Farmer Friendly

photoAn Understanding

Jacob Johnson Underhill,

Our long-gone friend, we miss him still,

For there’s none left to pester now

That he is dead; the old hay mow

Has no more mousetraps set to catch

Him with an unexpected snatch;

His cows remain un-tipped; the well

Where his hat “accidentally” fell

Is boarded up; the outhouse stays

Untroubled now for days and days

Where it was once (we’re sorry, Mom)

Deposit for a cherry bomb

And too, quite often (sorry, Dad)

Pushover to a farmer’s lad

And lass who hunted for a thrill,

Thanks to old farmer Underhill.

photosNow his old tractor has not seen

Us sugar up his gasoline

Or stuff a tater in its pipe

For ages, things that used to gripe

Old Jacob some, but he plowed on

With chuckling brown-toothed grin; he’s gone

And how we miss him now, old coot,

Who never bent to our pursuit

But took it all in patient stride,

The way we liked to chap his hide.

The fact is, he loved us until

He was no more, old Underhill.

It’s dull down on the farm these days,

Except when a peculiar haze

Will sometimes gather in the field

And there his shade may be revealed

To grin, complicit with us still,

Old Jacob Johnson Underhill.

photo

I’m So Unpretentious You’ll be Totally Impressed with Me

photoExtra Ordinary

Although I arrived in my mile-long limousine

amid a storm of camera flash lightning and wailing

pleas, ‘Look here! Over here!’, and with

my customary flutter all around, confetti-like, of fans

awash in sycophantic swirls of yearning whirlwind flight,

photoyou needn’t be intimidated by my entourage and air

of mystical perfection, for I am quite ordinary too

and put on my pants one three-thousand-dollar leg

at a time, just the same way that you do

photo

Hunk of Burning Lady-Love

photo

I'm in the full bloom of my life . . .

A Real Hottie

O radiant beauty, dost thou know

What microwaves thine innards so–

Pray, can it be that bane of men

And women both, yea, estrogen?

photo

Go ahead, my man, and throw me bouquets!

Wait for Me! I’ll be Right Back. Maybe

Once upon a time, I wrote and posted a poem. It was yesterday, in fact, that I posted it, right here, along with some photos of mine, and got a number of comments from you kindly people when you read it. Ironically, perhaps, it was titled:

I Don’t Think I’m Crazy, but I’m Not Crazy about Clowns, Either

–now I’m a little unsure about the Not Craziness on my part, because the post has disappeared from my blog and only appears as an unillustrated draft in my archives at the moment. Naturally, this is precisely when my otherwise quite nice tech homies of WordPress have deemed it a fine time to take a weekend off from Support to spend fine tuning all of the neat things they can do for me. Of course, people, I already knew about my own craziness. I’m quite happy in it, for the most part, as it’s just a friendly sort of nuttiness and of being, erm, offbeat or eccentric that I’m pleased to hone to a fine art. But when it allows cracks in my little tiny universe where something I’m pretty sure I did actually do can leak out and disappear on me like this it’s just a little disconcerting. I shall have to have a little heart-to-heart with the WP techno-mavens when they–and I–both get back in our respective grooves and see if we can’t find the alternate dimension wherein my wandering words may be, perhaps parked in the wordsmiths’ Naughty Corner to think over how they dared to disrespect the dignity of the Clown race.

chair photo

I can only hope my earlier words have had a good think . . .

We’ll see if the ether-gods and I allow yesterday’s post back to the party when found. Words, as we all know, have a tendency to be incredibly unruly. In the wrong hands, nothing but trouble. Left to their own devices, heaven only knows. So we shall just see.

In the interim, I’ve got loads of other words stacking up and raring to go. You are so deeply not surprised. So I’ll keep plugging away and we’ll see what transpires right back here where there’s room for more. So I gather.

photo

We'll see how everything stacks up as we go along . . .

I am slightly tempted to take a brief commercial break because, since I brought up the whole subject of craziness and now have the best sort of it running through my pretty little head. Three words: Crazy. Patsy. Cline. I have a feeling even a clown could be saved from the purgatory of the social outcast just by listening to the inimitable Patsy’s rendition of that immortal song. Words, you know, being powerful–and when linked to music, another incredibly powerful force, possibly that much the better. I might just have to take a moment for the same therapy.

Genuine Shenanigans; Accept No Substitutes

graphite drawing

Freedom to get up to all kinds of nonsense: one of the great perks of being a kept woman . . .

Playtime is such a necessary and fabulous thing! I am undoubtedly one of the most fortunate people on the planet: I get to have the run of my entire silly imagination and the opportunity to document it as much as time and crayons will allow. So off I go, playing like a little kid chock full of Super Sugar Blasters, not knowing in the slightest what will emerge from the madness.

That’s the fun of the whole thing.

Sure, sometimes even the pampered grassfed, free-range artist gets a chance to do a project that requires a certain gravitas. Heck, even gets an itch to do one. But really, what’s the fun of being an artiste if everything I do has to be serious? I think you know me well enough by now to figure out the likelihood of my acquiescing to a creative calling if it were an all-business sort of proposition. Oh, yeah.

Much rather draw dragons. Paint giant insects taking over the world. Sculpt gargoyle faces and build neo-Baroque furniture. Assemble pseudo-robots out of mannequin parts and small appliances (Francine, where are you now?). Design and sew evening gowns out of trash bags and plastic doilies. Sharpen the pencils again and make up stories about, say, a cat that’s figured out how to get the fish out of the aquarium but not gotten so far as to figure out how to get herself back out of the aquarium after making the catch. Kind of like being an artist who has begun to figure out how she prefers making her art but still isn’t clear on what to do with it once it’s made.

Guess I’ll post some drawings again, for a start!

graphite drawing

Every gift comes with a few dilemmas, it's true . . .

Affirmations for People You Really Don’t Think Deserve Affirmation

Mediocre former students and coworkers asking you for letters of reference; children accustomed to getting high-fives and stickers just for showing up; performers fishing for compliments on their less than stellar performance; the doctor with a hideous bedside manner who did your lifesaving surgery; that overeager blind date who thought you’d made a Love Connection. You’ve met ’em. There are times in all of our lives when we’re called upon to pass judgement that’s expected to be complimentary (if not worshipful) and what we truly want to say is, well, the truth.

So I’m thinking one needs a handy resource, a nice innocuous sounding collection of pseudo-affirmative responses that allows for not clamming up in refusal to respond when asked the fateful question–but without having to resort to full disclosure. Sense that you’re about to be hit up? Whip out that magic list and take your pick of pretend-affirmations and you’re home free. You can smile sweetly, pronounce your kindly evasion, and skate off smoothly before anyone knows what’s hit him. Life should be so sanitary.

ink & charcoal drawings

Cruel to be kind? Or just to get away with something?

How could I go about this, I wonder. Let’s see, we could start with the easy answer-with-a-non-answer method, you know, the one where you go backstage and forestall the request for details with “I’ve never heard anything like that before!”, which if said with a gleaming flash of every tooth in your head in the credible imitation of an awestruck smile has a certain impenetrable nearness to a compliment. The cool thing with this one is, should guilt try to sneak in on your conscience, you can remind yourself that you are truly in awe (as long as you, hopefully, are never called upon to say of what). While I’m mentioning credibility, there’s that classic “critique” where all you say with that glorious grin is “Incredible!”–scrupulously true without your having to commit aloud to what lacked credibility.

But really, shouldn’t there be an opportunity here for a few style points? I must cogitate upon it. Feel free to chip in to the cause if you have some outstanding face-savers for such occasions.

“Gentlemen, I cannot recommend this student highly enough to your program.” Really, I can’t.

“Her performance in my class was absolutely unique in my twenty years of teaching experience.” I’ve never had anyone else stay so well below the bottom possible marks so much of the time.

“I’ve never worked with anyone else that operated the office microwave so flawlessly.” The complete sleight-of-hand or misdirect is probably the only safe route when there is no possible positive performance-related thing to be said about the person in question. On that note, I do know that it’s at least as much about what’s unsaid as what’s said that makes any of these interchanges work.

For example, “I’ve been on pins and needles for ages waiting for the opportunity to tell someone what an amazing person she is and how worthy of your hiring!” Why muddy that up with the purely optional clarification that you’ve been dying for the opportunity to offload this human piece of debris on some other unwary employer? Or the fateful replacement of “how” with “not”, which, while equally true, would only be likely to cloud the issue, n’est-ce pas?

Children generally have frighteningly sensitive crap-o-meters, so one does have to tread carefully when asked for upbeat commentary by a kid. Perhaps one can evade the issue with bold diversionary tactics, particularly those involving a high sugar content or permission to play video games obsessively for an hour. If that’s not feasible, it’s best to find some way to put a positive spin on a bit of the act or art in question, no matter how miniscule the opening offered. “Honey, that is unquestionably the hugest green thing I have ever seen you draw. And without a crayon, too!” On this occasion, it’s probably a good idea to make sure you get the rest of the artistic medium blown out of the young artist’s left nostril while offering the affirmation, so as not to have the artwork become part of an ongoing series.

With older artists, one might be safer heading off the complimentary fishing expedition with the introduction of a competing topic the artist can love, such as his distinctive artistic process. It’s probably not polite, unless you and present-company are pretty darn familiar with each other (and then I’d just ask why prevarication is required anyway) what he was smoking, or whether he feels his current meds influence his work significantly. “How do you come up with your ideas?” has been done to death, but maybe a good twist on it can work. Let’s see: “Do you find that visual or tactile influences play a larger role in your practice?” By avoiding the obvious sensory connections yet remaining in a satisfyingly subjective realm, you open the door for all kinds of rambling through the meadows of self-examination and evaluation. You could be out of danger by now.

But wait! Here comes Dr. Beastly to collect your fawning kudos on his stellar work despite his having browbeat you within an inch of your life through the entire process leading up to your surgery and then proceeded to terrorize both you and your caregivers right through the recovery room and into the exiting wheelchair. I realize that in this instance there is an almost overwhelming temptation to save your savagery for his bank account, considering that it’s yet one more area in which he abused you highly, or perhaps to just let fly on the spot with a fusillade of foreign terms best used for different kinds of bodily reference. But in your heart (which he might have just helped fix) you know that there’s a slight chance you might have to call on him for further tuneups. So if a simple “I appreciate your not having killed me” won’t do, perhaps you could try “I will make sure everyone I know hears about what you’ve done here.” For me, to me, whatever. They will be hearing all about you!

Very few are the happy folk that have never suffered through a blind date or one that made them wish they were blind, deaf, and completely insensate. The worst are the sort of dates where it’s clear at the end of the expedition that the person you’re with had such a different view of the occasion that you are fairly certain you were in separate dimensions at the time. How to let Desmond Delusional down gently–while still assuring that he understands the finality of this transaction? Delusions do die hard, you know. Being too nice leaves room for persistence. Feigning one’s own death has often proven awkward in its complications.

P&I drawing

Sometimes the occasion calls for more than just pretending to be angelic . . .

I tend to prefer actual tact in this instance, because I am beyond certain that I was the not-so-dreamy date in question at least somewhere along the line in my dating career. Odds on it. So when I came up against an over-enthusiastic would-be suitor myself,  I chose to find wriggle room for second date escaping in as realistic a way as possible each time. I didn’t date much altogether, unsurprisingly–but I congratulate myself that it was because I had a pretty good idea of what I was and wasn’t looking for in a date and didn’t care to settle: when the right guy appeared on my doorstep I got right in gear and bulldozed on into his life. I’d tell you to ask him how to fend off unwanted advances from a lunatic lover, but he’s clearly not the guy for the job, since he married me.

Sometimes it’s nice to actually be nice. Just in case.

What, you think just because I spend inordinate time hunting for ways to get away with saying unsavory things to unsuspecting people, I’m not just a sweetie underneath the hard crust?

As the Murky Mermaid Cried, It Never Seems to Work Out for Me with You Mortal Twerps!

  • photosHas our romance tanked? Or were you just horsing around the whole time anyway?

Deep Anxiety

Azure the swell of the ocean

As it laps at my ankles and knees

Returns me to innocent ages

With its salt-scented tropical breeze

Enticing me into the water

To dance with the angels and clowns,

Those colorful fish,

Whose great subversive wish

Is that every two-legs of us drowns

photo
Is my luminous love anemone of the people?

Jellied Love

Wrap your arms around me, Dear,

Your thousand arms diaphanous

And slinky; pull me closer thus

And squish my spleen right out my ear—

 

A hug is only so refined,

Caresses valued most and best

That find me mashed against your chest

Until I’m quite out of my mind—

 

Crush me with adoration, squeeze

The living daylights from my heart

Till I this earthly plane depart

To ocean’s bottom, pretty please!

photo

When love comes the raw prawn and leaves you blue . . .

Ice for the Drinking

Has love grown cold? Didst run too hot?

I’m lost now that I’ve got it not,

And plunged into a deep abyss

Where everything is dark, amiss;

Neither is it quite blue or green,

But rather some miracle in between,

That diamond shimmer’s cold allure

Demands my fealty for sure

When sun sears high and day grows long;

It plies the perfect siren song

Toward leaping in the drink to freeze

My overheated soul with breeze

Tinted with mint or Curaçao . . .

Say, I could use an ice cube now!

photo

Ah, Ophelia, you are not alone in falling into the drink!

Foodie Tuesday: The New Miracle Diet that will Give You X-ray Vision, Eidetic Memory and the Pheromones to Attract Every Sexy Human You can Possibly Want!!!

photo

If the Perfect Miracle Food were the food you despised most, would you eat a barrel of it anyway?

I’m beside myself [Ed: yes, right over here] with ecstasy that we live in an age where we’re constantly receiving updates apparently teleported, straight from God’s lips, on new life-saving Superfoods and diet strategies that will bring about world peace and end the shortage of sporty convertibles in our time. I realize that as long as there have been hucksters and hyperbolists that could spell Snake Oil there have been such claims filling the air and jamming our brainwaves with unrealistic wishful optimism. Purveyors of serious science and common sense have both long since given up on the possibility of coming to a definitive answer to the perpetual question of what’s good for us to eat, at least one on which all sentient beings can agree. That never stops anyone from trying either to discover it or to convince us (with our remarkably flexible wallet-hinges) that they have.

But the modern info-bombardment wherein we swim encourages us to see, hear and believe an ever-noisier, ever more enthusiastic and far-reaching set of claims to this Truth. Amazing! Astounding! and the ever-popular exclamation that I so love, Incredible! (As if I can’t tell just from the obnoxious typography of the advert and the hilariously awful before-and-after unretouched photos that there’s nothing remotely credible to be found in the accompanying claims.) Scientists are almost as guilty of outrageous claims as anyone, in this environment where every research program has to compete for every dime with not only every other genuine researcher but also the whole phalanx of false prophets and their wonderful platinum-plated products. It takes only a tiny effort for the completely uninformed amateur to sleuth out at least two diametrically opposed studies on any given dietary claim that have produced what looks and sounds like fairly convincing data, so I am loath to do anything more dramatic than take it all with a grain of salt.

photo

. . . and how do you prefer your sodium chloride: hickory smoked or deep fried?

Which, indeed, is what I will likely do. Hey, there are enough mutually exclusive authorities regarding how much sodium is permissible in whose diet and in what forms to keep a whole herd of elk dying in wait for the salt lick. I’m fond enough of being alive and not feeling like, say, I’m in imminent danger of keeling over with toxins squirting out of every pore of my body while I disintegrate to dirty swamp water like the alien in a 50s B-movie that I do try on the average to put things into my mouth with a modicum of moderation and thoughtfulness. I look for what seems to make me feel my best and work to include that in my meals rather than always succumbing to the lure of the luridly unhealthy.

It just seems to me that we have actually been living for a bit right in the middle of Woody Allen‘s Sleeper. Regardless of your view on Woody Allen movies, I’m nearly at the point where I think all school health classes should be required to see that film at some juncture in their studies just for the scenes where hero Miles Monroe is brought out of his cryogenic sleep and is coached by his attending doctors on how the understanding of health has changed in the two hundred years while he was snoozing on ice. There’s something almost eerily familiar nowadays when reputable researchers and doctors from every corner are admitting that perhaps not all of our longtime religiously held convictions about sugars, fats, proteins and all of those other pesky elements of edibles we fear and worship are exactly the truth, the whole truth and nothing but. That perhaps there is a bit more difference in how one person or another is affected, and how good or evil that might be.

All I can say is, it’s kind of a relief to think that I don’t have total control over my destiny through what I ingest, so I’m going to continue to consider myself a so-far live experiment subject willing to undergo certain tests to see what can be most deliciously survived in my lifetime. Come on over and chow down with me, and don’t get too hung up on it, okay? There’s too much edible, drinkable goodness of every kind just hovering on the edge of my ken for me not to show it some respect and appreciation. Amen, let’s eat.

photo collage

So many tasty choices, so little time . . .

Surely ‘Tis Better to be Bombastic than Merely Bumptious

graphite drawing

As my music teacher once told me, "if you make a mistake, be sure to make the same mistake again, and with real conviction, when you get to Verse Two."

No one will be surprised to hear that as a kid with no sense of direction, space or straightforward western left-to-right/top-to-bottom reading I never did master reading music. Apparently I was a pretty decent prevaricator and persuader, though, because I faked my way through my five years of piano lessons by conning teachers and friends into playing my assignments for me up front ‘so I could get a feel for how they worked’–so I could phony them up by playing primarily by ear when lesson time came around again. Not to say that this flim-flam actually made me a good player. I had the decency to stop taking lessons when I was old enough that the act was wearing as thin as a starlet’s underwear. My teachers deserved to work with students with a certain amount of potential, after all. But I learned lots of fun and useful things from them in spite the inevitable moments of frustration and drudgery inherent in beginner’s practice. Not least of which was that the root not just of learning, but of potential innovation and variant excellence is the Mistake.

This is not meant as license for licentiousness–free rein to make egregious errata just for the lazy-ass or mean-spirited fun of it. But there’s a great difference between tripping on the invisible banana skin and bounding around boisterously without regard to the laws of gravity just to see how much I can liven up a dull funeral service. There’s a yawning gap between plonking a wrong note in the heat of a performance and sabotaging a poor defenseless deceased composer because I don’t care enough to learn her work properly. Despite my inability to make head or tail of those dots on a score, I did earnestly try to learn the proper notes right through by however devious the means.

I can neither confirm nor deny that the keyboard biff-ery that inspired the above gem of guidance regarding consistency of form used to disguise a melodic pratfall in any way improved upon the intended character or direction of the piece. Can’t even remember what I was playing. But you can be sure that the technique offered was a face saver, if not a life-saver, many a time after. Sometimes it’s just best to own up to my impressive capacity for fallibility right off, and enjoy a good horse-laugh at my own expense along with all of the other merrymakers in the room. Sometimes, though, I would rather take a page from the Bluffer’s Guides and adopt a meant-to-do-that nonchalance. There’s only so much I can take of being the unintentional class clown. Part of me dreams of Emma Peel sang-froid, a fantasy that however insanely unreachable is yet not easily quashed.

After all, it has served as the inspiration, time and time again, for all sorts of larger than life ideas, stories, poems, artworks and practical on-the-spot excuses, and who among us does not need those! Dogs, however voracious, can’t be expected to digest every available hunk of homework; traffic cannot account for the vagaries of my inspired life behind the wheel at every moment; and certainly the good taste and etiquette handbook, no matter how comprehensive, simply doesn’t have the capacity to cover my every gaffe and blunder in thought, word and dork-dyed deed. So thanking my lucky stars, and my long-ago mistress of pianistic peregrinations, I will continue on my hapless yet happy way, pretending to know what I’m doing in life while covering my blunders with bluster and the best imitation I can give of correctness. Whatever that is.

graphite drawing

What I MEANT to say was . . .

‘Deferred Maintenance’ is a Sectionally Transmitted Disease

photo

There's a reason this wall reminds me of that great tale of suspense and horror . . .

The Yellow Wallpaper, Charlotte Gilman Perkins’s wonderfully creepy short story in which she compresses the narrator’s descent into madness down to a few remarkably hackle-raising pages, is a bit like the process a building undergoes when neglected and ill-treated. The slide into decrepitude and decay may be slow and secretively incremental, as is often the case, or like Perkins’s poor madwoman the structure may disintegrate in an ever-speedier spiral rush to utter ruin. What is fairly consistent is that whoever is responsible for the maintenance of the place keeps it out of sight, out of mind enough to pretend that nothing bad is happening. What is more consistent yet, perhaps, is that any building falling prey to bad caretaking will do so in the way of a body falling to disease, that ‘thigh-bone connected to the hip-bone’ path of disintegration where the collapse of one part or system leads to that of the adjacent ones, and so forth, spreading until all are in full deconstructive mode.

photo

When things slip into the vortex of dissipation . . .

So I know that I can’t rest on my laurels if I happen to find a moment of seemingly settled pristineness. It’s bound to be an illusion. Somewhere, just out of view or conveniently forgotten, there’s a fine crack stealthily forming between the concrete driveway and the foundation, a swash of grime sucking into the most vulnerable point in the guts of the HVAC, one industrious ant setting up a sneaking trail to the one corner of the living room window trim whose caulking has curled back and left him an opening for invasion. And I know where each of those things leads.

I begin to feel a hint of that same crawling paranoia that the infamous wallpaper fed in the story’s hapless heroine: the sense that bit by bit, the house is gathering forces to rebel against me and my toolbox, that an overwhelming wave of implosion is building, however secretively and discreetly, and if I don’t replace that blown fuse NOW and repair that squirrel-chewed piece of siding on the instant, it’s only a matter of time until that horrific night when I will be awakened by a faint creaking that builds in a breath to a hurricane’s roar just before the house and all of its messy innards, me included and mummified in my tangled bedding, are slurped with a giant THWOOP! into some portal or black hole in the time-space continuum, never to be seen again.

photo

I can't just lock away the projects that I don't want to undertake, or the next visitor might be the undertaker . . .

Now, you will rightly surmise that a generally happy-go-lucky goofus like me doesn’t actually dwell on quite that level of near-nervous-breakdown over the state of my estate perpetually. Nor do I think anyone should. It’s mostly when I’ve been a little too, ahem, engrossed in my love of the yesterday-mentioned sorts of grim fairy tales and goblin-haunted wrecks of architecture that I might get a little inebriated with the idea that every bit of built space for which I’m responsible is headed for immediate wrack and ruin. The rest of the time I am with the ordinary hordes of folk who prefer the polite fiction of “deferred maintenance” over immediate activity and find a virtual infinity of ways to hide, compartmentalize and dissemble when we should be wielding our hammers. Sloth is always such a strong impulse, and the ability to fantasize justifications for it grows exponentially when fed a steady diet of To Do lists, self-imposed or not.

So far, my approach has been to drift along in apathetic torpor and evade the notice of beckoning chores for as long as my conscience can be stretched to tolerate it, and then fall about in a flurry of torrential attack on all the ills of the house for just barely long enough to congratulate myself on my excellent (or, okay, passable) mastery of the place, then fall back into my reverie of comfortable denial. It’s just possible that when that moment of dramatic self-destruction comes to my house of cards I will be safely couched in a nearby garden bed anyway, because it was too much trouble to get up and go in to such a flimsy place by then and I would have been too annoyed by the staring projects all awaiting me.

photos x3

At what point, I wonder, will my love of all things crumbling and rusty be outweighed by my desire to have them actually function as intended? I'm sure many of my friends have asked themselves the same when thinking of me . . .