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quotidian lifecycle

awakening is a form of birth
taskdoing growth
drowse senescence
death bed

so you were reborn mere hours ago
and into this new life
you may see to it that love is there
and hatred recognized and removed
you may graduate with honors
at scrubbing university
you may keep your troops provisioned
with your grocery requisition
or moldcast and bisquefire
another brick for your cathedral
ste bernardette the hardworker

or you may mope and sit
you may burn out that you not fade
you may build a spectral enemy
and stab and stab at mist

it is your day
it is your microlifetime

where to?

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This morning I basked in the presence of LaShawna Douglas-Muhammad, whom I had not seen for at least a year. We’d arranged to meet and I’d asked Shawna what her favorite flower was. It is the Plumeria, which I had never drawn nor painted. For the last couple of days I’ve gone about remedying that, and the drawing I made included this acrostic poem:

plumeria & lashawna

plain yoghurt & UNawful falafel
LOL so fine & so ciao bella
umbrella tree & blossom oasis
miraculous & sweet floral mesh
entice & fill with euphoria
relieve & cure Sorrow
in a thous&fold refrain
a flower & you, dear Shawna

In close to an hour that seemed like about five minutes we talked over Starbucks coffee about co-workers past and present; baseball, especially the Dodgers; managers and management styles; certain health issues; California, where we are both from; our fathers and other family members; and the tough last few months, with their tragic losses and with the loss of friendships consequent to the Capitol insurrection of January 6. One fascinating bit of trivia I learned is that her grandson Cairo does not like his Grandma’s lipstick.

It was, to understate it, a WONDERFUL visit, Shawna being both a good talker and a good listener. We hope to see each other again in a couple of weeks or so.

2021 1016 shawna and plumeria

2021 0116 plumeria and shawna

Some days ago a man named Tom Dupree, creator of a fine blog about editing and miscellany called “You and Me, Dupree,” found himself looking at a crossword puzzle and needing a four-letter word defined as “Avenger.” He thought of Emma Peel, the character played by Diana Rigg in the mid-60s series “The Avengers.” But the crossword-puzzle constructor was referring to an Avenger from the Marvel Cinematic Universe.

It was nice for me to again be reminded of Diana Rigg, the slim, gorgeous creature who played a part on my adolescent fantasies. But it also occurred to me that Emma and Peel are both four letters in length. Thus a new page was born, and I have Tom Dupree to thank for catalyzing it.

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20201231 a woe a shoa

a woe a whoa

fingers that are wrong
linger unerased

flinders make when burned
cinders gone untraced

robin’s doffed his hood
sob in grief o marian

for hys life so brief
gone to chieftain’s carrion

Friends, if you read this, you survived one of the strangest and most traumatic years of your life. May you have a glorious 2021, an end to fear, an easing of woe.

My beloved mother Jane Stoneman died in hospice at 5:11 AM the morning of Friday, December 11, 2020.

Sinai Mortuary, the go-to place for Jewish people in central Phoenix, is handling the arrangements under the able direction of my Aunt Diane, whom Mom trusted with power of attorney and personal representative status. Diane has done more than two years’ worth of heavy lifting in seeing to it that Mom’s needs were met. And it was from Diane that I learned on Friday that Mom, who converted to Judaism in the early 80s as part of her attunement to my stepfather Marty Stoneman, had chosen Sarah as her Hebrew name. (See my blog post “Laugh, Sarah, Laugh” for evidence that there are no coincidences.)

It has been a tough three days, but I found doing this modest tribute to the memory of my mother to be a nice distractive relief. As always, though, I am not 100% satisfied. My attempt at Mom, I think, looks more not unlike her than like her–and there is a huge gap between Not Unlike and Like. But I imagine Mom pshawing me and saying archly, “Son, when it comes to doing my portrait, you can at best only approach Perfection–you can never attain it.” I hasten to add that Mom would never say anything like that in real life. It just makes me feel better to imagine.

Jane & Son

Jubilation lit July with fireworks so grand
Just sipping tea on Mom’s front lawn chair like an ampersand

And oftentimes it is enough to watch as it explodes
And file it as a lovely time amongst the nematodes

Now for the pic Jane Stoneman grins and leans her head just so
Embrance the Moment, says her Grin, then head for parts unknown

Yesterday at 5:11 AM Mountain Standard time my mother, Jane Bowers Stoneman, declared victory over suffering and dementia by shuffling off this mortal coil; or, as Shakespeare also put it, [Dies.]. I had started grieving for her some days before she stopped breathing, because the quality of her life had been declining, and the rate of decline was accelerating. It is heartbreaking that the end so often takes that shape. I will miss her terribly the rest of my life, and honor her memory, but I am glad she is shed of all her pain, frustration and sorrow.

I’d been working on this page and was about 2/3 finished when Mom died. I know my mother’s mind to the extent that she’d want me to plug away, finish this piece, and begin the next one, and so I’ve struggled all day to do what should have taken a couple of hours at most. It STILL could use some work, but there’s a significant chance that anything else I do at this point will make it worse rather than better.

This one’s for you, Mom, flawed as it is. Your loving son continues his journey. Please keep up the cheerleading as always.

2020 1212 nes168

Something nice started with this lamentatious post I made on Facebook:

Friends, I am Bummed with a capital B. My Phoenix Center for the Arts wheel-throwing class has been canceled mid-stream. The center cites community benchmarks for COVID-19 infection risk. I applaud their proactive efforts to stem the spread, but I also feel like the rug has been yanked from under my feet, landing me on my oversized sit-downer.

I took some clay home. Not much–I was on public trans and on foot, and wasn’t up to lugging a lot of clay around. So I can hand-build, but until I find a reliable studio space/place, I can’t throw, and I can’t really sculpt–I need to bisque-fire what I make.

Rats!!!!!

Several friends commiserated, wished me well, suggested handbuilding, and generally made me feel better, though still bummed. Then I got a Facebook Messenger message from an amazing friend of mine, thus:

It was a link to a demo of someone deftly throwing miniature vessels on a tiny wheel. Looked like fun. We had this text exchange:

G: Very cool! The demo potter makes it look easy, but you’d need surgical steadiness to throw with precision on that scale. Worth exploring, though!!

N: LOL yes I know what you mean, but they are very sweet, something you could do at home

G: Quite so. Tell you what. Find me the product and how to order it, and if it’s under $100 US, I will buy it and make something for you. Deal?

It was a link to an outfit called wish.com. The little wheel was offered at $64. I was amazed that it was so inexpensive, and in fact it wasn’t, quite: what with tax and handling and timely shipping  the bill came to something over $118. 

And just this evening I made the second of two 3D sketches of Queen chess pieces. Neither looks remotely like her. Just getting my feet wet on subject matter I hadn’t handled in many years. I like the vitality of them, though.

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Long story concluded: As I say in the title and in the text exchange, there is “Wouldn’t It Be Nice” and there is “Make It Happen.” I’m thrilled that, thanks to my wonderful friend, a setback turned into a new, exciting path.

Would you like to meet my wonderful friend? You bet you would–trust me. Her name is Nina Pak. I knew her as Nina Rogers when we were classmates and (briefly for me) fellow Yoga Club members at Glendale High School. She attended my wedding to Joni Froehling on December 10, 1988, and I have not seen her much face-to-face since, but thanks to social media we maintain our friendship. She looks like this:

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She also looks like this:

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She has been a model, a curator, an art director, a publisher, and many other things. Working out of Vancouver, British Columbia, she has created time-defying, gorgeous tableaux of bygone–or alternate-universe–scenes. The curious need only do an Internet search on “nina pak art” to be privy to a multitude of breath-stopping imagery. She has said of her work, “I am not opposed to making my art look good on someone’s wall, but I feel what I create has a spiritual depth and mystery that stirs something essentially vital:  a longing, a calling, an echo of something forgotten, deja-vu, or something you can’t quite grasp but want to share.”

And she is my friend, thank the All, and this week she helped me do more than daydream about how nice it would be If. Nina, please accept my humble thanks!

Today I had another Bad Pun Brain Teaser Contest on Facebook, thus:

Wow, it’s been forever since our last Bad Pun Brain Teaser Contest. This one here may be easier for anyone who’s been through a pregnancy.

A man and his pregnant companion are in the kitchen. “Wow, I’m hungry,” the man says. “I’m gonna make lunch. Want some?”His companion thinks about it, sniffs the air, makes a face, and says, “No thanks. I _______.”

Fill in the blank with a single seven-letter word that makes a truly wretched Bad Pun of this scenario, and if you’re the first one with the right answer, you win! Win what? We’ll see.Contest ends at one PM Mountain Standard Time, when I’ll disclose the answer, if there is no winner, or congratulate the winner and announce the prize, if someone has answered correctly.

Have fun, Friends!

Almost instantly I heard from Jessica Renee Ballantyne, a frequent flyer with my contests and the winner of the very first contest I had:

“No thanks I gestate.”
“No thanks I just ate”


This is, of course, the correct answer. Jessica went on to explain that she had independently invented, and employed, the Bad Pun when she herself was pregnant.

So I on-the-spotted her prize with this comment:

CONGRATULATIONS, Jess!!! Not only have you Won, you have Won Again! You are one Smart Cookie, with or without a Bun in the Oven!

We don’t have to wait till one PM. It’s my contest and I change rules at whim. So here’s your prize, if you choose to accept it, Jessica: If you provide me with a title, I will write three poems, using three different poetic forms, using the title you provide for each. If you specify a poetic form I will use it for one of the poems. (If you pick Ballade or Sestina it may take a couple of days!!)

If you don’t want to do this, that’s okay too. If that’s the case, your prize will be Bragging Rights.Again, congratulations!

Jess gave me the title “Starry Night” after the Van Gogh painting. So I first wrote a Sonnet.

****
Starry Night

Some see the stars as fixed but VVG
Lent vortices of motion with his paint:
Impasto in impassioned filigree
Illumes a humble town with unrestraint.

He saw stars in his brainstorms, some have said.
Photemic teeming of hallucination
Acquired in his lonely madman’s bed
With kinesthetic sight based on sensation.

But Truth is often found in an asylum,
Beatitude oft had with heart’s expression,
And metaphor turns blandness into ylem
The primal stuff we mix a batch of Fresh in.

The Starry Night sees Vincent’s flag unfurl:
Above a town, a tidal, Cosmic Whirl.
****

Next came a Senryu:

****
starry night

here i am says light
endlessly variable
in shifting array
****

Third and last was a Villanelle:

****
starry Night

“the stars are not above,” perceives the child.
“they full surround the sun, the earth, and me.
exploding, they birth elements gone wild.”

when chandrasekhar’s limit is defiled
massivity begets its potpourri.
“the stars are not above,” perceives the child.

“it’s sweet to think a kind Creator smiled
As pressure built and Chaos was set free–
Exploding, it loosed Elements, made wild.

“this starry Night, so temperately mild
includes some supernovae on a spree–
the stars more than ‘above,'” perceives the child.

“as gold is ringed and silicon is tiled,
as oxygen is tanked, we thank who be
exploring with those elements gone wild.”

the child descends the hill, her entry filed.
she spoke of starry Night, and Majesty.
the stars below, above, around the child
explode anew with meekness fused to Wild.
****

I was jazzed after finishing the poems, and thought I had enough juice left to do an illustration to the sonnet. It was true.

For Vincent’s face I used as source not one of his self-portraits, but rather one of the existing photographs of him. For the suggestion of his famous painting I found a photo of it in its frame at the Museum of Modern Art in New York City, where it is part of their permanent collection.

Big thanks to Jessica, who kept me out of trouble and creatively productive all afternoon doing this project. I feel that this was the absolute best use of my time today, and I’m grateful to Jess for the inspiring title that made it so!

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What we have here, mostly, is a slaphappy celebration of flowing ink. There is some poetic discussion of medieval media and the glories if novicery, but it was in the service of this celebration.

The words to “light bends”: let’s hear it for the first-day newb/in battle or sin or in a cube/gesundheit is a sneezing newly spun/gehenna is a private hell begun/heuristic: take diffraction pattern and/take plating and make volume where it stands

The words to “reef raks”: remember entertainment long before the vcr/entertainment like a brookside sword out of shannara/elongation of our timelines surely takes us back/followers of cinema have been through fades to blacks