merode in Bordeaux, Paris, France in 1874. She was the daughter of Karl von Merode, an Austrian landscape painter belonging to a famous Belgian noble family de Merode. Nicknamed "Cleo", she was selected for the Opera School of Dance when she was only 8 years old, at 11 she was dancing professionally, and at 13 she was chosen to dance in the prestigious ballet, Choryhee. It was then that she started to wear her hair pulled back in the chignon style with the hair covering her ears which became the talk of Paris and a popular style for many women. Her image was captured on post cards and playing cards which were widely collected.

She quickly became a favorite of many artists of the time including Toulouse-Lautrec, Gustav Klimt, Edgar Degas and Alexandre Falguiere. The ballerina performed in many major cities including St. Petersburg, New York and London but was probably more famous for her beauty than her dancing.

In 1896, King Leopold II of Belgium attended the ballet and it is recounted how he became enamored with the 23 year old dancer. At the time the king was 61. Ballerinas were regarded almost as courtesans in Paris at the time. The Paris Opera was said to have been called a "national harem". Gossip spread among Parisians about de Merode being the king's new mistress, so much so that the king became dubbed King Cleopold. Such accusations were strongly denied by de Merode but the scandal followed her throughout her life. Outraged, Cleo de Merode left Paris to dance internationally in such cities as Hamburg, Berlin, St. Petersburg, Budapest and New York. In the Russian Ballet she became the first ballerina to dance with a male partner.

At the peak of her ballet career, Cleo elected to perform with the Folies Bergere, something no other ballet elite would do. The risk she took gained her a whole new following. At age 42, Cleo returned to her birthplace of Biarritz, never to return to Paris. She still continued to dance, performing through the Red Cross for the wounded soldiers during WWI.

She is reported to have had only two relationships with men in her life, both long term. The first, an aristocrat lasted ten years until he died of typhoid fever; the second, a Spanish diplomat and sculptor eventually left her for another woman. Cleo de Merode died in 1966 at the age of 91 and is interred in the Pere Lachaise Cemetery in Paris.

Another young beauty from le Belle Epoque!

2010-11-09T07:27:00.000-06:00

Who was she? She was born in Paris in 1874 of Austrian descent.

She became famous for this chignon hair style with the hair covering her ears - it became the rage of Paris!

Burning Leaves

2010-11-07T11:56:00.003-06:00

Burning Leaves, November

THESE are the folios of April,

All the library of spring,

Missals gilt and rubricated

With the frost's illumining.

Ruthless, we destroy these treasures,

Set the torch with hand profane--

Gone, like Alexandrian vellums,

Like the books of burnt Louvain!

Yet these classics are immortal:

O collectors, have no fear,

For the publisher will issue

New editions every year.

Christopher Morley

November Night

LISTEN . . .
With faint dry sound,
Like steps of passing ghosts,
The leaves, frost-crisp'd, break from the trees
And fall.
Adelaide Crapsey

Home, A new Melange Team ETSY challenge

2010-11-05T14:24:00.001-05:00

It's been a while since I did one of these challenges. It is certainly quicker and easier if you can do it in Photoshop. This week's challenge is on the word "home". This is my submission piece.