Part of love of country includes acknoledgment and ownership of its failings. My country, the United States of America, has a shameful record of gun violence against schoolchildren. It goes back decades. And every time a fresh incident heartbreakingly occurs, the sellers and fanatical owners of guns trot out the same arguments, including “Guns don’t kill people–people do.”
Well, that’s nonsense. Guns literally WEAPONIZE people, enabling the evil and deranged to do far more grievous bodily harm than with just about anything. The gun makers strive to make the guns effective, and that includes ease of use, kill capacity, and, thanks to gun lobbyists, convenient to obtain.
The drawing I made today isn’t pretty. It is meant to not be pretty. This is an ugly side of my beloved country, and I do not wish to prettify it.
Our lawmakers have been more driven by profit motive and campaign chances than by common sense and true care for constituency. I have no money, no political influence, nothing but a voice and the heartbreak that drives it now. So this post is the utmost I can do. Readers, please, if you have the ear of lawmakers, please urge them to do the right thing and not the sleazy, money-grubbing thing.
Once again Elizabeth Valenzuela renders in poetic form a true slice of struggle and fulfillment in the world of the Unhoused.
Taylor by Elizabeth Valenzuela
The woman met Taylor During her visits with Dale at Affifa’s Adult Family Home
He sat on the front porch every Sunday Reviewing the Sunday Advertisements A magnifying glass in his hand
But still wearing his only pair of Eyeglasses Both lenses shattered and yellowed with age
Dale would sell him one cigarette for a dollar When Taylor asked him for one But only if he was feeling generous
The woman started handing Taylor Cigarettes behind Dale’s back Sometimes one or two cigarettes and On special occasions A full pack
In return Taylor Who always had a pocketful of Werther’s caramels Would slyly pass her a caramel When she walked past him on her way out
After Dale died The woman continued to stop by and see Taylor
He had never had a visitor in all the years he lived there Having been previously unhoused This is how the friendship started and it Continued after James moved into Dale’s old room Serendipity in action Déjà vu on display
In December Taylor showed her an ad A remote control race car He said he was Saving money to buy one
Santa brought him one for Christmas He and James played with that remote control car
Then Taylor had a heart attack
He was taken to the hospital He was unresponsive He was in a coma for many weeks No family came forward
The Hospital petitioned the Court to remove Life support Only the woman that stopped by for a daily visit Stood vigil by his bed
The day the Court Order was issued They transferred him to another room And with him his photo And information the woman had posted
So the hospital staff Would know that Taylor was loved
The next few days The woman sat by his side Gently holding his hand And telling him that she would be there if he lived And that he would be ok If he went Toward the love That was Waiting for him On the other side
That it was all good That he was loved
He was perfectly still in that hospital bed Machines had been unplugged two days prior
One tear fell down his face Silence As the woman leaned in To kiss his forehead
The next morning when she stopped by His bed was empty
James and Taylor at Affifa’s Adult Family Home playing with Taylor’s remote control carTaylor Doughty
“I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow…” Roethke
What a restless Night!!! Oh, dear Ah, well–we will persevere Keep the fate and make the mess Ever hoping ever blest
Afterword: What does it mean to keep the Fate and not the Faith? Adam Clayton Powell, long ago, said “Keep the faith, Baby…and spread it gently.” My late, great Outlaw Uncle, Paul, sent me a condolence note in 1983 after my father died, and he hand-wrote “Keep the faith Gary” in it. Keeping the Fate is as close as I can get: keeping vertical, plugging away for betterment, trying to enjoy and engage and become to create the best Fate I can. Here’s hoping you also do joyful Fate-Keeping, Friends.
Special thanks to Elizabeth Valenzuela for suggesting the title. A slight alteration to the drawing after her suggestion made the title fit snugly, and at the same time improved the drawing!
Note: Both “James” and the preceding poem “Dale” featured in my last blog post are collaborations. Elizabeth Valenzuela and I have known each other for more than half a century. When I rented a car and made a road trip to the Great Northwest recently, Elizabeth arranged for my lodging in Seattle, and we had many conversations during my stay. Time and again, when Elizabeth told me of her work with the homeless (whom she calls “unhoused”–I probably will too once I get used to it), I thought to myself, “I really should have an audio recorder going.” Before I left Seattle I did a draft of the poem “Dale.” Elizabeth read it and made some important revisions, correcting errors of fact and providing more context, and contributed the photos of Dale’s memorial leaf and the pic of them both. Then she wrote a draft of “James,” adopting the style I’d used for “Dale,” and then it was my turn to revise, mostly for cadence and consistency with “Dale.” When Elizabeth asked me to post “James” to my blog I told her I would need to use her name, since she was the author. She graciously gave me permission to do so.
James by Elizabeth Valenzuela
Two weeks after Dale passed Dr. Goodman called the woman Who had brought Dale to her
“Would you be willing to meet James After you have taken the time to recover From Dale?”
The Doctor had known Dale When he was wild Well before he became “Sweet Dale” Under the woman’s care
The woman took a deep breath And she said “I’ll meet him this week.”
So James became the new Dale.
James had no known family Unhoused Body and brain ravaged By Huntington’s
James was kind and sweet
He called the woman Hot Lips (His ashes were laid to rest under an evergreen Perennial Salvia, commonly known as “Hot Lips”)
He smoked constantly
He walked away From his new Adult Family Home Any number of times At all hours of the day and night The police drove him home a few times
He loved all things baseball The Mariners especially But smokers were not allowed To smoke at Mariners games
So James swore to stop If the woman took him to a game Had his last cigarette Before he boarded the train
And got a Mariner’s Jersey and hat And a seat at the game And never smoked again Never even had to be reminded of his promise
Back from the game He was transferred to a secure house Which was for Level 3 Sex Offenders
James was not a sex offender But housing For the terminally ill unhoused Was scarce
The woman went to see him Every other day Put on a brave face Made it clear That James was off limits And she was most definitely off limits
James was languishing Forlorn in body and spirit
The woman found him another placement That would provide hospice care When the time came
(James Sparks’s final cigarette)
And James loved his new place And thrived
The woman found James a program That provided transportation To an Activity Center twice a week Where he found a girlfriend Then promptly had to be medicated To stop the hypersexuality That is sometimes associated With movement disorders such as his Huntington’s Chorea
He was young and enjoyed this Time in his life
Then James needed hospice care
He died peacefully Curled up on his side Next to the woman Who kept vigil
A van came at 1:00 a.m. They put James in a black body bag And he was gone
Afterword
About James: he was born in 1978, possibly in Pennsylvania or Indiana. His full name is James Hamilton Sparks.
Huntington’s Chorea is a genetic disease. If a person has it, their offspring have a 50-50 chance of getting it as well. The most famous American to be so afflicted was Woodie Guthrie. His son Arlo was spared his affliction.
“Everyone counts or no one counts.” Michael Connelly
All day long the man was nasty
Spitting on the ground
Urinating on sidewalks
Obnoxious with cigarettes
Insulting
Cursing
With jerky motions
Now he was in a dark doorway
In Godawful clothing
On concrete
Cradling his head on a thin arm
His other hand tucked between his bony knees
For warmth
The woman had avoided him for years
Crossing the street when she saw him
That night she had quickly walked past him
But she looked back at him
From the safety of her car
She was pulled
To walk to him
To introduce herself
And to ask his name
“Dale, can I get you something?”
He was hungry and wanted pizza
Pizza with black olives and pepperoncini
And double pepperoni
And he told her where to get it
The woman hurried off into the cold night
She bought Dale’s pizza and brought it to him
And they stood in silence
And Dale was self-conscious
He would not touch his food till she was gone
Finally she told Dale she had to go
And Dale said,
“Will I see you tomorroW?”
And the woman said, “Yes.”
And many tomorrows later
Dale had an account at a coffee shop
And had been rescued from a ditch
And cleaned up after a winter
Spent in a porta potty
Had been evaluated
Diagnosed with Huntington’s Chorea
Housed but still sleeping with his boots on
And approaching
His journey’s end
And his caregivers
Called him “Sweet Dale”
Earlier in their journey
The woman went
To get him something
And she took much longer
Than she thought she would
When she returned at last
Dale turned to his unhoused friends
And said,
“I TOLD you
She would come back.”
In 1975 my parents and I went on a trip up the California coast. We saw Solvang and her tulips, San Simeon and it’s castle of wretched excess, and San Francisco, where Anything can and does Go. But we also paid a visit to a small town famous for Artichokes.
Yesterday I arrived in Castroville and spent the night at the Coastal Inn on Merritt Street. And this morning I ate a Castroville Scramble at the Fabolous Giant Artichoke Restaurant. Now I’m “scrambling” to post this, pack up, and head north. Checkout time is in eight minutes!!
Faithful readers will recognize this drawing as a different stage from the one I presented in the post “sumta loogat.” It is not exactly a later stage of the same drawing, since the drwing you saw earlier was an exploration based on a copy of a yet-earlier stage of the drawing, as this is, but this drawing is as if I had never made such changes, but instead made similar but different ones, and some not similar. Which is thoroughly confusing, but serves the purpose of trying things, reverting to previous, and trying again.
But this is the original grafitic. The OG, if you don’t mind a bit of cultural appropriation from American Gang lingo. I have come far enough along, though STILL far from finished, to want to make any more experimental copies.
There is something deeply gratifying about taking a long time on a single drawing, though the wild creation horses inside me are rarin’ to finish and move on. A mellowness and depth is starting to get real with this one. Since I don’t avoid flesh-contact with the paper, a slight tome buids as my left pam-thumb-subsection skates around. Despite skin oils, the tone is easily removed, and re-removed, with simple erasure. And the drawing benefits with a buildup of non-erased surface–see, for instance, the ribbonlike shap at top center, which now looks like a light source is highlighting its middle. The drawing is maturing.
It is still an adolescent, though. Adulthood, here we come! 🙂
Today I spent about a hundred US dollars for one month’s use of studio space and materials, including these three canvases and the acrylic paint that is on them, at Brightside Studios in uptown Phoenix, Arizona.
Photo by Michael P of Brightside Studios
In less than a month I’ll find out if it’s a good fit, and either let the monthly payment automatically renew, or send them written notice of termination. Meanwhile, I feel like I had a really good first day.
Sign here, Kid
Signing up was a painless 10- minute process. And unlike the classes I’d been taking, I set my own schedule, as long as it’s their business hours.
Now, it’s absolutely true that I have drawing table and supplies at my apartment. But I am happier and more productive when I’m among people who are also stuck with the Gotta-Make-Stuff impulse. And one sweet feature of this place is No Cleanup! Just put brushes and other stuff on designated trays, and you’re out the door!
My mom left me a modest inheritance when she died, and while I have frittered away some of it, and needed some other of it to maintain a certain quality of life that Social Security cannot cover, I am happy when I am 100% sure that an expenditure of mine would meet with her approval. This one qualifies, big time! 🙂
An old saying has it that “You cannot have your cake and eat it too.” But thanks to printer/scanner technology, it is easy to have your drawing and change it too. That’s what I’ve done with this one. What you see is a printed copy of a work in progress of mine, one far from finished, and after I printed the copy I drew on it, then I scanned it and photoedited it to darken the midtones, goose up the contrast, and crop it. The result is something I defy people to inpect and see if they can tell what was printed and what was subsequently drawn. Modern printing is miraculous.
I’m calling this “Sumta loogat” because that’s the way I, with my Southwestern American accent, pronounce “something to look at.” When I drew I tried to entertain myself with visual dynamics, tonal range, composition, and just enough text to intrigue. Those familiar with my word would correctly guess that the words are meant to eventually be the spines of two triple acrostic poems. But here is a visual experience that is different than the one to be had when the poetry is complsed and added.
The notation “a/p” is something I picked up from my intaglio printing days in the 1970s and early 80s. It stands for “artist’s proof” and can mean anything from “unauthorized edition” to “work in progress” to “don’t take this one too seriously.” In printmaking it means it is NOT part of a print run.
Just something to look at, Friends. Hope it pleases!
One with Clay, Image and Text 