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Happy Valentine’s Day to my dear Girlfriend, Denise. Denise, I custom-created this for you while watching the very romantic movies WOMAN OF THE YEAR and PRIDE OF THE YANKEES. Hope you like it!Image

Sorry about the crappy-phone-camera photo quality, Darling. I’m Scannerless right now.

Here are the words, from me to you:

Get kisses right before we sleep: all very well and good
Great chemistry as surely as mahogany is wood
But thorough bliss is unfulfilled unless a savored wish
Be shared be sought be striven for be Had–we DO? Delish!

Love,
Gary

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Today the weather was bright and lightly breezy and good for a rejuvenative, meditative hike. Up Schuerman Mountain Denise and I went in yet a Further Adventure Of Denise And Gary.

Most of the way up I asked Denise to pose, not for a picture I would post, but for a photo source for a drawing I would make and post. Further up she took a photo of me at my request. I post both the drawing and the photo to reveal the vast difference between the one degree of separation from reality of the photo and the two degrees of separation from reality of the drawing. (In my drawing’s defense, the background is a different part of the landscape than the photo.)

 

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About an hour ago my mother called me with the news of my stepfather’s death. She is broken up but felt a beauty in the way he went. I’ll see her soon, probably early tomorrow, and we and other family will see his remains to a special place put aside for them.

Marty often talked about saving the world. He summed up his thoughts on the matter in the trilogy THE STORY OF OG AND MAN, for which I did cover illustration, and THE PAIN THAT LOST ITS MESSAGE. He developed artificial intelligence software years before its time, for which the megacorp Lego showed some interest (but ultimately, as they say in the biz, “went another direction”). The Don Quixote-cum-Jedi-knight flavor of Marty’s endeavors struck me as I ran across this image in a search for one of my drawings of Marty. This image will do; it’s a good metaphor for his struggles. Despite the last line, I am sure that Marty is now at a better address than Earth. Farewell, Marty, my friend.

On the last of January I made the acquaintance of a force of nature in the disguise of a little old lady. She allows me to post this blog only on the condition that I use no names nor photos, though she allowed me to take a camera-picture of her for my photo source for my drawing. She says it’s all right to use the first initial of her and her friend’s names, so she shall be A___, and her friend, G___.

A___ and her family had the good sense to leave their neighborhood two days before the Nazis hit town, which is why she is alive to tell her bathtub stories and jokes. She told me three of each. Yesterday I synopsized the bathtub stories in the following poem, using a title provided by a friend:

life in a bathtub

an electric-blue-clad 88-yr-young lady breezed into the shop
and almost immediately told three bathtub stories
which are here arranged by her age at the time

very, very young, in austria-hungary:
as the youngest, in her uncle’s house,
she was the first in the day for the family bathwater;
for some reason, though, she had to bathe
surrounded by the family.
her uncle dropped a sugar cube into the water.
“that’s for your sweetness.”

fifty-one years old, in california:
water was being rationed.
a fellow apartment dweller knocked on the door
and asked to share her bathtub
so that they would be good and proper rationers.
he was twenty-six. a neurologist, and most likely a virgin.
mayhem ensued
when his long, lanky leg knocked down the shower curtain.
years after the affair they were still in touch.

in her mid-seventies, northern arizona:
she’d had a WONDERFUL bath
and then dressed
and answered her friend’s knock at her door.
“why so smiley?” “i’ve just had the BEST bath.”
turns out her friend both didn’t have a tub
and desperately wanted a bath.
soon she was in the tub and in bliss;
soon after, though, her friend discovered
that as an old and hefty lady
she could not get out of the tub.
she, petite and elderly as she was, tried to help.
early efforts were in vain. finally
she took off her own clothes and got in,
squirmed under her friend, and chivvied and hoisted.
a hefty upper body flopped out of the tub
and one of the puppies,
triggered by the pendulous breast
dangling before her puppy eyes
began to nurse.
“OH, how we laughed!!!”

i have the lady’s number.
i will call her soon,
but not to share her bathwater.

*****

As for the jokes, I’ll just tell the shortest for now. It’s also the only non-R-rated one.

Goldstein gets pulled over by a cop. “Sir,” the cop says severely, “Are you aware that your wife fell out of your car a quarter of a mile back?” “Oh, thank God,” Goldstein replies. “I thought I’d gone deaf.”

–Well, if you heard HER tell it, you’d laugh. Here she is:

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COMPLETENESS

Compulsions are more easily conducted through tradition
Confusion’s quelled & then resolved if we’re all on a Mission
Of quirks and failings are we all however we may pose
Obtuse investigation lets us call a guess surmise
Machismo or our “best behavior” muffles up our cries
Micromanaged sorrow tells the news feed so it goes
Put Piggy Banking off its feed–you need a lack of plinks
Put Love and Money on whatever brings the richest thinks

So I wrote in late March of 2010. Neil Armstrong was still alive and smiling, Philip Seymour Hoffman was still alive and performing, and Marty Stoneman was still alive and theorizing. Now two of them are gone, and the third is going: I saw Marty last Saturday but he was never conscious enough to converse. His breathing was a little shallow, but steady. His head was at an angle that seemed odd and uncomfortable, but his spine has been collapsing for years. His flesh was suffused with the color of jaundice, as if some chef had added saffron to the mix. My first sight of him prostrate on the bed gave me a flash of Michelangelo’s “Moses”: that heroic head, stricken with tragic necessity.

With my words came an image that revealed the triple acrostic COMP LETE NESS. Looking at the image today, I realized that it itself was incomplete. I added more words, in the form of a pseudo-haiku:

..,say, One-Small-Stepper:
did you, when you passed away,
make that Giant Leap?

This to me is the “overwhelming question” referred to by T.S. Eliot’s J. Alfred Prufrock. And by Jackson Browne, thus, in “For a Dancer”:

I don’t know what happens when people die
Can’t seem to grasp it as hard as I try
It’s like a song I can hear playing right in my ear
That I can’t sing…

I also enhanced the image somewhat, with Ticonderoga #2 pencil, and eraser, and paper stump. But it STILL isn’t complete; so my second signature on the page has “completed” in quotation marks.

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My mother tells me that Marty was saying “I’m done” over and over again in the last couple of weeks, and that despite a lifetime of nonchalance about the prospect of dying, he has become fearful. I weep and mourn for him. He is still fighting, but he will lose soon.

Jackson Browne finished his song this way:

“…and somewhere between the time you arrive
And the time you go
May lie the reason you were alive–but you’ll never know.”

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Often a creative person feels the urge to create yet no inspiration at all. They stand or sit paralyzed by their keyboards or canvases or clay and nothing sparks ignition. That is tough to go through. This image full of thought balloons is an example of what might occur to a creative mind in the desperate search for a hook to hang a creation on.

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In my Phoenix visit yesterday (about which in a future post) I was happy to see my daughter had given my Green Queen, made, if memory serves, about ten years ago, and given to her thereafter, shelf space. She will preside over this true story:

At the prescription counter of the largest chain store you can imagine, I gave my name and birthdate to the counter person. “That’s just the one prescription, right?” “Yes.” “That’ll be two hundred and thirty-four dollars.”

Sure she was kidding, I asked her if I could have maybe a ninety-percent discount. But she wasn’t kidding.

After giving her my insurance credentials, which they’d had already for a different prescription, she reassessed: “That’ll be twenty dollars.” That still seemed steep so I said, “That still seems steep.”

A higher-up, who was literally higher up than her, drug counter stratification being what it is, ventured that a repackaging and rebilling would net some additional savings. “Come back in twenty minutes.” I did. “Sorry, it’s not ready yet. I’ll put it on CRITICAL.” I waited ten more minutes. “Bowers?” “Yes.” “That’ll be eighteen dollars.” Grumbling, I paid and left.

At home I discovered they’d given me six times my usual prescription amount. Long story short: Unit cost went from $234 to $3–far more of a discount, in the long run, than I’d imagined. Crazy world, ain’t it?

My friend Joe challenged our poetry group to write a poem about metal, but not gold, silver or platinum. I wrote this:

yum yum yum molybdenum
say it thrice it makes you thrum

with it i am o so chummy
want to be molybdenummy

love it quickly love it slowly
worship it as holy moly

moly ringwald moly hatchet
moly fever let’s all catch it

that is why i gave it chase
wound up with a moly face

This morning I frantically riffled through my archives for a second Holy Moly. Here it is:

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Two Holy Molys will see me safe to Phoenix, where I’ll see my mother, my daughter, and, I hope, my ailing stepfather. Au revoir!

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From midnight to seven today I was doing my Graveyard Shift Front Desk thing. Drove home to Cottonwood, communed with Cookie the cat on the couch and caught about forty-five minutes, then drove back to the Village of Oak Creek for my solo shift at the Village Gallery. It was busy and then not off and on from 10am to 6pm. When it was unbusy I looked through my almost-filled notebook for unfinished stuff, being too beat and disheartened to start something new, and found a portrait of Etta James. It was a welcome distraction to work on the portrait and to concoct some poetry based on the liner notes of one of her CDs, which we have at the Gallery. Now I’m here at home, very tired but wired too, and so I finished the page, scanned it and photoedited it as you see. Ms. James died two years and eleven days ago. I so wish I’d seen her perform.

Here are the words to the acrostic:

Even Angels board the ouija
Elves and trolls and you too mija
Thus goes one LA girl’s anthem
Took her Bleus but shan’t decant them
Thrilled a Fuqua Chessed a piece
Tapped a needle for release
Ahh: AT LAST she’s made good choices
Adding hers to Heaven’s voices

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Corners turned & fates revised–so balances the beam
A splayed delay, then RICOCHET as CHAOS slings the schema
Reveal: A plinth–a LABYRINTH–a HINGE-so creaky door
Outside a bride who’s stir’d & fried her veggies with a spork
Macabre or humdrum? All relies on THIS; the wine uncorks
[or: Macabre or humdrum? All relies on THIS, the road that forks]

Ipse dixit, I hope. [smiles]