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My mother has, or had, a drawing I made when I was two-and-a-half years old or so. It was a drawing of her. So I’ve been doing figure drawing for more than 63 years. I still cannot draw consistently well.

So I still need drawing exercise. This one is an exercise in patience and visialization. I didn’t allow myself to use a model or photo source, although I did take a peek at my drawing hand–and the drawing-hand part of the drawing is a botched disaster.

Total drawing time was about six hours, far longer than I normally spend on a given drawing. I hope to be doing this more, soon.

 

It might help to think of this blog post as a carnival ride. Take or leave all the backstory and poetry, if you wish. At heart it’s an improbable occurrence that may if let mess with your middle earbones a little bit, pleasurably I hope.

2020 0703 toucan

Many years ago I read Cool Hand Luke by Donn Pearce for the first time. It was about a man who found himself in Florida, in the Raiford prison chain gang. Every 4th of July the inmates got the closest thing to a holiday the prison offered, with free lemonade and some latitude, with the thought that a positive association with Independence Day, the springboard of the United States of America, would help instill in the convicts more love of country, and therefore of law and order. Ironically enough, though, in this scene from the book, some convicts were quietly sawing through the wood floor of the building, through which some would escape, thus declaring their independence. It’s a well-crafted scene, but the only reason I bring it up is that Carr the floorwalker at one point announces, “First bell. You done had your fun.”

The sentence “You done had your fun.” has been echoing in my head for over 50 years. I use it every time I need to tear myself away from self-indulgence and get back to chores, work, or other responsible activity. Many is the time “You done had your fun.” has compelled me to walk away from a gambling venue before I put my debit card in the ATM yet another time. (I am a recovering gambling addict, what Mario Puzo called in his too-neglected novel Fools Die a “degenerate gambler.”)

I’ve been in a creative slump of late, and the combination of self-quarantine due to COVID-19 and serial movie-watching and overindulgence in various tasty treats has undermined my creative output further. Finally I grabbed myself by the scruff of the neck, figuratively speaking, and said, “You done had your fun.”

Then I realized that with alternative spelling that would actually make the phrase more Southern-sounding, “You Dun Had Yer Fun” was a perfect quintuple acrostic. It would be a bear to write, but the challenge might well pull me out of my slump some. So here we are.

Since it is a quintuple acrostic, and I took on the further challenge of keeping the verbiage to a minimum, with as little sacrifice to rhyme and meter as possible, the logic of the poem’s content goes afield more than once. But that turned out to be serendipitous, because right at the last few words there came unbidden the perfect subject matter for the illustration: an Undressed Toucan. “What kind of clothes would a toucan wear??!” “Why, self-expressive HAWAIIAN SHIRT and HAWAIIAN SHORTS, of course!!”

Nobody else on Earth, except MAYBE the latest, bleeding-edge Artificial Intelligence Artist, could have created this page. Like Peter Pan, I gotta crow about that, though with the subtextual knowledge that no one else on Earth would WANT to.

****
You Dun Had Yer Fun

You’re riding high and then you eyeball stuff
You so doubt what you’re saying off the cuff

Of course your sense can intercede for you
One scene’s unclear and typeset in Urdu

Urbane and sleek, of dearth you’re not a fan
Unless until y’undress a mere toucan
****

About that powder-blue, fizzy effacement: It is sort of a way of marking my territory. When an intaglio plate, or lithographer’s slab, is deemed by the artist to be unworthy of reproduction, the plate or stone may be slashed with an appropriate tool, indicating that any further use of the plate or stone is unauthorized. About 38 years ago I had one of my intaglios professionally printed in a limited edition. The printer included with the prints and ancillary materials the declaration: “The plate has been effaced.” Remembering that, and wanting to jazz up the image a bit, I used photoediting software to efface this too-canny effort.

Maybe it was all for a Bad Pun. In the Arizona Wildcat, the school newspaper for the University of Arizona, reviewer Bryan Johnstone called the comments by my artwork in the solo show I had in the Hall of Fame gallery “self-effacing.”

Thank you, O Reader, for reading my Bad Pun of the Day. (Actually, there are two Bad Puns in this post. Can you spot the other one?)

2020 0628 sonnetary confinement

Sonnetary Confinement

Sometimes people with more words than they know what to do with will array some of their words into rhyming matrices of fourteen lines of iambic pentameter. Those matrices are called sonnets.

William Shakespeare’s name is on more than a hundred sonnets. In one of his most famous, Sonnet XXIX, the first four lines are

When, in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries
And look upon myself and curse my fate,

These lines introduce the reader to the narrator, who lacks either monetary or good-luck fortune, and is not highly regarded by his peers. He is unhappy enough to cry to Heaven about it in Line 3.

Line 3 presents problems to the Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder sonneteer. The meter is off; there is an extra syllable in there. And there’s a logical contradiction: if Heaven is deaf, why would It be troubled by the narrator’s cries?

Shakespeare isn’t around to defend himself or explain his choices. Simply tking out the word “deaf” would solve both problems:

And TROUBle HEAVen WITH my BOOTless CRIES has perfect scansion, and Heaven can hear the narrator and be troubled. At least, that’s true in 2020. There is some evidence that in Elizabethan times the word “heaven” was pronounced as if it were one syllable. Poems exist that include the contraction “heav’n.”

If we treat it that way, the original Line 3 becomes

And TROUBle DEAF heav’n WITH my BOOTless CRIES,

And the stress on DEAF has a nifty implication of raised volume, as if Heaven is deaf in the sense of “hard of hearing,” and so the narrator has to amp up his wailing to be heard, which is troubling indeed. But even though Heaven hears, there is no response: the narrator says his cries are “bootless,” which (I trust) means Ineffective.

All of which leads me to posit that Shakespeare felt free to escape the Sonnetary Confinement of the strict sonnet form, and compel the reader to feel the narrator’s chaotic pain. For there can be no doubt that Shakespeare broke rules to suit his content. If the right word for the situation didn’t exist, Shakespeare would invent it on the spot. (Even the common and so-useful word “bump” is said to be Shakespeare’s invention.)

Shakespeare wrote entire plays in iambic pentameter. But

be not ye too impresséd, reader mine.
poul anderson, the fantasist, once wrote
a book festooned with such, to prove the point
it’s easy once you get the hang of it.

And speaking of “hang,” Shakespeare entertained not only with story, but also with wretched, vulgar puns. One example of hundreds may be found in Othello with a snide character known as the Clown asking some bad musicians if they are playing with wind instruments. They say they are, and the Clown responds with “Thereby hangs a tail,” meaning that their playing is as bad as flatulence. But the musicians hear not “tail” but “tale” and so are unoffended.

Whoops! The midnight deadline has come. I need to stop writing and hit the hay. “Hit the hay” is idiomatic for “go to bed, there to sleep.” Had I time, I would have expanded on the place Vulgarity has in literature, crafted some random lines to demonstrate that an entire mundane day may be reported in iambic pentameter, and concluded with a strict-form sonnet that nevertheless transcends “confinement” via playfulness and universality. Something for both of us to look forward to, O Reader!

Here our herolady is sojourning through lozenge encapsulation, which either protects her from, or grants her access to, certain quantum energy fields. She will be happy when she is quit of this uncomfortable state of being, but she does not let the discomfort get the best of her. She saves the best of her for us.

2020 0624 nes146

lawes henge

lassitude evoking Feh
answers “Why?!” with Yo No Se
wend your whey with kid so keen
enter dreamworld glistening
exit sliding on the scree
savoring that pedigree

I can’t lose with this one. If someone doesn’t like it I can tell them it’s self-demonstrating, and of COURSE they didn’t like it, since it is a Wasted Effort…

2020 0619 wasted effort

Wasted Effort

We now no longer have Ms. G. O’Keeffe
And so we lack a mattriarchal Chief
S
ince passing Time’s an unrelenting Thief
T
here’s reason to crack open that Cointreau–O
E
piphany may quell the need to know–oR
Deem it best we bid à bientôt