The Inspector

In 1988, fresh out of college and working at a macrobiotic deli in a health food store, I had an affair with the stock manager, a married Irishman living illegally in the United States and the father of a three-month-old daughter. In the mornings, when we met before work to make love in the back of my car, he smelled of baby powder and the beer he’d drunk the night before at what he called his local, The Dribble Inn. We flirted through the workday, French-kissed in the walk-in freezer. One day six months or so after our affair began he didn’t show up for work. Just like that, he was gone. This was in the days before cell phones; he didn’t get in touch to tell me that his wife had found out and given him an ultimatum: quit his job or she’d take his daughter away and make…

“Erin, can you stay after class today? I want to talk to you a minute.” We were shuffling around in a black-box theater, dusting off our jeans after lying on the floor trying to breathe ourselves two inches below the surface, tensing each muscle in our bodies in slow succession, imagining our animal selves. I picked a dust bunny off my thigh and tried to avoid making eye contact. “Sure, Scott,” I said quietly. “I mean, I guess I’ve got a minute.”

A first-year journalism student, I had credits to burn: As it turns out, hopeful new reporters aren’t expected to become experts in anything—except coaxing information out of subjects who do have expertise of one type or another, then digesting that information into something the average magazine-reading schmuck can understand and appreciate. As such, journalism school is a study in knowing a little bit about a lot of things, and academic…

It starts again.  The cycle.  The never ending punch in the gut, jolt to the heart, baffling cycle.

The first stage:

Denial

“Have you talked to mom?”  The question I hate to hear when one of my four brothers calls.

“Yes.”  I close my eyes before I ask, “Why?”

“She just seems,” Sigh, “Out of it.”

“No. I haven’t noticed.”  I lie.

Then I end the call and pretend it never happened.  I go about my day.  I play with my children.  We do homework.  I cook dinner for my family, a mediocre, limp mess that we call a meal.  I sit in my chair at the kitchen table, fork some food into my mouth, chew, and swallow, all the while trying to push her illness away from my reality.  I smile at my son as he tells me something really important about one of his Lego Star Wars characters…

The last rise home (memory drawing cos it’s cold out there) (Ipad finger drawing, Brushes 3 app)

I thought I’d post something different today: a photo of our patio where we sit out during the day and have our meal in the evening.  If you’re wondering why everything is so utilitarian, it’s because it can’t be eaten or chewed by our four dogs. We do have a very nice table setting of cane – a round table and four chairs, but that’s in the small verandah beside my study where I can keep an eye on the dogs and make sure they are not chewing it, as they find the cane irresistible!

The large rock on the table has travelled with us from Scotland, to England, to Australia (where we moved home four times) to North Cyprus. My daughter came across it by accident when she was on her friend’s farm one day and decided it was right up my alley as a lover of stones and…

 I’m almost out of scanned artwork … aaagh!  I’m going to have to get with it and do more sketching!

I sketched this after my friends came to visit from Michigan.  We enjoyed 4 BIG days of birding — it was great!  We saw quite a few brown pelicans, too — pelicans are always fun to see.  They have a shape that’s very ‘watchable.”

I’m currently down with a back injury … I’m hoping it’s something a chiropractor can fix easily, but we’ll see.  Today is the first day I’m able to move (sort of) and am not super groggy from medication.  I can tell already that it’s gonna be a good one 🙂

697/1000 #GrowJune
Recently planted border
Pen

if i took one thing away from my years in the high desert of new mexico it is a life long love affair with green chilies.

i must admit that i’m continually disappointed here in alaska with the selection and quality of the chilies. a lack of dry and heat and everything else that makes chilies happy is surely to blame.

i eat them anyways.

it’s not that they taste bad, they just don’t have any kick.

green chili relish

ingredients:

4 large green chilies

1 jalapeno

2 tsp salt

a jar

some water

instructions:

cut everything into little pieces (except the salt which should already be in really little pieces)

put it in the jar

fill with the water.

shake it like a maraca. you can do a little dance too, it might help.

leave the jar on the counter until it’s nice and funky!

eat a lot.

Voila!

You can see my blog again….Lucky you!

No help from the WordPress Nazi’s that suck cash out of you like grimy leeches for CSS crap that never works right and takes a Masters degree in Computer Science to understand, unfortunately I only have an associates…

So, now that y’all are back where you belong, worshipping at my feet and doing whatever it is that peasents do, you can go back and make sure that you haven’t missed anything important over my last few posts.

You know you want to you buncha needy perverts….

But, I understand your plights….

I would worship me against my own will, too.

Now, a quick poem:

Ode to Diabetes and my Pancreas in a Dr. Suess tilt                        :

I cannot eat sugar
I cannot eat rice
I cannot drink soda
Or chew something…

I’ve edited all the sketchbook drawings from my Pakistan residency into a short film with Adobe Premiere Pro. I drew them consecutively as I journeyed through the country and I also recorded sounds as I went along on my phone, so I’ve added a soundtrack as well. Isn’t technology brilliant?

The drawings were made with Daler Rowney artists’ soft pastels into a Khadi handmade paper sketchbook, 6 inches square which I scanned into my PC. The sounds were recorded on a Samsung Galaxy S3 mini.

No matter what your age, you can still have fun.

Nice quote about the charm of a sketch…

… and journal notes about community living.
I like to refer to abstract, imaginary “sketches” as Polaroids from my mind.

#deer #goodmorning #buenosdias #art #sketch #brightside #illustration #inspiration #dibujo #art #coloramaapp #sketchapp # bambi #nature #flowers #doodle #sketchbook #happy #fun #haveaniceday #mixedmedia #watercolors #inkonpaper

Liz Doyle

Evening Sky

from a painting by Liz Doyle and a photo by Ann Koplow

Night had already begun to hug the lowlands
when his back to the pale faces of the outbuildings

their remnant glow against the forgetting day
I thought I saw Turner out there

tying himself to a piece of sky shadow
to ride out the violent vault into night

A mile up the day was still swirling
like love thundering in the chest well after

the details have been lost still Turner
tearing clouds with his brush into the idea

of clouds wonders if he’s leaving
something out he’s never believed

the details mattered although they meant
all the moment could form into and change

From the cumulonimbus he sees an old man
preparing a thatch hut against the wind

And a town lobbing light into the sky
The man’s thoughts are fireworks reflected

In…

Sometimes you’ve got hold of something. Something special. Maybe not special enough to cause men to forgo sex and women to forgo chocolate. But something uncommon enough to keep you from interrupting to refill your coffee, or special enough to make you put off that meal for an extra hour, or five, or six.

At a minimum, I write three three short stories every month for my subscription series. That’s about 15,000 words right there. Month in, month out. Add to that other assignments and projects, and you can imagine my head’s pretty well buried in the keyboard. It’s a crazy mix of artistic pursuit and work ethic. And it doesn’t allow a whole lot of room for sightseeing, detours or prima donna moments. But that’s how you do it. Whether you’re full time, part time or any time you can make the time. You’re always at it.

Working “short” as…

I really want to come up with a funny, witty, fantastic blog post for this. But I am a complete zombie today. Please forgive me. This book isn’t so much about an artist as it is about art. The main character is an art dealer, and there are so many awesome works of art mentioned here. I was constantly looking them up while reading it.

Also, don’t go into this expecting Steve Martin comedy. You won’t find it. Steve Martin is way more than stand-up. (Did you know he plays really fantastic bluegrass?) He’s a super intelligent man, and it shows here.

Ok, that’s all the brain power I’ve got today. Have a good one!

A certain kind of person goes to New Orleans, they aren’t coming back. At least not with their heart intact. New Orleans can make a person, even or perhaps especially a non-native, feel permanently out of place wherever else on the map they choose to roam. I know this because it happened to me on my inaugural visit (and has been happening to me every time I’ve gone back since). The people in my life, they know better than to bring up New Orleans lest I pull them down a rabbit hole of brass band record catalogs and dreamy clouds of beignet sugar. My favorite description of New Orleans comes from The New Mastersounds song “Welcome to Nola”: “it ain’t that big and it sure as hell ain’t easy but if you eat fried chicken you gonna get a little greasy”. And well, one way of understanding the New…

I was grilling some burgers and hotdogs for my family on Thursday, and I ran up to the supermarket because I needed more buns, some potato salad, and other things that I never remember I ran out of the last time I had a cookout. I drove the three blocks to the market, hopped out of my car and was greeted by the sight of a middle-aged white man strapping a shotgun on his back and walking into the market just ahead of me. My initial reaction was irritation. Why is this guy bringing an apparently loaded firearm into the grocery store at 6pm on a Friday? Is he trying to intimidate people? Trying to make a political point? I wanted to go to the store manager and register a complaint, but I found it hard to call up my rational objections to carrying loaded guns in public places (objections…

Since being a nerd has become cool I don’t like it any more. Big glasses are no longer the indicator of a visual impairment caused by too much reading, and pasty skin is less likely caused by long hours spent in libraries, archives or labs. It’s more likely the result of an overpriced holiday in Finland and cleverly applied make-up.

It is now socially acceptable, even hip, to be seen sitting by yourself in a murky café reading Camus. It is even more so if you’re wearing a baggy jumper you found in a charity shop, while frantically scribbling notes into your Moleskin notebook or are indeed staring into your MacBook. Not even questionable personal hygiene or unkempt hair are a safe indicator that the person next to you is a borderline genius.

On the other hand, real nerds are now heading to the gym to fight the pen pusher’s…

http://vimeo.com/83094404

Above is a video of Dr. Christina Sanchez, a molecular biologist at Compultense University in Madrid, Spain, clearly explaining how THC (the main psychoactive constitute of the cannabis plant) completely kills cancer cells.

Not long ago, we published an article examining a case study recently published where doctors used cannabis to treat Leukemia, you can read more about that here (http://www.collective-evolution.com/2014/02/10/cannabis-helped-treat-leukemia-in-teenage-girl-doctors-publish-case-study/). To read more articles and view studies about how cannabis is an effective treatment and cure for cancer, click here (http://www.collective-evolution.com/?s=Cannabis+Cancer).

Cannabinoids refer to any of group of related compounds that include cannabinol and the active constituents of cannabis. They activate cannabinoid receptors in the body. The body itself produces compounds called endocannabinoids and they play a role in many processes within the body that help to create a healthy environment. I think it’s also important to note that cannabis has been shown to treat cancer without any…

Earlier this spring, a bit before drawing on the street was seasonable here in Montreal, I spent an afternoon sketching in the greenhouse at the MTL Botanical Garden.

Looking back in time, my location drawing has been a fairly steady transition from black and white line drawing, through line and wash, and towards painting on location.  Mostly I see this as a natural progression. An ‘improvement’ from drawing towards painting. I think most people would feel that paintings are somehow more challenging. A ‘higher art’ than drawing?

There’s some biological reason behind it I’m sure. A painting, being tonal, can tap into the eye-to-brain function and convince us we’re looking at reality. But, oddly, that’s why I love line work. Because it’s not such a straightforward illusion of reality. There’s something about an ‘unfinished’ sketch that really appeals to me. It’s partially the speed of execution (they are more fun for…

Exactly a month after dad died, I found myself in North Carolina again. I missed my family, my dad’s house needed to be cleaned, my dad’s cremains were ready, and I just needed to get away from DC.

My dad’s cremains were split into two nondescript boxes. I kept both boxes on my lap in the car and I could not stop thinking about how a big tall man had been reduced to two boxes of ashes. Ashes to ashes. It struck me as odd, how as a child I used to sit on my father’s lap and now the roles were reversed with him sitting on my lap.

We did a lot at my father’s house. Food donated to a food bank. Junk discarded including a huge tub of individually wrapped plastic cutlery and a million copies of a single document denouncing Mormonism in favor of Christianity. Three bedrooms…

Fear of Flying
For Kate
Rachael Z. Ikins (c) 2014

12 years ago almost-birthday.
Muggy July, heat embargo.
10 p.m. My thighs stuck to vinyl.
Diesel fragrant air, tired tourists,
rumpled in, jackets lumped on arms, 
meandering toward Baggage Claim.
I watched them dwindle.

All my losses, deaths, griefs-accumulated
weighted my ribs, my own stained satchel.
Corridors echoed, tourists vanished,
hydraulic doors hissed at the night
like a frightened cat.
My thighs stuck to vinyl. 

Does the airport stay open 24/7?
At “too late” a blue-suited man entered 
a secret door from the tarmac.
He carried my sharded heart,
white basket hung from one finger.
My thighs stung unstuck,
he smiled,

“Is this yours?”

I took my beating heart,
my own two hands, 
pressed my face, painful metal.
Blue crocheted baby-blanket,
two enormous ear-tips poking through. 
This exact moment

I knew your wings; 
that you had grabbed me 
by my…