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2016-06-02 09.45.13

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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I have a friend I have never met in person. I do not even know how she pronounces her first name, which is Clottee. I have been pronouncing it “Cloh TAY” in my head. I will ask her next time we chat on Facebook.

Clottee has been posting extraordinary historical tidbits about slavery. The History textbooks in the schools I went to wouldn’t touch this stuff. So, following her posts, I’ve learned a lot about the routine cruelty of certain white folks and the fathom less imposed misery of certain black folks. The movie 12 YEARS A SLAVE, and the recently-revived TV series ROOTS, gave white-bread me a hint, but Clottee’s series yields a holographic panorama.

Her most recent entry profiles a remarkable woman, and reading about her I was compelled to do the above card. It was also a way to express gratitude to Clottee for her hard and diligent work.

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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.

 

2016-05-30 09.35.39

Here’s my second try at Martin, who during lulls will join me at the podium and share his mordant observations about fashion disasters. Again I got carried away with the oil pastels, and this is a seriously flawed portrait. But because of this one, the next one will be better.

2016-05-29 09.02.10

Explanation, if needed, on request.

 

debt toll

dealers and wheelers suck merlot

eaters and bleaters can’t say no

beggars and peggers know full well

there will be HELL to pay–then a knell

2016-05-28 08.52.01

So Veronica doubles down on her faith in my artistry by giving me a SECOND set of oil pastels, this one made by Grumbacher, a fine and venerated brand. (Grumbacher and Liquitex were the only brands of acrylics I ever bought as an art student.) She says, “If one of your things ever ends up in the Louvre, maybe you’ll give me some credit . . . ?”

I will give her credit in advance. One fine day at least one of my oil pastels will hang in the Louvre, and I will owe it all to her.

But it won’t be this one, though there is some energy here, and a good choice made of dark paper. This one is overdone–I didn’t know when to stop–and still unbearably clumsy.

Smart Pooch

Such a pup

Makes us so

Avid to go

Romp, etc

Thru Truth

2016-05-27 08.42.05

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

2016-05-26 07.18.52

This second exercise did not take long, I having learned from the first that simpler is better. I’m also learning that it’s not necessary to grind the pastel into the paper as if it were spackle into a wall. And going from the inside out seems to be better than outside-in.

THANK YOU!!! for your kindly attention.

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Here’s a couple of hours of work, and a couple of baby steps toward the hundred-mile goal of Oil Pastel mastery. I remember sensei Darlene Goto’s words on a blackboard, more than forty years ago: ART IS WORK!! It is if you’re serious about it.