This will be my life. A timeline searchable by Art, Poetry, Diary, Big Book, Person, Place and Date. That’s the idea anyway.
Poem. Jan. 8, Sunday, 7:00 am, 2012
swirls in my cup like the clouds swirling inward.
The smell of warm hot tea swells within me,
then spins in the cup to my lips.
I slurp it in.
seduced by clouds,
splintered by life lines.
Shines upon me.
my companion, friend who follows and reminds me,
of who I am, and where I stand.
All before, now within.
How am i connected to this world? Am i emotionally connected to brands? Do they somehow fulfill something in me?
Am i connected somehow to things? Things that are not alive. Why?
What is nature? What is man made? How are they connected?
The story of Grandma’s House
(Originally painted in 1983 but this was repainted in 2005)
Grandma Mabel’s house definitely showed its age. Each room slanted in a different direction, the angles joining one another in a master symphony of calamity. It stood by sheer will, joyfully defiant in its skewed posture.
Every board, shingle, and brick was permeated with the rich textures of living and time. A house that had sheltered eight children and as many grandchildren through the Great Depression, the Dust Bowl, World War II, and several catastrophes of nature has earned the right to be a little out of kilter. Slightly cattywampus. It’s really been lived in.
P.S. Don’t try to sneak out late in the night because Grandma knows every creak and squeak of every step and plank.
Listen, Grandma Says, “A tasteful house is beautiful but a home that creaks, rattles, and murmurs with years full of memories is indeed most wonderful of all.”