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l'atelier




Don and Peter
turned this
chicken coop
into a studio
.


That was before
we knew Don
would have
chickens.

I think we began calling it l'atelier because we moved to the farm the same year we went to Paris to celebrate our 25th wedding anniversary (2003).

It's not just mine, but everyone acts like it is.

Lesley gave me a hammock chair that hangs from the ceiling. I challenge you to try to read in this chair and stay awake more than five minutes.















Besides read
and sleep,
sometimes I write here.
















I started painting last year, and didn't even finish my first painting. It's hard work! I don't want to show you what I have so far. Here is my little canvas before I started. That's my Grandma Olive's easel. She was a professional artist/designer.



I was following instructions from Brian Simons online.















I got the underpainting, value study and colors blocked in, but I never finished the painting.

If Gwen, Sharon or Laura
will come give me lessons,
maybe I'll finish it.

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my state, his poem


If you want to see this temporary collage better, click on it. And no, everything doesn't have significance. A few things do. Can you spot them?
-
Oh, and it isn't easy to make a collage when you've cleaned out your junk drawers after reading the wabi sabi book. I had to dig into the jewelry box, the feather vase and a few other storage places.

Three New Yorker magazines had piled up without my reading a single article. So I put them in order and started with the May 19 edition.

I always read the poems first, and this was the first poem. It tickled me so much I want to share it with you. Well, and it also has a couple of funny but sad lines.

(I was born in Lansing, Michigan in 1956. I've lived in other parts of the country and the world - Oregon, Chicago, Pasadena, Istanbul - a few years here and there, but I've lived in the mitten state almost as long as this poet, Bob Hicok.)

* * * * * * *

A Primer
by Bob Hicok


I remember Michigan fondly as the place I go
to be in Michigan. The right hand of America
waving from maps or the left
pressing into clay a mold to take home
from kindergarten to Mother. I lived in Michigan
forty-three years. The state bird
is a chained factory gate. The state flower
is Lake Superior, which sounds egotistical
though it is merely cold and deep as truth.
A Midwesterner can use the word “truth,”
can sincerely use the word “sincere.”
In truth the Midwest is not mid or west.
When I go back to Michigan I drive through Ohio.
There is off I-75 in Ohio a mosque, so life
goes corn corn corn mosque, I wave at Islam,
which we’re not getting along with
on account of the Towers as I pass.
Then Ohio goes corn corn corn
billboard, goodbye, Islam. You never forget
how to be from Michigan when you’re from Michigan.
It’s like riding a bike of ice and fly fishing.
The Upper Peninsula is a spare state
in case Michigan goes flat. I live now
in Virginia, which has no backup plan
but is named the same as my mother,
I live in my mother again, which is creepy
but so is what the skin under my chin is doing,
suddenly there’s a pouch like marsupials
are needed. The state joy is spring.
“Osiris, we beseech thee, rise and give us baseball”
is how we might sound were we Egyptian in April,
when February hasn’t ended. February
is thirteen months long in Michigan.
We are a people who by February
want to kill the sky for being so gray
and angry at us. “What did we do?”
is the state motto. There’s a day in May
when we’re all tumblers, gymnastics
is everywhere, and daffodils are asked
by young men to be their wives. When a man elopes
with a daffodil, you know where he’s from.
In this way I have given you a primer.
Let us all be from somewhere.
Let us tell each other everything we can.
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Ode
















In a glass.

In a leaf.



We'd die without it.





Cloud.







Rain.






Snow. Ice.




River.





















Vapor.






















Lake.





Ocean.





Groundwater.
Aquifer.
Water table.





It's free.

It's priceless.

(No plastic water bottles please.)

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the cold rush



There I was on top of the world in 1975, age 18-almost-19, hiking a path from Lauterbrunnen to Wengen, Switzerland, with pigs. I had never heard of global warming, although the melt at the Arctic had been happening since the 1950s. The Alps don't even look like this any more. (Well, neither do I, but that's another topic.)

Pardon me for huffing here instead of at my huffing blog, but while some of Nature is beautiful and warm and loving, humanity included, some of it isn't, and I don't want to ignore that here.

Have you heard that at least five countries are vying for territorial rights at the Arctic? The United States, Canada, Russia, Norway and Denmark (I vote for Denmark, since they're trying to convert to 50% renewable-energy-dependent in the next couple of decades) are arguing about who "owns" the land, tundra, seaways. Ultimately the political import is about the shipping routes and oil under the sea that is becoming more accessible due to ice melt, and who will have rights to harvest and control what could be as much as 25% of the world's remaining fossil fuels, according to this article in Vanity Fair by Alex Shoumatoff. In fact, the Russians sent two Mirs down below to gather geologic samples, and while there they planted a titanium flag (anything less than titanium or something that strong would be compressed under the pressure). And it's not just those five countries. China, Japan, India and others are in place to be part of the highly political regional footholds. Russia is claiming it has sovereignty over some, if not most, of it - nice thought, considering they turned off the gas faucet once to Ukraine.

Okay, so the Arctic ice has been melting at a rate of 10% every decade since the 1950s, which is why it is suddenly a topic of oil drilling: it's accessible because of the melt. And what caused the melt? Well, um, yeah, global warming, caused by burning fossil fuels. What a poetically devastating cycle we humans generate.

It seems that life is replete with the difficult tension of a) wanting things to get better, wishing everyone would wake up and b) knowing in my heart of hearts it probably won't happen in most cases, until absolute desperation and necessity demand it.

Do I believe our powerful countries will turn to alternative eco-friendly sustainable fuel sources rather than turn to what's left of the earth's oil? As long as there is oil, it's not running out, right? And Americans with gas prices above $4/gallon, and Brits with twice that price, are clamoring for their governments to do something about it. So should they drill that precious oil, buy a few more decades of oil dependency? Make their penny-pinched citizens happier?

As "we" embark on this new frontier of exploration, expedition and exploitation, I am sitting here with a stupid, gullible look of disbelief on my face, disappointed that nothing has changed, artificial borders on Mother Earth continue to be drawn, and we suck out her life as if we are entitled, with no respect or acknowledgement for how we were born from Her, will dissolve into her, making us one with her and each other.

I guess we can hope that some Russian scientists are right, that global warming is almost over, that it's getting colder up there again, and that thickening ice will prevent oil drilling.

Or, if that fails, maybe we can fly above the earth like the shamanic Siberian flying reindeer.

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home from Gotham City

The girl is like her father.

Her hands are alive with many projects, such as this sweater for her friend's new baby, Eden.

She is not like her mother, who stares out windows.





I want to see her shots of Floozie!


She came home to the farm for R & R, but she helped her dad, along with Peter, construct a new room in the chicken coop and put in a veggie garden. She weeded and planted a bed for the morning glories.





She helped her dad give Honey a trim. Poor thing couldn't see! Kept bumping into things. Honey and her sisters could use some head bands like Lesley's.






The daughter did relax too.













When she wakes up we're going to 1. go see "Indiana Jones" with her brother; 2. go to the Secretary of State to replace her drivers license that got stolen with her wallet last week in NYC; 3. come home and have a photo shoot in the studio for some professional head shots, then drive her to the airport!
-
Thank you, sweet girl, for all the help and energy! And thanks to your brother who is more like me but also helped a ton! I loved having you home.


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Sunday morning walk







Before the house is awake,
the birds have been calling
for hours.







The bamboo
had a shower

and waits
for the sun

to dry itself.






























Dandelions' gossamer
feathers
remind me of
Don's Polish hen heads.







The grapes have begun to form on the vine.





Iris heads are
reaching up, out
of their skin.































Pelargonium in a pot,
honeysuckle by the pond
magenta-size the air.







Columbine
dances its
insect dance.


























A lady is at
home
in the
Russian Olive.









Lilies of the Valley
ring in white.







And back to the house where Bishop is still asleep.



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