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The Third of June rolls by again. That makes 48 Thirds of Junes since the song “Ode to Billie Joe” came out in 1967. And Bobbie Gentry, born Roberta Lee Streeter, is said to be living in seclusion in Los Angeles. If alive, she is 71 years old.

She once owned a piece of the Phoenix Suns, but hasn’t since 1987. She never told us what the girl and Billie Joe threw off the bridge,  but said the real meaning of the song was about nonchalance and indifference, a family talking casually about a seeming suicide while not realizing the fellow’s girlfriend was right there at the table. (That does seem downright Faulkneresque, if not Kafkaesque, to me.)

Anyway–I was a fan. I watched “The Bobbie Gentry Happiness Hour” as few others did. I think “Ode to Billie Joe” is a classic. And I imagine many will remember her, this Third of June . . .

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In Love of a Brother (part 1) I promised transcription and annotation. Here goes:

Love of a Brother x 3

Lo & beholden, the Sun may absorb
One of your handicaps 2 trot
Vivaciously–and breathe
ENERGY into Another

Brian spent a lot of time in the Phoenix sun with his cardboard sign. Once I was driving and I saw him on an island. We had ten seconds or so of good conversation, then the traffic demanded I go. I gave him a ten-spot to help him through his day.

Look at a once-called Ozob
Once a scruffy panhandler
Verily & forsooth
Endgames are a bother

Brian acquired the nickname Ozob during school. It is Bozo backwards.

Last fortune cookie said Life Is A Verb
Out of the mouths of cookies oft comes Favor
Viceissitudes lay low my bro
Eternal as delayed Godot
Obstruction’s a real bitch
Forceps & clamps to the fore
And verbalize LIFE for my brother

I was solo at China Chili, where Brian and Mom and I have been known to go, it being near Mom’s house, a few days ago. My fortune cookie said “Life is a verb.” It really did. Shortest fortune I ever got, and one of the most cryptic. I apply all its force to Brian’s upcoming surgery . . .

Finally, today I tried to settle down and sum up Brian in as few words as possible. Foremost to mind was the fact that he is a widower, and his deceased wife Lira, a true sweetheart, was the love of Brian’s life.

Lira’s man–Ozob
Outlaw–storyteller
Vagabond too
Empathetic host
Often in Dutch [trouble]
Fighter with a cause
A true Survivor

Today I went to help my brother Brian with yardwork and carport/shed hauling. I yelled at him when he pitched in to the point of reaching as high as he could to clip some branches on the small tree. I lectured him about trying to be a player/coach when at this time he needed to be just a coach. “When you coach a softball team, you can’t go out in the field with the guys,” I said. (Brian had been a Little League coach–a good one–some years back.)

Later I apologized for yelling at him. He said it was OK and I was right and he needed to keep in check.

The thing is, Brian is going to the hospital for cancer surgery next Tuesday. He has an IV port in his chest that has been there since his chemotherapy a couple of months ago. Most of the available veins–aren’t.

Brian has been to Hell on his own dime via street life, incarceration, and hard drug use. This century he has trekked back out of Hell heroically, and gives a lot of credit to the faith-based service organizations Streets of Joy and Victory Outreach. He has even (miraculously!) stopped smoking, giving up a habit he’d had since his teens.

But now, the malignant mass having had its growth stunned and stunted as much as possible via chemo and radiation, the docs are going in to remove the mass, and part of Brian’s body with it. And he is far more calm and collected about it than I am.

It is rectal cancer, the same thing that claimed our grandfather back in 1987. Brian knows exactly what he’s in for, because he was Papa’s caregiver in the last four months of Papa’s life.

It is possible that Brian’s long stint of living on the edge has  helped prepare him for this next challenge. It’s also possible that he’s just putting on a brave front, but I doubt it. I think I would know. I’ve known him all his life.

And I love him. He is a great brother. He would do anything for family, including me. He is especially generous to the homeless. All are his brothers and sisters.

But this brother is having a hard time with this harsh reality, and has turned to creative expression as a means of coping. You’ll see some of the chaos of panic in the card below . . .

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Part 2 will include transcription and annotation. Meanwhile, Brian has given me permission to ask all who read this to pray for him. He believes in the power of prayer, and I believe in the power of Brian plus prayer. Friends, please pray for my beloved brother Brian.

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there are baubles in the attic

riots in the fields a split in the council

unthriving sounds of caribou

ever-evanescent skyscape

People talk about signs of the Apocalypse. I’m not going to wax too apocalyptic here, but I am compelled to mention that I’ve  witnessed more fights breaking out on our light rail in this calendar year than I’d seen in the previous five. Not a good sign.

 

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The oil pastel adventure continues. Today’s lesson was Using a Limited Palette. I also changed my stroke strategy to include ittybittycircle strokes.

A few decades ago it was the vogue to call an in depth profile on a topic of interest a “white paper.” This is an address on environmental concerns, so it’s Green.

Words:

Given: A Metabolism needs its ATP

Rituals involve a substance-smoke or wine or tea

Eagle feathers, balls on tethers, Nana’s chicken soup

E-mail, retail, CRUISIN’ in a two-tone bitchen coupe

Now we need to prove we’ve got the stuff to LOOP the looper

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“Now here’s my plan,” says one celestial object to another. The other’s response is “??”

And, Friends, your response to this card may well be “??” as well. Mine would be. This is what I can tell you: I was committed to using oil pastels today; thought a ballpoint pen would help; began with the notion that “cosmic scheme” might mean not only The Way Things Play Out, but also The Insidious Plot of One Or More Celestial Objects; suddenly realized it was Sunday, and I had fifteen fewer minutes to play than I thought; got it done at breakneck speed, though badly, and missed the bus anyway because I’d left my bus pass and the cardholder containing it at the apartment.

It may be rationalizing nonsense, but I will argue that all that happened enabled this creation of mine, horribly flawed as it is, reflect its subject matter to near-perfection. The creation of our local Universe was a messy and chaotic thing indeed.

The words:

Create your particle accelerators

Out of nothing geodesic

Singularity splits-CRASH

Making TIME & SPACE a creche

In a place where orgasm

Consists of plasma and biome

Here concludes the mini-est of mini-series, a two-part on Paul Klee.

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Kaiser’s soldier, bastard’s father–what a honeycomb

Lepidoptery in artwork gave his soul a home

Elegance on canvas–hey, let’s give the man his due

Eucharistic vision fair reveals his apercu

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First, of all, for the benefit of English-speaking people like me, “Klee” is pronounced a lot like the English word “clay.” If you think it rhymes with Gee, as I did before I heard it pronounced correctly, you will miss yet another bad pun on this blog.

Klee looked at things differently, and, like me, struggled with color, almost resigning himself forever to being a draughtsman and not a painter. He persevered, though, and I intend to as well.

The skewy words from a feet-of-clay person:

Ferocious lions may be back/El
Nino might obstuct a jackal
Effulgent fountains mock a whale
Tsunmi Cliff Notes say No Sale.

Don’t worry if the words make little-to-no sense. The first time I looked at Klee’s stuff his approach made little-to-no sense to me.

Here is something that is and is not a work in progress. It is not good as is, but there is a revolutionary artwork implied in it; the trouble is that its proper expression would require about a month’s work. So here is yet another one waiting for me to retire . . .

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Words:

Born & bred in angry squalor/raised expecting even smaller /eking pennies on the dollar/acrimony–CHAOS too/turns into hullabaloo/hashtag [#] Welcometothezoo/if the outcome makes us scream/need a strong liaise ur-beam/get our selves a better dream

What could be revolutionary, and is implied, is the degree to which the.text may enhance the message. Note how one line “jumps ship” and usurps the end of the previous line. And with time and effort the words at the last of the poem may themselves give Breathing Room relief.

Will there ever be a 2.0? Time–and space–will tell.

And Fortune . . .