axegrinder

It's the end of the world.....

2011-05-23T11:36:00.001-07:00

Salutations dear reader:
Many apologies for ignoring this my safety valve, and possibly your chance to read along as I have a melt down. I've been busy. I've been working on an upholstery framed chair...never did one of those.
However, the recent "Rapture" ripple in my otherwise tranquil life caused me to yet again find the need to vent.
The Rapture is based on a single turn of a phrase used by Paul in the letter to the Thessalonians: "...and the dead in Christ shall rise first: Then we which are alive and remain shall be caught up together with them in the clouds, to meet the Lord in the air: and so shall we ever be with the Lord..."
The "rapture" scare(s) are mostly the fault of one man: an 89 year old radio preacher by the name of Harold Camping. Who states he found a secret code in the bible that allowed him to calculate when the Biblical event of the Rapture was going to occur, and that the world would end 5 years later.

Contrary to popular belief, the theory of the rapture began in the early 1830’s. It was invented by Margaret MacDonald of Scotland and promoted by Edward Irving. Margaret claimed to have had visions of the second and third coming of Christ. Irving, a Presbyterian preacher, promoted the idea that there was to be a restoration of spiritual gifts before Christ’s return. It was at that time, the 1830’s and 1840’s, when he expected Christ’s return to take place. The date for Christ’s return was set at 1844. The year came and Christ did not return. Nevertheless, many continued to follow the leadership of Irving. He emphasized the tongues gift. This was not the genuine tongues of the Acts of the Apostles, but the phony tongues of speaking gibberish and claiming it to be a gift from God. The Presbyterian Church kicked him out as his movement began to slide into high gear.

Irving was an eloquent and charismatic speaker, and therefore was able to influence large groups of people. Emotion was emphasized. The main group that continued his teachings was the Catholic Apostolic Church, of which Margaret MacDonald was a member. However, it eventually became the beginnings of modern day Pentecostal religion.

In the 1830’s, in Scotland, many people were claiming to have the gift of tongues. This, too, was the phony tongues, speaking gibberish and claiming it to be spiritual. Margaret MacDonald was sick. She thought she was dying. However, she also thought she had a vision. The vision, she claimed, revealed that Christ would return in two stages, a second coming and a third coming.

According to her belief, in stage one, Christ would be coming for the saints. In stage two, he would be coming with the saints.

The stage one would be a pre-tribulation rapture, allowing select people to go to heaven and cool their heels, while the rest of the population suffered through the tribulation. This, strangely enough, is the origin of the very popular rapture theory that has been the message behind the “Left Behind” books and movies.

The theologian John Darby visited Scotland and Margaret MacDonald. Although he was not fond of the Pentecostal gymnastics he witnessed, he did adopt the rapture theory and popularized it, so much so that even now many mistakenly believe Darby to have invented the rapture theory himself.

John Darby did invent dispensationalism, which paved the way for the cheap grace movement that was embraced by thousands of converts. Leaders taught that between the first and second coming of Christ was the dispensation of grace, with obedience to God (obedience to the Ten Commandments) optional. This belief spread like a virus over Scotland, Ireland, and parts of England.

Margaret MacDonald’s rapture theory indicated that Christ would come first in a secret rapture and silently whisk the Christians away, leaving people behind, dumbfounded over the absence of their co-workers, friends, and relatives. (http://afsscorp.stormloader.com/ans/whorapture.html)

NO where in the Bible does it state that there will come a time to be discovered in the bible by God's chosen, where Jesus will come down to give a prequel to the end of days by raising the blessed up to heaven. In fact, if you have READ your bible, you see that in the book of MARK (13:32) "No one knows about that day or hour, not even the angels in heaven, nor the Son, but only the Father. " and from Jesus himself (ACTS 1:7)He said to them: "It is not for you to know the times or dates the Father has set by his own authority." IE THAT'S NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS! You'll also notice there is no mention of an old man with a secret decoder ring...
However the unfortunate people that bought into this line of BULLSHIT, don't bother to read their bibles...they have someone "INTERPRET" it for them... and according to the interpreter They twist the words in the bible to suit the hatred (fear) du jour.

Yeah I know what your thinking, 'albert, if I wanted to have the bible quoted to me, I'd visit my Aunt Rose, which I don't.'

My issue with all this is that these people hold their bibles up as a both a weapon and a shield. I don't allow a Bronze-Iron age history of a refugee people in Babylon OR the rumors surrounding the life and death of a man who knew the truth have any more then a minimum of influence over me. (What JESUS SAID wasn't actually written down till hundreds of years after the event-funny how that sorta thing can be changed and elaborated on after that much time. Ever wonder what Thomas Jeffeson actually SAID when they debated the Declaration of Independence?)

My Point in bringing all this up: You should live your life every minute of every day as though you would be meeting your maker that evening and be able to face him without shame. If you are living your life according to the Bible you hold so dear then you shouldn't be concerned about the Rapture or Armageddon, And if you are a true believer you shouldn't depend on 89 year old radio preachers to interpret it for you. Here's a HINT, sit down and read the damn book and don't depend on someone who expects you to give him donations to try and sell you this kind of bull. Society went to a lot of trouble to teach you how to read, the least you can do is exercise that skill before you go running around in hysterical circles attempting to convince the rest of us that Jesus is going to show up and boy are we gonna get it!
Its a good thing that we live in America with freedom of both speech and of belief, If it were anywhere else Mr. Camping could be held accountable for disrupting the public good, attempting to incite a riot, Fraud, and I'm thinking a few other things....125 years ago, there's a better average chance he'd have been tarred and feathered. I'm thinking the least that should happen is that Mr. Camping be held accountable for the money that was donated to him on this 2nd failed attempt to scare society by predicting a non biblical event because of a secret knowledge he has of a historically inaccurate book.

The Hole in my Heart

2011-02-01T08:55:00.000-08:00

Salutations.
I have bled for humanity. I have bled for individuals. I have attempted to share what God given talent I have to make the world a better place. I have lived my life as best I can and tried to make a difference.
I suppose in Satan's Eyes, I deserve all the pain I carry, I haven't made his job any easier. And, in case you are new to this world, God is indifferent. He figures' you paid your money, you take your chances. All he did was build the place and put you here. What you do while you were here is none of his affair.
I have been recently plagued with a allergic reaction to something...there are a variety of places on my body that itch constantly. Another malady to add, another complaint to make my life less then then what I wanted.
I'm wondering about happiness. We spend our lives pursuing it. Is it the same myth as as Love? That Chemical imbalance that plagues all of us at least once in our life? The moments of happiness that are balanced against the seeming months of agony?
Believe or not, I am cheerful person. The workings of the world amuses me like watching children play. The Federal Government? Slackers, idiots and fools. They are all about their own greed not caring a fig for the rest of us, until it's time to keep them at their spot at the trough...then they try and scar us-'Yeah I might be a jerk, but the other guy is Satan incarnate.' Jack Nicholson in Easy Rider "this used to be one hell of a country." Yeah Jack, it used to be. Local Government? Please...The only reason these people aren't in prison is cause they tell the police who to arrest. Family? My Family finds itself in a schism concerning if my Father has the right to his own happiness, even if he isn't. Friends? they are busy maintaining their own lives, justifiably, and i can't find fault. We are all rats here running through our own shit, rushing here and there attempting to find the missing pieces of our hearts. Attempting to find that one thing that will allow us to believe it was all worth it. Is it the destination or the trip that's important? Damn good question. Religion, Hmmmmm. I find the advocates of this form of lifestyle to be pitiful at best, and evil at worst...to pray upon fear of others for your own benefit-and the more sincere you are about it the better chance your flock will turn on you. Politicians of Heavenly office. This leaves the individual, Groups don't work well at doing anything except choosing who they are against. The world is in turmoil, and yet when you ask an individual "are you happy? is this the life you chose? would you want to change it?" you find the people that are too busy to think to be the happiest. They are distracted by the "one more thing to do" mentality. This place we find ourselves, this veil of tears...What's the purpose? Is this as I've always thought a testing sight, a place to prove ourselves? a Stage to allow us to play our part? a demolition derby where the last one up and running wins? Hmmmm...Its Tuesday. I have things I need to accomplish, things to do to maintain my life....I shall ponder this further, if I come up with answers I'll be sure to post them, but for now I'm thinking that it's all pretty pointless;that we're on our own here, that it's as pointless as the bug that accidentally gets in the way of a car speeding down the highway...we all end up as a casualty of life.

The End of the Year

2010-12-21T09:12:00.000-08:00

Hello dear reader, I can only imagine that you're here out of some sense of obligation or curious as to what I may reveal of my colorful history that usually defines what I recall of my life.
I sit and stare out the plate glass windows of my studio. I occasionally feel like an exhibit in a zoo. The front of my place is a wall of glass that looks into my studio. My living quarters are hidden by unseen doors and undetectable windows. My home would be a fine exhibit in a zoo. I don't mind, I'm allowed the privacy of some sort of anonymity. The people who look in have no idea who I am, what I am, or why I'm here. it works. I in my self imposed exile from a world that rejected me as a child. They in their tiny little lives that will come to little or no significance. Most will end as nothing more then a name on a stone over what remains of their life.

It appears that the there is a hole in the color tube for the outside world. I'm unsure if its because of the overcast sky or the time of year, but the world appears to be a hand colored black and white photograph, the color subtle, almost just a hint of life...just contrast. Variations of gray. The soundtrack of the studio includes screaming guitars and rhythmic base lines, thus reinforcing the contrast of the world...It is the soundtrack of my college career and the time just post. I found one of these streaming radio stations and when asked what I wanted to listen to I typed in "The Cure". I recognize most of what I hear, and like most people I'm able to associate the familiarity of the sounds to an event or occurrence of the time I heard it for the first or second time. And typical of a memory it always plays in black and white. ...The pretty girls now all middle aged women-their perky breasts now pendulous-their smooth skin now loose and showing the signs of time. The Guys I knew that were all attitude, recently grown into their bodies and on the hunt for self realization and to get laid are now old farts without waists but with high blood pressure. The topic of conversation is no longer how polluted you got at the party, what band released a new album, where you can score a bag or how so and so was in the sack, but about prostrates, prescriptions,and periodontal problems. The world is black and white...I see only values of gray with a hint of color to it to remind me that I and it are actually vital and that it isn't a memory. It is the present, a series of fleeting moments that pass by like a parade...as each event turns the corner and comes to view, passes to allow me to experience it and then plunges into memory. The significance of sand passing in grains from one end of a thin passage to another is suddenly not lost on me. I am at the end of my 53rd year. I am cursed with a very sharp and complete memory...I can recall with great clarity most of the moments that passed that define my life. I feel like Billy Pilgrim, One moment I am a child living in the shadow of Catholicism and a smoke stack that spews black granulated waste from the processing of Soda Ash-afraid of Nun's and bully's...the next I'm in the jungle looking deep into the thousands of values of green that lied within, wondering what lay ahead for me in college, the next I'm in High School attempting to talk my recent teenage interest into a kiss under the bag of Mistletoe I'd bought from the band that they were selling to raise money, the next I'm spending Christmas day making the cabinets for my kitchen the first year I'm in North Carolina No longer afraid of anything...one second I'm looking to the blue gray of Dagmar's eyes-her toes brushing my calf; the next, caressing Meggen's thigh wondering if it would last, the next wondering if Debbie was a moaner or a screamer; the next sitting in Christine's parents house as she shows them the candlestick holder that I'd spent 4 days and nights finishing for her-the next looking at the finished piece in front of me, getting that slight chill at seeing the realization of the product of my recent labors....I look across the field of my life...I turn to look out the window. The stark white of the building across the street, the grayed orange and yellow of the bricks, the gray green of the awning, the light gray of the asphalt, the beige gray of the sidewalks...the blue-gray, red-gray, tan-gray of the cars that are momentarily in front of my portal into the universe...rushing about like ants to get all their chores and errands done before Friday when the world will simply stop in preparations for Christmas. On Christmas all business' will be closed, the mall will be deserted, the streets will only have travelers going from one quaint attempt at a memory to another-it will be silent, blessed silence roaring silence. Pictures taken, occurrences will become chemical recipe's in brains- All to mark time. All to make this year significant; to prove that this year counted. I sit and ponder the last handful of grains/moments that will define this year in my future. I need to return to my constant labors...my legacy...my proof that I was here on this earth and used my time adding to the fabric of the universe...

Enjoy the remainder of the year, remember the insignificant things and pray for a better next year then this one.

The long road down the hole

2010-11-21T10:41:00.000-08:00

Salutations.
Its been a rough few months...My Unemployment ran out last July and I got a taste of just how screwed up our government is. I've looked for work in areas that I would never have considered. I thought I'd gotten a job, but when the day came and the guy who had hired me and told me to show up then stated he didn't think I would. Adding he thought it would be a bad fit...I assured him that all jobs were the same...I didn't do them cause I was an eccentric millionaire needing something to do with my time. He just shook his head and stated he didn't think I'd show up, he'd seen my online portfolio and realized that I was incredibly talented and he really didn't think I had a place there. I was shocked why hadn't he said this when he hired me? This guy had wasted 2 weeks of my time. I had been running around trying to get things tied up so I could report for work with few distractions and then wasted my whole morning. I had shown up at 7:30 to begin my shift and told to come back at 9-he got around to seeing me about 10. He wasted my Morning for nothing...he kept saying he didn't think I'd show up...I have a few choice words for this jerk, but I will not labor you with them....As I said...been a rough few months.

I feel despondent. I feel like a failure cause I cannot secure steady employment. I have a friend who has hired me for a few projects around her house, for which I am not only grateful, but I consider this a solid hand while I sink in quicksand. For any who know me, know I never ever forget assistance when I need it, and pay it back 1,000 per cent. My soul has been dwelling in dark places lately and I suppose that's what I want to talk about.

At this writing we're about 4 days away from a somewhat special Holiday to this culture. Its our Autumn feast...but that isn't what we call it. We call it Thanksgiving. tradition says it includes a meal that is more food then twice the number of people you have at the table could consume. It includes one of the bigger domestic edible available and a collection of various vegetables, tubers, breads, sweets etc...and then there's the first "Christmas Parades" and the starting mark for Christmas, sorta the first of the infamous "holidays" that our culture use to end our year...But there's more to it then a big meal, companionship, parades and family gathering.
The words used to make this term are important...You give thanks. You give, and you are thankful for what you have. it is a sharing, a time when you reflect near the end of the year and make note of what has happened and how you were spared for it being worse. You are thankful for what you have and at the top of the list are the various friends, relatives, and associates that have made your year something other then the misery it would be without them. The guy that has just the right screwdriver you need for a job that says when your done with it "keep it, you used it more then I have...obviously you need it, if I need it I know where to find it." The woman married to a friend that you haven't seen since her 26 year old daughter made her debut appearance telling you "you always have a place here, Albert." Or the guy who knows you're addicted to nicorette gum and Extra winterfresh and walks in with about a case of each having found the former at a clearance sale and the latter at Sam's club...hands you the receipt and says "pay me when you get employed." The friend who you collect a dept for and he hands you 2/3 of the money you just gave him and says "you can use this more then I can. I'll call you the next time I need some crazy piece of furniture assembled." The former co worker who knows your building a computer desk and drags a under table keyboard mount that brand new costs about $150 and says "take this damn thing, I'm tired of tripping over it." My father who knowing my health insurance is a huge debt I must cover monthly sends me a check every month for a bit more then that amount and asks when I speak to him every week "is there anything else I can do for you?"
There's the friends who notice the blue tone to your internet social page posts and contact you with concern, an occasional lead and encouraging words. There are the people you do business with who allow you to pay your bill in installments, claiming "its only paper, you give it to me and I give it to somebody else...I know you'll take care of this when you can." There's the friends who call you and say "what are you doing for dinner? yeah well your coming here tonight." and call you to come over so they can load a couple of boxes of food in your truck cause they just cleaned out their kitchen cabinets and you can use it better then they can.
I have much to give thanks for. This two year period has been one of the most frustrating periods of my life. I have had relationships born, flower and evaporate. I have found out who are my friends are, and who only wanted me around to find out what I knew. I have been humbled, I have been exalted. I have been shown the kind of love you can only see in these situations. Its that strong hand that reaches for yours when you feel completely alone and its you and the world squaring off for round three and your getting you ass kicked. Its that hand on your shoulder that says..."you might not have much pal, but you have me watching your back." Its that call from a neighbor who says "hey, what are you doing? I have a table I need to move can you give me a hand with it?" with no mention that you still owe him $20.
I find myself thankful for much. I am not hungry, I have a roof over my head. I have access to any form assistance a man could desire should I ask. I have plenty to keep my mind occupied and people who believe in me and know I'm a pretty good bet. Yes, I lack Money. Yes I lack the approval of society because I am not part of the tax paying work force that keeps the economy humming, I can't be thankful for "things". However I think that i was forced to live through this to solidify in my head what is really important.
I have always seen myself as apart from the "herd". Independent in both thought and deed-on the outside looking in. {I jokingly will state that if I'd have known that this 'ruling in hell" shit was going to be that much of a pain in the ass I'd have reconsidered it.) If anything I lead because I knew the direction i must go and asked little advice and no quarter. Its funny when you walk in front you rarely see the people who follow your example, your words, your actions...you must fall, you must stumble and be unable to pull yourself up before you know how many hands reach out to lend you assistance. SO, for this I am grateful, cause its the best thing you can ever have....Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours....

...and things fall apart.

2010-08-05T14:30:00.000-07:00

I sit in my studio, a real barn burner of a storm is kicking up...the thunder rolls across the sky like a herd of buffalo, or a sharp crackle sounding like wood splintering or cloth tearing.. the rain falls, sounding gentle but probably coming down in drops that a 3/8" across...It is late...I should make some dinner and feed Claire, my cat.
However before I pursue closing my life down for a night I think to myself...what the HELL is going on around me?
Let me explain...I've been unemployed now for a month longer then 2 years. I spent my life learning a trade, being the go to guy, being the guy who knew the most and could build anything that was designed that didn't defy the laws of physics. It took 25 years but now I am that guy...I should be teaching the next generation how to do some of this stuff...I should be running some poor schmucks shop while he goes out and sells. I should be starting to think about my retirement...Yeah right.
The state unemployment office (which is about the finest example of confusion in bureaucracy you can even begin to imagine...NO body Knows whats going on from one minute to the next) had assured me at the end of June that I had nothing to worry about as far as my unemployment was concerned... So much so they called me in to show me how they wanted me to keep my records of my job searches from now on. I'm supposed to have had three places I sought work from. I spent an hour writing down the actual web address of Craigslist, for both the major areas around, the large newspaper in the area, and of course their own job search page...and when I gave a sweeping Monday through Friday set of dates they wanted to know SPECIFICALLY when I looked for work at these places. ("that is the specific dates, I go to these places and look every day...") and when I was done they assured me that despite the anniversary I had nothing to worry about...Two weeks later I found out cause I was curious as to whether I should use the number I was issued or my SS# for my future calls in to assure them I had been looking for work and wasn't getting any other money from anyplace else...I was informed that my benefits were exhausted....BUT you SAID...Yeah well, its over. BUT I ASKED....! Yeah sorry we misled you...
SO... I've been going nuts trying to find a job. From hammer handles, to closets, from millwork to caskets, if its made out of wood in a 30 mile radius from home, I have spoken to them...and nobody, nobody, nobody is hiring...except three places.

I had three interviews...two were with temp services acting as a go between for manufacturers...the third was for the biggest cabinet shop on the east coast: the first temp office was for a job running a panel saw...I have run panel saws...in fact the last moron I worked for bought one because of my advice and I assembled it without a set of plans...they wanted to pay me $11 an hour,(w no benefits)for 6 months, starting at 6:30 am...with a mandatory amount of overtime. The job was 1 1/2 hours away if the traffic was with me. I would have had to gotten on the road between 4:30 and 4:45 to get there on time...I had have to give up my teaching job cause I couldn't get home from greensboro one night a week at 10:30 and plan on getting up 5 1/2 hours later to go to work. I had to turn it down...
the next was the big cabinet shop...They wanted me to run an edge bander...not a problem, haven't worked with one in 20 years, but I know how to use one...SAME thing, mandatory over time 12 hours 4 days a week, 10 hours the 5th, and half a day the 6th...I told them fine, as long as I was out of there on monday's by 6 pm...the only day...I teach, I gave my word I'd do this, we're into the class about half way. they told me they'd be in contact...still haven't heard from them. doubt I will. the third was a company 45 minutes due south...I called them, they told me that they had absolutely NO plans to hire any body permanent for quite a while, but they were using a temp service. Spoke to them their office is over an hour due west. I went for the interview. This job was for $9 an hour ( I was making $9 an hour as an apprentice almost 25 years ago) with a mandatory 9 to 24 hours of overtime-with the idea being that if you held out there would be a permanent job with benefits at the end of it...what she didn't know was that I had spoken to the human relations of this same business and was told that pigs would fly first. When I mentioned the class I teach, the woman took all the forms I'd spent half an hour filling out and dropped them in the trash saying she was sorry that I drove all that way for nothing.

What in the hell happened to this country? We fought labor wars in the last century to keep this sorta crap from happening. A guaranteed 40 hour work week, voluntary overtime. This was YOUR job, they didn't own you. The rich that got this country in the situation that its in now will only hire you back if your willing to sleep on a cot next to your work station or damn near. We have 10% unemployment but they want to work the lucky few damn near to death to save a few bucks on benefits? I'm a human being. I have honed my skills and can build anything that can be designed...I built stuff that my EMPLOYER designed but had no concept how to build...and they want to chain me to a machine for little more then gas money to get me to work so that they can work me for 65 hours a week...I get Sunday off? That is a concession I'm sure will change in time...for WHAT? What about my life? What about the pursuit of happiness guaranteed me in the hallowed Declaration of Independence and Constitution? I have worked all my life, I have done good work, I have not stolen from my employer nor cheated one. I have spent my life learning to be the best at what I do, cause ya know what? That's what AMERICANS do....we are not a slave state, we don't sell our souls for the privilege of spending our lives serving technology and somebody that has more then he can spend. My Grandfather, a card carrying member of a union is turning in his grave right now...people were hurt and some died to assure the world that the American worker was not a slave, that he did his job the best he knew how to do and had time for his family, his community, himself....What the HELL happened to this country?

To Hell in a handbag

2010-07-11T13:11:00.000-07:00

I had to do something both distasteful and ridiculous just now. I had to delete a post that I put on here last spring...Seems it was a target for Chinese porn spam and viruses...My computer guy assured me after a rash of "illnesses" that my machine had suffered that I should keep my eye open for a pattern of some sort. It seems that this one blog entry attracted a great deal of attention from the other side of the Pacific...and most had hypertext that led me on the rare occasion that I chose to follow to photo's of naked Chinese women and my machine would get "sick".

This is how our world has evolved. You can't venture out without the most massive protection that can be had. I'm in the minority of people that don't have a hand gun in my vehicle. You must be weary of any exchange of anything, should the person your dealing with be unscrupulous. the more we open up our lives to each other the more guarded we need to be....I have a sheet of paper filled on both sides with all my passwords and log on names that lives in the constant shifting pile of papers that lives on my desk. I've gotten in the habit to do a update and deepscan for virus control every night before I call it a day...I allow the night to be spent having a program seek any code in my machine that doesn't belong because some ass hole used his talent to attempt to unlock my machine and steal...I can't venture into any serious business without an attorney with me...cause its all in the words that are used.
...And to have my blog violated like this...I'm as disgusted as I was when I stepped out after one of our rare snowstorms to find some ass hole had laid in the snow with a saws all to remove my catalytic converter from under my truck...for $35 scrap price...It cost me almost $200 to replace it...This is how we've evolved. Instead of hitting you on the head with a rock and stealing your kill, they shoot you and steal your purse. Instead of having your mail stolen to get checking account numbers they break into your computer and steal it. This is how we've evolved, instead of of all the knowledge that is available to us, we are virtually illiterate cause why read, it'll be on TV if its important and we won't have to work for it. This is how we've evolved from an animal fascinated by making fire and killing for water rights, the rich steal from the poor and play hot potato with who's responsible for the greatest ecological disaster that we've known in recorded history...Instead of doing something about it...the whole gulf disaster was because WHOEVER was responsible for the repair and maintenance of the well didn't want to spend the money to repair a hydraulic line. We kill each over over the proper name of the same GOD, and who owns what piece of dirt as if anyone could own anything like a piece of the earth that will be here long after the owner of the piece of paper that says he owns it is in the ground turning to DUST...This is how we've evolved...we can perform miracles with technology and can communicate with anyone in the world in a second...and yet we still want to piss up river from our neighbors and get something for nothing....and they wonder why I live in a cave at corner of oblivion and desolation....I'm so disgusted right now I could throw up.

may you live in interesting times

2010-03-25T07:01:00.000-07:00

Salutations dear reader:
The title to this post is a half insult given as a wish by the Chinese. In interesting times there is much turmoil, thus the chance for a peaceful existence becomes less. You have patiently sat and listened while I ranted and raved about the condition of the society that I was born into, You have sat while I went through the destruction of my hopes and dreams. You have been diligent while I whispered the dreams I have for the attainment of a "normal" life. You have quietly pondered as I related my life's adventure visiting the different cultures of the world and achieved a form of enlightenment about how we make our lives hard by attempting to bend the rules. I have bitched about the world, the people in it and the institutions that run it and you have listened silently or left some comment about this fits into the puzzle. I am honored by your patience with me...I am indebted to you for your advice...I am touched by your faithfulness.
Lately I have spoken little of Art. If I am anything it is an artist...I have yet to make the connection between what I can do and what I feel. I settle for the connection between what I can do and what I think, big difference. Thinking allows you to notice a pattern and discover the flaw, feeling is just raw nerves. There is much to say about both approaches, which I may discuss at some time in the future.

I have always been the artist's artist. IE you can only truly appreciate what I do if you have a bit of knowledge of the craft or the thought process. The public just looks with their mouth's dropped as they experience the deluge of what they see...My shit is complex. Most of the time it goes right over the head of the normal person off the street. I cannot help myself in this regard. I do a great deal of reading and study attempting to achieve an understanding of the complex connections between things and how it all evolves into a pattern, and this bleeds into my work. I also wrestle with the un achievable. I hate to make the comparison but shall we take Einstien for instance: If you were to ask a guy on the street what exactly E=MC2 means he wouldn't be able to tell you. It has something to do with the universe...You would be right but fertilizer has to do with the universe too. It is rare when you find someone who can tell you that it means that Energy is the same as Mass traveling a the speed of light squared. Thus Energy has a weight...it isn't an invisible force that can be seen but not touched....It took light out of the hands of God and allowed us to measure and study it. I would never compare what contributions I have or may make to the world as important as Einstien's. His contributions affected the world, I'm just trying to work out my place in it. I have made a decision concerning my work. Up till now my flat work has been extremely private, extremely limited...a sort of shorthand to dump what I'm thinking about. It has meaning to me but nothing that can be latched onto...all they see is an image looking back at them -sometimes mute-or speaking a language that has some connection to Alchemy, mathematics, Greek mythology, Philosophy and science...all sorta mixed together. However in future I plan to fully realize the work. I am going to allow it to fully develop and place all the stuff in it that will unlock it. how to read the alchemy separate from the science separate from the math separate from the Philosophy. Its time. My relationship with the the world, and with this woman who has her gentle hand on my heart has led me to this conclusion. I feel its wrong to keep this stuff to myself, even if it too complex for the guy on the street. It isn't my job to make that decision, its just my job to present my findings and the keys to the doors of approach, and yes there's more then one door...the problem changes when you approach from another discipline or another direction...one has one set of problems when one attempts a frontal assault on a fortress then one has when one tries to tunnel in. So in future when looking at my work, my recent work, keep in mind everything you will need to decipher it is there...Thank you again for your attention.

Defense attorney at the Last Judgement

2010-03-16T12:39:00.000-07:00

salutations dear reader,
I grow increasingly weary of the human race and how it conducts itself. Everywhere I turn people act like selfish 6 year old's. I have been watching PBS and the last ditch efforts to save a few of the worlds species...There is a Chinese turtle that has exactly one male and one female left...they are hoping they'll breed, however their is no place for them to go because China's rivers are so polluted they're almost beyond hope. There's a Spanish Lynx that they think may have a grand total of 18 animals left, being bred in captivity cause their natural habitat has dwindled down to about 200 acres of Spanish flat land. Our own feral bee population is all but extinct because of a foreign bee mite that somehow made it into the system...Any bees you see are domesticated and kept by bee keepers. The list of animals that are quickly heading to oblivion grows by the day and yet people change non of their habits. The natural system is dependant on a certain amount of species to do their job, Without bees to fertilize plants, we starve. Its that simple...but instead of this being on the lips and hearts of the population of the world, We're busying fighting over abstracts and concepts.
I just received another email about the current political administration, from their opponents, who when given their chance screwed up so bad it will be remembered by history as a dark time for this country...they're fighting like children.
In the rest of the world, we have dictators demanding that we notice them or they're going to pitch a fit. We have a group of people from different philosophies fighting over turf, nothing like a rousing round of king of the hill. We have a group of people who think that they must defend the concept that the US constitution and the entire group of people responsible for it were divinely inspired by some Judea-Christian God who wants Everyone to be a christian. We have a manufacturer of automobiles who is busy back peddling because they chose to do nothing when they discovered that what it was they were building was faulty...would have cost too much to fix. Our educational system is in tatters, I have it from reliable sources that we are attempting to teach our children from books that are A.30 years out of date B. incomplete because of use and abuse from previous generations. and C. usually 4 children to a book. Unable to to make xerox copies from one to give the kids a handout because of copyright infringement and unable to bring any outside sources that might have a more contemporary take on what is being taught because of curriculum requirements. The reason...not enough money, however we seem to have enough money to pay for a guy to do the job of funding the schools that we elected somebody else to do...and yeah the person that was elected is getting paid too. We were told that the money for the state lottery would pay for the improvements and maintenance of the school...Yet somehow, as yet not explained by science, the millions taken in everyday by the lottery evaporate everyday like dry ice. We still fill our landfills with things that are perfectly functioning but we just don't want them anymore or lack the fortitude to fix them...a friend and I do breakfast every morning...a space heater was placed on the curb to be picked up by the trash. He stopped and told me to grab it. Upon examination, it needed lubrication and someone had crossed wires when putting a new plug on it. Once those two things were dealt with it ran perfectly. I raided a garbage can where I used to work and pulled out enough wood, that had been manufactured to sit under a pallet to make it easier for a fork lift to get to the pallet, to make the dozen picture frames I need to make in the next couple of days. A man who beat a puppy and set it on fire got 3 months in jail, and an additional 8 months suspended. Why? No room, because we're putting people in prison faster then we can build them. The economy is in such a mess that when my unemployment runs out in about a month, I don't know what I'm going to do. I've looked for work for a year and a half. Why? It costs less to buy a bathroom vanity made in China then it costs me for the materials to build one. Everyone denies Global warming and that the ice caps are melting, yet the weather pattern is so screwed up that the Northeast and the mid Atlantic is quite literally floating on all the water that's fallen up there. And what are we doing about this? We are busy fighting who God promised this piece of land to, We are arguing as to whether or not the head of the current administration is a socialist. We are making sure that the insurance companies that are making whirlwind profits keep their government sponsored money. We are allowing the people to make these decisions to pay themselves more money while they do less to earn it, while they campaign for re election and phone all their heavy hitter contributors to give them enough money to run again. Nothing like wanting to keep your job...except the job wasn't supposed to be a career, it was like Jury Duty, you had to do it because that was the price of living in this country...but when you were done you went back to your lives. And the people that are elected? God forbid they smoked a joint in college, God forbid they have an opinion that might question the bible, God forbid that they have some form of turmoil or lifestyle that suggests to us that they might be a flawed Human being that learned from his mistakes. God Forbid....

Yeah I know, I'm preaching to the choir. and we look at each other, shrug, and go back to our KFC in a barrel and need to finish cause "House" comes on at 8.

I have been told that I can be quite artiulate when I speak-probably cause I usually have something that I'm reading with me most of the time. I have been told that I'm the only person anybody knows that does my math in my head with a scrap piece of paper for my calculations probably because I didn't see my first calculator until I was 17. I have been told that I must have some mystical power cause I can define a problem and then resolve it. I have been told that I must be some sort of magician cause I can look into a garbage can and find whatever I need to build whatever I may want...I built my dining room chairs out of stuff that I picked out of the garbage with the exception of the one piece of plywood. Each of my chairs has a different function then just sitting in them, one turns into a small side table and waste basket, one turns into a shelf unit and storage unit, one turns into a step ladder and ironing board, one turns into a drawing/eating table....I was taught to use my mind to do all these wondrous things. I was taught how to think.

I am hoping that at the last judgement that because I have been here and seen what I've seen that I'm not asked to be a defense attorney for the human race. Trust me when I tell you, that is something you don't want either.

Ruling in Hell

2010-01-28T09:21:00.000-08:00

Hello Dear reader, You find me looking through my pile on my desk and ready to tackle the trash can. I've lost a couple of pieces of mail, One of them had a check. I'm listening to a mix cd I made called "memories." Each song has a special memory attached to it, i can tell you what and when and how. Sorta like the knot configurations that the Inca used instead of writing...Right now it's T. Rex's "Jeepster" and then Nilsson's "Without you". In short, it must be Thursday. The reporter came and went, asked the right questions. Nice overview of Who I am, Why I'm here, When I got here and chose to do a gallery now, Where I came from, and How I want this to go down. I regaled that poor woman with my tales, told the favorite stories of how I got my name, my background, my relationship with my parents...Ya know, same shit different day. My life has been a cross between a Bugs Bunny Cartoon and a Josef Conrad novel. Ahhhhhhhhhhhh Elo's "Can't get it out of my head", I was in High school. My father assured me that at 18 I was out of his house. I was doing the High School thing...most miserable period of my life. I knew there was something I was missing. Richie Havens "Here comes the Sun"...My hand moved across the sheet, the image magically appeared, My mind was totally focused, my hand moved like it was a machine, the pencil in my fingers pushing and relaxing, the image came out of the blankness of the sheet in that room in my parents house at the the other end of the house from my family...the beginning of the separation of me from them. "It seems I can see the Ice is finally melting, It seems its been years since it's been clear...." now Robert John "The lion sleeps tonight"...My mind is finally finding the peace of seeing the road ahead, a possible solution to where I'm supposed to go. The Lion that stalked my heels of what the hell I was supposed to do with my life, ready to pounce at my misstep, my failure...it was somewhere else. I'm halfway through the trash and still no envelopes...Damnit. Maybe I need to go through the pile of papers on the printer again....It isn't in the trash. I found The designs for the wallet I need to make...the old one that was given to me by the Wretched Woman who exploited me was cheap and is falling apart, the only things that last are those I make for myself. Sparky and I went to find out about building bee houses the other day. The construction of the bee house super and the frames is simple, the woman on the other hand is complex. Hmmmm, I wonder where this going...Cheap Trick "I want you to want me." I'd love you to love me. Ok, that's the sketch for the 4 sided Jefferson reading stand...need to look into that. AHHHHHHHH Clapton...'Slow hand' "Lay down Sally....Second year of college I couldn't get enough of this song. WHERE THE HELL IS MY NICORETTE GUM...Ah, ok, The sketch for the book stand is on the back of the insurance policy I need to read. Need to put that in the pile to file, should open the damn envelope first.....Tax stuff, need to head to the Library and get a couple of State forms...That's gonna be more complex then crustacean sex this time....The list of the books I need to find, all Dover publications...need to look that up on the web. "G-L-O-R-I-A" Patti Smith. Hmmmmmm. I need to do something with that image I downloaded...advertisement for a singles group online but the photo has an interesting composition...the dame isn't that bad either. The whole picture is Triangles...but you don't see them unless you look, need to use that-studio pile.
"Love grows (Where my Rosemary Goes)" Edison ligthhouse. ....She talks kinda lazy and people say she's crazy and her life's a mystery..." maybe Sparky and I need to talk. Hmmmmm. Peter Tosh "Gotta walk and don't look back."
It isn't in with the bills, it isn't in the garbage, it isn't on my desk....Hmmmm. Maybe I should look again. I know they're here somewhere...Warren Zevon "knockin on heavens door" His last album. I miss Warren. Set up a table and sort and make piles...Ok, that's better. Now what the HELL am I supposed to do with this?!?!? and the porn catalogs that Jack gave me head the the Bathroom reading room section. Need to copy those address in the address book...."You wear it well" Rod Stewart, High School again. That long drink of water with the long dark hair and the perfect mouth...Great Figure...what the Hell was her name? It'll come to me....How in the hell did I end up with this collection of tiny pieces of blank paper? That's the top for the epoxy I was looking for, how in the hell did it get over here? Oh, that's illegal, best get rid of it. The pile for the shredder goes on the end. Picture of my aunt and uncle and my nephews from YEARS ago...Need to get that knife sharp and lubricated for Sparky...Receipt,Receipt,Receipt,Receipt,Receipt,Receipt...Blank invoice, The measurements for the box to store my computer tower in...need to DO that, and clear up some of the desk top...put that in the car..shouldn't take me long to assemble. How in the Hell did a light bulb get out here? Its looking like I've got to go through the trash again. Jesus, it's 2pm....I've got to find this shit and quit fooling around...CLAIRE, that's my leg!!!! ok feed the kitty first.

my apologies dear reader

2010-01-17T04:43:00.000-08:00

I admit I've been neglecting certain things. Its been a crazy 6 weeks. There was the crunch of Christmas, I had a post Civil War Walnut bookcase that needed repair/refinish and assembly that was do on the 13th as it needed to be in place for a party, then there was the Christmas present commission I'd started back in like May, and of course the things I needed to make to give as gifts. I finally went to Ashville to do the solstice party...It was ok. I spent Christmas with a bottle of cognac and a drawing...I needed to just sit and draw...I need to do more of it. I spent New Years with some of the Chapel Hill arm of my friends...It was nice, not as crazy as in years past, but nice...there was this really irritating woman there who just seemed to need to draw attention to herself, but mostly people ignored her. I got home at 3 am and slept the rest of the day and accomplished very little over the weekend except feeding claire and myself and sleeping. I guess I just needed to recharge.
After the holidays I began the preparations for the Gallery I want to start, The "experimental" bookcase I've been putting off for more then a decade cause I think it's a fools errand, and looking into the restoration of an early 19th century mahogany Tea box, there's the printmaking seminar they want me to teach at the end of the month for linoleum and woodcut. Not to mention a client stopped by with a painting he bought in South America that they took off the stretcher for packing...it needs to be re stretched and then framed. No rest for the wicked...and I am their king. I'm getting the ball rolling for the Gallery. I've written the flyer, I've designed the poster and contacted my Insurance guy to get that under way. I also posted a blurb on Craigslist. So far things are going. I've got the forms for the insurance, that I might add are ridiculous. They want to prohibit the serving of alcohol at the opening, in case somebody gets loaded and falls over and either hurts himself or one of the works...Who ever heard of having an opening without wine and cheese? Thats sorta like having a parade without a marching band. And without a burglar alarm they won't insure against theft. However we'll see. The local paper has finally found me, after 22 years. I called them to tell them about the gallery. They're going to run a short blurb about in Monday's paper however they want to show up next week to take some photo's and then want to interview me. I'm going to have to watch my tongue. I just need to remember that not only will everything I say and do be subject to public scrutiny but they're going to misinterpret and misrepresent anything they can to exploit the situation...after all they're in the business to sell papers, the truth of the matter is negotiable. I've got to keep certain opinions to myself and to stress the reasons that I'm doing this...Which I'm sure I'll have an opinion on at the time.

I sit in the semi darkness, of a Sunday morning writing this. My cat asleep next to me, the recent projects in my Sisyphean attempt to live the life I was chosen for and chose after having deciding to take a stand. Is it a fools errand to attempt to drag these people into cultural awareness? Is it ridiculous to think that what this town needs is a realization that there is a world and a thought process out there that is as alien to them as though they were being transported to another planet? Am I destroying the life here that I've worked so hard for the last 20 years to maintain? I don't know. I know that Something must be done. I know that the status quo is so beyond ridiculous that something must be done. And No one else will do it. They either lack the guts, the stupidity or the oversight to take the bull by the horns, Yet again I must step forward. Oh well. I, as always, am in Gods hands...I just wish that one of these ventures wouldn't blow up in my face. At 52 I really need a win. However the world moves forward, each day is given to make plans and enact and engage them. Today I work on the experimental bookcase...I need to get this thing out of here. Monday I meet with the snack table guy...Oy that's going to be interesting...I'm thinking he couldn't find anybody willing to waste their time with his ridiculous project. I also need to see the cardiologist for my regular check up...he'll take my blood pressure, listen to my chest, check my ankles and wrists for swelling, keep me abreast of any tests I'm doing, make fine adjustments to my medicine, ask if I want samples and Cut me loose. I need to remember to print up a picture of the Mural...he gets a kick out of seeing what I'm working on. and my life goes on...maybe I'll make some coffee, maybe I'll go back and see if I can catch some more ZZZZZ's. After all it's Sunday and raining out.

remembering the bonfire

2009-12-04T07:21:00.000-08:00

I thought about naming this "chapter" of my late life dialogue, "now we return to our regular programming" however it ties into the adventure of my pre college year. College for me was both amazing and stupid at the same time. I was dedicated, idealistic, I knew the direction I needed to go, I had mastered some of the basic skills and read some of the basic material that would be required, in that regard I was ahead of the curve. My time after school can be summed up by the line David Caradine as Kwi Chang Caine in the series "Kung FU", delivered to his former master when Caine shows up to the city, date and time stated by this master as the where and when that this master would reach his life's goal...When they meet he asks Caine, "So what have you done with your time?" Caine states with a sigh " I have traveled, I have been thinking, I have meditated, I have learned." Come to find out the "goal" of the master was the master's own death, which starts Caine on his travels to America as an outlaw. I have spent my time since school traveling to find my home, thinking about what I do and why, reading about this and other things. I have learned how to do what I do and why. Occasionally I need to return to my youth to get a bearing on where I've been and how I got there.

I just finished such a trip. My Father invited me to spend Thanksgiving with him and his wife this year. I rented a car and drove north by northwest through Virginia and West Virginia and finally to Ohio. I didn't linger in my childhood as I sometimes do when I got to Barberton. I spent my time there dealing with family issues, time with my dad and a cousin that I didn't spend too much time with when I lived there. I saw some things I hadn't seen before and came to the realization that I would always be a tourist in Barberton...it was only home for my childhood memories.

However I did get to Cleveland and spent 2 days. I had dinner with a few of my usual pirate friends: My Roomate while I lived in the dorms-Probably the only person I met at the school that had more agility with Art skills then myself...He's a high scale house painter now, The only non Art member of the group who dropped out John Caroll and spent the next 20 years attempting to finish his undergraduate degree, along with battling the demons of alcohol and drugs, and lastly the epitome of the typical graduate. He got his degree in painting and metal smithing...he discovered computers and went that way. He was one of the only graduates of the Institutes aborted Graduate program. The fifth member of this group I saw separately, as couldn't join us for dinner. A printer and painter who has lived in his parents servants quarters since his was 16, maintaining the family home, picking up painting jobs around the neighborhood and working on his painting and printing.
Of all 6 of us, None married, and each has had a brush with his own fragility and mortality in the last few years. One fell on his head from 22' in the air and spent a year in the hospital system recovering learning how to walk again, speak again, and through the help of his friends learning who he was and what he did with his life. Another fell off a ladder landed on his hands and broke both his wrists and had them screwed back together. The third had his appendix burst and died on the operating table. The fourth thought he had the flu, and at his mothers insistence went into the hospital and found out he not only was diabetic but that he needed a quadruple bi pass surgery. I have a metal hip and recently had root canal on one of my teeth. We sat and compared scars, spoke of life, spoke of former girlfriends and wondered if we shouldn't have let the One that stands out get away. We reflected on our history both together and apart. We laughed some, we compared information we had collected. The one with the brain damage kept saying "I Just remembered that!" so we all added pieces to the puzzle he's trying to assemble but for the rest of it there was a sense of resignation to our lives...that we had not done what he had planned but we had used our lives to survive life, to acquire skills, to leave some small mark that we had been here. I cannot answer for the others, but this helped me. When I speak to those I know that did fofill their lives plan, they have regrets-wishing they could live a life of not doing "the Job" but to spend it as a creating individual. When speaking to those who attempted life with a mate if not once or twice but multiple times, they have regrets wishing they had either not bothered or had tried with another. We tell the old stories, we talk of the future, we sigh concerning our present, and compare scars.

My Father's cousin, almost a brother to him, and a second father to me, found out while I was there that he was sicker then he originally thought. He, his parents and his wife and children were and are "Family" to me. They were more then blood that one saw occasionally at family reunions, they were my ballast, my life line to reality during my school career. I would spend holidays with them, attend extended family functions as one of them...eating a meal, doing the family thing and then dashing back to my books and art materials. He thought he had a bad case of bronchitis, come to find out he has inoperable lung cancer caused by his contact with asbestos during his career as a welder at one of the lynch pin employers in Barberton. His family is devastated by this news as am I. However I see this is how it ends. My friends and I will gather together again, and sometime in the future it will be to bury one of our own. and we will continue to gather around the fire to pass the bottle, to tell the stories and compare our scars as we enjoy what we were, what we wanted to be, what we actually became and how we will end up. I guess this is why we are put here, to make these connections, to influence and take part in each others lives, to huddle together for warmth and triangulation on our positions in our lives and then to be missed when we are no longer on this side of the curtain.
Until next time...Good luck and maintain.

Part 10. The Sunset- Epilogue

2009-11-06T08:01:00.000-08:00

My Uncle Dan met me at the airport after I'd gone through Customs. I was finally home, back on American soil and glad to be there. He smiled and asked if I was glad to be home. I said yes, and I wanted Mexican food and a copy of the New York Times. He laughed and said he didn't know about the Mexican Food but could hook me up with a copy of the Times [and the next 4 days I read the New York Times cover to cover.] he drove me to the house he shared with my Aunt in upper New Jersey. For the next three days I began to uncoil. I unpacked all my stuff, Gave her one of the carvings I'd been carrying with me, washed and mended my clothes from my trip, told of my adventures to my hosts, and finally decided I should contact the Art School to find out when I needed to be there and contact Case Western Reserve housing office to find out where I was going to live and when I could move in. Both Phone calls yielded me the same answer “yes we've heard of you, we have you down on our list, however we have no record of receiving any funds from you.” I knew that a check had been sent to each and cashed and that both the canceled checks were on the other side of the world with my parents. I had needed to send them a Telex telling them I'd arrived safely however this newest glitch put it on the fast track. The closest place was the Western Union office on the Princeton University campus, about 10 miles from Aunt and Uncle's house. My Aunt drove me to the Western Union office the third day I was there, I walked in and told the work-study student that I needed to send a Telex. She informed me that they couldn't do that. Okay, I wanted to send a Telegram....She pulled out a pad and said “Yeah ok, where do you wish it sent?” I answered “C/O Morgan Equipment, Arawa, Bougainville Island, North Solomons Province, Papua- New Guinea.” The girl stopped writing, looked at me with disgust and said “Get out of here, I don't have time for prank telegrams sent to a bullshit made up addresses.”
I asked to speak to her manager.
An older woman came to the counter and asked what the trouble was, I told her the same thing I'd told the girl. She looked at me kind of hard and said “you REALLY want to send a telegram to New Guinea?” I said yeah, I did. She looked it up and sure enough there was such a place and they did have a western union office. I sent it to my dad and explained the situation telling him I needed copies of the canceled checks. I gave a nod to the chick working the work-study job as I left. I got a response the next day saying they were sending them to My Aunt In Ohio, and that they were happy I was back home. While there I made the trip to New York three times, I did the Met, and the Moma (Modern Art Museum of America) and for the first time The Frick. By this time I was spoiled...Although their collections were and are impressive my head reeled from all that I'd seen the last few months. I also did a Broadway show...the only thing I could get tickets for was a matinee for “Oh, Calcutta!” Silliest thing I've ever spent money for.

At the end of the week I bid my aunt goodbye, got on a train and headed to Boston where my sister picked me up and drove me to the Airport to claim the luggage and Portfolio bag I'd checked clear through from Bougainville. I was looking forward to chilling on the Cape for a couple of weeks but was informed that she had been living in my grandfather's cottage on the Cape for the entire summer and the idea of spending another two weeks there was out of the question. And my sister being my sister, she usually gets her own way. So at the end of about 4 days I loaded all my stuff into the the family station wagon that was in my sister's care and drover it and her to Ohio. My Aunt greeted us with open arms despite expecting us in another 10 days... I told her that I wasn't expecting to be in Ohio for another 10 days either. My Cousin Joe and I went out drinking one night and I finally got some Mexican food at the local brand new Taco Bell. I had to replace both of the motor mounts and get a new Clutch put in the family Station Wagon. The canceled checks arrived and I got all my shit straightened out and got my room assignment and registered for school. My sister Flew back to Boston and a few days later I loaded my trunk I'd sent from Phoenix the year prior, the books that I'd had sent to me from Europe as well as the photo's sent to me by the French couple I'd met in Amsterdam, my 3 pieces of luggage and my portfolio bag and I moved into Taft house on the campus of Case Western Reserve. After I unpacked and got settled I explored the campus looking for beer and food It was still two days before the cafeteria and student bar opened. Finding both at a little Deli about 3 blocks away I bought a 6 pack of Fosters lager and a kielbasa sandwich and walked back to my room to eat my lunch. Since I had little to do now I resumed working on a drawing I had started just before I'd left Bougainville. A guy from Detroit, who was also an art student who had moved in the same afternoon as I, knocked on the door after having smelled cold beer. I invited him in and offered him one. He looked at what I was working on...A kukukuku (cooker-cooker) warrior from the Highlands of New Guinea, I was working from photographs that somebody had given me when they went to a sing-sing in the Highlands.”Where in the Hell would you run into a guy dressed like that?” He said with genuine shock. I smiled....”That my friend is a long story.”

Part 9. The Sun at twilight, England.

2009-11-06T05:17:00.000-08:00

I flew into Heathrow and found England in the grips of fear. There had been bombs. Everyone was hyper sensitive to this bear from the east traveling west. I spent an hour in customs, only just convincing them not to take my camera apart as I still had half a roll of film in it. They studied me and my passport at length, having me tell them time and again why I was there, how I had come there, What I had been doing in Egypt, The Philippines and in New Guinea. Finally they were satisfied that I posed no threat to their culture and the safety of their people they released me. I sought and found a Student Hostel where I shared my sleeping quarters with 10 other guys, some from the neighborhood, some for the middle east, one from South Africa, One guy was from Spain...We were a mix. My list for England was extensive. I wanted to see the British Museum, The Tate, Stonehenge, The V & A, Westminster, I saw an advertisement in the Tube for a the play “The Rocky Horror Show” The movie version of said play was how I had spent my Saturday nights when I was in Phoenix...This is before going became a cult, the people that went when I went did not throw things at the screen, and the only ones who dressed up were the homosexuals- Mostly it was artists and musicians who went. I decided I'd deserved a night at the theater so I put it in my list of things to do.
The next day I awoke, had breakfast in the common dining room and was off. First stop, The British Museum. It was amazing. I had seen things of significance all over the world but if it was small enough to carry, and if the British had been there, they crated it up and carried it home.
I saw the Rosetta stone (yeah the actual one) I saw the Elgin Marbles [these are some of the statues that that originally were part of the Parthenon, they were bought by Lord Elgin from the Turkish military during the Turkish occupation of Greece-the Turks were using them for target practice. They also used the Parthenon to store their gunpowder and the subsequent explosion brought the Temple to its current state of ruin], the panels from the Assyrian palace at Nimrod of the King Ashurnasirpal II (including The Lion Hunt), The actual Tablet from the epic of Gilgamesh that brought this first Hero story to the attention of the modern world [the one on display describes the Flood (suggesting the same flood that appears in the Old Testament in the story of Noah)], Artifacts from the royal cemetery at Ur, the artifacts from the Anglo-Saxon ship burial at Sutton-Hoo, The Tomb-Chapel of Nabamun from Egypt, The Greek-Roman collection including the Portland Vase, a late Roman Sarcophagus showing the twelve labors of Hercules I wandered around and was amazed at what was there-Its sorta their version of the Smithsonian but for the history of the world. I wandered into the rare manuscript section and I saw the actual signatures of Bethoven, Bach, Da Vinci, Rembrandt, Galileo, Raphael...the list goes on. It was much like reliving my entire trip in an day. That night one of the local boys in the Hostel where I was sleeping decided that I was going to accompany him on a drunk. I don't know why he took to me the way he did, I assume that he just decided that it was up to him to show this yank a good time in England. SO, we went. We hit a couple of strip joints, a Pub or two or three, and at around midnight we staggered in and went to the room we shared with the other 8 guys and poured ourselves into our separate beds. I came out of my drunken unconsciousness a few time to hear this guy's snoring-sounding like a chainsaw going through sheet metal. The next day he nodded at me as he ate his breakfast and we didn't speak again during my entire stay. That day I chose to go to the Victoria and Albert Museum. Cool place. The V & A is an artists Art Museum. They have have a great collection of Decorative Art, and some really rare pieces, for instance they have a small sculpture by Viet Stoss, Polish artist who was considered one of the bridge artists from the late Medieval to the Renaissance- There's very few of his pieces outside of Poland. They had the water color cartoons done by Raphael for the Tapestries he'd been hired to design. As for paintings, They have couple of Turners and a couple of Constables, The portrait of Charles the I by Van Dyck (he's facing the viewer along with both his profiles),”the day of the dream” by Rossetti, a couple of Gainsborough's, A good collection of Miniature paintings by Hilliard and Cooper, (Including the famous miniature of “a young man leaning against a tree amongst roses” [by Hilliard] that I have personally seen as the cover art for 4 or 5 books about Elizabethan England). The V & A also has a complete collection of Plaster casts of most of the worlds great works of art, so that the student can work from it without having to go to the country as I'd just been. Its a great place to go to do research. I had a swell time. Their drawing and print collection was amazing and I spent 3 hours in there.
The next day I took the day trip to Stonehenge, This was on my list of things I had to see before I died. Of all the ancient structure's I visited on this trip, this one was the most “unusual.” First of all it's in the middle of a cow pasture, and I know this cause the cows were there. Second, they don't let you get any closer then 25' away, there's a rope up all around it, seems people have been scrawling their names on it for hundreds of years, Third, there was a complete lack of “Tourist” activity, no vendors, no guys wanting to take your picture for a couple of bucks, No snack bar, No souvenir shops, No guided tours, You walk off the bus, Hike about half a mile into this cow pasture and there it is, a 4,000 year old stone Calender. Built with some stones that traveled hundreds of miles, without the use of a wheel, a winch, or a road. What's also interesting is that it was one of two. They have found evidence that there was a second ring set up exactly as Stonehenge about a mile and half away made completely of wood-they believed that to travel between the two was a sorta a ritualistic life-death experience. I saw a show recently that had this team of scientists set up an exact duplicate of how Stonehenge was set up when it was originally built, they wanted to do some sound, light, Geometry and and astronomical experiments in it. Seems that the place has very strange acoustics, and what with the astronomical set up they believed that it wasn't a place to have human sacrifice as was somewhat thought, but to have a mystical experience...sorta like the oracle of Delphi.
The day after that I went to The Tate Gallery. This is sorta the collection of “modern” and contemporary art with some middle ages, Renaissance, Age of Reason and Romantic thrown in for good measure.Its actually a couple museums fused together, At one time it was the collection of modern art, and the collection of British Art [For instance, they have the one of the biggest collections of Turner paintings in the world, like 300 paintings and 30,000 sketches and watercolors.] And some of the collection from the V & A, In alphabetical order some of their heavy hitters, Augenbach, Francis Bacon (not the explorer), Aubrey Beardsley, William Blake, Burne-Jones, Canaletto, Constable, Francis Cotes, Henry Fuseli (they've got like 3 versions of “The Nightmare”), Gainsborough, Hilliard (same one who did the miniatures mentioned before), David Hockney, Hogarth, William Hunt, Henry Moore, Edvard Munch (his first masterpiece called “the sick Child” and is a very autobiographic piece) Daniel Mytens, the elder, Joshua Reynolds, Rodin, Rossetti, Peter Paul Rubens, Stubbs, Toulouse-Lautrec, Turner, Van Gogh, and last but not least-Whistler. These are just the names I'm sure the non art population might recognize. Its and impressive collection. And then that night I went to the Theater to see the Rocky Horror Show. It was wonderful, I mean I knew the plot I'd seen the move more then 75 times...but seeing it as it was originally written was a treat. I also met the guy sitting behind me who's career was as management for large scale mines internationally, He'd just returned from a coal mine in Russia, and had worked on Bougainville about 4 years before I got there. We found out we knew some of the same people. So we ended up at a pub and drank and compared war stories for about 3 hours. The next day I went to see Big Ben. I hadn't done a lot of Touristy type things on this trip but as it was winding down to a close I decided to just do it. I just sorta did touristy type things my last day in England including having a t-shirt made for me that said "Pommy Bastard" {it became the favorite garb when the caricatures' of me were done, that and dressing me up like the Pope, I can see that expression on your face and I can honestly say I don't know why the latter.) That night I packed my stuff and spent my last night in Europe. The next day I went to Heathrow and Flew the six hours to New York.

Part 8 Van Gogh's Sun and Rembrandts shadow. Amsterdam

2009-11-06T05:08:00.000-08:00

I spent an entire week in Amsterdam. In my opinion it is the most Civilized City in the World. They approach life carefully and with a plan. If it's good for business then it's good for Amsterdam. One example: civilized humans have vices, and yes we have religion and laws to squelch these vices, not that these laws and religions removes them, it just drives them into the shadows...However the dutch know that because humans have these needs its better for business to maintain control of these vices, to regulate and tax them to keep the coffers up and make sure the public is safe. Rather then dealing with this Puritan attitude in other countries that treat such 'needs' as evil and whatever happens to the person who chooses to indulge in these needs deserving whatever happens to them or what the Law will allow, the Dutch give it a place, make sure that the pursuit of it is safe and then tax it. Never underestimate the wisdom of a dutch business man.
I arrived In Amsterdam on a bright crisp morning, Via the shuttle train from the airport. I stopped at the tourist assistance office telling them I needed a place that was not expensive and clean to stay. They hooked me up. They also gave me a map, showed where I was on the map, pointed out points of interest in Amsterdam, Pointed out the red light district and warned me of as yet unnamed sickness that seemed to be there (I'm thinking that this was the first time I ran into Aids.) I was given directions to my hotel and set off. The hotel was run by a single man who when he saw my passport nodded and asked if my time in New Guinea was extensive. I said I'd spent almost a year their. He nodded and showed me my room. It was up a very very steep set of stairs. The dutch love these, they take up less floor space. The room was clean, simple, there was a bed, a simple dresser and small table next to the bed with a light, there was a single sky light allowing the maximum of daylight and air to enter the room. Exactly what I needed. I unpacked all my stuff and laid my drawing supplies and my sketchbooks on top of the dresser, grabbing the most recent of them and a couple of pencils. I went downstairs and asked after a decent place to eat. The owner pointed me at a restaurant, and then asked if I might be willing to have dinner with him the next day. I was puzzled at this request. He smiled and stated that he had bought this hotel to meet people from different places and find out about their cultures. I was in the unique position to tell him of places that he had never been but would enjoy hearing about. He suggested a game of chess and some good red wine. I shrugged and said I'd be delighted. I got to the restaurant and had dinner and then wandered around the city center of Amsterdam. The most noticeable things about Amsterdam is that the houses are tall and thin (there is a famous one that is as wide as the doorway.) They take up very little floor space (because this is taxed) however they were between 3 and some 5 stories tall (the air is not taxed) and the town itself is built in concentric rings with roads that join them...in between the rings are canals. This allows transport of goods from one merchant to another or from a merchant to his customer by using the resource of water, a boat can carry tons of material and still be motivated in a direction by a single man or an animal almost effortlessly. I stumbled into the neighborhood that the Anne Frank house was in, walked by the church that she wrote of and sat down to draw it. The bench where I happen to sit was in front of a bar. I wasn't there more then 10 minutes when the proprietor of the bar came out and told me that the bench was for customers. I smiled and nodded and asked if he could bring me a Heineken. He gave a quick smile and a nod and my cold beer was delivered. He watched me draw for a few minutes however he didn't dawdle as his business didn't run itself. I was instructed that as long as I was drinking I could sit there and draw. I drank about 4 beers...nothing like fresh...the brewery was about 5 blocks away.
The next day I retraced my steps and I followed the clearly marked signs to the Anne Frank house. When I got there I was led through the hidden entrance behind the book case and saw the quarters where the Frank and van Pel families hid. I'd have climbed the walls if forced to live there by myself, the idea of sharing the space with 6 other people would have been out of the question, however these people had to do what they had to do to survive. When one reads of the hideous experiences of these people under the regime of the Nazi's, one becomes nauseated. When one becomes aware of their unspeakable fates after they were arrested and sent to the concentration camps one wonders at just how “civilized” man has become since he was in the caves, the power of hate is amazing. I will not dwell here. This tragedy is well documented, it needs nothing from me to add to it save one thing. I stood on the floor that these people stood on and within the walls they hid behind, from the most oppressive organization the world has dealt with in modern times. They were regarded as animals and criminals for no other reason then the name they called the same God who looks down on us all. Pitiful. Pitiful, Pitiful. I feel that this pilgrimage should be made by every civilized person. Think of it as being inoculated against senseless yet highly organized Evil.

The pall that hung over me after this experience became part of me but I moved on to the business that I was there to do. I went into the Rijksmuseum. I was extremely impressed with the stark almost spartan layout of the museum...each object was handled like a jewel, but there was very little ostentation, no superfluous decoration that might mark “the museum” as anything but the practical building that housed these treasures of the Dutch people. One expects to see the Franz Hals, The Rembrandts, and other dutch masterpiece's that we are familiar with, however I wasn't a fan of Still life's till I went into that museum, to list a few:Willem Claesz Heda's “Still life with goblet”, Johannes Torrentius “Still life” and “Still life with Cheeses” by Floris Claesz Dijck. These and others were Amazing and I don't use that word often. These and others challenged the line between the 2 dimensional world of painting and the 3 dimensional world of life. Then there was the landscapes, such as the set of Winter and Summer painted by Jan Van Goyen and the winter scenes painted by Aert Van De Neer and Hendrick Avercamp (I liked this painting so much I bought a poster of it and hung it every home I've had since then). Then there was the “Merry Drinker” by Franz Hals, the body of work by Rembrandt including the night watch...I could go on...you get the picture. It seemed that every time I sat down to work the same two people were in the room along with me, I only noticed this after a while. Finally when I settled in front of “The Threatened Swan” by Jan Asselijn and began to draw. soon I had an audience. This time I confronted them and asked if there was a reason that they were following me. They said they just thought that my work was interesting...I nodded and finished my drawing. I decided that it was time for lunch so I found a local grocery (Located in a below ground level floor of a house) and went in and bought myself some cold cuts, some bread and a beer, and parked near a canal. Soon, the couple that had followed me found me again. They had been looking for me, I made some smartass comment about if this were hide and seek I'd be it. The joke went past them. They wanted to discuss a possible commission. I was surprised, I introduced myself and asked them why they wanted to talk to me about a commission...They said they really like the intensity of my work, the fact that I was quietly vocally critical of myself while I worked and they felt that after our extremely brief conversation in the museum that I was just the guy they were looking for, they were a French couple, I told them I'd just come from Paris and had the time of my life. They were pleased at this so, after a few minutes of conversation I said “...okay, what did you have in mind?” They wanted me to do a portrait of her about 18”x 24”. I shook my head and told them I was unprepared to do a portrait and that I would charge far too much to attempt it here and now. They asked how much that might be...I gave them a figure off the top of my head like $400 American, hoping they would decide that I was a bit rich for their needs, They agreed to my price immediately. I must have looked shocked. They wanted to know if I wanted it in cash...I suggested that if they were to send me some good photo's I'd do it when I got back to the US, (I really wanted to shake these people off) They said that this was agreeable. But they insisted on paying me then. SO, I took their money and gave them the address of my Aunt, [ They indeed did send me the photo's, however they had found this lovely antique silver frame that was about 3”X 5” and drew the inner diameter of it on the letter. The return address was a chateau in the provincial area of France...although their names escape me, The photo's weren't great but I did the best job I could...they wrote me and said the loved it. Easiest money I ever made]. I returned to work at the Rijksmuseum richer then I had been when I left. I returned back to my hotel and had a lovely dinner with the landlord, the conversation centered on my travels and my opinions of the things that I saw and experienced, which for me was sorta odd. I observe and collect information, I don't necessarily enjoy talking about myself and my opinions. However he was kind enough to invite me to dinner...so....I declined on a game of chess however I did accept a cigar and a glass of wine and I asked him of Holland and his experiences. I found his conversation to be typical of what I found while I was in Amsterdam. Friendly, guarded, giving you enough info to answer your question but not labor you with unnecessary details. He mentioned that I made quite the impression on the cleaning lady. I assured him I couldn't imagine how since I'd never laid eyes on the woman. He smiled and said that she'd found my sketchbooks on the dresser while cleaning my room that day and had taken the liberty of looking at them. Okay, I wasn't offended, just sort of like having someone find and read a private letter that you wrote to someone else. Nothing in there I was ashamed of but it wasn't meant for public consumption. The landlord assured me she wasn't prying, its just that the top one was opened to one of drawings I'd done in museum of Egyptology and that she felt the need to see more. I asked if he'd like to look, he said he would. So I related my adventures again to him-this time in chapter in verse with Illustrations. Lovely evening, food was pretty good too; simple but wholesome -bachelor cooking doesn't bother bachelor's. I returned to the Rijksmuseum the next day and did more drawing, This place held a major piece to the puzzle that I was assembling in my head. The concepts of Art, the directions of Art, and the flavors of Art.
The day after I spent at the Van Gogh museum right next door to the Rijksmuseum. Where as the Rijksmuseum is this huge imposing castle like structure, the Van Gogh Museum was contemporary with walls of Glass. Fitting, Van Gogh reveled in light. He moved to south of France because of the light. The work was the exact opposite of that I'd found in the Rijksmuseum. The paintings there were a celebration values, of the quiet, the private, the calmness of the mind. Whereas the work of Van Gogh was electric, vibrant, a celebration of color and movement. Even in calm things seemed to vibrate. Their collection of his work is immense, and with what is spread throughout the world the guy was extremely prolific...I think I read somewhere that he averaged a painting every day or two. Unreal. The next day I asked my landlord about a laundromat and the Rembrandt house. He stated that there was a laundromat right across the street from the Rembrandt house. And what a laundromat it was. This is what led me to conclude that Amsterdam was the most civilized city in the world. This laundromat was set up as restaurant/bookstore downstairs and upstairs was the laundromat. You could go in, put your laundry in the wash, order some baked goods, a cup from a varieties of coffee's, grab a book enjoy your breakfast and at the time your second cup was being poured you needed to put your clothes in the dryer. If it was in your tastes you could then enjoy your second cup of coffee with a bowl of hash as long as it was smoked on the premises it was cool with the law, and finish your book. Then should the notion take you you could go to the red light district and shop for the girl of your dreams...they are sitting in store front windows. They also have “clubs” you can go to to meet these girls. These girls have to have a license that they have to carry with them at all times and produce when requested (I found out about all this from my landlord) that they pay for. In order to get one they need a doctor's certificate ( I don't remember if it was bi-monthly or monthly) that must come from the doctor himself (something like a prescription) thus keeping the chance of forgery down to a minimum, and the exam is paid for by the state, thus bribing the doctor was sorta pointless. I did my laundry and had some of the best apple spice cake I've ever eaten with a cup of some Turkish coffee that would polish brass and I read an illustrated copy of the lives of the artists by Vasari. I passed on the Hash (quite regularly while I was there). After I was done at the Rembrandt house I also went window shopping in the red light district. Some fine specimens of femininity there however I took to heart the warning that was given and figured I best leave well enough alone. The Rembrandt house was interesting. Sorta a church to the concept of intaglio printmaking. They had a demonstration plate on how one does an intaglio print, from a drypoint, engraving and etching. An intaglio press was there, set up with the blankets to show how a plate is printed and in the separate rooms was a selection of his prints.
The next day I heard about a private Gallery that was having a show of contemporary Dutch artists. I decided I'd go. I needed to balance out what it was I was seeing as history and the affect it was having. I got terribly lost. I stopped a guy on a bicycle to get directions, after about 10 minutes of trying to explain what I needed to do he just said “I'll take you myself.” I looked at him and the bike...I must have had a look on my face that conveyed the concern I was having. He stood and told me to sit on the seat and keep my feet from getting caught in the wheel. He peddled me back the way I had come and then made a turn I'd missed and delivered me to the front of the Gallery. I assured him how grateful I was to him. He just gave me that famous, ever so slight Dutch smile and said It was his pleasure, that without people like myself coming to visit, Amsterdam would be just another city in Europe. I couldn't agree more. I would be visiting my last capitol the following week and I began to understand some of the “other part” that this journey was supposed to teach me. Cultures might be different but people are about the same.

Part 7 Looking at the sun's reflection. Paris

2009-10-30T16:42:00.000-07:00

I landed in Paris in the evening. It was getting dark when I got my bag, went through customs and found myself in front of a pay phone, seeking lodging. I found a place on boulevard Saint Michel, which as I found out is the student section of Paris as it borders the Sorbonne. I was very close to the river and from Nortre Dame, I was ½ a block from the Metro stop and across the street was a McDonalds. However I didn't find this out till I got there. I was on the Metro heading out of the airport going the way I'd been told where I met a guy studying at the Sorbonne from New Mexico. I asked if he could tell me how to find the hotel I was going to stay at, He said sure, he needed to go that way anyway. So when we popped up out of the Metro station, he showed me where it was, walked me in, spoke to the lady who ran the place and got me my room. He shook my hand and said “Welcome to the most wonderful city in the world.” and he wished me farewell. I checked in and the fact that I hadn't bathed in a few day and one could tell I hadn't washed my clothes in almost a week became very apparent, the lady manager pointed this out to me...I told her my first order of business was a bath and in the morning find a laundromat, She said She would be delighted to point me in that direction come morning. I was shown to my room, which was small but it looked out unto the street, there were musicians, people milling about, laughing talking; what one might expect to see in a commercial district that caters to college students. I checked in showered and put on the last clean clothes I had, I walked across the street and ordered the french equivalent of 3 Big Mac's, two orders of fries and a large Coke. I hadn't had McDonalds in 10 months, and I doubt that I ever enjoyed a meal more. I was beginning to feel like I was finally being reintroduced to the life I'd had before my time on Bougainville. I walked the streets, stopping occasionally for street performers and a group of street musicians playing New Orleans Jazz. I lingered in front of a a street vender making Belgian waffles, fascinated by watching his manipulation of 5 irons simultaneously, He looked at me, smiled, and without missing a beat grabbed me by the shoulder and dragged me to his side of his operation. He instructed me how to do his job and when I began to get the feel of it, allowed me to do it for him. He found out I was an American art student/tourist and began to relate how much he loved Americans. It was because of the war and he related his memories of the Nazi Occupation of Paris, while he enjoyed a cigarette or two. My payment for running his business for about half an hour was a free waffle-and advice 'art is beautiful, but a trade will feed you.' [he was right.] I began to think I was going to like Paris. It was almost 9:30 before I got back to my hotel, however the party on the street continued. The next morning I was woken up by a single gentle knock on my door. Outside of it was a tray with hot coffee, croissant, some fruit and a small wedge of cheese. I grabbed every article of cloth I had with me and headed out to the laundromat, grateful that I was washing the last of Italy off of me and sending it where it belonged. I returned with my clean clothes and winked and gave my landlady a thumbs up. I grabbed my sketchbook and walked to the train station. I was seeking the opera. My sister had informed me that if I were to go to the American Express Office at the opera, there would be mail waiting for me. There was, a letter from my mother, my grandmother, a cousin, and from my sister. I read the letter from my mother who filled me in all the gossip from the Island and I decided to finish reading my mail at the next meal I'd sit down to have. I took a very quick tour of the interior of the Paris Opera house (that place is incredible, talk about the idea of decorative art taken to the extreme.) But my goal was to get to the Grand Dame of Art Museums: The Louvre. I knew that I would be spending a couple of days here so I wasn't rushed. I walked past the winged Victory of Samothrace , and I began with the the Mesopotamia collection (they had two winged bulls from the temple gate from the Palace of Sargon II) , through the collection of the middle east up to about the 7th centry, the Egyptian, Greek and Roman collections (Including the Venus de Milo and the bust of Alexander the Great), the sculpture from Europe from the dark ages through the Romantic (Includingthe Italian room, with more Michelangelo slaves through the work of Canova) , the collections from Africa, Asia, Oceania (where I'd spent about 10 months) and finally America. , By this time It was getting late in the afternoon, I was getting tired, and I might add hungry. So I headed back to my hotel-stopping by the Mcdonalds on the way. Ya know they don't have ketchup for their Pomme Frittes? However I did have a vanilla shake so that made up for it. As I walked towards my hotel I passed by a bookstore. It was 3 stories tall and had one floor dedicated to nothing but Art Books. I bought about 7 including the “miranda” by Diakonoff and some books about the Jou D' Pomme and the Louvre. The Jou D' Pomme is the unofficial collection of Impressionist and Post Impressionist work that was willed to The Louvre...however at the time the stuff was considered trash so whoever it was that was running the Louvre at the time put forth an edict stating that this collection would never hang in the hallowed halls of the Louvre (and after what I saw I wouldn't know where they'd put it) so they made its own museum. It was a great book store, they even had a boxing and mailing service so I sent the books to me in care of my Aunt In Ohio, I'd pick them up when I got there. By this time it was getting dark. I strolled the streets and watched some street performers. Met a few people and listened to the musicians working the streets to pick up a few Francs. I suppose I should mention here that before the Euro's each country had their own currency, and I found the French Currency to be some of the most complex and beautiful money I'd ever seen. They used at least a dozen inks and the engraving work was untouchable. I returned to my hotel about 10 pm. I showered and slept until the gentle single knock the next morning told me my breakfast was there. My first stop was Nortre Dame, which was just down the street from where I was staying. I was extremely impressed with the place and decided I would attend high mass the following Sunday, My next stop was a church by name of Sainte Chapelle (Holy Chapel) which was just across the bridge, located on the on the Ile de la Cité in the center of Paris (the Ile de la cite was the original village that became Paris, on an island in the middle of the Sein) and is part of the complex that include the prison that held Marie Antionette Sainte Chapelle is a diminutive yet perfect example of the Rayonnant style of Gothic architecture. It was erected by Louis IX, king of France, to house the Crown of Thorns and a fragment of the True Cross, (like most royal church's they sent men to fight the crusades and expected them to bring back relics.) Louis had purchased these in 1239 from the Byzantine emperor Baldwin II, for the exorbitant sum of 135,000 livres (the chapel "only" cost 40,000 livres to build). Two years later, more relics were brought from Byzantium. . The street level chapel appears like a very Romanesque chapel, small windows, thick walls tight quarters. But then one goes upstairs. The stained glass in the this place is absolutely incredible. The walls themselves are to made of glass. The place was describe do me as 'a stained glass flower' and it lived up to the reputation. I was in the heart of Paris... and I could almost hear the past. I spent the morning there and then headed back to Louvre. I went up the stairs this time past winged victory and decided to start with the Dutch school. I wanted to avoid the tourist rush on the Mona Lisa, knowing it would be like that pretty much all day, but not wanting to deal with it just then. I began with the paintings by Rubens of the life of Maria D' Medici. These 24 paintings are huge, and you can see where Rubens had a hand in the first ones but left the later paintings to his students...Maria D'Medici is portrayed as having been heaven sent, the earth being blessed by her presence being proven by the appearance of the ancient gods in most of her adventures..all pretty over the top if you ask me. I went next to the early dutch school early 16th century then the late 16th,. Mostly portraits of those who could afford it and some biblical scenes. Then on to The Rembrandt room, I saw the Bathsheba and as I recall they had about a half dozen of his self portraits from various stages of his life and a few of his landscapes. It was at about this point my brain had hit it's maximum storage capacity. I could look at things and then forget what it was I just saw. I recall I decided to attempt the Italian renaissance collection. The room was packed, all there to see the Mona Lisa. They paid no attention to the Madona of the Rocks, The St. John, The Virgin and child with St. Anne (with the buzzard), the Bacchus, and Le Belle Ferronniere. [As I sit here and contemplate the concept, I've seen the collections in the Vatican, The Uffizi, the Louvre, the National Gallery in London and the National Gallery in Washington DC, of the 15 known paintings that he did I've seen more then half. Amazing.] They were all gathered in front of the Mona Lisa so that they could tell their friends in Nebraska that they did indeed see it, I can recall thinking to myself “Philistines.” I got the full dose of the Madonna of the rocks and made a mental note to see the one in London which is just slightly different but is still one of the most amazing paintings that one man ever put to a board, but that he did it twice! (yeah that's right, Leonardo didn't paint on Canvas, he painted on panel) The man's brush work was just astonishing. So subtle, so controlled. I got a queasy feeling in my stomach wondering if it would me possible to get that good doing it as a part time occupation, (the concept that we have half his known paintings is being optimistic, considering that he was active for more then 40 years, that's less then one painting every three years. He was busy doing many other things.) I moved on. By this time I was getting hungry and my eyes were reeling considering all that I had taken in.
The next day I decided to take a break, I went to the Jeu De Paume, which was the Impressionist and post impressionist collection of the Louvre. While getting there had me walk past the Eiffel Tower, I didn't stop, I saw it from about a block away, that was enough. The museum was originally Napoleon's real Tennis court thus the name, the collection has since been moved to Musee D' Orsay. Its one of the more amazing collections of Impressionist and Post Impressionist artwork in the world, Here's just a small list of the artists represented in this museum: Gustave Coubet, Jean-Francois Millet, Jean Babtiste Corot, Cabanel, Camile Pissaro, Edouard Manet (both the Olympia and The Luncheon on the Grass), Edgar Degas, Paul Cezanne (the still life with apples and oranges, some consider this and a few of his landscapes to be the beginnings of cubism) Claude Monet, Odilon Redon, Pierre-Auguste Renior, Vincent Van Gogh, Georges-Pierre Seurat, Bonnard, Andre Derain, and last but not least James McNeil Whistler-Some serious hitters here. I seem to recall a story that this was the private collection belonging to Alfed Sisley (English Impressionist spent most of his life in France) that was willed to The Louvre when he died, but I can't back that up with facts. Needless to say it was a bit refreshing to focus on one period of Art work. In fact I enjoyed it so much I decided to do the Pompidou the next day. The Pompidou is Frances contemporary Art collection. The place looks like a Factory turned inside out and the area around it is like a modern day Medieval Carnival. There are street performers, vendors and mimes around it. Even here the French aren't slouches, Represented here are Dali, Bonnard, Kandinsky, Klee, Francis Bacon, Miro, Alberto Giacometti, Frank Stella, Andy Warhol, Max Earnst, Leger, David Hockney, Picasso, Robert Rauschenberg, Dominique Perrault, Max Beckman, Nicolas De Stael, Samuel Beckett, and last but not least Alexander Calder. This is a short list. There was one incident that I found amusing. When I was there the place was all but done. There were a few little things that needed to be done as is usual in an Art Museum. In one of the main Galleries I watched a real electrician working on a floor plug, and he had the area roped off so that people wouldn't disturb his tools and what he was doing. Well, I watched him get a call on his Walkie-Talkie and he decided to take it in the stairwell that was about 20' away. After a few minutes at least a half dozen people that came into the Gallery while he was gone examined the tools and wires coming up through the floor that were on the floor behind the ropes, wondering where the card was to tell them who had created this masterpiece. I had to smile then as I do now, this is what Art has become. I had three days left in Paris, and I wanted to finish seeing the Louvre, I had promised my father I'd see Versailles, and If I had time I needed to see the Musee De Cluny, the medieval museum and of course there was the Rodin house.... So much to do, so little time. I spent the next day In the Louvre Seeing the work of the 17th , 18th century and 19th century, that included Hans Holbien the younger, Anthony Van Dyk, David, Delacroix, Gerricault (the infamous Raft of the Medusa is one of the most memorable Paintings I've ever seen) I can go on and on...The Louvre is considered the Grand Dame of Art Museums for a very good reason, cause it is. The next day was Sunday so I made good my promise to do Mass at Nortre Dame. Unreal. It was High Mass and done in Latin. There were two things that kept me from being convinced that I wasn't the dark ages 1. there was a single electric light bulb above the alter and 2. the idiot next to me was filming the whole thing. And the organ they've got will indeed rattle your bones. After Mass I decided a day in the country was in order so I went to Versailles. Nice house. The Historic significance wasn't wasted on me, However I also remembered why those people were dragged out of there and beheaded. Brutal, however they had lost touch with the concept that Royalty was the servant of the people-a lesson that Mike had related to me and which gave me an entire new perspective on life in Europe. The Palace was a bit much however the Grounds were just what I needed. It had been quite a while since the air around me wasn't laced with carbon monoxide, Thick with the smell of people or feel of man made structure around me. I walked the grounds for about 3-4 hours and decided it was a good time to head back. I decided to deviate from my normal meal from the McDonalds...after all, I was in Paris, I might as well have some French Cuisine. I had asked my landlady if she could point me at a decent place for some authentic French food. She had instructed me where to go and what I might want to try. I settled for the chicken. The next day I decided to see the Musee d' Cluny-which was interesting although nothing stood out as memorable. I had the afternoon left so I headed for the Rodin Museum, it's actually in his house. I wasn't a huge fan before, and even now I can take it or leave it, however it put the Impressionist movement in perspective for me, He would have done well in this time and place. I was fascinated by the "Gates of Hell" I could see it as a source piece, and I found fascinating that in the Studio proper he had drawers and drawers of Human body parts cast in plaster...He would use these as examples for sculpting the clay to be cast into bronze, he could assemble whatever he needed like a tinker toy-I made note of this and have used the concept extensively. On my way back to the hotel I stopped at the McDonalds and headed to find my friend the waffle maker. He and I had a short chat and I told him I was heading out the next day. He smiled and said “Now that you've visited us, I know you'll come back. All artists call Paris Home.”

Part 6. Sunning myself In the cradle of the giants-Florence

2009-10-13T12:49:00.000-07:00

I arrived in Florence non too quickly. It took about 2-3 hours. In that time the 'not too shy' couple's passion waxed and waned about 3 times. I got off the train and got the name of a decent hotel at the tourist aide station in the train station. I bought a map and found the address and then walked there. I can't explain it, and I can see after my last chapter my reader lifting his eyes towards heaven and sighing 'yeah right'. However... I knew exactly where the hotel was...It was like I had been in this town before. I knew where to turn without reading street signs, on what side of the street the address was, and as I passed by some of the 'not of historic significance' buildings, I recognized some as seeming familiar. I checked in and found out that the entire city of Florence was having their annual water shortage. That taking a daily bath would cost me almost as much as the room, and it was never made clear if I would be the only one to use that water that day. By this time I was numb to the amount of insanity that these folks could come up with. My room was exactly 2' wider then and 3 longer then the bed, I could just open the door and get into it.
I checked in and as it was still fairly early I made right for the Duomo. This is the site of the Santa Maria del Fiore Cathedral, This where Brunelleschi invented one point perspective- a “recipe”of drawing that solved the concept of placing people and things to a scale that mimicked nature perfectly, (we still use it to do accurate drawings of interiors). It is also the locale of the great dome built by the same Brunelleschi. The cathedral of Santa Maria Del Fiore (Saint Mary of the flower[the flower signified Florence]) was begun in 1296.and after a few starts and stops the church was sorta finished by 1418. The only part incomplete was the planned Octagonal Dome located above the churches Chancel. Although the church was being used, it looked up to heaven and allowed the weather to enter... In 1419 it was decided that in order to resolve this dilemma that they would have a contest. The two heavy hitters in this contest was Brunelleschi and Lorenzo Ghilberti. Now Brunelleschi had already lost one plumb commission to Ghilberti- the doors of the Baptistry of San Giovanni (also in the Duomo). [The Baptistry is one of the oldest buildings in Florence if not the oldest. It was thought during the middle ages to have been a Roman temple to Mars.] These doors are also known as the “gates of Paradise' and many mark the compositions found there as the official beginning of the Renaissance. The compositions of the biblical scenes in the doors have many of the medieval stylistic qualities, but there is a depth and naturalism to them that had never been seen before. There is a story that says That Brunelleschi decided that he wasn't going to lose to Ghilberti again. [I might also add that about every description of Brunelleschi suggests he was a bit of a screwball] when asked by the council running the contest how he would construct the dome Brunelleschi responded that he wouldn't tell them. [It is said he was afraid his idea's would be stolen...obviously still smarting over being bested by his rival the last time]; Instead he suggested a contest. The person who could stand an egg on its end should get the job. After much debate the ruling council decided to indulge Brunelleschi. All the the contenders tried and failed. The last guy up was Brunelleschi. Who took the egg on its bottom rounded end and slightly tapped the egg into place, thus breaking the shell over the air pocket. The egg stood erect. The ruling council suggested that it was too simple, a child could have done that. Brunelleschi exclaimed “Yes, and a child could build the dome if I told him how.” They awarded the commission to him-I've gotten some info that said that the Meddici's were sponsoring him...and what they wanted they usually got. It was decided that both he and Ghilberti worked on the dome together, Ghilberti finally stepped away, the official reason was that Ghilberti claimed he couldn't read Brunelleschi 's handwriting [I'm thinking he got tired of Brunelleschi's obsessive secretive methods-Ghilberti probably figured he'd give the guy all the room he needed to fail and then step in and fix it.] Bunelleschi used the Pantheon as his model, except the recipe for reinforced concrete had long since been lost, so he did it with herringbone patterned brick so that each brick was dependent on the those below and to each side-thus the concrete would have already begun to dry and hold the wet ones in place, and allowed Gravity to provide compression as he slowly closed the sphere. He realized that he needed to use a crane and block and tackle to hoist bricks, mortar and stone up to the top using the available “power source” IE Oxen, great going up but not coming back down - Oxen don't walk backwards. So he designed and built a hoist that had reversible gearing. It's believed that the drawing of just such a device in Leonardo's notebooks was copied from Brunelleschi's working model when The dome was being built. The copper for the lantern above the dome was soldered in the studio of Verochio, while Leonardo was an apprentice there Leonardo writes of one of his first jobs being running solder for this lantern.
It was here that on Easter Sunday in 1478 the Pazzi (contenders to the ruling D'Medicis, both families were the bankers to the popes), backed by the pope, killed Guiliano D' Medici and almost killed his brother Lorenzo “The Magnificant” D'Medici [during mass!] who escaped with serious wounds to the sacristy. The Meddici had been running Florence for two generations already...and reading about it sounds a lot like dealing with the Mafia. Before this all came dowm Lorenzo's Mistress was Simonetta Vespucci, and he planned to marry her to his brother (same brother that was killed). Simonetta Vespucci was sorta the Marilyn Monroe of her day, She's was the most popular amongst the available models to be painted (I read an anonymous report that the artists used to get into public fistfights to settle who'd she'd model for next) her untimely death from TB didn't stop this-there were portraits of her being made as long as 15 years after she died. For me this was like sitting in the middle of Yankee stadium for a baseball fan or Wright Brothers bicycle shop for fans of airplanes or Edison's Lab for people who like gizmo's [Or in my Mother's Father case, a huge fan of Westerns, when he made the trip to Tombstone AZ ] This place was the hub of the Italian Renaissance- it had all pretty much happened here. I walked to the bronze star embedded in the ground to show where one point perspective was invented. I walked over to the Baptistery and saw 'the Gates of Paradise' and then I walked into the church. Within were Frescoes by Andrea del Castagno, Giorgio Vasari and Federico Zuccari. Many partook in the cathedral project (other than the above mentioned Brunelleschi and Ghiberti) we can name Giotto, Andrea Pisano, Andrea del Castagno, Paolo Uccello, Luca della Robbia, Michelozzo, as well as the formentioned Vasari and Zuccari. I looked down the dark church, under the vaulted ceiling and began to walk to the alter, under the dome. When I got to it I looked up. It was immense. I saw the bust of Giotto embedded in the wall- between him and Fra Angelica they marked the change in the wind from the medieval world of Dante, toward the 'new way' of naturalism and making man the measure of things rather then God.
I decided that I needed to get some chow, as I hadn't had any breakfast wanting to get out of Rome as quickly as I could. I sought a “Trattoria” and ordered the house special which was usually a large salad, a bit of beef or chicken, a big pate of spaghetti, a small bottle of wine and bread, all for about $6. I headed back to my room. I was exhausted. I fell on my bed with my book but I didn't even open it before I was asleep. I woke the next morning and got into my clothes in a flash. Today I was going to visit her. Anyone who knows me knows that I have this really strange unnatural obsession with the painting of “The Birth of Venus” by Botticelli, the model was the aforementioned Simontta Vesspuci. I first ran across this painting when I was about 10 years old. The reproduction was pretty bad but she was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. The pose of Botticelli's Venus is reminiscent of the “Venus D'Medici or Praxiteles' sculpture of Aphrodite, The former a marble sculpture that was a classic [that somehow escaped the grasp of Vatican either cause the Medici's were the Popes bankers or it was a bit too much for the Vatican] in the D'Medici collectionwhich Botticelli had plenty of opportunity to study it. Considering Botticelli's obsession with Simonetta [he's buried at her feet by his own request, so that she would be the first thing he saw at the Last Judgement] and his buddy-buddy relationship with Lorenzo “the magnificent” who also adored her, It sorta makes a great deal of sense how and why this painting got made. It's done with an amazing love and a great deal of care [I believe it took almost 10 years to do]. It also skirted the forbidden pagan beliefs. How this painting escaped the bonfire of the Vanities is a miracle. She is now housed in the Uffizi collection, and this was one of the two reasons I had come to Italy. I entered like a medieval pilgrim on the tour of the holy sites to see the relics of the saints. I sat and contemplated each painting from the Early Icons to the paintings such as Giotto's , through Leanardo's abandoned Nativity, and the painting of the baptism of St. John the baptist, attributed to his master Verochio however the angel in the corner was painted by Da Vinci and because of the excellence of it, Verochio knew he'd been bested and never touched color again...or so the story goes. Michelangelo's circular Holy Family, The plethora of Raphael's Madonna's. I spent the whole day there. Most of it sitting in front of her. I was somehow surprised at how small the painting was. However I indulged myself...I studied every curve, every color, each expression., I studied the delicate shadows on her hands, the almost comical feet, the appearance of the wind blowing her ashore, her attendants quickly bringing her a garment to cover herself, but not quickly enough. Her modesty is apparent and yet the knowing of her blue eyes as you watched her in her nakedness. The realization that you could never touch her but if you had to look...do it quickly. Yeah I know, enough already...you get the picture. She was the only woman Botticelli ever painted, in all the paintings done by him she was his only model. I wandered those hallowed halls until I had to leave and I mean had to, being escorted to the door as everyone had left half an hour before. I also returned the next day. on the third day I visited the Academy to see the David and the unfinished statues that Michelangelo had done. I was also almost run down by a guy on a motorcycle. The Italians are the worst drivers in Europe. While at the Academy I growled at the captive slaves remembering that they had been meant as being part of the tomb in the Church of St. Peter in Chains, and reliving that whole chapter. That evening found me on the street. [I don't want the reader to think that I went back to my room at dusk every night. I did often...I was walking on the average of about 10-15 miles a day and I was tired at the end of it, however I did go out and socialize] I had met these two girls from New Jersey. They were there also looking at the Art and both were attractive, so we had decided to go and get some Italian Ice cream. Italian Ice cream is like a highly addictive drug, its so rich you can only do a small amount at a time and it is to what we call ice cream what silk is to burlap. We were on the streets eating our ice cream and comparing notes, when I noticed that the locals were hurriedly getting off the streets. They were ducking into doorways and getting up on stairs. I had realized the week before what this country was full of and I had turned on some of the skills I'd learned in New Guinea...IE when you see the locals run, you run too. I grabbed these two girls and we stepped into a doorway. About 15 seconds later a herd of Italians came running down the street. There was about 200 of them, and they were fleeing the soccer stadium. It seems there was a soccer game that night that had ended in a riot (imagine that) and if we hadn't had gotten out of the road we'd have been trampled. When the locals felt safe enough to start coming out again, the girls asked if I'd walk them back to their hotel, It was probably going to be an interesting evening in Florence that night...and from the damage to store fronts, and the litter I saw on the streets the next day, it was.
The following day I decided to chase down something I'd read about. These 'objects' were the only work I've ever been able to uncover by an artist by the name of “Zumbo, the magnificent” Every time I have tried to do research on this artist I have come up empty, all I'm given is reproductions of these two bodies of work. He was reportedly the last of the Medici artists, and active in the late 17th early 18th century. His medium was wax. There were two things to see. First was a set of life size wax figures almost identical to the one before and the one after, It was a 3D anatomy text. The first was a wax statue of a cadaver, the next was the cadaver opened, the next was an identical stature as the one previous with one or two of the organs removed to reveal organs and tissue below. In each it was flayed a bit further to the last one which was the cadaver in the same exact pose as a skeleton, There must have been about 40 of these. Then there was the other work. It was a set of 6 diorama's about 12" by 12" by about 18" wide of the experience of the plague in Florence in the 14th century. The detail was amazing, even though the subject matter was a bit Macabre-these were in the Museum of health. I had to walk by the Hall of the innocents, an orphanage designed during the renaissance to mimic the proportions of the human form [considered a good example in art history texts of classic renaissance architecture] and decorated by the ceramic works of Dela Robbia. At the Florence museum of art, there was a Show about Chagall. I never cared for his work, and this show did little to change my opinion. I wandered to the Ponte Vechio, this was a hub for artists, there are shops that sell art and jewelry on the bridge itself. People hung out, drawing portraits, the river, or just reading. It was pretty laid back, sorta reminded me of a student lounge of sorts. I began working on a drawing of a little Italian girl who's mother was reading. She was adorable, about 2-3, just recently got her feet under her and had worked out how to use them. I was about 10-12' away and began drawing her as she wandered around under the watchful eye of her mother. The closest she got to me was about 9'. I guess her mother noticed that I was looking at her daughter and drawing her picture- I guess I could have asked if it was okay before I began to draw, however she came up to me blocking my view of her daughter and began screaming obscenities at me, I apologized and offered her the drawing, she tore it up and spat on me (this is obviously something that happens kinda regular in Italy, as it had happened to me twice in two weeks, and has never happened again since) I got up and left. I went towards Duomo, I wanted to see Museo dell'Opera, the museum of Santa Maria Del Fiore. Within are the actual panels from the gates of paradise, the ones on the door are reproductions, also is what is rumored to be the statue that Michelangelo had planned for his own grave, It's a Pieta that he pushed really hard, the figure of Christ seems almost too delicate, too thin. This piece is credited with the introduction of the style of Mannerism, in which the subjects physical qualities are stretched...El Greco is considered a Mannerist its the period of art which came after the renaissance and just before the Baroque. Also within is the sculpture of the Magdalene done out of wood by Donatello. I sat and contemplated my time in Italy, I would be leaving this place soon. I had waited for years to be here, and the experience had been frustrating, wonderful and disappointing at the same time. The next day I made my reservations to Paris. I had only sprung for 2 baths that week and me and my laundry smelled pretty bad. When I got back to Rome and then on to the Airport I passed a flight that was going to New York. I thought about cashing in my chips and going home. Rome had left me with the concept that the people that lived there were all screwy. Florence seemed a bit more what I expected but a similar distrust and disappointment lingered. I thought I understood why Da Vinci had decided to move the hell out of Italy and move to France to spend his declining years...My next stop Paris and once there I realized why Da Vinci preferred the French.

Part 5. The Sun over the Hills of the Giants. Athens and Rome.

2009-10-06T16:31:00.000-07:00

[I apologize that this has taken me so long to put down, its' just that when I start reliving the time I spent in Italy I get angry, and I have to walk away. I think you'll see why]

I landed In Greece about the First week in June. It was blistering, and although I was used to heat and humidity in New Guinea it was always overcast there, I'm led to understand its because New Guinea is so close to the Equator- where the water comes to warm up to make its trip north (this is what causes wind-who'd of thought?). The sky was as clear and blue in Greece as to remind one of lapis lazuli and the sun was so bright you had to cover your eyes in the shade. I breezed my way through customs and made my way to my Hotel, it wasn't bad...Shall we say that in the shared bathroom down the hall there was no Bidet. I got myself some dinner and I walked around the city. It is just amazing to me how small Athens is considering where it is and the significance it has to Europe and the world. This is the crossroads of East and West. It has been for almost 2,000 years. It and Rome were the western most points for the prophets of the bible, It was where Democracy was born as well as logical thought, Where men began to question how the world worked and didn't just assume that it was (the) God(s) at work. Thus began Science for its own sake and the birth place of higher mathematics. And yet Athens was about the smallest capital city I visited, with the possible exception of Port Moresby. I awoke and had breakfast during which I met a lovely Australian woman who gave me a warning when she heard about my trip to Rome, She spoke of the problem the Italian Government had had about 5 years prior, seemed that the coins used in their currency was leaving the country with such expediency as souvenirs that they couldn't mint it fast enough. SO the Italian Government in its ultimate wisdom told the banks they could print their own currency up to about !,000 lire. I was headed to the Acropolis, she was heading to the beach. SO I asked her if she'd like to join me for dinner. She accepted under the condition that she might stay at the beach until later. I agreed to this condition and caught a bus headed for the Acropolis (made up of the words Akron -edge and Polis City), home of the Parthenon-the temple to Athena & The porch of the caryatids, Sanctuary of Artemis, the theater if Dionysus, amongst many other buildings. One cannot help but think of Aristotle, Socrates, Plato, Euclid, Archimedes and all the other Giants to the modern world when one is walking on those stones. The present state of the Parthenon can be blamed on the Ottoman Turk army who used the building for storing their munitions, that and the pollution that Athens suffers from. I wandered down over to the porch of the caryatids where I was told that one of the caryatids was actually a duplicate. The Greek government was in the process of attempting restoration of the whole acropolis. There was talk of a huge plastic bubble that would cover it. I walked all over the acropolis that day and saw almost all there was to see. My new friend didn't make dinner so I ate alone and went to bed. The next day I headed for the Cultural museum. I had seen the Greek collections in a variety of museums however I was interested in what they had maintained for their own collection. I saw the early Kuros figures, grave marker statues that resembled the Egyptian in their poses, but with this really disturbing archaic smile on their faces....The figures began to take on more naturalism...IE the Greeks began with what the Egyptians had done and then began to look at the human figure and learn from it. Then the huge break through of dividing the figure into 1/4's and allowing the weight to placed on one leg and allowing the arms to move in another plane then the legs. I saw the statues that they kept form the Parthenon and promised myself that I would check out the Elgin Marbles when I got to England. I spent the rest of my week in that museum drawing and comparing what I had learned in Egypt to what I saw here. The pieces began to fit together.

At the end of the week I made the trip that I had looked forward to for as long as I had made the decision to go into art as a lifestyle and career. I was going to Rome and then Florence. I enjoyed the artwork and I'm glad I went... however if I never step on Italian soil again I'll be just as fine as frog's hair with that circumstance. I feel that I should make a few disclaimers here. First My mother was 100% Italian from Boston, making me half. I adored my mother and love quite a few members of my Italian Family. Second, my Grandparents were from Northern Italy, and I adored them also. I can't help feeling that they were amongst the smart ones who left the country to never move back. Finally, My favorite period in Art is the Italian Renaissance. However After having spent a grand total of about 16 days there I understand why God Put the Mediterranean Sea on three sides of it and the Alps on the 4th, He wanted to keep those people contained.

I landed in Rome and made a few phone calls to find myself a hotel. I found one that seemed reasonable and fairly cheap. I spent one night there and found the place just a bit strange (the lady that ran it kept looking at me like I had antlers.) SO the next day I explored and found another place to sleep, the entrance was around the corner from the Via Nazionale, a main drag through Rome. It was an old place, from the looks of it. That I believe had one other person staying there. The ancient Elevator that consisted of a wrought Iron cage that climbed and sank within an open framework dated from the early part of the century and was no longer working. The sign that said out of order was hand written in Italian, English, German and French. The sign looked to be older then I was. I was given a double room for the price of a single and it had it's own bathroom and was cheaper then the place I just left. The people running it were a married couple, both in their 50's. She was the room maid and he was the desk clerk. After I checked in I found out what bus I needed to get on and headed for the Vatican. I had about 3 hours before the whole of Rome was going to close for lunch. I made for the Sistine Chapel and was struck dumb by what I saw there. I am sure that any and all are familiar with Michelangelo's ceiling and possibly the mural on the west wall of the Last Judgment. This is only one part of it. There are murals of the life of Christ done by such as Perugino and Botticelli. However I approached the last judgment as one might walk against the wind during a hurricane. The power of that work was overwhelming, It hit me, again and again and again. The dynamo of the design drew me in and repelled me simultaneously. I saw the hand of Christ passing judgment as the saints rose as though weightless and the sinners were ferried off to Hell. After about 10 minutes I looked up. I saw the ceiling and its depiction of the ancestors of Christ. It seemed to be impossible. It seemed to be heroic, It pulled me up into it and my head began to spin...I saw God create the universe and then create man with a shy almost frightened Eve under his arm. I saw the fall of man, I saw Noah, I saw the sibyls and prophets and their helpers....I saw the walls with all the other murals of the life of Christ and then returned to the Last Judgment...It hammered me again with refreshed vengeance. At the end of about an hour I staggered out of there feeling as if I had been worked over by a platoon of marines. I came to the instant realization that whatever progress I had made in the year that I had studied before and in New Guinea counted as a drop of water next to the ocean of what I had just seen, the road ahead of me was a hard one and all uphill. I felt shame that I had even considered calling myself an “artist”. I felt as though I was unworthy to be spat on by the men who had created what was in that one room. I considered going back in, I had about an hour before they would close it up....I slowly re entered with the proper amount of humility. The beating was less violent. I sat and opened my sketchbook. I began to draw. I drew until they officially asked me to leave as they had emptied the room minutes before. I'm sure that if they hadn't thrown me out I'd have been there for days. I left begrudgingly and got myself some lunch. I met a Jewish girl who asked if she could join me. She saw my sketchbook and the fact that I was pretty shaken up. I told her of what had happened. She asked if I could go with her the next day to see St. Peters, as she knew little about Art and nothing about Christianity would I help her understand what it was she was looking at. I agreed. I returned I wandered aimlessly and eventually returned to my hotel. The evening was a restless one for me, for some reason every time I nodded off the glass in the windows of my room would begin to vibrate as though they weren't actually fixed in place, but Each examination proved that although the caulk was chipped and broken the windows were sound. I woke up and did my laundry in the sink. I jumped on the bus heading to the Vatican. Within a few minutes I felt a man brush up against me and then there was a bump in the road and as he fell away from me I found his hand my pocket. I dragged him to the front of the bus and told the driver that I had just caught this guy trying to pick my pocket. There was an exchange between the thief and the driver. The driver pulled to the side of the road and opened the door and motioned me off of the bus. I looked at him and said “I was the one being robbed!” he nodded and pointed out the door. I was thrown off because I had caught the guy. I walked the rest of the way to St. Peters Square, made my way past the huge columns that separate it from Rome and I met my new friend by the obelisk as we had planned. We entered St. Peters Basilica. The mother church of Catholicism. There has been a church on this spot since the 4th century. There are no words to suggest the scale of this place. The term cavernous might work, however doesn't. Mammoth or Grand just don't measure up either. Its big enough to be three Cathedrals, (it holds up to 60.000 people) and every corner, every square inch is covered in some form of decoration. Of course they've been working on the place for about 600 years. I did what I could to explain what it was we were looking at, when they closed for lunch I bid my new friend goodbye and I walked the grounds of Vatican city and stumbled upon what I believe was a Funeral Chapel. I've never seen any pictures of this place other then the ones that I took. The painting over the Alter was in the Style of Grunwald, although I've never it reproduced before and my picture of it came out pretty dark. The place was done in black stone probably granite polished to a mirror and white marble polished the same. The only other decoration in this Chapel was the 3 carved representations of a cloaked death figure holding a scythe over the stone sarcophagi of some un named individuals. One on each side of the Alter and the third on the side wall near the back. It was small in scale compared to Basilica. However the same size as one would expect a good size church to be. I took some photo's and left as I came in. Since it was about two and every place was closed for lunch (and would be until about 4-5 pm) I got on a bus that I assumed would take me to the Colosseum It eventually did. And Yes I can attest to the fact that there is indeed a place on the grounds of the Colosseum where they keep stray cats. And yes they do feed them day old spaghetti. The Colosseum loomed large against the sky and the even the ruin after centuries of neglect and being stripped of its marble to burn into quick lime was impressive. I stood close to a tour group and over heard about its separate uses, supposedly they even had naval battles in there, which is impressive. I decided to head back to my room about 4, drop off my drawing supplies and camera and get some dinner. When I came into my room it looked like someone had taken the whole place and turned it upside down. Only righting it moments before I came in. The drawers of the dresser were pulled out and dumped on the floor, the bed was stripped and the sheets flung over the lamp by the table, my suitcase had been dumped, my clothes scattered about the floor...my extra pads of paper were tossed to different parts of the room...It looked like somebody had been looking for something. The only other time I'd ever seen that sorta “looking for something” was when a friend's visiting brother lost a gram of cocaine at my friends house. He tore that place apart looking for it and it was only found an hour later after being accidentally thrown in the trash while the brother was asking after a crow bar to start pulling up the floor. I went to the desk clerk and asked him to come with me, I t hought I'd been robbed, however a quick accounting showed that nothing worth anything was missing. I took him to my room and asked him for an explanation. He looked and said nothing, bringing his wife who's job it was to clean the rooms and change the bedding. She looked into the room and turned as white as a sheet and crossed herself. They had an exchange quietly in Italian, and she scurried off to get some bedding. The desk clerk/ owner apologized and told me it was a big mistake. If I went out and got my dinner it would all be straightened up by time I returned. It was, however amongst my personal things that had been in my suit case and were now laid on the bed, the sketchbook that I had filled up in Cairo and Greece was no longer amongst my things. The managers wife swore to me that she had not taken it, and had put all my things she found about the room back on the bed. There was one addition to the room. They had left a Bible on the dresser. I had yet another troubled night in the room. It seemed that I would wake up to the sound of the glass in the windows vibrating and it would stop almost the exact instant my eyes would open. I woke up about 4-5 times that night to this. Finally at about 5 am I just got up and read till I was sure I could get some breakfast. I had decided to see something that I had read about that day. The catacombs or the church of the Capochene Monks. This is a small church and over the century's they had run out of room to bury their own dead, so they picked an anonymous monk to exhume the dead and “do something” with the remains, so this ingenious monk used the bones as decorative elements, such as constructing candelabra in each of the 4-5 bays of the catacombs, decorating the ceilings in decorative patterns using the bones as one would chips in a mosaic. He stacked the shoulder blades and hips to construct small insets into the wall to house particular remains, like a bas relief tomb. I had read about this place and found the concept fascinating. As I walked toward the church I stood next to a girl on a street corner waiting for a traffic light. She had a bad case of the hiccups. I mean every time she hiccuped she jumped a little in the air. I asked her if she understood English. She nodded she did. I told her to take 5 deep breaths and to get all the air out after each. I then demonstrated what I meant. Then I told her with the 5th deep breath to hold it in and to count to 10 before exhaling very slowly. I demonstrated this too. I told her that if she did this her hiccups would go away. I turned and crossed the street feeling like I'd done my good deed for the day. About a block and a half later I heard some guy behind me yelling curse words (I'd heard a few of these coming out of my Italian Grandfather's mouth when he'd hit himself on the thumb with a hammer so I recognized a couple of them) and running up the street. In his hands was what looked like a switchblade (it had that pointed blade that all switchblades seem to have) and not a little one either, and he was running straight for me. As I saw him coming and looking straight at me I decided to keep out of his way. I started waking faster and eventually ran. When I turned the corner I knew it was me he was after cause he turned the corner too. I out ran this guy (about the last time I'd do that in my life) and lost him after a few blocks...the only thing I can come up with was that the girl was his girlfriend and she either didn't understand English that well, or he saw me talking to her and got the wrong idea. It wouldn't be the last time that I was almost killed while in Italy. After the church of the Capochene monks I headed back to the Vatican to see the Vatican museums. The Church claimed first dibs on anything that was dug up in the world. The collection of both Greek and roman copies of Greek art is unsurpassed in the world. I studied the “lacoon and his sons” and many of the other sculptures, I sat and filled my sketchbook with as many things as would take my interest, and there were many. When Rome broke for lunch I decided I would too. I recalled seeing what looked like a Deli on my way in and decided that a sandwich was probably the best way to work it. I still wanted to check out some of the Roman Ruins that were in pockets around Rome. I entered and ordered a sandwich, some cheese and a small bottle of wine. I paid for my purchase and headed toward the closest collections of Ruins from there. I sat in the shade, leaning up a brick wall that had once been sheathed in marble, had been built about 2,000 years before and ate my lunch. There was something funny about the sandwich, which I assumed had to do with the spices. After lunch I made for the Pantheon. The Pantheon is the most complete of Ancient Rome's buildings. It was built in 126 AD with a typical columned front that one would expect from a Roman Temple but the Pantheon itself a large Dome. It being the largest in the world till 1436 when Florence's Cathedral was built (we'll get into that when we go to Florence) The thing is its' made completely of reinforced concrete. Yes, the Romans invented Reinforced Concrete. It was a temple to all gods (thus Pantheon) but was converted into a church In the late 6th or early 7th century. The only light source within is an occulous (a hole in the ceiling) in the exact center of the dome the occulous is surrounded by ever increasing in size coffers which lightened the weight of the concrete and gave an incredible visual effect and decorated with different kinds and colors of stone. It was also about 20 degrees cooler in there then outside. The place is breathtaking. As a matter of fact when Rome was being sacked by pagans (I'll try and remember which group it was) they broke in ready to sack the Pantheon, upon entering grew quiet, decided that this place must remain intact and closed the doors behind them as the left. I visited the grave of Raphael who's remains are kept there with other Italians who's accomplishments gave them the honor to be buried in the hall of all the Gods. I made my way out. By this time is was getting on dinner time but surprisingly I didn't feel hungry. I felt tired, sweaty and clammy- I attributed it to all the walking I was doing. I headed back to the hotel and crawled into the bed. I awoke at about 2-3 AM needing to throw up. I did it again about 10 minutes later, and again about 10 minutes after that. I crawled back into bed, it was only a few minutes after that the diarrhea began. I spent the rest of my night feeling like I was going to throw up, and sitting on the toilet. I felt like shit the next day so I stayed in bed until after noon. This had all the earmarks of food poisoning. Probably from the sandwich I'd eaten the day before. I spent the day in bed feeling miserable. The next day I struggled up and got dressed and headed out. I was heading to the basilica of St. Peter in chains. The church itself was built the middle of the 5th century and houses the Moses done by Michelangelo as part of a planned 40 statue tomb for Julius II (most of the statues of 'bound slaves' were meant for this tomb), ( and yeah this was the same guy who talked him into painting the ceiling.) and although the tomb was meant for St. Peters it ended up here. Along with Julius II this is the burial place of Antonio Polliauolo, a Renaissance artist who's work I had admired. I walked into the church and towards the Moses. He is sitting and is still huge, as I recall the stature is almost 8'-9' tall. Michelangelo felt that this was his greatest piece. A scar left by a hammer blow on the statue's knee attest to a story that Michelangelo hit his Moses in the knee with his hammer and said “SPEAK”. I've heard the same story associated with Donatello when working on his statue of the prophet Habakkuk, while he was shaping the statues mouth he Yelled “there now, speak damn you!” I studied the statue from all directions and finally did a drawing of one of the hands. When I was finished I went to the back of the church into the souvenir shop so I could by a postcard of the statue. The man behind the counter gave me my change in bank script. I had been warned about this in Greece, but I still wasn't feeling well so I asked him “I'll be able to spend this, Right?” and the guy assured me I could spend it anywhere. I spent the next 3 days getting rid of it, the last straw was when a woman begging crumbled it up threw it back at me and then spat on me. I got rid of it, but that will come later. Later that day I almost got run down by a car, I ended up damn near sitting on his hood while he swore at me in Italian. I was on my way to the Art Supply store to buy some black ink. I had learned what the word “black” was in Italian and went in to by some black ink. I ended up miming the whole thing using the word for black. They applauded, and sold me the ink. Except that as I found out when I went to use it, it was blue. When I returned to my hotel I was still feeling kinda queasy so I took a long hot shower. I felt the hot water cascade down my body and when I opened my eyes I saw through the translucent shower curtain something about the size of a person move across the room. I pulled the curtain aside and found myself alone in the bathroom. I assured myself that it was just the food poisoning that was playing tricks with my eyes. I had 2 days left in Rome and went to confirm my flight to Florence. I stood in line behind a 400lb unwashed and unshaven Transvestite until I stood in front of the ticket agent. I was informed that the Florence airport was closed. Why? No reason. At the top of the tourist season they just decided to close the airport. SO...I needed to buy a train ticket-this worked cause I was in need of some Lire and the best exchange rate was to be had at the train station. I took the bus to where the bus station and the train station are separated by a large paved square. I saw to my left that some communists were having a political Rally with banners and somebody yelling through a megaphone. I saw that on the right about 100 yards away from where the Communists were what I assumed were some Catholic Democrats or some other political party having an equally loud and 'colorful' Political Rally. I saw where I needed to go, set my brain on automatic and headed that way. I refocused my brain to my immediate surroundings when I saw the first tear gas grenade land about 10 yards in front of me. I looked around me and in my wake the two political groups had met and were involved in a battle. There was cursing, fists flying, screaming....and the Police, who were probably on hand for just such and outburst. Thank God I had my passport with me in my hand as I needed ID to cash the British Pound Travelers checks to turn into Lire. The biggest Cop I've ever seen (He looked like a gorilla in a uniform) was about to lay me out with a club. I saw him through my tearing eyes and I threw my hands up defensively and held my Passport in his face. I screamed “AMERICAN CITIZEN!!!!!” The Gorilla in the uniform stopped his swing and yelled “WHAT ARE YOU DO HERE?” I said “Going to the train station to exchange money!” He yelled “YOU GO NOW!” and I did, and as I did, I yelled back “ I can't get out of this goddamn asylum fast enough!” It took me about an hour to wash the stuff from my eyes while in the train station. I was getting mad. This Town was a zoo and I had one or two more things I needed to do before I got the hell out of there. The more I thought about it the angrier I got. I had come there in good faith and had about every kind of shit dumped on me. Oh, if only I had known. I told the guy selling tickets the date that I wanted to go and made sure he understood it was for two days from then. I left the train station and walked to the bus station, there was some trash, a couple of signs and a few puddles of blood to mark the scuffle I had almost been a statistic in and I climbed on the bus and thought to myself that this city was weirder then New York, probably cause they had had about 2,500 years longer to work on it. I got some dinner and I returned to my hotel. I had an especially long night as I was still pretty angry at what had happened during my stay and it seemed that every time I drifted off to sleep the glass would begin to vibrate in the windows, Until I opened my eyes and sat up and then all I heard was the sound of the city below. I also got this weird feeling that someone was in the room with me watching me sleep. The next day, I went to the Museo Galeria Borghello. This place was sorta like the Frick Museum in New York. It was somebodies house and on display was their art collection. They had Bernini's ( the architect of St. Peter's while they were working on the inside of the church. He was such and incredible sculptor there were rumor's he'd sold his soul to the devil. He was having an affair with a married woman, caught her in bed with his brother, chased his brother into St. Peters and damn near beat him to death with an iron rod. Then sent his servant to the woman's house with orders to slash her face and the servant did as he was told.) 'Apollo and Daphne', 'Pluto and Proserpina', and his 'David'. We're talking high Baroque here-these sculptures look like people locked in mid step. They had Raphael's 'The deposition' and his 'Girl with a Unicorn in her lap'. It was so much like Da Vinci's Mona Lisa there was talk of Plagiarism, so Raphael painted a sheep with a horn on it's head sitting on her lap just to end the talk. It is the closest one can come to seeing the actual color that Da Vinci' used in his Mona Lisa. They had Caravaggio's 'David with the head of Goliath', as well as a few others. The had a smattering of Canova's sculptures He was more idealized in his portrayal of the human figure. I thoroughly enjoyed the day. I hadn't eaten so I went to a local restaurant and then went to the Fountain of the 4 rivers By Bernini. I sat and drew until dusk. Then I went back to my hotel. On the way home I accidentally bumped into a 20 year old and he needed to make something of it, So I got into a yelling match with him. It takes a lot to make me angry however the anger that I had been boiling up in me that whole week began to come out and I swear I'd have killed the guy if he'd done anything but yell. I went into my room still angry, figuring I needed a nice hot shower, by then it was dark. As I came out of the bathroom I noticed the vibration of the windows that I had been hearing all week and I just snapped. I yelled “CUT IT OUT” and then I could swear I felt somebody behind me and when I turned I could swear that was another face in the mirror along with my own and this one was looking at me. Without thinking I yelled “I'm outa here in the morning so CUT IT OUT!” Then it stopped. I was alone in the room, I not only could see it, I could feel it. SO I went to bed and read until I nodded off, afterwords when I thought about it I can't respond to the question, “Why didn't you just get the hell out of there?' I don't know. I guess I was just so pissed off at all that had happened that I wasn't going to give this place the satisfaction. I can be pretty unreasonable when I get frustrated. I didn't sleep well, However when I woke up to pack and catch the train my missing sketchbook was laying in the middle of the floor. I had one stop I needed to make. I went back to the church of St. Peter in Chains. I walked directly into gift shop and grabbed a couple of postcards and put the piece of bank script that the asshole standing behind the counter had given me days before. He refused to take it. I said nothing as I reached across the counter and grabbed him by the lapels and dragged him across the counter., I held in the air as he began to swear at me in Italian, I said very distinctly “Oh yes, you are going to take this bill back and you will exchange it I don't care if its for postcards, Lire, stamps, wampum or blood, your choice!”. He gave it to me postcards. I swear as God is my witness, If he had refused, I'd have killed him. I made for the train station and was informed that despite my instructions that the ticket I bought was to be for the date I planned to leave, they had sold me one for the day previous. I bought another First class ticket and boarded the train to find that they had oversold the seats. The conductor and I sought me a seat with no luck, So, he began to knock on the private compartments and finally came to a private compartment with (I guessed) a newly married couple or soon to be married couple. There was discussion and finally the male half of the couple agreed to let me have a seat. Then they proceeded to conduct themselves as if they were still by themselves. It's one thing watching that sorta thing on film, Its quite another when your sitting about 2' away from it. I had my eyes glued to my book, however the sounds left little mystery as to what was going on. Next stop Florence.

Part 4 Standing in the Sun, Egypt

2009-09-25T09:04:00.000-07:00

I landed in Cairo's airport after a seeming eternity on the airplane...not surprising since we'd traveled what I believe is a ¼ of the earth's circumference. when we had landed in India we were asked to please step onto the tarmac and identify our luggage so that it could be reloaded on the plane. I thought this was weird at 4 am, what was weirder was we shared the flight with armed guards at the front and rear of the plane. The strange thing about the airport in Cairo is that it is only the home of the official transactions of entering and leaving the country, there are no airline offices located there. I waited by luggage claim for the better part of an hour waiting for my suitcase. I finally went to the customs desk and asked after it. The Uniformed man told me to be patient. I returned to my seat and waited another hour. I returned to the man behind the counter, I suggested that everyone on my flight had claimed their luggage and there had been at least two others since then. He took my passport and looked at my ticket, called someone and said that yes, it was here and I needed to be patient. I had been awake for about 20 hours by this time. I was getting a bit cranky, so after waiting yet another hour I walked up to him and began a conversation. Come to find out, he had a son going to Cal Tech. I commented that that was a fine school. I myself was an artist, I was heading to Art school. He nodded. I mentioned that seeing Egypt had been a life long dream, to actually walk on the ground of the Pharaoh's, to examine the birth place of western civilization...I was excited to get started. He smiled and nodded. I gently mentioned that I had had very little sleep in the last 3 days and had been awake now for the last 20+ hours and that the first thing on my list of things to do was to take a shower and get some much needed sleep. He sighed. He then asked for my passport again and my ticket. He motioned me to the side of the table and turned to face askew from me, I guess so that he could not be accused of speaking to me. “Mr. Kauslick there is a problem. We examined your bag, the razors and bottle of ink is explained by your being an artist. We x-rayed the statues in your bag and found them to be nothing more then souvenirs so we can give you back your bag...However it is policy to allow no one to enter the country that hasn't confirmed their flight out.” I said “OK, point me at the office I have to go to and I'll take care of it immediately.” He pursed his lips and shook his head gently “No, you see, the place where you would do that is in Downtown Cairo, I see you have a reservation at *********** Hotel...The place you would take care of this is across the street from your hotel. You see, I can't let you leave the airport because you haven't assured us you're going to fly out after a week, however you can't assure us that you are going to leave Egypt unless I allow you to leave the airport. Thus the problem...” I looked at him blankly...”you mean I'm going to live here in the airport from now on?” He pursed his lips again. “Mr. Kauslick, I'm going to take a chance on you. It takes One hour to drive from here to your hotel. I will allow you 15 minutes to check into your hotel. I will call the airline office in one hour and 20 minutes. If by that time you have not confirmed your flight out....Well sir, I wouldn't want my son to find himself in the position you'll be in, even in America.” I nodded and assured him that I would deal with this within the time frame. He smiled and nodded. I shook his hand and he brought out my bag. He stamped my passport and checked his watch. I ran through the currency exchange (you can't enter Egypt without having $200 Egyptian pounds on you) and hit the street. What awaited me was a line of official cab looking vehicles and a few free agents. I chose one who was driving what I recall was an Old Buick or Plymouth that was in dire need of a new set of rings. He introduced himself and I introduced myself. Then I presented him with a proposition. “ I need to get to ********** hotel. I know it takes an hour. You will run the meter and I will pay you the fee in Egyptian Pounds. However....”(I opened my wallet and pulled an American $20, I had a reserve of about $100 in American currency, cause it is the international language) IF you can get me to the front of my hotel in ½ an hour I will place this bill in your hands & I will ask Allah to bless you and your family.” he smiled, he had about 3 gold teeth in the front, loaded my bag in the back and floored the vehicle. I'll tell you what, if that guy had ever wanted to take a job driving stock cars, he'd have had a swell career. When we got to bridge that crosses the Nile, we hit a snag. It seems traffic was backed up because a donkey had died in the road about ½ a mile from where we were. I know this cause the driver pulled up on the sidewalk and drove the half mile around it. He got to the other side of the bridge and I could hear that American made engine scream. He was moving through traffic like he had studied the chase seen in the movie “The French Connection” and had done a masters thesis on it. The Lady singing on the radio/cassette player was wailing and he was right behind her. He pulled up in front of my Hotel 40 minutes after he threw my bags in the trunk. I paid him his fee in English pounds as promised and then I pulled the 20 from my wallet, put it in his hand and “You earned this.” I ran up the stairs and the doorman opened the door for me, I dropped my bag, pulled out my Passport and my reservation number and asked the guy behind the desk to please check me in as quickly as was possible, and please tell me how to get to the airline office I needed to find. He checked me in and gave me directions. I asked him if he could just please have my bag taken to my room I had something I had to do. He nodded, rang the bell and told the bell hop where to take my bag, assuring me my key would be waiting for me when I returned. I dashed out the front door, down the stairs and across the street. I found the office. There was a line of about 20 people in front of me. I watched all the people answering phones until I was about 5 people away from the front. I saw the only woman in the office pick up the phone and mouth my name. I got out of line and tapped on the glass she had in front of her, I put my open passport against the glass and told her to tell him I was here and I was taking care of it. She read it, said something in Arabic. Smiled at me and nodded. I got back in line & took care of the reservation. I sauntered back across the street at a more leisurely pace and climbed up the stairs. The doorman smiled and nodded at me, “Did Sir get his business taken care of?” I smiled back. “Yes sir, and my name is Albert, Sir is a term of respect I hardly deserve.” He chuckled and held the door for me. I entered, got my key and asked to send a telex to my parents in care of Morgan Equipment. I wrote out ' DAD-got to Egypt, oh what a story I have to tell you. All is well so far. Kiss mom 4 me- A' . I got to my room, stripped down, took a shower and collapsed in the bed. I was asleep almost instantly and I slept for almost 16 hours.
When I awoke it was to the sound of a call to prayer being broadcast on loudspeakers somewhere outside. It was afternoon. The sun was low in the sky. I walked to the bathroom and found two facilities there. One was a western Toilet and the other had a metal ring on the inside of the bowl with holes that pointed upward and a foot pedal. I approached it cautiously and I examined it without actually touching it. Once I had gathered a fair amount of information I believed I understood how it worked, but to test my theory I took a step back and placed my bare foot gently on the foot pedal. Water shot out of the holes and arched towards the center like a fountain. Hmmm. I examined it again and said aloud for no one to hear “I'll be damned.” I found out later that this was a bidet. Although the novelty of it was appealing I chose to stick with the equipment I was licensed and trained to use. I took another shower, washed out my dirty clothes and got dressed. I stepped onto the small Veranda that overlooked the Nile. There was one of those triangular sailed ships heading up river and the sound of traffic and people rose to my ears. I realized that I had not eaten since the sandwiches I'd had more then a day before and I decided it might be a decent time to get some chow. I put on my trusty Puma's and walked to the restaurant and ordered some chicken. After dinner I went back down to the Lobby and out the door. The same doorman was standing there. “Good evening S..., I mean Albert Sir.” I smiled and nodded. I asked his name and he gave it. I said, “I need your advice. I'm here in your wonderful country to see the museum of Egyptology, the Pyramids , Sphinx the place that was referred to as Mosque of 1,000 lights. I also want to experience Cairo as a non typical tourist. My question to you is this, would I be better off hiring cabs to take me to these places or should I take a bus or something like it, and if this is the case where would I find a bus schedule?” He nodded and then got the door for another tourist who didn't make eye contact with the doorman but gave me a nod. I nodded back, and looked back to the doorman saying, “I don't know why he was looking at me, your the one who has the cool threads.” This caused the doorman to chuckle. He nodded and said “Albert, sir, my nephew is saving up to buy his girlfriend an engagement ring. She's a beautiful girl and her family is well respected. I assume that you are a student at University?” I shrugged and nodded “Not yet, but I'm on my way...I'm going to Art school, thus the reason for my trip here. To know the adult, study the child- as far as western civilization goes.” He nodded, “Yes Albert sir, my Nephew is also a student at University, He is taking up engineering. I believe he could take you wherever you would wish to go for shall we say $100 Egyptian pounds for the entire week you are to be here?” I Nodded, “ I might want to do a few other things not just what I told you. To be honest I'm wanting to see all that I can.” He nodded. “He will happily take you where you wish to go for the week for $100 Egyptian Pounds.” I smiled gave him a nod, shook his hand and told him to have his nephew meet me here in the morning. I re entered the Hotel and made my way back to the room and read till I fell asleep.
The Next morning I was starving. I made my way to the restaurant and ate the continental breakfast, drank 2 cups of the coffee (“Home brew, not the stuff the European's want” I told the waiter and I'm here to tell you that that shit was as stiff as a board) I hit the street the doorman met me, smiled and introduced me to his Nephew. He was a tall 20 year old. Handsome swarthy with a single Eyebrow. I asked him how he wanted payment, now, after, during? He said that He needed gas however I could pay the balance at the end of the week. I gave him a bill and said the first thing I wanted to do was hit the Sphinx and the Pyramids. He nodded and asked if I might like to stop at Memphis first as it was on the way. I said sure. We stopped and saw the great monolithic statue of Ramses in Memphis and the small ruin there and was off to the plain of Giza. We pulled into the public parking area and my driver said he had some errands to run, however he would be back to pick me up in 2 hours. I said to make it 3. Then I walked. I stood were Napoleon stood and was face to face with the Great Sphinx, I wondered how many had stood there in that spot in 4,000 years seeking the answer. There are rumors that the Sphinx is much much older then the Pyramids, by thousands and thousands of years. I sat on the sand and drew what it was that I saw. Then I walked to the Great Pyramid of Khufu. Although it resembles a big pile of rocks I knew that at one time that the whole thing was once covered with polished alabaster, and the crown was of solid gold and shown like a star. It was said that the Greeks could see it on a clear day. A tour of the inside was being formed and I joined. We went in through the hole that Napoleon had blasted in it, and climbed the long ramp and stood in the silent empty burial chamber. Then we exited and examined the smaller pyramids surrounding it. I sat down again and drew all of what was in front of me. A man with a camel came up and asked if I wished to ride. I asked him where he was going and he just looked at me. I only then realize that this supposed to part of the Souvenir picture opportunity so you could say to your friends you were Lawrence of Arabia and produce the proof that you weren't nuts. I thanked him and said no. I moved to another spot and drew an odd angle of the Sphinx with extreme perspective. When I was almost finished with my drawing my ride had returned and found me. It was then well into the afternoon. He asked if I was hungry. I said sure, I could eat. He then took me to a crowded cafe and ordered for us both. To this day I don't know what I was eating, but it was mighty tasty. I think this was his form of test. The food was obviously unfamiliar to me however when it arrived I watched his technique on how to eat it and dug right in...I didn't ask what was in it, Hell if didn't kill him I doubted it'd kill me. I was returned safely to the hotel and told him to meet me there in the morning.
The next morning I hit the road ready to do the museum of Egyptology. I had my full drawing kit and my pad. He dropped me off in front of the main exit and asked when he should return. I told him to return at the end of the day, I had much to do here. As I entered the museum I was told I was not allowed to bring my pad and drawing materials in. I argued with the security guard that this was why I was here. He led me to his boss, same conversation, on to his boss....all the way up the food chain. An hour later I found myself in the office of the Director of the Old Dynasty wing. It was a nice office, a touch of classic with a hint of modern. The air conditioning was a bit too high for my taste and the Woman behind the desk was dressed as one might expect a museum director to dress. I sat. We had the same conversation that I had had all morning. I asked why I was not allowed to carry my drawing materials into the museum. I was told that they were afraid I might attempt to damage the antiques. I shook my head in disbelief. “Madam, I have traveled halfway around the globe to be here right now. And half of that in one leap. I have come far to see these things, to study them and to keep a record of my findings. This place is filled with the creative efforts of men, without these efforts you would have nothing to study, this would be a mausoleum filled with very old cloth wrapped bodies. You would not know from when or where just that they were old. By studying them you understand your own culture and to know the past you can understand the future. This is the cradle for my own culture, are you saying you'd deny me that understanding?” She looked over her glasses at me. “Sir, by your own admission you are not associated with any school, you are going to begin University at an Art school this fall. How do I even know if you are what you say you are?” I handed her my sketchbook. “I did those yesterday.” She flipped back and fourth and kept coming back to the accelerated perspective drawing of the Sphinx. She handed me back the sketchbook and said “You are very good. I think that if you were to make a cultural contribution to the collection it would prove your sincerity.” I looked at her and understood what she wanted. “Will this drawing do?” She nodded. I signed it and tore it out of the sketchbook. She then hand wrote a note in Arabic saying “if any of the guards suggest you have your tools in the museum without permission please show them this note, if there is any other problem please have them call me.” and I took my note and left her office and proceeded into the collection. For all I know that drawing is still in her office. I got a map of the museum and began walking amongst the collection. When I went into the hall of the monoliths I looked carefully at the statues that were attached to the walls. At one time the walls had been painted a light gray, then after that a very institutional light mint green, and then the present yellow. How did I know this? They had not bothered to mask off the statues from the walls so there was a ribbon of color where the statues met the walls. The gray was the oldest, then the green was on top of that, then the yellow. I also noticed that many of the statues had been the victim of of over spray or spray from a brush as they had a thin mist of the yellow paint on them. So much for their concern that I might be the one to damage the antiques. You cannot imagine the amount of stuff that they store in that museum. The mummies were stacked like cord wood. We are talking hundreds upon hundreds of mummified cats. Glass Cases of the jars used to store the organs of a mummified person. They made a habit of wrapping small charms of precious metal and semi precious stones in with the mummy-there was an endless number of these, and statues, and pieces of statues....My god it looked like history's rummage sale. The star attraction of King Tut's tomb just happened to be in New York at the time (Damnit, it would fit I'd travel half way round the world to see this stuff and the star of the show was in my own country). Oh well. I did some drawings of the statues, a couple of a much smaller and more complete sphinx and some line drawings of some of the charms, mostly concerning the God who's name I believe is Bela, the prankster god of children. I also took about a roll of film. I was hassled about a dozen times, I pulled out the note, they read it, handed it back and left me alone.
I decided it might be time to get some chow, so I left the museum and headed in a direction seeking a place to eat. As I walked I encountered Cairo. What a place. Women dressed from head to toe completely in black with the only visible part of them being their hands and eyes, they seemed to flow across the street effortlessly. The men were dressed in this garment that looked like a thick Night shirt with pockets...I decided I must have one. As I traveled down the street I saw something that I thought would be an unbelievable photo Op. I saw an ancient man in what seemed traditional dress astride a donkey. Both were leaning against a high stone wall seemingly asleep. I thought of the scene in the Movie Cat Balou where Lee Marvin is in just such a pose. I pulled the camera up to my eye after having put a new roll in moments before and pulled the image into focus. I reached for the shuttle release and heard a nose that every man seems to instinctively know: The sound of the bolts of rifles being pulled back to load a bullet into the chamber. I dropped the camera and looked to my left. A soldier was pointing a rifle at me, I turned to my right another soldier another rifle, I instinctively backed out of the way and felt one behind me. “NO Take picture!” said the one to my right. I nodded and dropped the camera back down around my neck. “NO TAKE PICTURE!!!” he repeated. I nodded and pulled it up to show him that the picture counter was still on “0”. He nodded and they lowered their rifles. “YOU GO NOW!!!!!!” and I nodded and was on my way. I am truly amazed I didn't shit myself. I walked up the block and turned the corner attempting to get out of the line of site in case they changed their minds. I turned again just to make sure I'd lost them....I saw the front of what I had previously been trying to photograph the back wall of. It was an Embassy, and I seem to remember it was the Swiss Embassy. It all added up...the middle east was and still is a tense political situation and I had just had my first taste of it. I nervously found a place to grab a bite and returned to the museum using an alternate path. At days end my ride was there and I was delivered back to the hotel and as I read myself to sleep that night I thought....”dear diary, was not killed today. I guess we should call it a success.”

The next day I was bound for a place that I was told I could not, should not miss. It was referred to as the “mosque of a thousand lights”although the only place that I could find now that had that reference was in India. I told my driver what I knew and he delivered me to a medieval fortress of a building and told me to meet him back at this entrance in 3 hours. Considering it was 30 years ago I believe it was the Mosque of Sultan Hassan and/or El Rifai Mosque which is just across the street. I just don't recall. The description of one fits except for one detail and it is present in the other. I was greeted at the gate by a man at the great doors with "Salam alékum,” he then asked if I would like a tour of the great Mosque? I said yes, He told me it would cost me the sum of 5 Egyptian Pounds as an offering. I said of course. I was then told that I should either remove my shoes or apply coverings for them, These I could use for the sum of another 5 Egyptian pounds. I said of course. I applied canvas like sacks to cover my shoes. I was then asked if I might like the tour in French, German, Italian or English. I said English and we were off. The place had been what we think of as a Cathedral of sorts. It was a school as well as a place to gather to contemplate and pray. He gave me a tour of the extensive grounds, the buildings that had acted as dormitories for the schools were abandoned. We then entered the place of prayer. How to describe this place? It was immense. Unlike the St. Peters in Rome which looks like an overcrowded Antique store this place was lavish and restrained. The beauty was in the small things, the interlocking blocks that left engineers baffled. The mosaics on the walls constructed without mortar or any kind of adhesive, the intricate patterns that were part decorative but also Cali graphic passages from the Koran. I am attempting with little success to filter through my memories of this place seeking details that I can relate. It was overwhelming, The quietness, the silence. I have to say that in my opinion that if God were to visit he'd feel more comfortable here then at the Vatican. There was a tomb that was surrounded by sandalwood screen that was immense. The smell of the sandalwood both pungent and sweet, Small indentations in the walls that had had elaborate patterns when one looked, yet when one stepped back they were of simplicity itself and could easily be missed. I have never seen anything like this place, and were I to ever go back to Cairo I would scour the city until I found it again and I would just sit and take reams of notes and thousands of sketches. I have remembered this place whenever I sit down to design something, I remember the lessons learned there. Many people celebrate my designs as being pure, that there is nothing that I include that does not belong, or does not serve the overall purpose...It was here that I learned the importance of these qualities. My head reeled as I stepped back into the world. Unfortunately I stepped out in a place that was not where I had gone in. I walked along the wall and encountered the Egyptian mystique, yet the presence of the military on every corner assured that this was only part of the whole...I finally found where I went in and my driver waited for me, he was much relieved to see me, it seems I had been let out in somewhat dangerous part of town. I mentioned to him that I wished I could find one of the garments that I saw men wearing...He smiled as we got into his car and said in essence “I know a guy...”. He had attempted to make my riding with him comfortable by playing Rock and Roll from the west on his stereo...however one can only listen to Smoke on the water so many times...I commented that he must REALLY like Deep Purple...He looked at me and told me that he had only played it for my sake. Would I like to listen to some local stuff. I told him I was here and 'when in Rome...'. He didn't know the passage. However he did put on an 8 track of some local Egyptian music that he rather enjoyed. It wasn't unpleasant...doesn't help when you can't understand the lyrics...however it beat the hell out of deep purple. We arrived at his friends store. I was greeted by the owner and told I was his first customer and thus he must make the best deal of the day with me. I explained what I was looking for...He produced examples of the article in question except these were embroidered with patterns, more elaborate, made from finer cloth. I shook my head no, no, no. I could tell that he was getting frustrated. He asked again what it is that I was looking for. I took him to the door of his s hop and pointed at a man walking down the street....”THAT is what I want.” He shook his head in disbelief. why would I want the clothes of a common worker? I smiled and said “because my friend, I AM a common worker. He nodded and brought forth the same garments as before accept in common canvas, the pockets deep, long sleeves that covered my hands should I need to touch something hot. I smiled and told him I'd take two. He then attempted to sell me the head gear cloth with the joined head band that one immediately associates with an Arab suggesting that it would amuse my friends. I shook my head and assured this man that any friend of mine would not be amused by the clothes of such a complex group of people, more amazed at what I would tell them I'd seen. This seemed to impress the hell out of him, He knocked 20% off the price he'd quoted me for what I had chosen to buy. I wore those garments for years. They were warm in the cold of Cleveland winter, they were cool in warmth of the summer. They got covered in spilled ink, coffee, torn and patched, until they were little more then rags. Best article of clothes I ever bought. I have had complaints concerning the length of the chunks of my trip so I'll just end this here and next we'll go to Greece.

Part 3 following the path of the sun, My last days in the South Pacific and going west.

2009-09-22T09:45:00.000-07:00

I turned 21 while on Bougainville. Although I could drink anything I wanted anywhere I wanted, officially I was underage. As I announced this fact while I sat on the Veranda of LSSC, listening to crashing of the Ocean's waves not 10' below me,feeling the salt air lick my face and surrounded by the Male friends I had made I was told by them that it was common that on one's 21st birthday one showed at the local Pub to “call the Bar.” IE buy a round for house. I had learned to love these people so I had gotten quite comfortable there and was more then willing to honor this tradition. It was that evening that over the shortwave that piped rock and roll music into the bar when the the 50 Toya juke box wasn't being engaged that I heard a song that was a call from the life I'd had in Phoenix, less then a year before. It was Queen's “39”. Not a great song by Queen but one that hit me in a vulnerable spot. I began to think of my friends there, they were doing pretty much what I was doing, turning a buck while it was light out, spending free time in each others company to share war stories and allow the alcohol to do the job on us that WD-30 did on rusty threads: un stick, loosen, remove the mechanical energy stored in us doing what we had to do to survive. I was suddenly Homesick. It didn't last long but I recall the sharp edged emptiness of that moment even now. I would love to have celebrated my 21st with the guys I left in Phoenix however I was here, and these loud raucous Sex maniacs and talented alcoholics suited me. I was also considering doing a few other things. My crew and I had gotten tight and I was offered the opportunity to join the clan. On the Island this condition is called “gon Tropo”, and I have to admit, the life of being a fair sized fish and still growing in a very small pond appealed to me. TO join the clan I would have to undergo a manhood test, get my nose pierced for a pig tusk that officially I would have to take from a pig I killed but I could buy one at the local market. I would undergo a scarring that would mark me a man and a member of the clan. I was actually seriously considering this. I bought the Pig Tusk and when I emptied my pockets on my arrival home from the market my father saw the pig tusk and wanted to know what in the hell I was going to do with it. So, I told him. Well by now you can imagine his reaction: He blew a gasket. He threatened to remove all assistance while I was in School and I would never be welcome in his home again... He ranted and raved for about 20 minutes when I noticed my mother just quietly staring at me. She had the look. That look warned that you were coming very close to the end of her patience and that she was rallying her troops, and those troops consisted of the all the armies of Hell. She looked at my dad and silenced him with the same look (I think paraphrasing Rudyard Kipling is appropriate here “ They called her Raksha, meaning Demon, Father wolf had almost forgotten what she was like in a fight, they called her demon, it was a name she had earned and not because she was a great dancer.”) My mother turned to me and said just loud enough for me to hear through her clenched teeth. “Albert K, You're 21 now. You can do whatever you wish to do. Just know this...IF you do this, I will not know you, I will not know your children, I will not know their children. Now you do whatever you want.” and with that she turned and walked away. Needless to say I abandoned these plans. I think I still have the pig tusk, Shame really I'd have been a huge hit in Art school.
My last days in the yard were extremely odd. One day a strange local struggled up the road, turned into the yard as though he had some sorta palsy coming straight for me. This man had something wrong with him and the crew could smell it. He struggled to me and said “Masa, need wok? Mi wok.” meaning he was inquiring if I had a job available for him. Before I could answer I saw a stone fly past me and damn near hit the guy. Then another then a rain. The boys were expelling this man with curses and a word I'd never heard before. “Masalia!” (Masa- LIE) the man ran away up the road, tripping as he went. I asked Clabus what the hell that was all about. Clabus wouldn't look me in the eye as he tapped his finger to his head as he shook it to suggest that the guy had something in his head and he didn't want to say. That night I related the incident to the guy I worked with while we sat drinking our beer. He shook his head. “Masalai is their word for the devil, they thought the guy was possessed. Bloody Kanaka's, The guy is sick in the head, and they see it as the work of the devil. He won't survive the week. Bloody Kanaka's”. I usually waited for my ride in the morning in front of the Arawa Post office which was slightly down and across the street from the Hospital. As I stood in the cool morning light I saw something not right in the jungle just behind the Hospital. There was something that was in the trees that didn't belong there. I walked slowly towards the visage, as I grew closer I could see that there was a man that had climbed into a tree. Maybe he was sleeping up there. As I grew closer I could see that he hadn't climbed the tree, he was hanging from it. As I approached I watched as the Pink snails moved over his flesh exploring it for whatever they could eat. He dangled at the end of a knotted sheet that had been tied around his neck and had been used to hoist him into the tree. The ground around was trampled and the man had been beaten. It was the same man that had approached me looking for a job the day before.

It was also at this time that my career as an artist almost took a serious hit. It was one of my last days in the yard and we were waiting on a crane to come and pick up a large container that was shaped like the shavings container that covered a pencil sharpener, except that this one was 12' tall and made from plate steel and weighed about a ton. It was a fuel tank for one of the mobile machines at the mine and we had placed threaded bungs on all the lines that lead to the interior. One thing anyone who has any experience working with or on machinery will tell you is that sand in the fuel tank will quite literally destroy the machine that the fuel is powering. We had removed the bungs on the side and we were waiting for the crane to come to lift it so we could get the two on the underside. We got word that the crane would be delayed a day, and although I would have needed the same crane to put it on the back of the truck to carry it back up the mountain, I decided, foolishly I might add, to get a pipe wrench under it and twist the threaded bungs off. The box itself was supported by logs of “Diwai”(wood) and I grabbed a monkey wrench and reached under it and began to turn the bung off. Before my third turn the diwai log holding the container upright slipped and the whole thing came down on my hand. To this moment in time I cannot understand why my hand wasn't crushed. Needles to say with the rounded bottom it rolled over a bit and I was able to pull my hand free. I had a gaping hole in the back of my hand near the base of the thumb that was an 1” wide and 2” long and was at least ½” deep. The Jungle with its moisture and heat is the last place on the earth you want a serious wound like this. I told Clabus I needed to be run to the haus sik (hospital) and that he should finish that blast, shut it down, clean up and wait for Robbie to come back and To tell him where I was and I'd call him. I ran down the road and got the guy who ran the mine's junk yard and told him I needed a ride to the hospital. The blood pouring out of my wound told him why. He dropped me off at the hospital and I ran in and got the attention of the doctor. This was the one of the weirdest hospitals I'd ever been to. Because I wasn't a mine employee he didn't know what to do with me, I assured him we could straighten this up after he sewed me up. He then took me into the operating room and asked if I wanted him to clean out the wound. I assured him I did. He then asked me if I would want him to put antiseptic on and sterilize the wound. I said yes, that would be swell. At that moment a stray dog walked past the open door and I told him that I would also prefer it if he kept the dog out of the room while he was sewing me up. He closed the door and cleaned and then sterilized my wound. He then sewed it up. By that time Robbie had shown up and I filled him in on what had happened and he just shook his head in disgust. I think he figured I was smarter then that and maybe he'd been wrong about a few other things. I told Robbie that I'd cover an expense that I incurred and he assured me that this was indeed the fact. The doctor sewed me up and Robbie took me home and without a word drove away. Within a week the wound was red and sensitive to the touch. For some reason they only gave me antibiotics when I went back and showed them the wound. It was then that they told me that if it got much worse they might have to fly me out to have my thumb removed. I went into shock...here I was just months from going to art school and I was contemplating removing the thumb of my drawing hand. I'm not sure if I was upset with myself for doing something so stupid or at the doctor for not giving me antibiotics after he sewed me up, however I looked the doctor straight in the eye and said “you cut off my thumb and I'll kill and eat your first born in front of you.” He was shocked I guess because he thought I'd meant every word of it. He asked then what I suggested they do. I remembered that they kept some serious antibiotics on hand for spinal and deep wound and bone infections, I think it was Cipro. It was what they gave a guy at the mine who had had fallen three stories and only saved his own life by grabbing onto a cable. Sliding down that cable had turned the palm of his hand into hamburger.
I was warned that the potency necessary would make me nauseous and give me diarrhea. I assured the doctor that me being sick was preferable to me being maimed. Inside of two weeks my wound was clean again and allowed to heal normally. However for years I had a prominent scar on my right hand that resembled a sickle and I noticed nerve damage in the surrounding area of the wound itself. I don't know if allowing me to take the slurry house job was his way of assuring himself I wouldn't be hurting myself again, or if he was just so disappointed in me that he didn't want to look at me any more then he had to. I could be imagining it...30+ years is a long to speculate on the subject, however I did notice that he had less to say to me, and if he did it was all business. However I survived intact. I have done some equally stupid things since then that did harm to my hands and the rest of my body...It wasn't the first time nor would it be the last. I suppose that's why youngsters heal so fast.

It was also coming on time for the planned trip into the bush to find Yamamoto's plane. The number in attendance would be about 12 guys. Half of them made the trip regularly, the other half were some of my father's minions and the guy I worked with, along with prior discussed mine equipment manager. We loaded up into 3 range rovers and headed toward Buin. It was up the road past the mine and into the Jungle proper. When surrounded with this untamed wilderness, one feels small, insignificant. One would drive past trees that were as big around as a house, and dealing with the sensory overload of the green surrounding with the only light being delivered in small bright pin points in the canopy over head one begins to understand how the world was when we were still monkeys hanging from trees. The trip was long and arduous. We traveled on roads that were just barely that, through rivers and streams that traveled at various speeds and were of various depths. It took us all day to get to Buin. We camped in a clearing on the outskirts of the Village of Buin and the guys set up camp. What can I say, they had generators, cooked pork, had a stereo and of course all the beer you could drink...a real testosterone male bonding event if I ever experienced one. We fell asleep surrounded by the forest but because we had camped in a clearing we could see all the stars of the milky way above us. I have never seen the stars like I did that night. It was one of the more beautiful things that I ever saw. The next morning we had breakfast and broke camp. We were back on the road within an hour, driving through Buin and beyond. We finally reached a small village close to the site and found the man who owned the property that held the plane. A deal was struck for him to take us there and back. So now we set out on foot. We went deeper into the jungle wading across a stream that we were told was good to drink from. I did something then that I have never felt safe to before or after. I reached down and drank directly from the stream. The water was cool, sweet and clear. After walking for almost an hour and a half at about 1 in the afternoon we came finally to a small clearing. Until one has done it one can never truly know what it is to sweat in air that has damn near 90% humidity. We were soaked to the bone in our own sweat. There before us was the wreck of an aluminum airplane, Partially grown over by the bush but not as much as it could have if not maintained, the area around the major part of plane was littered with parts of the plane, some of them having been molten in the past and allowed to cool and remain where they landed, A testament to a Horrible crash, a terrible fire. One could almost hear the screams. Around this was pieces of fresh cut wood with Japanese writing on them. The air was quiet and thank God the men I was with treated it like the tomb that it was. My father had little to say. I think that all the romance he had put into the idea of WW II finally all added up to useless pain and destruction and complete futility. I can't be sure of this, I half expected an eruption of curses concerning Pearl Harbor...but he remained mostly silent and only spoke in a low voice when he spoke at all. After about an hour we decided it was time we started making our way back. We reached the edge of Panguna by dark and drove the rest of the way down the mountain back home and were showering getting ready for a well deserved sleep by 10:00. I don't recall my father discussing the trip until we were back in Phoenix the Christmas after we had all returned to the states.

About two weeks after the trip into the bush I returned from work to find my mother in my bedroom staring out the window with a sort've fascinated glare that one sees on people who are either watching a car wreck or somebody about to jump off a roof. My window faced the neighbor's house. He was a local who found himself a job as a low level manager so he was given his own house for him and his family. I headed for the shower to rid myself of the grit and sweat that I seemed to achieve at work and upon returning to my room found my mother just as I'd left her. “Hi honey, how was work? Come here and look at this.” I came up behind her and saw that the neighbor's dog was tied to one of the posts that held up the house. The Dog was a bitch in heat and every buck within miles had come to pay his respects. There were dog “confrontations” going on in the yard probably to figure who was going to get the next turn. The bitch seemed to look as completely exhausted as I imagined she was because of all the attention she was getting, I sorta understood what caught my mothers attention, Nothing like a canine gang rape to pass the day. “Ma, Please don't have me explain to you what they're doing.” She turned and with a 'shut up smartass' look, assured me that she KNEW what they were doing, after all she had brought both me and my sister into the world. What confused her was that if the people wanted to keep the puppies they'd have picked just one of the males so that they'd be sure what the puppies would like like...with this approach, she was sure that each puppy would come out looking completely different from each other. I realized what was going on and as gently as I could, explained to my mother that the puppies would come out looking exactly like they were supposed to, like dinner. My mother was at first shocked and then concerned. The reason for her concern is one of those things that I learned was just part of my Mothers unique charm: she stated she hoped that the lady of the house would hopefully forget that she, my mother, had requested a sample tasting of the local native cuisine. The subject never came up again. My mother was in her element on Bougainville. The house was small and we showed up just before dark with little more energy to do anything but to eat and sleep. She had developed a ring of friends that met for coffee damn near every morning. All were married to the guys who made the Mine work, All knew the same folks, all would share info, exchange food goods far particular recipes ( my ma took a shot at cooking some of the pink snails into escargot) gather to learn from one something that they all wished to know. At night there was nothing else to do but to get together and socialize so my father would accompany her to other peoples houses while the men talked of sports and work, the woman would discuss all those mysterious things that fascinate women that they hadn't covered in complete detail during their meetings during the day.

I had finally decided to make my way to the travel agent and start the ball rolling for my extraction from New Guinea. I had pretty much decided the route that I would pursue, I would go to china, I would go to India, I would go to Egypt, then on to Greece, Italy, Germany, Netherlands, France, England and then home. I mentioned my plans to my parents and saw the look of concern on both their faces. China was communist, Germany was up close and personal to the iron curtain and the Egypt had terrorists that set off bombs. I wanted to see the Great Wall, The Taj, The Pyramids, The Acropolis and then the major Museums and still have about 3 weeks back in the states before I needed to worry about getting to Cleveland to start school. My Father pulled me aside about a day later after I'm sure some private conversation between him and my mother. “look, I want to reconsider your itinerary. We don't want you dealing with communist countries or the middle east. Please your mother is worried sick that something will happen and I still live with her.” The three of us discussed this at length for days, I arguing that this might be my only chance to see these things, they concerned that where these things were located were locations that I might never escape from. The debate ensued. We finally negotiated an either or situation, I could either go to China, or Egypt. I decided on Egypt. After all I wasn't sure I'd get a visitors visa for china. So I made my appointment with the travel agent. When I had finally made it into his office I forgot to bring the notes and had him make the reservations out of New Guinea, to Manila, which was one of two choices I had the other being Australia. From there to India to Egypt, to Greece, Italy, France, Netherlands, and then to England. I forgot to mention Germany. And the travel agent booked me to India as only a three hour stopover at 2 am on my way from the Philippines to Egypt. I didn't realize all this till I was on my way to Manila, and by that time is was too late, my visa into Egypt was date specific. I planned on leaving Bougainville at the end of May. I began to take my camera to the separate spots on the island that I wished to photograph. These were not the postcard views of the island such as the palm tree lined beach, The New England seaside village quality of Kieta, The modern efficient gloss of Panguna, the vast hole in the earth that was the mine, the happy national/western work force working side by side struggling to bring Papua-New Guinea into the 20th century. I had no interest to take one photo of a copra or coco plantation, I didn't wish to capture the Primitive Charm of the Island I had called home for almost a year, or even the nostalgic objects left there by the war. I didn't even take a picture of Mt. Bagana, the active Volcano who's smoking top always threatened to let loose and spew like an over ripe pimple in the middle of the island. I photographed the yard. I photographed the front of LSSC, I photographed the market with the nursing mothers selling their wares for coins and their husbands, brothers, fathers and sons in the shade chewing beetle nut and smoking their 2 toya cigarette/cigars made from twist tobacco rolled in strips of the national Papua- New Guinea newspaper. I photographed the milling locals that hung out every day in front of the supermarket, not cause there was anything for them there, it was that they had nothing else to do, the mine had probably brought them and their families there to work and because of one reason or another, whether it was drunkenness while at work, Or over reacting to some insult delivered by an expat, whatever the reason they had lost their job and didn't have enough money to return home. To proud to beg, they sought whatever work they could find. I photographed the places that meant something to me and the people I saw. Mostly the locals...I had been studying their faces for almost a year and I sensed the intense confusion with what was happening to their culture and their country. It was the look of culture shock. On my last day at work, I handed my keys to the truck to Robbie. He handed me my last pay envelope and a letter of recommendation. I shook his hand and told him I'd enjoyed every minute of it and we parted. The next day I began to pack. I was able to make myself a drawing board that fit into the suitcase with about 5 pads of paper. I collected together a small drawing kit of pencils an eraser, a metal quill, a watercolor brush and a bottle of ink that I double wrapped in plastic. I packed a pair of overalls, 2 pairs of jeans, and about 4 shirts. I would wear my Puma's. I packed toiletries. I then began packing my books, my portfolio that would be sent directly to Boston and be waiting for me there when I got there. I packed the boxes of the things that I had collected, the carvings, the shells, the moments that I had spent there. As I sit here now in front of the screen. My fingers tapping the lettes to assemble the words, the Thompson Twins blaring out of the speakers part of me is still there. Walking on the Island, along the beach, sitting with a rowdy group of mechanics and miners drinking and yelling over the din, I'm standing in the dark watching the pink universe quiver as it ate and mated. I'm loading sand into the hopper, dictating directions on how when and why in a language that sounds alien but made sense to the people that depended on me to make sure they earned their lively hood. I was leaving. This chapter of my life was quickly closing...I would bid it farewell in the morning.

The next morning my father and mother drove me to the airport. I had one suitcase that I would take with me. Another along with my portfolio case with the artwork I'd managed to keep that I'd claim when I'd gotten back to the US. I was introduced to a friend of my father who was fulfilling his requirement to return to his his home country once a year. The Officialdom of PNG had seen what happened to these westerners when they show up and don't leave...so that made it necessary for anyone getting a work Visa to return home for 2 weeks every year so they wouldn't get used to living in New Guinea. We took off and out the window Mt. Bagana blew a cloud of smoke that said farewell. I was on my way back to Moresby.

I guess my dad had told this guy that he'd introduced me to keep an eye on me, because when we got to Moresby I found out that he was on the same exact flight leaving the next day going to Manilla. After we checked in to the Davara he headed to the bar, I hit the streets. I wanted to buy some souvenirs for the Aunt that would be picking me up in New York and let me stay with her for a week to get my bearings at being back on American soil. I also needed something for my Great Aunt in Ohio for storing a trunk of my stuff while I was doing my adventure. The plan was I would land in NY, get my shit straitened out, head to Boston, be met at the airport by my Sister, head to the cape and hang for a couple of weeks, get acclimated to no longer being a stranger in a strange land and then drive the family station wagon to Barberton to my Aunts house, hang out there for a day our two collect my trunk and head north to the Dorm and College a few days later. Yeah well the best laid plans of mice and men...

I found a gallery that specialized in local crafts and bought a couple of hanging head/bird carvings, and then decided that some chow was in order. I roamed the open air market and found that the fermenting spoiling dressed carcass' of cus-cus (about the only native mammal to New Guinea, it looks like a possum) that the tattooed local was fanning to keep the flies off of to not be in the least helping my appetite. So I got some banana's and explored. I checked out a Haus Tambaran, This is a highly pitch roofed house that the men use for ceremony and to store ceremonial objects. It looks like the open mouth of a crocodile. I had been trained to notice the scars and facial tattoo's of the locals. I noticed different tribes, villages, and clans. I just wandered that day, feeling lost, purposeless, in a holding pattern. I wasn't there and not quite on my way yet. I was loaded in the chamber and was waiting for the hammer to fall to send me west. However considering what awaited me at the next stop I probably needed as much down time as I could get.

I have debated with myself extensively about how to write down the next part of my story. I spent 46 hours in Manilla, and how I occupied myself there during most of it is not something I would necessarily wish to speak of in front of women or children. It lends little to the story...Its the kind of talk that men speak of when sitting around a table in a bar, with leers and reassurances. Seedy talk, concerning some of the things men and women do together. I can usually pick out the liars just from my dealing with this experience. I wrote out the whole thing here, read it, changed a few things to make it seem less seedy and then just decided to delete it and leave it at; I spent the evening with a few girls attempting to re define Sin, and they about killed me. Anything you may have heard about multiple sex partners at once being the greatest experience any man ever had is either a better man then myself or lying. I felt like I'd been passed through a meat grinder. The morning after I could barely walk, I could not speak, and I had possibly the worst hangover of my life. I have often described how I felt as feeling as though someone had removed my spine, beat me with it like a rubber hose and then managed to put it back upside down. Lets just leave it there. As the girls left I fell back on the bed and attempted to sleep. I checked the clock it was 2 in the afternoon. It took me about 3 hours to muster myself into a clean pair of jeans, a clean shirt and to put the clothes I'd worn the day before in plastic so I could wash them after my next stop. Although I had hours to go before I needed to be at the airport, I decided I'd check out and just motivate in that direction, maybe get some lunch and attempt to read the book I'd brought while I waited in the airport bar that was if I could remember how to focus my eyes. As I left I knocked on my traveling companions door, I heard “What?!” and I announced I was checking out and heading for the airport, he said “OK” and I checked out of the hotel. The sun assaulted me and drilled holes into my eyes as I flagged down a cab. The ride was at breakneck speeds and we had countless near misses, but at that point Death would have been welcome. I got to the airport and stopped at the duty free store, I wanted to buy some cigars...at this point I would have drank bleach if I thought it would make the pain in my body hurt less. I made my purchase and went into the bar. I ordered coffee, the bartender assured me that they didn't serve coffee. I laid the equivalent of $20 on the bar and asked him if he was sure of that. He got me a cup of coffee, I ordered a sandwich...which I wouldn't have been able to swallow if I didn't have to coffee to wash it down with. I slowly but surely began crawling out of the pit I had woke up in. I drank another cup of coffee and ate another sandwich, It was then I noticed a large older man looking my way. He got up and walked to the table I had been occupying. It was then that I noticed that he and I were the only westerner white people in the bar. “Do you mind if I join you?” He had an unusual accent, and I noticed his suit, It was handmade...probably cost him a couple of grand, at least. His white hair was neatly combed and he his hands were manicured. When he held out his hand for me to shake I noticed that they were as soft as child's. This man had never worked for living. He introduced himself as Michael (MEE shell). I must admit I felt ashamed of my appearance. I was grateful I had bathed, cause I was sure I look like something the cat had thrown up. I offered him a seat and introduced my self as Albert Kauslick, of Phoenix Arizona, most recently from Bougainville, Papua-New Guinea. His eyes lit up, “You know, in all my travels, New Guinea is one of the only places I've never been. But I always wanted to go...Please tell me about it.” He flagged the Bartender and made a circle with his fingers pointing at the table. So I began telling him of where, what and why. I asked him where he hailed from “Originally Belgium, but I only go back once in a while. I've been traveling the world since I got out of University.” His name was Micheal (Meeshell). He was a duke, His cousin was Boudoin, King of the Belgians, and although he and his brother were in line for the throne “many people would have to die before either of us were called on.” He had decided to fly into the Philippines because his brother enjoyed the cigars they made there better then the Cubans...so he had popped in to pick him up a couple of boxes. He was actually on his way to India. I explained the recently discovered Faux Pas concerning my trip to India, and he reassured me that It was a pity, it was worth the trip. However he doubted that it would be going anywhere and it gave me an excuse to return to that area of the world. We entertained each other for an hour or two, and I finally Said “Look, nothing personal, however I used to date a woman named Michelle, and the way you pronounce your name reminds me of her...How about if I just call you Mike?” He smiled wide...”Oh, that would be delightful...Mike...yes, I like that. They call me Meeschy at home and it makes my skin crawl. Yes Mike, Mike will do wonderfully. Tell me Albert, What airline are you traveling on?” I pulled out the ticket and handed it to him...”I can't make heads or tails...I think Egyptair and I think that's the flight number.” He looked at the ticket and handed it back. “Albert, I need to be excused for a moment. I'll be back however...If you please?” I nodded “Pal, I've got no plans other then to rebuild my spine and be on that plane when it leaves.” He smiled and walked out of the bar. I ordered a beer...I was beginning to feel as though I might just survive. He returned in about 20 minutes and sat grinning. “Ah, my new friend, I see you have graduated from coffee to something with some spirit in it.” I nodded and eluded to the evening I'd spent. He shook his head and said something about youngsters. I asked if he'd taken care of whatever he needed to do. He smiled a yes and then told me he'd arranged to change his flight to the one I would be taking. I lifted my Eyebrows. He noticed, “I hope you don't mind, however I rarely find a traveling companion who's company I enjoy as much as yours. I hope my company doesn't labor you too much?' I smiled and shook my head “Naw pal, I don't mind your company in the least, however you must let me buy you a drink for a change.” He smiled and stated that if I insisted he was drinking cognac. I killed my beer and motioned to the bartender for two of what ever Mike was drinking He complied. I was ready to down it like a shot. Mike held his soft hand on mine and said “No Albert. Cognac is a complete experience. First allow it to sit in the glass. Treat it like a beautiful woman. Sit, let her fill your senses. Put your nose in the glass, notice how it is shaped so the vapors will be funneled into your nose. Now gently breathe in through your nose. Let it fill you. Allow her to warm in your hands...let her unfold for you. The glass in the bottom of the snifter is thinner so that the heat from your hand will allow it to bloom. Now take just the smallest bit in and allow it to sit on your tongue and gently let it slide down your throat. Yes. Good yes?” I nodded. Yes it was good. He nodded and smiled. “My friend, Good cognac and fine cigars are the grease that allows heads of state to sit as men and have something in common. It is the joy that each find in these that allows them to discuss their differences. Trust me on this. Many wars have been avoided in the modern world because of the two items that we are enjoying.” He then related his adventures as a part time diplomat. There was an incident with the wife of a head of state when he was in college. Seemed she had her own plans for Mike, The tryst was discovered and it almost caused an international incident. It was decided that Mike should possibly abandon his diplomatic responsibility and just do whatever he wished. I smiled. “so, we're a couple of black sheep who happened to land here on our way to somewhere else?” He nodded with a smile. Mike and I sat next to each other on the flight out of Manilla and discussed many subjects: Art, Politics, religion, elected government vs. one of inheritance ( I recounted the scene in Monty Python and the Holy Grail where one is dubbed king because a watery tart threw a sword at him...Mike laughed so hard I thought he was going to have a stroke...He needed to see that film so I wrote it down for him) I think he enjoyed my company because His being what he was seemed to be far less important to me then who he was. We deplaned in Bombay at about 2 am and I walked him to his gate. We parted company when his flight loaded with a hand shake and a farewell. He turned and was gone. I sent some postcards of my travels to the address he gave me. When I finally got to Cleveland and had a chance to unpack, I chose a drawing of one of the locals I had done in New Guinea and signed it “for my friend, Mike, Who needs to go and meet this guy in person and who taught me how to drink a civilized beverage in and uncivilized place.” and I sent it to the address. About 8 weeks later just after my mid terms, I got a box delivered to me, the post mark was from Istanbul. Within was a bottle of cognac and a note “Albert my friend, received the drawing. It was beautiful-thank you so much. Here is a small gift I retrieved from the house...enjoy it my friend. 'MIKE'”. I called a couple of the guys that lived in the dorm and we sat down and polished off the bottle in one evening and I gotta admit it was as smooth as glass. I kept the bottle and kept pennies in it for years. When I was in Boston after I'd graduated, a guy I knew who drank cognac regularly, saw the bottle and asked just where I'd gotten it. I told him. He shook his head and stated, “ That bottle of “hootch” as you called it would probably cost you about $5,000 to replace.” he offered me $100 for the empty bottle, I told him no. It broke in the move down here. I dunno. I never heard from Mike again and I lost the address years ago. I hope if he is still amongst the living that he is well and to know, that the only hootch I drink now is Cognac, and I have introduced many of the deserving to the 'beautiful lady.'

Part 2 Tracking the Sun, My life in New Guinea

2009-09-20T08:26:00.000-07:00

We had been there about a week. I had already settled into the “boys” bedroom that was blue and had anchors and life preserver curtains, my parents had taken the master bedroom with the air conditioning. I set up a table in the spare room that my mom was using for storage and her sewing. I pulled out the art supplies I had brought and realized that I had no straight razor's to sharpen my pencils. I went down to the chemist shop (drugstore) and asked after straight razors-I was pointed at a small 5” x 6” square box on one of the shelves. I figured that I'd save time and buy the whole box. Little did I know that this would be the event to lead me to meet most of the expat community in Arawa and hook me up to the Wontok code. See, I had managed to buy the island's entire supply of Straight razors. When living on an Island one learns to depend on the 3-4 times a year when the “ship comes in” bearing the supplies that make life less of a drag, When one sought something one did not see on the shelves, one would hear the term (In Pidgin, usually from a local working the cash register) “He gon finish” which literally translates to “its gone for good.” When my sister came for Christmas she brought three suitcases, 2 ½ were filled with the stuff that my family couldn't get there or was gone finish. I would get visitors damn near every day asking if I was the “Yank that bought all the razors?” I answered I was, well they needed one or two-what did I want for them, I said 'hell her just take a couple'. This put them in my debt. I thought nothing of it however It had some surprising consequences.
After about a week on the job, the other employee came into the yard and unloaded his crew and their supplies. I was just waiting for somebody to drop me off at the post office, about half a mile from my folks house. When he looked at me and asked “Yank, could you use a cold beer?” I said yeah, actually I had needed one for about a week. He invited me into his truck and we drove about a mile up the road and parked in front of the Loloho Sports and Social Club. I was led through the bar proper to the open air Veranda in the back that faced the ocean. This sported three long tables, this is where single men drank, Single woman sat at the bar. Tables in the bar were for married couples ( I guess this arrangement kept the confusion of who was sleeping with whom that night down to a minimum.) and I was offered a seat. ThenI was told to pay Homage. I found out that this was a “game” of sorts. The first one to sit at the table was dubbed the King. He bought himself a beer. The next one to sit had to buy himself and the king a beer, the third had to buy himself, the first guy and the king a beer. Etc. We were the 5th and 6th to arrive. I ended up buying about 7 beers that night, and drank hundreds. I was introduced to many of the people that worked under and with my dad, and many of the people that work in the other professions dealing with the mine and everything not involved with trucks. I was told that L.S.S.C. was a private club and if I wished to join I would have to fill out an application. I did. I had a swell time and was poured into the seat of the truck that brought me and delivered to my front door. I staggered in and went immediately to bed. Needless to say the next day I awoke feeling like I'd spent the time in a tub of frogs that possessed hammers and spent their leisurely evening beating me over the head with them and pissing in my mouth. I was picked up to go to work and was obviously hung over, so Robbie told me to take it easy and let the job handle itself today. It was then I discovered something about Aussies. IF you have dysentery and are throwing up because of the drinking water that has things living in it the Aussies will call you all sort of names and make fun of you, however if you've been “on the piss” as they call it the night before your obviously sick and should take care of yourself. I got three hang over cures that I've employed over the years, the best one was orange Popsicle s and mydol. Anyway, I learned later in the week that I had been turned down as a full member of the the LSSC, A. cause I wasn't officially on contract by the mine, and B. because I didn't own a boat. I guess that living on an Island where it rains every day, had earthquakes regularly, and an active Volcano one doesn't socialize with anyone who doesn't own a boat. However I was given special permission to drink there, come to movie night, and socialize with the members as long “as I didn't prove to be too much of a bloody c*nt.” and folks that was how it was put in writing to me. I was given an anchor shaped bottle opener at the end of a chain for all social occasions I was to attend and instructed to have this opener with me. I still have it on my key chain. I fell in with the Single men at their table, and made friends with a couple of my father's apprentices. After we'd been there for about a month or two all these guys that worked with my dad came up to me en mass while I drank my beer and surrounded me. Okay, guys what's up? I was just sure I had offended somebody...No they said, They wanted to talk to me over here in the corner...we want you to bring your dad down to have a beer with us. I assured them that they should ask him themselves, and they looked at each other and stated that No, they wouldn't dare. They wanted me to do it. And to have me bring him the following Wednesday night. I assured them he wouldn't bite them, They just looked at their shoes and said they wanted me to ask him. OK, I'd ask but I warned them that dad wasn't a drinker...he might drink half a beer if he decided to come at all. They looked at each other and said that would be fine, but they were depending on me. When I got home Dad was sitting at the dinner table looking over a some paper work associated with performance of the trucks he was there to maintain. I sat down and said “I'm coming directly home next Wednesday and taking you to the bar with me. Your people have requested your company and sent me to deliver the invitation. They're afraid they'd offend you by asking you themselves.” He shook his head and said “I don't have time to go to a bar and drink...” I said, “You don't understand, You are coming. You will sit at the table with them and you will drink beer with them, and don't be surprised if they lay palm fronds down for you to walk on.” He looked at me wondering if I was serious, I nodded that yes I was serious and so were they. So the following Wednesday my father accompanied me to the LSSC and I delivered him to his people. I guess they had a hell of a good time because from that day on I wasn't their “friend the yank” I was Their Mate and Wontok. I've used that word twice now, I suppose it needs an explanation. New Guinea has about 2/3 the worlds separate and distinct languages. A “place tok” can only be good for about ½ a mile from any given village. This is why they developed Pidgin, as a trade language. A “Wontok” {one talk} is somebody from your village, probably a member of the family not your brother or father. Somebody you've know since childhood and trust implicitly. For the Aussies on Bougainville it meant a mate, somebody they could trust to steal something that they needed in exchange for them stealing something for you. As I was now Wontok to the guys that worked for my dad I got hooked up to the social scene, what little there was. One guy who was a Kiwi (From New Zealand) even hooked me up for a date with his sister. Single white women were rare on an island of men doing little but drinking and working, a date with his sister without getting on a weird sorta waiting list was an honor I didn't fathom at the time. Needless to say this girl was 18 and a real handful...however...It was an interesting evening, that led to a few others.
I began drawing the locals. A few of the drawings that I still have can be found on my “New Guinea Page” of my website. This came to the attention of the population soon after my work was seen by people outside my family. I'd spend 2-3 nights a week drawing, 2 nights at the bar, and 2-3 nights a week reading and studying for when I began college. I read every bit of “literature” I could get my hands on, I had my sister bring a copy of Gray's anatomy for me to study and draw from when she came for Xmas about 3 months later. During this time I'd go to the beach occasionally on the weekends, did movie night at the LSSC on Saturday nights, and spent the rest of my weekends drawing. I actually got quite good, but I knew I needed to be better. There were some artists there who swapped me art supplies and materials that I could use for straight razors or “a six pack of beer” or to see what I do with them. Soon everybody knew that I was the “yank Artist”. My father would have to occasionally report that no, he wasn't the Albert Kauslick who was the artist, that was his son. And yes it would be OK for the person inquiring to stop by the house and me him. On one occasion while we were eating dinner my father was on a tirade about why in the hell I was going to waste my time getting a degree in art, after all how in the hell was I going to make a living doing that? When there was a knock at the door. A guy was there to meet the artist. I shook his hand. He wanted to see my work. I took him in the back room and showed him what I had done. He would comment about each piece I showed him, and after every few drawings take one to look at and hold onto it. After about looking at about the 50 or so drawings that I had done and the 8 he had in his hand, he said “OK, how much?” How much for what? How much for these that I have in my hand? I did some quick math and told him some ridiculous figure like 500 Kina ( a Kina is the currency in Papua New Guinea, and at the time was worth about $1.60 ) he said fine and wrote me a check. The whole thing took 20 minutes. When I showed him out with the bundle under his arm he apologized to my folks for interrupting their dinner. As I returned to eating my dinner my father asked “What the hell did he want?” I said he wanted to see my work. Then I took the check from my pocket and handed it to my mother and said “could you deposit this for me?” my mother took the check and read it and looked at my father, “Whats that?” he asked. I answered “ A check for 500 Kina, what was it you were saying before we were interrupted?” My father had nothing to say for the rest of the evening.

It was during this time that my mother saw a carving of birds siting in a tree that was done in a certain village in New Britain, My mother had to have one, so it was decided we would go there for New Years to indulge my fathers instantaneous interest in the WWII things that surrounded us, and allow my mother to shop. My sister would be there over Christmas so this would provide a nice vacation for all of us.

As we were quickly approaching Christmas my mother went into over drive. Since Xmas trees don't grow on Bougainville her friends told her of a bush that looked sorta like a Xmas tree that was available if she knew where to get it, My mother approached the manager of Morgan Equipment, which was her source for anything unusual or from the outside world. He said yes he knew the guy and would order her one. Then the race was on to acquire Christmas tree decorations. She frequented the Chinese stores (trade stores that handled every form of junk you can imagine) the supermarkets both there and in Panguna, talking to the various friends she'd made, talking to people who were “going finish” meaning their contracts were up and they were heading back to wherever in the world they came from. In the 8 weeks that proceeded it until a week before Christmas my mother had everything she would need to decorate the tree, Except one thing. She had no Angel for the top of the tree. As hard as she hunted this was the one thing that eluded her. She got more and more worked up about this one thing...thus driving my father crazy. About a week before Xmas it got to the point of obsession, and my father was at a point where he was just about ready to have one flown in from Australia, which would have cost him a mint. I decided that I needed to intervene. I sat my mom down and told her that since it was so important to her, I'd make her one for the top of the tree. She lit right up. “OH, that would be nice...you'd make it nice right?” I nodded and told her I'd make her anything she liked. OK so what would I need? I went around to the different trash cans, rescued tin foil, paper tubes, thread, little pieces of colored paper, small scraps of cloth and I got some scissors and some glue and got to work. It took me three days, but I made her an angel that belonged in a Baroque Painting. She was ecstatic. My father admitted that bringing me along on this venture might not have been a bad idea, and we celebrated Xmas with my sister who couldn't believe the desolation that awaited her on her trip there from Boston. Christmas came. We went to mass, and by that time I was pretty handy with Pidgin. The mass was done in Pidgin, and I have to admit I was giggling like a school kid looking at a comic book. The reason it was funny would be lost in translation, leave it at I needed a good laugh and I got one during that mass. While in New Guinea was the first and last time I actually enjoyed doing mass during my whole life. What was beautiful about doing mass there is that the walls were perforated with cross shaped holes going outside, thus allowing the birds to fly in and out at will. One got a little bit of bird shit on ones clothes (which drove my folks nuts) but I enjoyed it. On the 28th of December we got on the plane to go to Rabaul on the island of New Britain. The first stop for my mother was the open market to deal with the Carvers. We had these guys show up at the door pretty regularly and I bought a few choice carvings, but my mother was seeking a particular carving. She wanted the one with the birds in the tree. As I was interpreter I explained to the guy what we were looking for. I had a plan. The next day he showed up with just the carving my mother wanted. I thanked him, paid for it and carried it off. My mother reached for it so she could see it. I let her handle it and look at it. And she announced that she knew just the place she would put it. I said that was nice, she would have to get one of her own and put it there, but this one was mine. She gave me a look that said quit kidding around, I gave her one that said I wasn't. She got mad and started giving me the guilt trip, which didn't work. I told her that I had asked for it, I had paid for it, it was mine. Well after a few hours she enlisted my father's help. He came up to me and told me in no uncertain terms that I was to give my mother that carving. I looked at him and said “You know how seriously that woman takes Mother's Day. I don't know about you but I've got my present for her.” he nodded and went back to her and told her that she'd end up with it eventually, so we were able to move on with our holiday. I bought some Dolphin carvings from the guy that had sold me the bird to say thank you and that was all he needed. He followed us damn near everywhere trying to sell us more. It seems Rabaul was a Japanese strong hold during the war of the Pacific. We saw the Japanese caves that held the abandoned boats stored them, [we had a few of these caves on Bougainville, and the girl who I was dating once in a while found one with the ceiling caved in and she used it to grow Marijuana, which if caught would have landed her in a New Guinea prison for 20 years and the life expectancy in prison was 5. I told you she was a handful.] We saw ammunition dumps that were abandoned. We saw the small “museum” of Japanese occupation things, heard about the Coast Watchers and how brutal the Japanese were on the locals. It was at this time that my father decided come Hell or high water he was going to make the trip into the bush of Bougainville and visit the wreck of the Yamamoto airplane. The Airplane that had Admiral Yamamoto in it was shot down over Bougainville in a very daring mission, seems these guys had enough gas to linger over BOugainville for about 15 minutes. The site that was maintained by the people that owned the property was a sort of Shrine for Japanese Tourists. My father felt is was kismet that had him visit the Japanese homeland and then visit the grave of their greatest WWII hero. My father got pretty worked up about all the WWII stuff he was looking at. So on December 31 in the middle of the night when the siren's went off my father jumped out of bed and yelled “AIR RAID!!!!” and woke us up to get out into the courtyard of the hotel we were staying at....as we stumbled onto the veranda that led to the stairs downstairs the natives in the courtyard below looked up at my dad who was still yelling “Air Raid!” and said quite matter of factly “Happy New Year.”
When we returned we took down the Xmas tree and my mother made a pact that she would use the angel I had made every Christmas from then on. Needless to say The angel didn't survive the trip back to the states, being one of the first things she put in the box. So when I came home the following Xmas she talked me into making her a new one, and then that one didn't survive to the next year etc. so every year I had to make my mother a new angel using stuff I rescued from the trash. One year we did Renaissance, one year we did Riccoco ( I tied into some Gold foil that had come with some poinsettia's) one year we did something Romantic, then Pre Raphaelite...What could I say, My mom knew what she wanted and knew how to get it.

Right after we returned from Rabaul my father got on the Yamamoto thing. There were people that did the trip regularly, One had gotten one of the engine serial number plates. My dad decided he must own this item. The person that told him this told him the name of the individual that owned it. I recognized the name but said nothing. My dad got this guy on the phone and promised him cash or whatever he wanted to put this item in my dad's possession. The guy said no, it wasn't for sale. My dad asked if he could at least come and see it. The guy agreed. I asked to go along. My dad agreed but told me to keep my mouth shut, that he'd do all the talking. I agreed. We went to this individuals house and I followed my dad in. The guy in question was the equipment manger for the mine. He and I did business regularly while I was in the yard. He always wanted us to drop everything and do his stuff now so that he could have it back in place asap. I sometimes relented and sometimes I refused-showing him the yard of things that needed to be blasted and painted that had shown up days before him, and that I had responsibility to take care of all the customers that brought things to be blasted and painted. We drank together pretty regularly, Yes this guy and I knew each other well. I stood there and let my dad do all the talking and just smiled at the owner of what my father wanted. The guy we'd come to visit looked at me, smiled, and said to me while my father was trying to convince him into selling the engine plate to him “This is your father?” I nodded “You weren't exaggerating were you?” I shook my head. He smiled and said, “ Damn Pommy Yank, if I give this to him will my stuff move up in the line to get blasted and painted?” I shrugged . “...and I don't mean once in a while, I mean regularly.: I shook my head, but let him know it was in his best interest to give my dad what he wanted. It was at this moment my father realized that the guy wasn't hearing anything that he was saying, that the owner of the precious engine plate was talking to me. “You know this guy Alb?” I turned to my dad and said “oh yeah, we see each other at least once a week, don't we?” The guy just swore and handed the engine plate to my father saying “take the damn thing, bloody yank. Albert and I are wontoks...right?” I nodded. And we left. My father questioned me at length about all this and I reminded him that I hadn't said anything. Lets just say When this guy showed up with his stuff he got took care of as soon as I could squeeze him in. Power is a wonderful thing.

Now might be a good time to discuss an incident that on the surface seemed trite and an exercise in the ridiculous however when one examines it becomes the nut of the human condition. As you've probably gathered by now, My father is from another time and another place. In his mind there is black and white, importance and foolishness and order and chaos. One of his few Romantic passions is WW I. To this day at 2 pm, there is a ongoing program on the “war” cable channel that concerns “the great war” as it is known-especially the Air war, and my father is fixated like a 6 year old watching cartoons. Long before we reached New Guinea my father found a decal of the German “Iron Cross” that had other implications to the Biker community which is the reason I'm sure the decal was manufactured, however my father placed this on his Hard hat as the Medal that the original designers had meant it to represent. While in New Guinea this decal marked my father, and his attitude, stubbornness, his almost mythical understanding of the Trucks that he was there to maintain, his ability to think on his feet such as when the actual part to make the machine whole again was unavailable to be able to improvise and put the machine back on its feet became legend. I've already told of how my father's apprentices regarded him. He was like a god to them. ( I don't exaggerate the facts here) but his peers and the executives of the mine felt similarly. In November my father asked my sister to chase down some more Iron Cross decals, he needed between a dozen and 20. My sister wrote back after a month that she could only find about 6. I made the suggestion that she Contact the Monogram Model Company and order about 8 decal sets from their model “The Red Baron” a car model I had built when I was younger. This was accomplished and when she came for Christmas my sister presented my father with His decals. The following Friday after lunch my father assembled his Mechanics and the other service people associated with Morgan equipment. He pulled out a tape recorder that had a cassette Of German WW I tunes, all of them of a Military vein. He explained to the assembled Aussie and Kiwi crew the significance of the Iron Cross in the German Army. Or at least his version of it I'm sure. He commented that it was given for valor. It was given as more then a good conduct medal but to an individual that has served the Fatherland in a capacity above and beyond ones' Duty. My father pushed the button on the tape recorder and began calling out names. Beginning with the smallest of the decals for the lesser of the heroic deeds that were performed in the maintaining and repairing the Euclid trucks that they were all there to do, leading up to the larger decals like the one he sported. These Guys were every inch men. They drank, they fought, the loved and they came to work. However there wasn't a dry eye in the house. At this point it could be said that my dad was establishing his own cult and these, his followers would have done anything he asked of them. A man will spend the money he earns and think well of the person who gave it to him, however give a man a medal and he belongs to you.

It wasn't long after the holidays had come and gone that the damnedest thing that I have ever seen happened. My head “boy” was a guy in his early 40's named Clabus He was considered 'Lapoon' (old). There was something about Clabus that wasn't like the other guys. He always walked in front, he always sat in the front of the truck not in the back. He ate first, he called “Kai!” (Lunch) and the guys paid him as much respect as they did Robbie. When Clabus spoke the boys listened, and I don't think it was because he was head boy, I think there was more to it then that. They sorta respected me but only cause I was the same color as Robbie. I guess I didn't carry myself that way. I think they saw me as one of them cause I worked along side them and didn't just point and tell them to do it.
One day just before Lunch Clabus was feeding the sand hopper and the Diesel Air compressor we were using was making one hell of a racket about 5' away. I was facing the jungle and Clabus was facing me and the compressor. I was yelling to be heard over the compressor to him what I wanted to blast next while I got the other guys to paint what was being blasted now. He instantly got stiff, put his fingers up to his lips to silence me. He slowly reached down and picked up a stone about the size of a tennis ball and in one motion stood and threw it into the jungle behind him. At that second a flying fox was gliding from one tree to the next. Clabus nailed him in mid flight. There was absolutely no chance that Clabus could have seen him, hell I didn't see him and I was facing that way. With the racket that the compressor was making he couldn't have heard it. He dropped the shovel and went to retrieve it and yelled “KAI!” and brought the large bat like creature to the guys who proceeded to clean it and build a fire to cook it. When I asked him how he knew where the flying fox was he told me that his ancestors had told him. And that was the end of the conversation. I ate the piece I was offered. It tasted a little gamier the chicken.
IF you can tell me how this occurred without some form of mysticism I'd love to hear it.

While I worked the yard, the guys taught me all kinds of things. How to find Sugar cane. How to roast a plantain. How to husk a coconut with nothing more then a screwdriver and if you have a machete how to make you a spoon from the husk to eat it. I learned how to pick a banana bunch and ripen it in a sack in a dark room. I learned how to Pick fruit at the market. I once picked up a pineapple that was over 20” tall with the stalk. It was the color of light walnut on the outside and was so sweet you could smell it 10' away- it cost me the total of about .35. I got pretty good with a pot gun and could tear one down and clean it and reassemble it in about 5 minutes. Robbie and I had our moments. I was loading a crew to take to a job and half of them were dragging their feet. He told me to get on the road and to hell with the guys who weren't ready yet. When I tried to argue with him, he just told me to get on the road. SO I did. He was about 5 minutes behind me with the rest of my crew, madder then hell at me because I had left with only half of them. It was pointless to point out to him that I had just done what he told me. I didn't mind the job.
My drawing was making serious progress, I was developing a style that marked me as different from anybody else. I was beginning to get a name for myself. The Island provided many distractions for me. Sometimes I and my family would be invited to a picnic on Pok-Pok, a small Island about a mile off of Kieta's coast. It looked like an alligator in the water thus the name Pok-Pok (crocodile). It was during one of these Picnics that I got on an inner tube and swam out to the reef, I was about 20 yards away from the actual reef when I was joined by one of my 'Wontok''s who swam out to use the bottle opener I had around my neck. As we sat and chatted while he treaded water and drank his beer (a skill that all Ausies seem to have) a black fin broke the surface about 15 yards off. This fin was about 20" out of the water and I saw it and said "Oh cool, a whale" The Ausie stated that it wasn't a whale, It was a great white, and a big one too. I have never swam that fast in my life again. I had made friends with one of the Island's Matriarch figures who happened to be the wife of the manager of Morgan equipment, I had a brief crush on her. She was a Berkeley Graduate who listened to classical music and some Grateful Dead. She became a social source for me introducing me to other people of the management status on the Island. My social life didn't suffer. I saw my friend's sister a few times and I think she cared for me all the more cause I let her know that I really didn't care what she did or said, that I was on this Island for a short while and would leave with no regrets. However we did enjoy each others company occasionally.

In March My Father's Boss came for a visit. He liked me, I always got him a drink when he came to visit and I entertained him with stories of my life. This time was no exception. I met him at the door with a glass of scotch from the bottle I'd bought from the LSSC. They didn't usually sell liquor but I told them it was an emergency so they sold it to me. “So, how's it going here, lad?” I showed him the pictures that I had drawn and told him of my job. He seemed to be entertained so when he was finished with his drink I got him another and broached the subject that I had been thinking on since I got there. I started out with the conversation that my drawing would be of great help to me when I started school in the fall. That I was really looking forward to starting at the Institute. He nodded and said that he was glad that I would be so close to the factory that my dad could visit when he came into Cleveland for meetings. I swung it back to the point. I suggested that it would be of great benefit if instead of following the contract to the letter, IE returning via Japan and the west coast it would be great if I could just continue West and see Asia, Egypt, Europe and all the Museums there. He suddenly understood my point. He sighed and said that it would probably help me in my school work. I nodded. He said “OK, how much is this going to cost me? I reminded him that the contract stipulated that I make the trip back to American soil 1st class. IF I went coach the other way it would cost him as much maybe less. He smiled and said “yeah, do it, send me postcards of the stuff you see and I want to hear how this helped you in school.” I was suddenly elated. I would be seeing Art in person rather then in books. I thanked him profusely and got him another drink. I also signed one of the drawings he'd especially liked and gave it to him as a gift.
During this whole time I had achieved a great respect for the mosquito's there. They make the tiger mosquito's we are bothered by here look like simple pests. The ones there are about 1/2” long and swarm in clouds that are about 20' across. Those little bastards will indeed carry you off. Our greatest fear was Malaria and we took our quinine regularly. Malaria was rampant on the island amongst the Aussies. One morning the guy who Robbie had hired to do the storage station for the ore slush coming down from the mine came down with a case. It had gotten into his spinal column, this was usually crippling and sometimes fatal, (he and my mother had come to logger heads when he claimed he could buy her some buka baskets (actually they're made by a family in Buin, and he spent the money on beer. My mother got her money back from him and went and got her own baskets.) So I Volunteered to take his job. Running the yard was important, but this job had to have somebody on site. Clabus could run the yard in a pinch with Robbie checking in every couple of hours, It was agreed that I would take over the Slush station. That gave me a vehicle to use. It was an Isuzu 5 speed diesel dump truck. I took the crew to the site and oversaw the work. Although I was there mostly as a babysitter the guys knew what to do. I missed the yard but I knew that I had to be doing what I was doing so I spent the rest of my time while employed at Bougainville Protective Coatings Pty. Ltd. Working on site as a babysitter. The time flew by. It was coming on time for me to plan my exit from New Guinea and plan the stops I would make on my journey west towards home.

Part 1 In the valley of the Sun.

2009-09-19T13:02:00.000-07:00

An Acquaintance of mine has put forth a form of request. “I'd like to hear more about your travels”. Yeah okay, that is a long and arduous task. I might as well begin at the beginning. In the summer of 1977 I had been accepted to the Cleveland Institute of Art to pursue my undergraduate degree, however they had no room for me in the Fall class, would I be interested in beginning in the “spring”? Yeah, I was going to fly from 70* Phoenix in mid January to arrive in Cleveland that would be -14* and ass deep in snow...I figured I'd ramp up to that joy So, I told them I'd begin the following fall. That left me with a year with little or nothing to do. I was at that moment in between apartments and in between Jobs...IE I was living in the servant's room of my mom and dad's house and they would have loved it if I'd found a job and moved out, and I didn't have $1 to spend. I sought work but I had gotten tired of the service oriented job market available to someone with a high school diploma and few skills. My life at the time was one would expect of a 20 year old in the Valley of the Sun, I'd go to bars at night and hang out with my friends, go to movies, looked for a job during the day and did artwork in the moments in between. In early August My Mother had accompanied my sister to Boston to begin her education at Wellesley College, and that left my dad and myself at home alone. The Tension was thick enough to cut with a cleaver. About a week after my mother and sister left he approached me with the news that he (and my mother) would be going for a year to Bougainville. As I've stated in the past my dad worked for Euclid, {big trucks}, and there was copper mine on Bougainville that needed my dad's special attention. SO, they'd be selling the house and I'd need to find myself somewhere else to live. “However” my dad said “Legally you are still my dependent. You have no job, you have a year to kill, I'm sure you could find a job on Bougainville, they'd have to pay your way round trip and it would be first class.”(I include this fact as it works itself back into the story later). After a great deal of thought I decided he was right, I wasn't doing anything so, I decided to go. We packed the house, got it sold, got our passports and Inoculations, and I helped my returned mother get ready to go the South Pacific while my father went to Bougainville to get the skinny on what he would be doing there. In September, I bid farewell to the house in Phoenix which was the last time I lived with my family, from then on I would be "visiting". Our first stop was San Francisco -we needed to get Visa's to get into New Guinea. After a few tense days they were given and we were cleared to go from San Francisco to Hawaii, from Hawaii to Tokyo, from Tokyo to Nagasaki, from Nagasaki to Port Moresby, and from Moresby to Bougainville. I had to admit I was excited about going to Japan. I had been a long admirer of Japanese Culture, I found their artwork to be remarkable, their approach to life unique, and it would indeed be the most Alien culture I had ever encountered. I will leave the 1^st class trip from San Francisco to Hawaii to Tokyo out, leave it at I had to watch “For the love of Benji” twice and a terrible Japanese Spy movie, and despite that we were in the air almost a total of 18 hours the stewardess' wouldn't allow us to sleep, they kept waking us up to ask us if we wanted anything to eat. We finally landed in Tokyo at about 4 am local time. It was cold, windy and the air smelled like the air in Gary, Indiana-permeated with Sulfur. We got to the Hotel about 45 minutes later and they gave my parents a double bed and rolled out cot for me. I slept as deeply as is possible and not be dead. The next day My father who doesn't care for ethnic food that isn't from Eastern Europe said that we would be going to have breakfast at the Holiday Inn. The fare that was offered was a “western” breakfast for $25 a head. In 1977 that was serious money. It consisted of limp toast, over cooked sausage, scrambled eggs, Cold coffee, and oatmeal. I announced that (after about 4 days in the immediate company of my parents non stop) I was going to seek out a museum, My mother would go shopping and we would meet back at the hotel to do a organized tour. It was during this time that I discovered a few interesting things about Tokyo when I compared it to New York City. 1. Despite the number of people that crowded the streets (it was like looking into a bee hive) the streets were immaculate, where as New York is Filthy and smells like a sewer. Not a used butt, not a candy wrapper, not a windblown newspaper was on the streets of Tokyo where its not unusual to turn the corner in NY and find someone relieving themselves on the street in a pile of garbage or where someone has already done it, all the brass and bronze fixtures attached to the buildings were polished like a mirror in NY they're covered in a film of pollution and etched with acid rain . 2. People with cars had in their possession a glove that had wire prongs that were “V” shaped coming out that were covered with the yarn head that one found on push broom type of mops. They used these to “dust” their vehicles and on these vehicles there was not a scratch, not a dent, not a blemish of any sort, where as in NY most of the vehicles look like they've been through a demolition derby. 3. Everyone was incredibly polite where the NYC attitude is world famous. 4. They had Vending machine for anything and everything you could think of, where as in NY, they have street vendors who will attempt to sell you nothing for something. And lastly there was a sense of calm but intense purpose in the people that passed me on the streets. I found a contemporary art Gallery, was told I could not draw what I saw so I spent the morning just looking and comparing this culture to the one I was used to. I met my parents back at the hotel and we strolled through the Ginza. I was shopping for a camera. I knew I'd need a decent camera in the future and since we here....I'd done some research and found that the Cannon AE-1 would serve my purpose well. I made a list of the stores that had given me the best prices and accompanied my parents on the tour. We went to a few historic places like a Buddhist temple, the Imperial Palace, A house that had been maintained as it appeared in the pre Western influence period of the 19th Century, We went to a supermarket where the managers of each department would stand on the corner of their department and yell out what they had on sale (Like one would find in an open air market). While we were at t he Supermarket I took to opportunity to sample Sushi at the Sushi Bar for the first time, My Father stated that I must be insane (an opinion of me that my father held and shared with me regularly) and found it to be wonderful and it still remains a special treat for me. I also saw an locally grown Apple that was the size of a cantaloupe. We went to a department store that was 6 stories tall and sold nothing but electric lamps. When we were checking out the historic sites and the 20 something tour guide would comment on the damage that we saw being done during the allied bombing of WWII my parents, who were of that generation, would comment that “that's what [they] got for Pearl Harbor...” After about 2 hours of this I finally pulled my mother aside and said to her (in front of my dad) “look, first of all that little girl wasn't even alive then, 2. you are in THEIR country, and there are more of them then you, 3. We WON the war, so you don't have to labor the notion, 4. We dropped an atomic bomb on these people that left anyone near it as nothing more then a shadow burned into the stone they were standing next to, and anyone not vaporized was melted... I'd say our revenge was complete.” I only mention this incident because it will dovetail into the story later. All in all the tour of Tokyo was nice, although I would have enjoyed a bit more immersion into the culture...do some puppet theater, Sumo, eat local fare, in short do the whole thing...however my parents didn't do cultural immersion real well. I left them and went back to the Ginza and picked up my shopping for my camera with earnest. I found the best price and bought the camera. I still have it and it has accompanied me on my every journey since. We left Tokyo for the short flight to Nagasaki, then the long flight to Port Moresby. Port Moresby is the capital of Papua-New Guinea. We arrived about 7 pm local time at about Dusk. Port Moresby is located on the southern shore of the long finger of Papua that extends east. It was separated from our ultimate goal of Bougainville by the Solomon Sea. Although it is an International Port, the airport consisted of a cinder block building that held the offices and ticket counter for the national Airline “Air Nugini”. The actual business of the airport such as customs and luggage recovery is handled under an open air area that had a thatch roof covering it somewhat like a pavilion that one sees in parks covering a group of picnic tables. The air smelled of deep forest mustiness, Human body odor and Jet fuel. There were drums of Jet Fuel between this area and the actual tarmac that had the planes, all this was surrounded by a chain link fence and that describes the airport at Port Moresby. The Runway was not electrified so flights could only come in during the day...we were the last flight for the day. We went through customs, with little incident and went directly to the Best hotel in Port Moresby. The Davara. Now by any standard the Davara is not a two, three, or four star hotel. However it was the best available and it was a double. So I finally got my own bed. We would be there over night...Which was enough. Lets just say that as in any third world country the capital offers some culture and much more crime...I stayed a day and a night on my way out of New Guinea, and understood a bit better what was going on...however lets leave it I came, I saw, I moved on. By this time my Father was on edge, he doesn't deal with alien cultures well, and he was leading this expedition. He wanted to achieve the goal as quickly as possible, and the goal was to get to Bougainville, get us in the house that we would occupy and get back to the mine where he belonged dealing with the trucks who had mechanical problems that he understood. My Mother was typical of her generation, she wished to get her things and to make the nest that would be her home for the next year. My goal was to find out where the beach was, locate the gym, find a bar, and figure out how to spend as much time pursuing these ends while “looking” for a job. Yeah well the best laid plans of mice and men. However I'm getting ahead of myself. We climbed aboard the Fokker 3 engine that would take us on our last leg of our journey and within about an hour and half we landed on Bougainville. The airport was a runway and a dirt parking lot for vehicles sent to pick up or deliver passengers, and the man there to meet us was my father's predecessor as the Euclid rep on Bougainville. He greeted us, allowed us to collect our luggage directly out of the planes belly and we got into a range rover and climbed on the the only paved road on the island. This road was the main artery of the island, it went from the airport to Arawa and then onto Kieta, and intersected with the road that went from the mine in Panguna (which was atop a mountain that the mine was slowly removing and turning into a sludge that was piped down the mountain to waiting ships in Kieta) to Loloho, which was where one of the beaches was, where the mines Junk yard was, was the location of the single men's quarters (called Donga's) and the “Mess” where these guys ate their meals . and the location of two places I would get to know intimately: the main yard for “Bougainville Protective coating's Pty. Ltd”, and the “Loloho sports and social club” . Every building that wasn't a hut along this paved road was there to service the mine. We plunged from the open air of the airport area moist heat into the cooler darker forest jungle that was as thick and deep as a well and seemed to envelope us. How to describe the overwhelming forest that surrounded us? Imagine being the size of a germ and then being tossed into the produce section of supermarket. It was every color of green you can imagine from the border of blue to the border of yellow. Some of the trees were ancient, almost 12 feet in diameter and the canopy over head let small pin points of light through making it impossible to tell direction from the sun or stars. One could get lost here and never be seen again, and it had happened. A story had been related at the time of our arrival that a fallen fighter plane from WWII had just recently been discovered about 20 yards into the jungle off the main road...almost 35 years after it had crashed there. It was like entering a green womb, that held many surprises in the coming months for yours truly. He delivered us to the Bougainville Davara hotel, where we were given a room that would be our home for a few days while this prior representative of Euclid and his wife moved out and started the long journey west through the far east, India, Middle East, Europe and eventually home. In conversation it was mentioned by my father to the guy he was going to replace that I would be looking for a job...I said yeah OK. We had dinner at the Davara and my father loaded both me and my mother into the Range Rover and gave us a tour of all the paved road, a grand total of about 35 miles....We climbed the mountain, and I noticed the skull and cross bones that was painted into the road like huge traffic lines. This is where people had died on the road. They were grouped in 4's and 5's which had sorta a macabre feeling to it. Panguna was the town that serviced the mine directly, It had the best stores, the most modern mess, the apartments for the married couples and the housing for the mine executives. It looked like a modern small town. We ate lunch at the Mess, and met a few of the guys that my father (and to a smaller extent myself) would come in contact with every day for the following months. We ended up back at the Davara late in the day, and had dinner. I love seafood and this was the place to get it. So I ordered the appetizer of oysters on the half shell and a lobster, as it was on my father's expense account he didn't care. What came was 7 halved oysters on 3 plates. It was the only time I'd ever had to eat oysters with a knife and fork and the lobster was a very large shrimp. I noticed that the wait staff and every other local spoke a strange language that seemed to be littered with some English and German and some words I couldn't make heads or tales of. This was Melanesian Pidgin. I learned to speak it in a few months of having to deal with the locals. My parents either couldn't or in my father's case wouldn't learn so for the time we were there I acted as interpreter for them. We retired to our room and we slept, I listening to the sounds of the mysterious life that crawled, flew, glided, slithered, walked and other wise moved through the jungle that theywere born to but that was new for me.
My father was up at 6 am and on his way to work...he was now comfortable because he would be returning to what he knew best...leaving my mother and I to fill our day the best way we could. We decided to go to the beach, remembering to bring our sneakers as there was life in the reef that loved to burrow and attach to warm flesh that lived under the water...the water was about 70* and the beach was white sand the was bordered by coconut trees that allowed us to not only notice their presence visually but with an occasional thump of a coconut working itself loose and dropping to the sand below. One had to keep abreast of this cause one of these falling projectiles could kill and I know from experience definitely knock you on your ass and allow you see little stars that floated in front of you. We spent the day lounging on the beach, swimming a bit, and just relaxing from our long journey, it was a beautiful day and we could just make out the peak and sulfurous cloud around Mt. Bagana-the active Volcano on the island. We had dinner at the Davara again and spent the evening recovering from too much sun and and too much sand and salt. The next morning found the guy that my father was going to replace at our door. He had spoken to one of his “mates”and might have found me a job. Would I like to meet the guy, like now? Yeah OK...I put on my shoes and we headed towards Loloho. I was delivered to a ring of scrap metal of every size and shape on one side was a group of 4 sea containers (the long train car size metal boxes used to transport cargo on ships) on one side, hinging off the line of containers was an building that had a warehouse to store paint, and 2 open bays one side had diesel operated air compressors and on the other a pile of sand about 14' tall. It was about 100 yards from the Loloho beach and about 50 yards down the road from the Donga's. I jumped out of the truck and was introduced to a man who's appearance was memorable and still leaves me with a smile shaking my head. His name was “Robbie” as is damn near every other male on the Aussie mainland. He was 6'3” tall. He had a barrel of a chest and a gut to match his chest, shoulders and arms that one might see on a blacksmith and below what supported the mass of a man were the skinniest legs I've ever seen on a man. He was in the standard working Aussie uniform of a sleeveless work shirt, shorts, knee high white socks, and construction boots. His face was broad burned brown the color of Mahogany, his smile wide and his eyes flashed below the shrubbery that he used as eyebrows. His hair seemed to have a will of its own as it climbed and fell around his head-having been permanently matted like this by years of hard hat use. “So, ya lookin fa work?” I nodded. “WEED wantya to watch the boys, they know what to do, bloody canaca's need to be watched-they-r all Tolais or Sepiks...locals don't know how to wok. SO, have ya ever run a pressure pot paint gun?” I stated that I had used one once. “SO, do ya know how to tie a knot?” I told him I'd been a boyscout. He smiled and nodded “So, are ya afraid of heights?” I answered “Just falling from them.” He smiled again and nodded. “Ya Hide. We'll pay ya 315 Kina a week. Ya can start in the morning. Unless you want to start now.” I said I had no plans for the day. The guy who had brought me there smiled and said he'd stop by and tell my mom that I'd gotten a job and that she should expect me that evening and quicker then I could spin and spit I was the newest employee of Bougainville Protective Coatings Pty.Ltd. It was and still is the damndest job interview I've ever had.
That first day was brutal. I was not dressed to spend the day in the sun doing construction. Although my time in AZ had prepared me for being under a brutal sun, the humidity and alien terrain plus having to communicate with few who spoke English left me exhausted. I had my first Meat Pie for lunch which is a staple in Australia. At the end of the day I met my co worker, A tall lank Aussie who had scars of teeth marks around his nose that was at an obvious 10 degrees out of square to his face...I was just sure there was a story there. At the end of the day he was the one who delivered me back to the Davara. “How did it go?” asked my mother. My Father was just so pleased that I had a job he just sat their smiling. “It was OK. I'll need to get into the swing of things...” I was the color of a cooked lobster, I was covered in grit and paint, I was half blind from the sun, and exhausted from trying to manipulate 6 individuals who were brown natives, (the local Bougainvillian's were blue black and some of the sweetest nicest people that God put on the earth-these were from the mainland (along the Sepik River) and New Britian)...had holes in their Nose for placement of a shell or a pig tusk, and some were covered with patterns of darker stained scarred welts that were in some sorta Geometric pattern. I figured it had to do with some sorta family/tribal thing....I slept the sleep of the just that night. This would be our last night in the Davara...my mother would oversee the move into the house while her men went to work the next day. I awoke at 6 am. I got dressed and went outside to wait for my ride to the yard. What met me was in the top 5 of the strangest things I've ever seen. I had just sorta come accustomed to the fact that my new world was every color of green I could ever experience, However what greeted me was not even remotely green. In the half light of the morning the Jungle surrounding me was Pink, It was pink, slimy and undulating. For as far as the eye could see in the half light, damn near everything was covered with huge pink snails. They were the size of your fist and quite literally everywhere. I felt like I'd gotten into some weird mushrooms....It shocked me at first. My ride came and explained that “the bloody things came over in some Chinese sewer pipes and the bloody things were eating the island damn near to the ground....I thought to myself that the next year was going to be interesting.

In the Valley of the Dragons

2009-08-25T13:29:00.000-07:00

Hello dear reader,
Pardon me while take issue with society again.
I have noticed that states have been advertising themselves as possible places to come for a visit. I've seen one for Tennessee, West Virginia, Virginia, North Carolina and South Carolina, IE all the states that border NC and NC itself. I've also noticed that in at least one moment of the blast of images [that are meant to inform you that if you haven't seen this place you can't suggest to anybody that you've lived yet] they advertise how creative they all are. There are pictures of Public art, Galleries, people playing music, people pursuing dance, in fact most of the arts; suggesting that ART is a good thing. That they support the arts. That they think this is a viable reason to come and spend your money there.
I don't have a problem with this, in fact if you ever check out my web site you'll notice that the first thing I state is that society is measured by the complexity of it's art. This is a fact. When we discuss any society that came before us, we contemplate them by what they made and how they made it and why they made it. We measure their complexity as a society by examining how they decorated utilitarian items and how they portrayed what ever Deity(s) they believed in. And yet, our own society rallies against art in every fashion they can think of. When the state needs money, the first cut that's made is schools. The first thing in schools that gets cut is the arts programs. Our own JESSE HELMES (spit) stood up with a group of pictures done by Maplethorpe, and suggested that the American people had funded his pornography...and if it wasn't pornography he dared any Newspaper to print these images. The goal was to cut funding to the arts. What he realized but most people don't is that newspapers would not print anything that might offend anybody in any way. I'm sure we'd all agree that Botticelli's Birth of Venus is ART. For those of you unfamiliar with the piece its a naked woman (Simonetta Vespucci) who is supposedly Venus (who was born of the foam of the sea) standing on a sea shell, attempting to cover her nakedness with her hands and hair, while her assistants rush to put a robe on her. Botticelli was a friend and contemporary of Leanardo, we're talking the end of the 15th century here. Yet No paper will publish a picture of this painting...why? Cause its a naked woman. I saw a famous photograph taken at the turn of the century of a bunch of boys who had stripped down to their birthday suits and were swimming. A bunch of them not yet in the water with their backs turned toward the camera were getting ready to jump in. The area around their buttocks was blurred. Why, cause that would mean that you'd be face to face with a naked buttocks. Not to mention the images that Mr. Helmes (spit) held in such contempt, were not the ones that Maplethorpe produced from his grant, they were private pictures from his own collection that were never to be seen by the public. But this didn't matter. Maplethorpe had taken public money, this was an example of what he created, thus he is a pornographer. Yeah, well Jesse like playing on the fears of the stupid, the uninformed, and the repressed.
To be honest there are some things going on called "Art" that are meant to shock, and have little to do with a creative response to a mundane life. I recall reading about some Italian artist who canned his own feces, and then auctioned off the cans. Over the years these cans have exploded...thus causing the remaining cans to increase in value. I recall the incident at the Brooklyn museum a few years back where a Madonna was rendered with Elephant Dung, and a cow was displayed as being cut in half. I too find these things tasteless, however that is why they were produced...to make people be shocked and thus talk about the artist so that the curious would come and see some more of his stuff. We're trying to get your attention and some of us will do about anything to get it. But that is a tangent. The point is, we want to have people think we support the arts cause that's what civilized people do. But when it comes right down to spending our money, we find art superfluous, we find creativity to be okay as long as it doesn't make us think, we find creative people palatable as long as they're not too creative, the vision of our own bodies we claim as God's greatest achievement is fine, as long as we keep it well hidden. We insist that art is great, but you want to get paid for this?!
I had dealings with a dentist years ago. He found out that I was an artist and took me into his waiting room, there was a light box attached to the ceiling that diffused the light and he wanted some things like plant forms painted along its edge so that it wasn't so glaring as a part of the ceiling. When I suggested that I could do it at night, that was OK, when I suggested I'd have to rent scaffold, that was OK, when I suggested I'd do it for Money, that wasn't OK. "You mean you'd really expect me to pay you for this?" Yes I said, just like he'd expect me to pay him for working on my teeth. "yes, but that's different, that's my job. I was trained to do this..." Yes I said, ditto for me. He just shook his head and told me to forget it. This is typical. Art is supposed to be a hobby that housewives pursue instead of alcoholism, the idea of creating for money is OK as long as somebody else is paying for it. There is one exception to this rule. Nostalgia. If you create something that reminds people of more pleasant memories that they told themselves they've got then you can turn a serious buck at it. I can think of a few people that do this, I won't mention any names, and I haven't got a problem with them doing it. If this is what their vision tells them, then who am I to judge? But it would be a very boring world if that was all that was ever created. Art that makes you think and take a long hard serious look at yourself is good for you. It makes you more then a monkey with car keys...but you'd never spend your own money on it, right? I'll end this lecture with the story of Michelangelo's Last Judgement. Probably one of the greatest murals ever pursued. When I saw it, it about knocked me to the floor. I realized just how insignificant I was in comparison to the universe. When it was first seen, the cardinal's had a problem with the fact that everybody was naked. (Well, duh?) and it turned into a real issue, so after the death of the artist they hired a guy to paint over the naughty bits...fig leafs, a strand of hair...whatever, after all even though God created Naked people, they have so little influence in society. Good luck and farewell.

I, Artist part 2, the echo of an echo

2009-08-21T07:18:00.000-07:00

Hello Dear Reader,
As I stated I am from the Magic City. My father who summers there and who has a great deal of free time on his hands reads articles and the obits from the Akron Beacon Journal and passes along any points of interest. A recent email contained notice that a friend had passed away in his sleep. I had not seen this guy since 1975 when 5 deaths in 6 months amongst the small circle of friends I had in High School sent me seeking some form of resolve. I was just sure death was saving me for last...that its' touch would be coming soon and I had some unfinished business in Magic City. I sought him out, and we traded friendly insults, as guys do and briefly got caught up. I had changed and so had he. While in College I went to the Magic City for holiday's and events, a couple of funerals, but never had the time to seek out the people I had been close to. Any more I go there to see family and if I'm in the mood, go and re live some of the happy/horror moments of my time there. I think of Barberton as the crucible of my life.
This guy was pretty typical of the boys around me, wide doughy face, Eastern European ancestry, attempting to understand the changes in the world from our little back water but still stuck in the Magic City. This is the guy that I slept in a tent with in my back yard. This is the guy who helped me refine my kite flying technique. This is the guy who talked me into joining his boy scout troop, this is the guy who dragged me to presence of a girl I was enamored with and introduced me cause he was tired of listening to me moon on about her. This is the guy who helped me get even with a bully that had been giving me a hard time. This is the guy when I dare to remember my childhood, that I settle on. This is the guy that nudged me out of the little circle of my life to attempt and be whatever I was required to be. I know little of his life since we were both on the other side of adolescence. I know he stayed within driving distance of home, where I have moved to locals as far from it as I could get, but always returned to smell the air, see the marks, examine the scars travel the paths. He kept many of the friends he made as a child. I wouldn't know many of these people if they stood in front of me, my friends are ones I have gathered like my tools, what I needed where I could find them. We both were unmarried, although I don't know if he had climbed the married mountain and had tumbled off as so many do. I seem to have been spared that adventure. His obit was brief, leaving many questions unanswered...like an Irish Saga, one ends with as many questions as one began with, it was a simple notice to tell the world that he wouldn't be showing up to work, that his mail would go unanswered, that the phone was turned off cause he wouldn't be answering it. He was no longer in the building. His mark was a small one left on those he encountered. Did he love? Did he dream? Did he go to Mexico to see the butterflies? Did he stand in front of Great Pyramid and see what Napoleon saw? Did he walk amongst the dead under Paris or have his entrails shook when the organ at Notre Dame hit one of the low notes? Did he stand in front of the works of great men and contemplate their lives? Wandered in the footsteps of Da Vinci, Balzac or Aristotle? I don't know, I have done most of these things...and as he was willing to share his experience with me as a child, I guess that the swatches of color that have encapsulated my life must have to color his life too. To make him a part of my life, to share my history with him. Sharing is what one has friends for...to borrow, to lend, to give and accept. I mentioned the girl that he dragged me in front of and introduced me to. She was another one of the ghosts that wander my mind. I found her again, and yeah Joe, this time I introduced myself...You were right. Farewell my friend, the next time I drag out the bottle of the good stuff, I'll drink to your memory, and the adventures we had before we realized that the world was a very big place and that our little magic city was like many. Good luck and maintain.

I, Artist

2009-07-30T15:20:00.000-07:00

Hello Dear reader,
I feel it might be time to let you see behind the curtain. I set myself up as some sorta expert demi-god of culture, the hapless victim of the cruelty of the world, the martyr of Art, the brutalized soul of a poet. You find humor in my adventures, or so I've been told. Now its time for a bit of background. I was born in the Magic City in the Spring of the year that Ozzie and Harriet's son Ricky actually sang a Fats Domino song on nationwide TV- which was in the next day's paper. We were just getting into outer space, and it was just after Sputnik. All this is true, The "Magic City" is Barberton Ohio, which is still known as the "Magic City" because it seemed to spring up as if by Magic. It was founded by O.C. Barber as a town for his employees to live and a place for him to place is factory {OC Barber was the "Match King" and if you ever used a Diamond strike anywhere match, you can thank Mr. Barber for the Privilege.} When I was there, Barberton was booming but beaten. The town was the eternal brown grey that is associated with small towns in the rust belt. The sidewalks were broken, the buildings were worn, but it was still small town America, where kids played in the streets, Men went to work, and women had kids and kept the house going. Our neighbors were 1st and 2nd generation Polish people and people that had been born and raised there or had come there for the work in the variety of industrial jobs that were available. Some from Pennsylvania, Some West Virginia, Some from further away. We lived on the West Side, sorta the Blue collar side of Barberton. It was where the Factories were and from my window I could see PPG's smokestack spewing out the remainders of its Soda Ash endeavors. The trains used to move this product to its various locals were constant and would lull me to sleep at night. The Winters were brutal, the summers were wonderful, School was stupid and there were hundreds of distractions for a boy my age. I was born in the Magic City. My parents raised me to be God fearing, honest, hardworking and taught me the difference between "want" and "need".
My Father who is still alive, was from Barberton. He was and is still is the smartest man I know. I take shots at my father because he is so set in his ways, however since my mom died he's loosened up a bit and His eyes light right up when discussing fishing, tools, politics's, or the history of the internal combustion engine and the vehicles that it propels. My father is very technically minded, he is also devout, honest to a fault and the man who taught me to be myself and to trained my mind to think in logic and absolutes, he taught me that one measures a man not by his color, his religion, his station in life, but by how he conducts himself and what he accomplishes. He's still stubborn, but I think I understand him. I can still recall how one makes electricity-you pass a conductor through a magnetic field...which is one of the first things my dad taught me.

My Mom was from Boston, 1st generation Italian born in this country. My Ma was a Taurus, and stubborn to a fault. My Mother was a force to be reckoned with, she was 4' 10 1/2" tall and often got teased about being short-but one quickly learned that Hand grenades aren't very big either. My mother could give you a look that spelled disaster for you, It warned that if you pushed her a bit harder you would regret it. and this was not an idle threat. My mother is another one I take shots at. While at Art school If I made anything for anybody and she saw it she'd admire it and look at me and say "OK, where's mine?" and she wasn't kidding. My Mom was one of those people who believed in communication. She could talk to anybody. And usually did. My Mom had a laugh that was contagious and she could polka on roller skates. She wasn't really creative but enjoyed the attempt. My mother made spaghetti sauce that I try to reproduce but could burn water if you let her...but always ready to try a new recipe-sometimes with disastrous results....There' the chicken and dumplings incident. My Mom had taken her mother-in-law's advice and attempted to make chicken and dumplings. It was fast, easy, and nutritious. Not to mention cheap to make. My mother ended up with chicken and dumpling. Singular. It was the size of a human brain and looked like it swimming in the creamed chicken goo. But we ate it.
Sunday's in my house was the kids up watching cartoons, at 9 my father would come down and turn the TV off, meaning it was time for him to read the paper and us to get ready for church. We went to 12:00 mass at the catholic church across the street from us. We we went every Sunday. At 10 years old I became an alter boy...it was one way of getting out of the house. We would eat dinner when we got home and listened to a show called "Polka Varieties." My folks just loved to polka.
I was sent to parochial school for the first 5 years of my schooling...that was a complete disaster. My little sister also went and thrived there. My sister is 2 years younger then myself, excelled in school and eventually went on to an Ivy League College where she also excelled. My sister is a bit shy when around strangers but firms up and is soon running the conversation. She's married and living in London with her husband and two boys. These two are my father's pride and joy...He loves those boys more then Life itself. Since my mom died he has remarried to a lovely woman that I don't know too well but She takes good care of my father and really that's all I could ever ask from her. They live half the year at her house in Barberton, and the other half in Arizona at his house.
I was born in the Magic City. My schooling was all up hill. I learned early what religious intolerance is from the Nuns who taught me. I learned that the Church doesn't deal with Chaos real well, and it doesn't like questions that it can't answer. Which I had many of. I learned that society despises the different, the noticeable and meek. I was all of these. I learned that the world was cruel. I learned that people were slightly evolved monkey's with car keys and also that God created Adam from dust and eve from one of his ribs. I learned that whenever you are in a group the lowest common denominator always rules. There was nothing wrong with my brain. In fact I probably understood what was being taught to me better then most. I just refused to do the work. I felt that until somebody started answering my questions about things that had nothing to do with grammar, addition and subtraction, or what the difference between latitude and longitude was, I wasn't going to do anything they wanted me to do. Most of my questions pertained to those mysteries of Catholicism that you are just supposed to accept. If Noah was supposed to take every animal of the world one of male and female, then why didn't we have any dinosaurs around? IF God always was, always will be and is perfect in every way, why did he choose that time to create the universe? and why us? was he lonely? that might suggest an imperfection. And if God created Eve From one of Adam's ribs shouldn't there be one more on one side of his body and if this is true why do men and women have the same amount of ribs? And sometimes it was just about stuff-Why does South America jut out and in in the exact opposite fashion as Africa? It looks like they broke apart. Why do all the black people live in one part of Town? Why if all men are created equal did we have slaves?
I soon got the reputation of being a troublemaker.
I was born in the Magic City. We moved from Barberton when I was 13. I go back now and again. I notice that the biggest hill in the world that was just outside my front door, wasn't that big, I notice that the streets are still broken, that the houses still look old and worn and that the only thing that's different are the lack of trees, and the small stores and business that were in every neighbor hood have been converted to cheap apartments or are boarded up.

I'll tell you more some other time. Right now I'm thinking about some supper and a nice hot shower....Good luck and farewell.

Fathers and Sons

2009-07-28T18:50:00.000-07:00

I just got a letter from my “student”. He wished to know how to draw, so his father, a Baptist Minister from down the street, came knocking at my door last January. The reason that it was his father that came was because my student is in prison. The kid has the eye, he can recognize value, and he had a fair concept of reproduction so I agreed to help him. Little did I know that I was going to become his father confessor for all the angst that goes with a young 20 something year old, who just happens to be in prison. Art seems to be the last thing on his mind. He wants to talk about girls, He wants to get his GED, he wants to go into the Military and see the world, he wants to join the CIA, how he feels about the world, what he wants to do when he gets out, his beliefs and his opinions on things. At 21 he hasn’t got an opinion on anything, but like most 21 year olds he thinks he does. During our initial correspondence he claimed to be a born again Christian,(obviously succumbing to his fathers desires) having left his heathen ways of Wicca behind him. Recently he has decided to return to his Goddess worship and informed me of this change in great detail. Well, it seems to go against the grain with his father and in the last letter I read he included a letter from his father denouncing this decision. And {GEE! Imagine THAT…!) it read like a sermon. I was slightly implicated as a possible bad influence.

I refuse to discuss the subject of religion with anyone. The people that ask are either looking for the secret handshake of their particular cult, or if they don’t get it, they try to convince you that what you believe (no matter what it is) is so wrong and ridiculous that they are going to make it their mission to attempt to steer you to the proper path, namely the one they’re on. But there’s more at work here then just the conflict of Faiths. There’s the ever present clash of a man who sees his offspring as a 6 year old who can barely use the toilet on his own no matter what age he is, and a man child attempting to achieve his own beliefs and his own life.

I figured I’d share my version of this conflict concerning my father and myself. My father is of the old school, he was pre-Elvis. I recall him seeing the Beatles on the tube for the first time, raising his finger heaven word (I always thought he was attempting to get better reception between himself and God) and announced that this was the end of civilization as we knew it, and that those Assholes needed to get a job and a haircut. My father likes control. My father doesn’t like surprises, and he doesn’t want to try anything new. My father thinks in absolutes. My father feels that everything you buy should be functional-everything else is junk. My father believes that a man should have a job, either in business or have a trade. When I announced to my father that I was going to art school he thought I was insane. I’m not using that term lightly: My father thought I had literally lost my mind, that I should seek professional help of the mental variety. It’s almost humorous when I recall that he took me to my first art museum. We were killing time in Boston, doing Thanksgiving-My Grandmother had recently passed away and my mother and her siblings were still in mourning. My sister had done a world history class and all the pictures in her book claimed to be from the Boston Museum of Art....SO He took the kids to the Boston Museum of fine art, where he managed to embarrass himself by asking a guard if the El Greco’s he saw on the walls were reproductions. The Guard looked at my father like one might look at a dog that had just pissed on the carpet and said “Sir, This is THE Boston Museum of FINE ART, there are NO reproductions here.” Now My father isn't stupid, he took a western culture class in college. He reilizes that somebody in history did these pieces of artwork and they are in museums...And in my father’s mind, that is what art is and where art belongs.

During one Christmas trip home after I had Graduated from Art School and done quite well there, my mother began to nudge me in the direction of the Family portrait. She had been bugging me about this for years. She wanted Rembrandt. She wanted her in her house, her husband and her children in browns and Golds…I kept putting her off, I had to make a living at this point. So I listened to what she had to say and made a few suggestions. My Father over hearing this conversation harrumphed his dissatisfaction. Now My dad can harrumph with the best of them. He’s a world class critic, and can show disgust with the twitch of an eyebrow. Noticing this I commented that I knew how he would want to be portrayed: His best blue suit with his hand on top of the German WW 1 spiked helmet that sat on top of the family bible. I noticed a sparkle in his eye, momentary but definite. Now a bit of History, a spiked German helmet was the Holy Grail in our family. IF you found one and brought it home all would be forgiven no matter the crime (I did find him one and gave it to him a few years later…and we’ve gotten along better ever since.) It was the one thing that he always wanted ( I still haven't figured out the funtion of one yet.) Later in the week after this conversation my father and I found ourselves in yet another debate concerning some social issues, and although my arguments were sound and logical, my father claimed victory because he was the “Autocrat” of our family. He then asked me if I knew what an Autocrat was…my response was “Yeah, Caligula, Hitler, Mussolini…all autocrats.”

My Father’s Birthday falls about a week after Christmas and for the life of me I could never remember the date. But that year I had a plan. I was going to fix him. When I returned to Boston (I had moved there a year after I graduated from college) I got out all the books I owned about the History of Posters, IE WW 1 posters and got my Cousin Lisa to stand at attention with a broom. I drew my father’s serious look from memory (Not difficult, I had seen that face many times pointed at me) and drew him in a WW 1 German Uniform with an Iron cross and various other medals over his heart, on his head a spiked helmet, and he was saluting with a sword. Under it I wrote “My Father- Autocrat”. It took me a couple of hours including the oval Mat. I put it in an envelope with a birthday card and waited for the shit to hit the fan.

My Mother was very Ill at the time. My father doesn’t call anybody that doesn’t include his business. He’d say “Get that asshole on the phone and let me talk to him!” SO a week later my phone rings. “Albert K. This is you father.” I am just sure he is calling me to tell me that my mother has succumbed to her illness and to come home for the funeral. “Hi Dad, what’s up? Is everything OK?”

“Yes” he says, “Everything is fine here. I called to say thank you for my birthday present. I want to ask you a question. How are you able to do that?”

“Do what, Dad?”

“How are you able to look inside me like that?”

I instantly realized that I had inadvertently pushed one of my father’s buttons, and not a little one either, I had pushed one that was one of his secret buttons.

“Dad, that’s what I do, that’s why I went to Art school, that’s what they taught me to do.” It was half true, but it was an answer he could live with.

“Well I just wanted to say thank you, here, talk to your mother.”

My mom got on the phone and the only words that I could muster was “What in the Hell was That?”

She sounded confused and excited at the same time.

“He brought that envelope in and opened it, and then sat there silently and looked at it for about 10 minutes and then demanded my role of dimes…” (another piece of the puzzle, my mother kept a role of dimes in the house, Why, no one ever found out. But God help you if you touched her role of dimes.) “When I ask him what he wanted them for he said he was going to go the Post office to make copies of the picture you sent him and then he was going to send them to everyone so that ‘those assholes will know just who they’re dealing with!”

And he did. He also took it to all his business meetings and instead of the wood grained plastic sign in front of him that had his name, he put the picture that I drew.

A side note; about a year later I told him that if he loved the picture so much I’d be happy to frame it for him (He had it wrapped in a piece of Plastic wrap) He thought that was great. I told him to send it to me and I’d frame it and either bring it with me next time I came or I’d send it to him. He absolutely refused. “You want to frame it, fine. You come here and frame it, that picture never leaves me.” And that was the end of that. So I framed it for him the next time I went out and now that he's retired I have it on good authority that the minute you come into his house he steers you to that picture and then shows you the house he lives in. He wants you to know just who your dealing with.

I think that that was the first time that my father believed that maybe I wasn’t insane for wanting to go to Art School, that maybe I did know better what to do with my life, and that maybe Art didn’t belong just in museums. I think that eventually every father and son have a moment like this, the son realizes that his father is just a man, scared and as unsure as the son is. And the father realizes that the son is not a child, that he is unique to himself and that although he might look like the little boy who wet his pants, he isn’t.anyway good luck, and maintain.

Art and the science of chaos

2009-07-21T15:37:00.000-07:00

Well dear reader, you've decided to join me for yet another trip into the angst of being born 500 years too late, and only good for the menial job of making boxes.
My week of working to get things done is going ok. Not great. The help I was promised has been sick, seems he's got some stomach problems and they're going to send a camera into him from both ends on Thursday/Friday...At least that's what I think he said. See, he's from Viet Nam, Good guy, hard worker, salt of the earth type. And I might add he speaks English better then I speak Viet Namese. However that does not change the fact that instead of having help for the 5 days I've been given to do this I'll have help for a grand total of 2 1/2. Yeah he was Shanghai'd today to put in some molding and do some sanding on sight by one of the carpenter-crew cheifs...The guy's a real tool, but that has nothing to do with this.
My back has been giving me some grief...seems I had it pretty straightened out...but this week has made it bad again. I can't stand for more then a few minutes till my right leg starts feeling like a hot poker is being driven into my thigh, and the part where it connects to my hips starts resionating with that feeling you get when you start driving 1 5/8" coarse thread sheetrock screws into your flesh, by the handful- and the only relief is to sit down. I'm going to the chiropractor next week, I'm already planning it.

ANYWAY, now that I've given you the preamble....The article is about the art and science of Chaos. My work habbits are an atrosity. Wherever I work there's a mess, a collection of wood scraps, tools, my gum, a phone or two, pieces of used and unused sanpaper, sawdust, papers, notes, calculations, screws, glue bottles, what I'm working on and all the things associated with it. It's spread all over my work area and I'm left working in one small corner. Its an atrocity. Really. I've tried to be good and put things away and clean up and move things around...I move the 1st mess to another surface and then go about bringing part of it back and building a new mess. I can't help feeling that this is how the creative mind works...it sorta just throws up all the facts and has them around for reference while it works in a corner on the result...I'll tell you what, I'd buy a child to clean up the studio every day if I thought that I could get away with it. I've offered cash for teenagers for this purpose...if it's a girl I assure the parent that this and this alone is my intent. If it's a boy, I get this look of " you trying to get this kid to clean up after you is like teaching a fish to sing...He can't even keep up with his own stuff." Alas, I was not raised this way. I was raised by loving parents...One an Italian housewife who took great pride in the fact that her house was always clean with her own filing system ( my mother never threw anything away. When she died we had to get rid of boxes of contact paper scraps, grocery bags that had used grocery bags all carefully folded and stored away for when the world had a grocery bag shortage, and boxes of bows and ribbons , some that were only 2" long) and one German engineer. My work habbits drive my father competely up the wall ("I cannot understand how you can work like this. You spend half your time looking for stuff and the other half trying to remember what you wanted it for" which isn't completely true, I only spend 1/4 of my time trying to remember what I wanted it for the other 3/4 is split between looking for something and trying to find a pencil) I've gotten into the habbit of putting away 2 tools for every new one I need. That helps. But this is the way I am. If I'm painting, carving, drawing, building, designing, cutting a block for prints....My tools and my notes and calculations along with the other flotsum that goes with it spread all over my work surface and me in one little corner busily working away. I only mention this because I caught myself doing it at work. I had to sit while I worked so everything I needed needed to be at arms length or closer...and my arms are only about 2' + long.

The last thread is cut

2009-07-17T18:01:00.000-07:00

In a former blog ("Albert, just amaze me...) I mentioned that I had a job. Well that ended (sorta) last year at the beginning of July. I have spent this year attempting to find another job (as I had for the two years before the layoff) because of the guy who I worked for. Lets just say that this guy couldn't lead another person to water if both of them were on an island. He lives in his own private little world and avoids any kind of confrontation... I think he's attention deficit and a text book passive/aggresive He makes promises on the spur and then forgets the promises he made, leaving the results to chance or hysteria. And if he notices that there's a problem he wants to talk about it, but hears nothing that anyone has to say...maybe for a few hours but soon its like it never happened-He suffers from the disposition that all he has to do is pretend that he hears you and everything will be fine. He trusts the people that take advantage of him, but the ones who have no interest in taking advantage of him he dogs like a bloodhound on the trail of a convict. See, there are two cabinet making firms in the same space. One belongs to the contractors who own the building and the other my former employer. It used to be that he did the lion's share of their cabinet work. So, they decided to buy the machines and make their own...and despite the fact that they told him they wouldn't compete with him on other work...He took this as some sorta betrayal. Then they told him he was too expensive. Its true, he is the most expensive cabinet maker in the area...he uses these Draconian methods that we have long since developed time saving machinery to not have to do...but this is his way and he'd rather die then admit he's wrong. I could get technical... but I won't. Leave it at, his method of doing things was current about 80 years ago...This methodology takes time, thus the added expense. And as with all things, the more time you take, the more money it costs, the less money you make. Now don't get me wrong...I am all about working smart and not hard to do things... I like hand tools, and most power tools. I get handed the jobs that must be handled delicately...with precision and a knowledge of more then one way to skin the cat. But his attitude about some things can only be explained as obtuse. He must always be the only one who truly knows whats going on, ( he told a former employer of mine that its his way of keeping control.) He likes to give you just enough information so that you can take it to a point...then he'll tell you what you are to do next. Problem is 1/2 the time he's out running errands or involved with other things...so it waits till it needs to be delivered the next day, then he runs around hysterically like at any minute his dick is going to fall off. When you point this out to him, he swears things will be different, next day it's back to the same old thing....I've been trying to get away from this clown now for 3 years.
Anyway...The other firm that shares our space asked me to step into the shoes of their shop foreman for a week while he's on Vacation. Seems they have a rush job that requires somebody with an understanding of how to get it done...SO, I asked my former employer if he had a problem with it (knowing full well in his mind I was turning to the dark side)...He said he didn't and he wouldn't hold it against me, after all I had to do what I had to do. I explained it was only for a week. He said he understood.
Well today was my first full day, I asked to have a couple of days to get a feel for the job, their shop and to have a bit of training on the whats and wherefores of their machinery. Every shaper is like a woman, it has it own ways, its own problems and if you take your eyes off it for a minute it will cost you blood and stitches.
Well, today before lunch my former employer announced that he wanted his keys to the shop and the tool room back. "SO, I'm not coming back to work for you?" (this was something he had been saying for a year, despite the fact that he would rather pay some kid who he has to train under the table to help him then to have me there working for the same money under the table as he was paying the kid, as I had offered to do.) "No, it doesn't look like it." (Did I mention that this guy is a classic passive/aggressive?) Ok, I gave him his keys back. I also removed the few things that I had left-namely my cart that I built with my own materials and kept the few materials I used when I was working on my stuff for the last year (I'd come into work on my stuff on Mondays before my life drawing class)- I won't stay where I'm not wanted. This suited him very well cause all he did was smile as I loaded my stuff up. See this guy has been trying to get rid of me for a while. I'm not one to roll over, I didn't act like everything was hunky Dory when it wasn't, I'm not afraid to call an asshole an asshole to their face, no matter what his position, and I knew how to do about anything he could but I had a few other tricks up my sleeve, thus being able to claim that NO his way wasn't the only way. SO, after 8 years and 9 months its over.
I am the first to admit that I'm not the easiest person to get along with-there isn't a bear on my business card cause I have little button eyes- But I am easier to get along with if shown a small amount of respect, When I pull your nuts out of the fire at least let me know you appreciate it, and If I make a suggestion at least listen to it. Discount me, hover around me like a fly while I'm working, come up behind me while I'm in the process and Yell "What the hell are you doing and why are you doing it that way!?!" When it was what you told me to do, and the way that you told me to do it 15 minutes before, and then when I stop and explain that to you don't shrug and say "oh, well go back to work-and hurry up this needs to get done [at least 5 times a day] or Insist on talking to me while I'm running a machine (RULE 1 in High School Shop class: DO NOT DISTRACT SOMEONE USING A POWER TOOL. IF YOU MUST SPEAK TO THEM LET THEM SEE YOU AND ALLOW THEM TO TURN THE MACHINE OFF.) and don't blame me when What I tell you was going to happen, happens because you were too stubborn to think maybe I might know what I'm talking about.
I've worked in a total of 12 shops over the last 20+ years, some I lasted in a few for years, some for months. I've been asked to leave about half of them. At first cause I didn't get the process, and a few because I have little tolerance for fools who insist that because you work for them-they think that they own you. I also insist on being asked to do something. In short, don't treat me like one of your hand hand tools...as a matter of fact, he took better care of his hand tools then he did his employees. So when I took issue with this treatment of me, it was on. And as anyone can tell you- I make no secret of the fact that I'm not happy. The end was inevitable.

NOW, that you listened to this drivel for a while, I'm sure you're just rolling your eyes and saying...'there's another 20 minutes of my life I'll never get back' I want you to know, I've decided it might be time for a change. I'm thinking that the next time I get employed, I'm going to say nothing at all. I'll either nod my head when I can do it and understand, or shake my head when the opposite is true. I shan't attempt to change things unless specifically asked to do so, I shan't improve things because I can and I will no longer take on the responsibility of telling the people in charge just how wrong they are. I will allow them to screw it up, come up with the same plan as I decided to keep to myself and allow them to think that they and they alone know what's going on, In short feed into this need they have to think that they are omnipotent. That's right folks...you just heard me tell you that the with the next job I have, the sun will rise in the west, Chickens will breed with pigs and have gofers, and I will allow my employer to hang himself by his balls and not help him to get out of it till he comes up with a plan. Even if mine is better. I need to go to the library and find a copy of "the prince" by Machiavelli". Until next time....Good luck and maintain.

Lose all hope, ye who enter here

2009-07-01T07:56:00.000-07:00

I said goodbye to my youth last night. I won't bore you with the sorted details of this farewell, lets leave it at the disaster of a relationship I got involved with 2 years ago with a woman I met while I lived in Boston ended. She too damaged from previous relationships to give anything but bile and viciousness, I too worn to put up with it. It was costly, both monetary and emotionally-not for her, but for me. When she left I was left alone with my work in front of me. I realized that I was no longer a hope filled young man, believing the lie that there is somebody out there for everyone. There is no one out there for me...I must walk my path alone. I used to hope that there was one woman out there that could understand my motivations, appreciate me for what I am and what I do, have my back when I couldn't cover it.
Hope for me to have some sort of normal life has evaporated leaving nothing but a stain sorta like vomit left by a drunk on the sidewalk. A place without hope is Hell; and as I reflect on the last 52 years, it has been mostly that. It is both exhilarating and pitiful that I have reached this conclusion. I haven't given much of a damn about what other people thought for most of my time here, They are usually wrong, they are motivated by both ignorance and fear, and they haven't a clue about me. I also have allowed myself the privilege of appearing in public thinking that I was alone there...I say what I like, dress as I like and treat all people with the same level of contempt that I am treated with, the only advise I usually take is from my mechanic and medical professionals. I figure I'm paying for their advice I best take it.

I had a potential client in here yesterday, just before this farewell took place. She had on a "I love Jesus" Tee shirt and spoke in circles about nothing in particular...an intellectual religious fanatic. She claimed she had no money for the work she was wanting me to accomplish but was interested in barter. I responded with "what have you got to offer?" She quoted scripture suggesting that when God spoke he did so through people who spoke truth...OK, not something I can use. However, It did register that for the upcoming event of my farewell to this woman I had claimed to love, I would be presented with the right answer. When this potential client left, it wasn't long before the expected visitor came. She told me she had forgotten that she had left the things she had stored in my place. Not surprising, this woman is so busy picking at the wounds of her past its not surprising she has no room left for those day to day things, like paying her bills or where she had left her shit. I pointed at the pile of her stuff. She claimed that she had missed me, that I had been right about the momentary knot that had driven me off, and in fact I had been right about everything. Yeah well that and fifty cents will buy you a cup of coffee. As I looked at her she begin to well up. It had no effect on me. This woman will cry for absolutely no reason at all so why should this be very different. I told her that there was nothing for us, that there was no future for anything between us. I had told her to lose my number and never contact me again...I know a black hole when I see one-I was tired of believing in something I knew wasn't so. But as she left with her stuff, I knew that with her left my trust in any individual woman, with her left that last occurrence of me allowing a member of the opposite sex to have any influence on my life. The scale had been swaying for years but it settled as her car door slammed shut and she drove off. There would never be another woman in my life-she would be the last. I don't have the time, the inclination nor the hope that my answer lies with normalcy in my life. I will have to stand alone in the world, my past is my future.

Its a pity really. I would have made a good husband, I would have made a good father. I have learned from the many mistakes made by others in these regards. I was a good father figure to her boys, kids love me cause I don't treat them like some sorta alien creature...I treat them as inexperienced humans. I shield my lessons in the promise of forbidden information, that they might not be ready to hear what I have to say but I'll make this allowance just this once...Kids always want what they aren't allowed to have. I treated her well, I listened to her while she described the demon parade of her life...I listened over and over and over. I finally said enough after 6 months of the same 7 stories. I like green beans, but not every day and not for every meal and not as the only thing to eat. I guess its true, a woman will say she wants somebody that cares, somebody who listens, somebody who will make time for her, some who will treat her well. but when it comes right down to it, they want a bastard they can hopefully change. I'm not up to it. I am who I am, I am what I am. I would have enjoyed molding a young mind to take my place in society. I would have enjoyed growing old with a woman and allowing our lives to intertwine, but it is not to be. You can only pet a dog while hitting him so many times before the view of your open hand will cause the dog to whimper and hide. Last night, I realized that the open hand in front of me would cause me nothing but pain and I said no, and I will say no whenever I see the open hand again.

Abandon all hope ye who enter here. Yup, that sums up where my head is right now. Until the next time I think I have something to say, I bid you farewell.

another day, a year later

2009-06-18T09:58:00.000-07:00

I've been laid off now for almost a year. I've looked for work under every stone, pebble and bush. I've applied for work I'm ill suited for. I can't believe that no body is building anything...I had a call, the receptionist was a flake. She kept wanting to call me back so she could give me directions to come and interview...we played phone tag for a week, then they filled the job.
I dunno.
I've been doing some artwork, and god knows that makes me happy, but there's the concern, this black thing that was put there by my father and his people...a man without a job is a bum. My Dad's people work, they aren't afraid to work, and they live to work. I just don't feel like I'm right with the world if I'm not gainfully employed by someone...and there's the headaches of not being employed...looking for work, paying the bills, making the separate payments to all who claim to have an interest in you, whether be insurance, Hospitalization, my business license, Taxes...I dunno. So I struggle.
I revisited an old mad scientist moment. I began experimenting with combining sculpture and painting. I'd made some sculptural canvas' in my 4th year of school. The shapes were somewhat arbitrary and they were built to have things push up beyond the stretched surface of the canvas. this interruption in the surface leads to it casting shadow's, like dunes in the desert. I got the idea when the porch light was cast across the surface of the screen door in front of my studio in Cleveland...So many things occurred to me in that place. Any way, I built a couple of these and painted on them. My teacher at the time was some middle aged balding fool who believed he was teaching me to paint by having me develop an artistic vocabulary (?) and my (and the rest of the class) assignment was to come in every week with three new descriptive art words. How this related to mixing colored goo into a color, and then a fixing it to a surface still leaves me puzzled. so I put these sculptural canvas' up for a critique. He paced as he looked at them. He would prepare to say something and then stop himself. After about 20 minutes of this odd behavior, he said to me " If you wish me to give you a grade, you must cease these particular experiments. Trying to combine sculpture and painting is something I'm not prepared to discuss...I can't give a grade to Art..." and then turned on his heel and went off to discuss what he was prepared to discuss with somebody else. These new experiments have met with a bit of hoopla. They are so different from what I normally do. There is no actually meaning to them. The color palette was taken almost color for color from the dreaded work of Chagall. (shudder) I wanted something toy like, the project concerned the three guys (now 2) who were putting together the gallery across the street. They had some interesting plans, but the direction and fire to do it was lacking in them. I decided to call the triptych of sculptural paintings "three men in a tub". It works sorta, I've never seen anything like them before. I'm putting them up for sale...I want $1,800 for the three. We'll see, if there is interest, then I'll make more. I'm thinking of a few things...the stretching of the canvas seemed strained on the multi armed frames...struggle. Life. Life is struggle.
I'm also building a simple loom for Kathryn. She runs the program where I take life drawing, seems I'm the last man standing since the teacher broke 3 ribs and the other regular is going on vacation it's just me and talkative old lady from Reidsville. I'm the one who's going to have to set up the model and run the course...my first teaching gig. Oh boy. anyway I need to get to work. the loom aint going to build itself...and I would like to re configure my tool box while I have the time.

May 30, 2009

2009-05-30T05:40:00.000-07:00

Hello dear reader, The moon has passed across the sky many times since last I was here. Lets just say that my body has disintegrated a bit more, my attitude has gotten more bilious, and my disgust with our society has gotten greater. Come on people, GOD GAVE YOU A BRAIN, USE IT! Turn off the TV and read a book. OR if you MUST watch TV, turn on PBS and learn something you didn't know before...What made the Italian Renaissance the "re birth" was that it was SOP that a man learned something new every day....but I didn't kick in the door to this blog to preach...
I've spent the last two weeks dealing with my health insurance. JESUS what a racket! I was on the group plan at work. When I got laid off last July my employer should've put me Cobra...but he didn't-he kept me on the employee plan, starting in December he started charging me the fee. Because he has no employees they canceled the employee plan in April and now I'm without health insurance. I applied for an individual plan, and was turned down. I was told I could appeal...I needed a letter from my GP explaining my health issues and all my medical records for the last 5 years...Oy, what a project. It ended up being almost 40 pages of stuff from 4 doctors...and I had to fax it-that took almost an hour and half. I know what the outcome will be, but I had to try.

"SO, mr. bear, what have you been doing????' Hmmm, funny you should ask. I've been trying to keep busy. Since I'm not working my weeks have taken on a sorta pattern. On Monday I go to Greensboro, I work in the shop of my former job...I'm working on a couple of jewelry boxes for clients...funny they're both out of left over Bubinga that was purchased for two different jobs...I just finished the inlay for one the other day. At about 5 pm I knock off, get me some dinner and then head to my life drawing class(-it acts as my social life). I get there early and work on my most recent wood engraving till class starts, my progress in class is slow, it'd get better if I had more time to draw. On Tuesday I run errands, pay bills and do my laundry, that takes all day. On Wed I spend on the computer looking for a job, before last July I could take between 2 - 2 1/2 years to go through a ream of paper, it isn't a year since I got laid off and I've gone through one and working on my second-I send out at least 3 paper resume's a week, and 2-3 electronic ones. The economy is in the toilet-no work for a woodworker and cabinetmaker....Take a lesson America, this is what believing in somebody that claims morality and a religious philosophy of life gets you....IF they are moral and religious they aren't running for office. We didn't learn our lesson about easy money in the 30's, the 70's or this time...the only people that get easy money don't need it cause they're rich.
On Thursday I work on the studio...I've been doing maintainence-broke down my table saw, cleaned it and lubricated it, and replaced some parts...it took me almost a week. I still have to service the shop smith. The shop is actually cleaner then it's been in a while. On Friday I actually work. I'm starting a couple of new projects...One, I'm going to revisit my sculpture/painting experiments begun when I was in school-I've got the wood, I need to do some drawings-probably today. I've got a show to get ready for-the guys across the street that were going to open a gallery have floundered-their first and last show will be in June and they've asked me to submit a piece. I also inherited a couple of antique hand tools from my attorney and friend's cousin Agnes. She died early in May and my friend had to go through her personal stuff-he sent most of her art supplies/tools here for me to deal with. Agnes spent her life in pursuit of art as a hobby-yeah well she had the money. In this collection were some antique wrenches and other mystery tools- I noticed some aspect of these tools that had a sensuous odd quality to them, I kept moving them around the shop and then it donned on me! there was this one wrench (an early attempt at an adjustable wrench) that was "s" shaped, probably for the visuals as well as ease of use...It mimicked the classic "S" curve of late Gothic crucifixion's. An Idea formed...I'd been looking for an excuse to repeat the experiments done by Jim Dine with his tool drawings, I've always considered doing a crucifixion, and the aspect of the tools lent themselves to the story of the passion really well....So, I'm going to be starting on a new project. I still haven't finished in the living room although I did get my library cabinets up and my books moved-I need to put the furniture back in there and my picture of Botticelli's Venus needs to be re framed...the frame fell apart-note to self-always frame with plexiglass, regular glass is way too heavy and brittle especially with big pieces. I've still got one more panel of my 3 fates I need to ink in, I put that down a couple of months ago to get projects for money done. My projects for money...I turned a pitchfork into a coat rack for Dr. Vaughn...Nice lady...another Scorpio Red head....I'll not go there again...but nice lady, she really enjoys my woodwork, doesn't understand my flat work and that makes her uncomfortable. yeah well, what can I do, I don't do it for her or anybody else. On Friday's-Saturday & Sunday I try and get work around the shop accomplished. On Saturday my homeless people usually show up to earn a couple of bucks cleaning the loft and sweeping the floor of the shop, works for me-I get hit up for a hand out a little less and they can maintain a bit of their dignity by earning the money.

I attempt to make a bit of progress every day. I'm reading 3 books Ngal's epic Icelandic tale of revenge, a book of "weird" short stories called "tales of unease" pretty lame, but there is one story that has a couple of extra corners in it that have caught in the fur of my mind, and an extended version of one part of the Ghita...I read a really abridged version early this year and I'm looking into finding something between the cliff note's version that I read and the multi volume actual text...It'll show up when I'm ready for it.
I'm trying to get back in shape...this sitting around for a year has taken its toll on me. I'm working on adjusting my diet and doing some more physical stuff...I've got a letter to write to my convict/student...There's a story for ya...maybe next time. Its nice to be back....We'll see if it does any good.

"Albert, just....amaze me."

2005-12-19T17:16:00.000-08:00

I titled this latest entry to my messages to the world the statement my employer made to me today when I requested clarification concerning the information on the plan and the description of what he said he wanted me to do that day [or as I like to prefix my requests to him “What kind of a fool’s errand am I going to waste another day of my life with this time…”]. I was to perform another miracle, apply the available technology towards an end it was never designed to perform, manifest in the real world the image (incomplete and theoretical at best) that my employer imagined and assured the customer that we could accomplish easily, end up with a result that looked effortless and like God himself put it there…in short another day at work.

This is usually how my various employment/ job develops. I’m a pretty good cabinetmaker, I’m not as exact as I should be (but I can be), my talent lies in retention of everything that I’ve ever tried, how the technology available actually works and how I can get it to do what I want it to do. Not to mention as far as employment is concerned I’ve been passed around like a $10 whore. When one has worked for as many different shops as me one absorbs a lot. One learns to crack the nut many different ways. Not to mention my degree in art trained me to think outside the box. I think that’s what gives me whatever edge I have.

It usually upsets me when people give me that ‘how did you do that?’ look. Especially when they stood there and watched how I did it. I get called a genius and that upsets me even more. Yeah I know…it sounds like I’m saying ‘poor me, people are impressed by me and what I do and I just can’t stand it.’ And if I’m so good why the hell am I not running my own shop. Truth is I don’t deal well with the customer…I don’t handle change orders well, I don’t schmooze well, I don’t play politics well, I’m outspoken (rude) and I make people feel stupid. I prefer to just be told what it is I need to do and then left alone to do it. And as for my abilities -I’ve made a lot of mistakes, a whole lot of them. My dad used to say “don’t be afraid to make mistakes just don’t make them twice.” When one screws up like that, it is up to the screwer upper to make it right and that is how one learns the trade. And some of mine have been beauts.

People like me usually have a bumpy childhood. I recall seeing an American Master’s about Buckminster Fuller. I not only could relate to him I almost cried. When he was about 7 he was asked to make a structure using dried peas and toothpicks. Everyone else in his class made a cube…because that’s what they lived in; Fuller made a Tetrahedron, a three sided pyramid. The teacher gave him a failing grade because his wasn’t like everybody else’s. The Tetrahedron is considered one of the 4 pure geometric forms, because of its simplicity and stability. Fuller went on to give birth to the modern car industry, manufactured housing and the geodesic dome. I’ve heard brief snips from his lectures…the guy went beyond brilliant. He had his hand on the pulse of the future…and until he invented the geodesic dome he was considered an eccentric nut.

SO how in the Hell does this all fit into what I’ve been on and on about mostly in these blogs of mine?

Humanity was pulled out of the caves by people like me, people like me invented art (writing), the wheel, the plow, the cart, medicine, philosophy, technology, science, mathematics’, and most of the stuff that we as a modern society takes for granted. However…at the time these people were ridiculed and if allowed to live- forced to live outside of society. And after 12,000 years we still treat the original people like this. Brunelleschi was thought to be some kind of a screwball, and when he suggested he knew how to make the dome for the Santa Maria del Fiore cathedral, a job nobody would touch-they asked him to explain how he would do it; he knew they'd ridicule his thoughts and somebody else would use his ideas. SO he concocted a plan...he suggested that the person who could stand an egg on its end should get the commission. All tried all failed. Our hero took an egg and slammed the round end with the air pocket down and it stood erect. "Any child could've done that!" they said. Yes he said, and any child could build the dome if I told him how. He got the job and the rest is history.

There’s nothing really unique about me. I just choose not to accept what people say as gospel and am willing to try something new, make mistakes, learn from them and take the responsibility for them. This world would be a much better place if we could just learn to accept change and not treat a new concept as the end of society as we know it.

I attribute my ability to think and design my way out of a corner by being a card carrying apostle of the greatest logical inventor that the world remembers. I’m a student of Leanardo Da Vinci, a man who recognized the potential of an event and how to apply the information towards another end.

“Albert, just…amaze me.” I’m sure Da Vinci got that a lot. People like me end up working for guys who either want to impress the hell out of people or work for other people who want to impress the hell out of people.

So they hire extremely acerbic prima dona types who do nothing but bitch about how unappreciated they are, how they are forced to perform under the most backward and ridiculous conditions, how they are surrounded by feebs and fools, how underpaid they are, how they’re just waiting to be asked to change urine into beer, raise the dead and send a port-a-john into earths orbit using 3,000 rubber bands and a pile of shipping palettes. I should know-the description I just wrote, Hell it should be written on whatever marker they put on my grave, and begun with “HE WAS…”. What can I say? I whine about what I’m asked to do, only cause I don’t want to hafto think about how I’m spending my life and how I’m forced to apply the precious Gift I was given-the ability to adapt and the ability to recognize a pattern-no matter how obscure. I guess I chose to be of use to society rather then be an artistic commentator of society. People need boxes to maintain there collection of stuff. Ya know...If somebody had TOLD me that this is what 'ruling in Hell' was going to be like I might have re thought the whole thing...too late now.

I’m only happy when I’m doing artwork. Or more specifically I’m only at peace when I’m lost in the process of creating what has been inside my head. I’m going to work on a tempera painting while I’m in recovery. I’ve been looking forward to this for months. This is the carrot that will get me past the concept of them cutting and grinding on me.

My Artwork is all I am. Pitiful really, but I am what I am.

Will I be remembered? Who knows? But it isn’t why I do it. I do it to keep my sanity.

The Red Suit

2005-12-11T16:16:00.000-08:00

Or don me now my red apparel
Hello dear reader,
I thought I would enrich your lives again with a chapter from my past.

As Xmas approach’s, as it does every year, I recall the Christmas that I got talked into playing Santa.

The experience changed my view of this major Holiday and it is something I have never been able to get around.

First of all you need to know that Christmas in Phoenix is strange. Santa wears a sombrero and sports shades, Rudolph rides a skate board and drinks Sun Tea, and people hang wreaths and lights on Saguaro Cacti and take pictures with it. Most snow is aerosol and they burn candles in little bags in front of the house calling them “luminaries”. It’s one of the strangest clashes of cultures you ever witnessed.

I was working at a convalescent home in South Phoenix, I was 19 years old and it would be the last Christmas I would spend in my family’s home, as a member of my family’s home and not a visitor, the following Christmas found me on the other side of the Pacific, on the other side of the equator but just barely.

The Convalescent home was run by a family, a husband and wife worked the administration, the wife’s sister was the dietician, and ran the kitchen (and was my boss) their daughter ran the activities and other daughters were in key positions. The place employed 3 nurses, one per shift, about 9 nurse’s aids, two women in the laundry and about 6 women in the kitchen. IE I and the guy who ran the place were the only men on staff. We all got along pretty well…The women depended on me to handle the “man” things and I complied. Christmas came along and I was approached to play Santa for the patients Christmas party, my answer was NO. I was approached again and told if I didn’t do it, it would fall upon Katrina the woman who ran the Laundry. I said I would think about it. I mentioned this to my mother and she lit right up. “We’re going to have Mr. & Mrs.##### (who had 2 little girls and were going to spend Christmas with us, he worked with my dad, they were new in Phoenix and my mother thought they would enjoy spending Christmas with a family) and I know they would love it if Santa could show up on Xmas Eve-tell them you’ll do it if you can borrow the Santa outfit on Christmas Eve.” I rarely denied my mother anything. Doing so would begin a process of complaining that would end in the appearance of the scar that came up past her navel that was put there so I could be brought into the world. So….I said yes. My mother passed this information to her friend Mary Ann who had a little boy about 4, and to the family that lived next door who had a son a year older then myself 3 more younger and a daughter about 3. ‘… OF COURSE he would be delighted to show up and play Santa for you.’ My boss’s agreed to allow me to use the suit if I agreed to show up and play Santa at their annual Family Christmas Eve gathering for the sake of a 7 year old son that was my boss’s youngest. When the women I worked with, 3 Latina’s and 4 Black women, all of whom I adored, heard that I was going to do the Santa thing on Xmas Eve for the people we worked for they approached me to do it for them too. If I’d do it for the people I worked FOR the very least I could do was to do it for the women I worked WITH. When I explained to them just what I had been promised to do and that me showing up at their homes was a lot to ask…I was told I would only hafto show up at two houses…One Latina woman would host the Latin party and only one of the black women had children of the proper age to appreciate Santa’s visit and she was going to spend it with her extended family who had about 4 kids there that would love any Santa…even a white one (her words). I refused…at first. One should never underestimate how persuasive 6 women can be when their children’s happiness is at stake and they’ve decided that I was brown nosing the boss but was too good to share the joy with them and theirs; they made my life miserable for 2 days. Finally I resigned myself to my fate. Everybody was happy but me. I did the patient Party…it was sorta sad really. Half the people were the age of my Grandparents and the other half were….how to say, mentally incapable of realizing just what the hell was going on. However...It happened, I got the suit and took it home. I got the collection of directions to the 3 homes I was to visit that I hadn’t been to before and plotted my route to include the stops I had to make that I was familiar with. I was going to put about 6o miles on my car…a 1962 Falcon Coupe that my father had bought for my little sister, and I had inherited. I was going to visit about every extreme neighborhood in the Valley. The first stop was the home of the married couple that owned the Convalescent home that I worked at. It was about a 5 bedroom 6 bath home with the full light display and an illuminated Santa and sleigh with reindeer on the immaculate lawn and a huge family room that their gala event was being held that opened up to a back yard with a pool, a huge bar-b-q fireplace across from an outside bar . To all there but the one child this was a joke. I was made to feel like an outsider that was there perform a service-to indulge the fantasy of a child…an employee doing a job and when done ushered out the door with barely a thank you. The next stop was the Latino Affair on the other side of town. This affair was pure Bedlam. All the men were drunk. The women were keeping the kids from getting in the way of the men being drunk and the kids were running amok. Utter Chaos doesn’t even begin to define what awaited me behind the door of this small 2 bedroom block house with a single string of lights adorning the doorway and the dirt that served as a lawn. The men and children all wanted to sit on “Santa’s” lap and everybody wanted something to play with…the men’s Christmas wishes included Playboy playmates and co-ed’s in a variety of compromising conditions, the kids just wanted lots of toys. I got out of there smelling of liquor and cigarettes, there were children screaming around me and I was given hugs from the women that I worked with wishing me and mine ”Feliz Navidad!” The relative silence of the street was a welcome guest to the inside of my head. Then I was off to another neighbor hood on that side of town. This neighbor hood was similar but different in a couple of ways. The houses were just as small but they had a more subdued appearance. There were no luminary’s of paper bags with candles in them but a few more electric lights. The cars that were parked in the street, on the lawn, in the driveways were a few years younger then the previous neighborhood and in a bit better condition, not as low to the ground, less tricked out with chrome and carpet in the interiors. I was greeted by people who were cautious that there was a white man in a Santa suit at their door but once I was recognized as supposed to be there welcomed and made to feel at home. I was given a chair offered something to drink and the children were happy, well behaved and immaculately dressed. They were just as excited that Santa was there but less hysterical about it then the party I’d just come from. It was one step up on the culture ladder. Not that this was a bad thing it was just noticeably less frantic. After the Children were finished talking to Santa the eldest person, I guess a great-grandmother type in a wheelchair motioned me over. I knelt and asked what Santa could do for the prettiest woman in the room? She smiled and whispered in my ear “thank you Santa for making my great grand babies happy on what might be my last Christmas amongst them. God bless you and yours.” The obvious head of the household, a man of about 50 escorted me to the door and shook my hand wanting to know if I needed directions or anything. I shook my head I pretty much knew where I was and where I needed to go next. The fastest route to where I needed to be was on the freeway. I got on and was minding my own business when a car came up next to me with three kids pressed so tight up against the glass I was afraid they might push the glass out. I waved. The man driving began to press on his horn. I waved again. He got in front of me and put on his right blinker, and I saw him motion with his hand he wanted me to pull over. I accommodated him, and he got out of the car and came back to mine as I rolled down the window. He didn’t look at me as he said “you got a minute?” I said yeah what’s up? Without waiting for my answer he opened up his trunk and pulled out a folding lawn chair and set it up in the light of my headlights. He then went over and opened up the back passenger side door. The three little ones fell out and lined up next to the chair. I got out and approached and the driver motioned for me to sit down. I did and one by one the kids sat in my lap and told me that they’d been good and what they wanted from Santa that night, as vehicles whizzed by us at about 70 mph. When the last one got off my lap the man addressed the three of them saying “Ok everybody has talked to Santa. Does anybody need to go to the Bathroom?” They said in unison “No Daddy.” I got up. He proceeded to close the door after the last one got back into the back of the car, folded up the chair threw it into the trunk, closed it and then got back into his car and drove away. No thanks, no nothing. It stands on my list of the weirdest things that’s ever happened to me at a constant #3, I felt like I’d been used like a Kleenex. I got back in my Falcon Coupe and pulled back on the highway making my way back to my side of town to take care of the rest of my obligations. The first stop was a family friend’s house, Maryann who had a little boy of about 3-4. I was quite taken with the little boy as well as his Sister’s who were the same age as me so I was a regular visitor to their house. Upon sight of Santa the boy was scared to death. After much coaxing I broke with the tradition and took off the beard to show him it was just me whom Santa had sent to check to make sure he’d gotten the list right and that the real Santa would be along shortly. I had been doing this gig for about 2 ½ hours and the beard itched and I needed a drink. The next stop was my house…The little girls belonging to the family that was visiting us were excited, my mom smiled with the satisfaction that she had promised Santa would come and come he had. I wanted to call it a night but the family next door was still waiting for Santa’s promised visit. I wanted a little lag time between Santa’s departure and my arrival home. I went next door found the bag of gifts for the little girl. The brothers who were all a few years younger then I and were wise to what was going on took the opportunity to take jabs at me in the costume. “Oh Santa aren’t you fatter then you were last year?” said the one closest to my own age, the brother who was one year older then myself was on his Mormon Mission. The two younger brothers joined in mocking me in front of their sister. I finally had had enough and pulled the eldest one’s ear to my mouth and whispered “just remember you little bastard, I’ll be out of this costume when next we meet and will pound you and your two whelp brothers into a paste.” It seemed to have the desired effect because he silenced the other two and the rest of Santa’s visit went off without a hitch. I dragged my red ass back home and let myself into the door that led to my bedroom. I pulled the stuff off and went into my folk’s bathroom to take a shower. I reflected on my evening as the hot shower washed away the sweat and smell of opulence, poverty, cigarettes, booze, and the feeling of being exploited, used and mocked I’d had to put up with that night. I dressed in my own clothes, let myself out of my door and made my way to the back door that we all used to enter the house. I vowed that it would be a special occasion that would get me back in the red suit, as I poured myself a shot of bourbon from the only bottle of liquor we kept in the house. I realized that everyone’s attitude towards Xmas was different and the more you had the more out of touch you were to what it was all about and more indifferent you were to it’s representative, That few actually had any respect for it…just mothers who want the magic for their family, but the only ones who get the magic are the very young and the very old. It’s been hinted that I don the red suit again…and although I might consider it, the occasion never manifested itself.
When you’re out doing the Xmas things just remember what the holiday is supposed to be about; Peace on Earth, Good will towards all men. And the guy in the Santa Suit if he’s being paid anything it isn’t enough to be filling such large boots. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year.

The Bureaucracy of Illness.

2005-11-28T18:38:00.000-08:00

Salutations dear reader,

Hopefully you had a nice Thanksgiving. I spent mine working on my Artwork’s permanent home. But that isn’t why I’m writing….I had an interesting conversation today with my doctor’s office.

As I’m sure your aware I’m having a new hip put in. I’ve been trying to get things done in advance so that I won’t hafto deal with it while I’m struggling back to an upright position…take for instance the post surgery “skilled nursing facility” that I’ll hafto do between the hospital and freedom. My medical insurance covers it (ie there will be a deductible that I’ll hafto pay but the lions share will be covered by them) however when I contacted my Insurance to find out if I was covered and how I needed to proceed I was told I needed to contact my doctor to request that he contact them with the request that this care was needed and they would send him the forms to fill out. I did. I got a call today from the doctor’s office saying that they had a prescription for this care waiting for me at the office. I was under the impression that as far as I was concerned I was out of the loop. They transferred my call to the operations coordinator who assured me that this would indeed hafto be dealt with by them after the fact, that it was under control and I shouldn’t trouble with them about it. To be honest…the surgery hasn’t been scheduled yet….they still need to call me with the date this up coming month so I can have it done in January. But as I told the woman who handles this…I was just doing what I was told to do…The Doctor’s office was the ones who called me. I have sent forms to this doctor to fill out and have been told that I will get some more to send to him, Insurance forms and the like…not to mention I’ll need to keep a folder of the bills up to date with a running tally for Tax purposes at the end of next year. I truly believe this will be the most documented aspect of my life to date. I can’t be sure but I don’t think my trip to New Guinea and subsequent journeys homeward through the Southeast Asia and Middle East required the reams of paper that this one joint replacement will generate. I findit amazing that the fact that people have been getting sick since we were in the caves, that it’s been blamed on everything from bad spirits to bad humors and has evolved with miraculous cures but at the price of a forest’s worth of paper that needs to be filed and documented. I recall that when my mother finally succumbed to her illness my father took about 6 months of filling out forms and dealing with the paperwork afterwards. Long gone are the days when the kid was sent to " find Doc Pritchard and tell him to come out to the ranch” and you paid him with chickens. It seems the more serious the incident anymore the more people hafto be involved with it and have a hand in accomplishing it. Why is it mankind builds a civilization on this kind of bureaucracy? Why is so difficult to get things done when one is making an attempt to make things better or simpler? It has to do with record keeping and responsibility I’m sure…everyone needs to know what is expected of them and when fingers are pointed the weak point in the chain will be eventually uncovered. But then they make a new form to make sure that this will be the exception to the rule….and the people that are responsible for these quicksilver decisions make a great deal of money doing it… I wonder just how much of my payment to have this new hip in will be sucked up by the people that need to keep track of the paper work that will allow my doctor to fix me? I guess it’s true. Life is a bitch and then it gets more complex...I wonder if socialized medicine in places like Canada or England have a better or worse medical bureaucracy? I think it would make an interesting study.

Happy Thanksgiving

2005-11-16T16:43:00.000-08:00

I hate having a fuss made over me. I’m unsure if the bear within hates a lot of activity around me that I can’t keep my eye on or if my pride will not allow me to believe that anybody should be troubled with my needs except me.

I’ve always been this way, I was raised to believe that I should be willing to help others but to think for myself, depend on myself, take the consequences when I’m wrong and shrug off the kudos when I’m right. That only I was responsible for myself and self dependency was less a virtue but a necessity.

My parents were very pro “standing on your own two feet”. I can recall when I was 18 having my tonsils out. Everything you’ve heard about having them out that late is more then true…I wanted to die. My mother who I can never really recall ever seeing not running around maintaining her house would come and sit with me everyday while I was hospitalized. I have this clear memory of her sitting on the edge of my bed, stroking my head and watching reruns of Andy Griffith with me while I thought “why are you here? There is nothing you can do for me; it’s all I can handle to be pleasant as I lie here in agony. I know you have so much to do at home and all you want to do is sit here and be with me?” But I saw the expression on her face as she sat there…This was where she needed to be her mind. This would be about the last time I would need her to be my “mommy” and she was going to make sure that she lived up to this responsibility as she done in the past. So I said nothing and allowed her to stay. Years later when she was very Ill it fell on me to be with her alone during one Christmas break. Her care was in my hands, amongst them was as she was bed ridden I was to sleep on the floor next to her bed and be awoken with a bell when she needed her bed pan. I was to make sure that she wasn’t in the bathroom alone in case she fell. I averted my eyes enough to give her what little privacy I could and still be quick to action in case she slipped off the chair that held her frail sick body while she attempted to bathe herself. During this entire episode of our lives together she apologized for having to have me go through this with her. I kept assuring her not to worry about it. It was her turn…She had carried me, cared for me, stayed up nights with me, changed my diapers, wrestled me to the ground to take medicine that I refused to take, etc. This small thing was little payment and I wished I could do more. She had it coming to her and I wanted to make sure that the care and selflessness that she showed to me was to be returned her. During the years of her illness I realized her fears and her loneliness as she battled this illness all by herself pretty much. I called her every Friday night without fail from wherever I was and let her talk until she could talk no more. This was the very least I could do, I allowed her to complain about her long dead mother in law, about some small slight that a neighbor woman had shown her…whatever she wished to say I listened and talked to her about it. We resolved much during these conversations that sometimes went on for hours. Although I rarely mention it I miss that old lady, it's rare to know that one is loved just cause you are theirs.

I bring this up because I recently found out I’ve become a project. I’m going to have my hip replaced soon. Pretty serious stuff but I was/am under the impression that the hard part will be handled while I’m in the hospital…however for a week or two I would need some responsible person within earshot in case of emergency, this would be my fight and I just needed a place to crash, a toilet to be available to me and about 4 square feet of table surface so I could work on a painting that I’ve been planning when I'm not working on my healing process. My Sister and Father have both offered whatever Financial assistance I needed for this ordeal which will be of great assistance. I’ve been planning this for some months and one of the things on the list was to figure out where I’d do this recovery bit. My Father, in his typical heroic fashion, immediately volunteered to assist me. He would fly out and stay with me for the first two weeks. Although I appreciate this gesture and am grateful that my father would be so willing to step up to the plate, he’s 73. My father is a creature of habit, and I feared that the winding confusing road systems around here might prove the better of him. Not to mention he’s 73 and I worry about his own frailty, being 300 lbs I might prove to be a bit much for him. Did I mention he’s 73 and set in his ways in both thought and deed. I love my dad…but he can be pretty stubborn…must be where I get it. I thanked him whole heartedly but assured him I didn’t need to be worried about him while working my way back to the land of the living. He took it quite well. My Sister has two kids and lives on the other side of the ocean. She apologized for this fact but she wasn’t in the running. A long time friend has been blessed with a lifestyle that allows him to live his life without having to do the 9 to 5 bit. An obvious candidate, his wife also freelances from home so when he couldn’t be there she could call the ambulance when and if I fell down from having a stroke. I put out the word that it was getting on time for me to decide where I would do this, probably here, as it was home and the closest location to my doctor. As a back up plan I contacted some other friends, the wife is also not at present working…so maybe she could stay here a day or two when necessary. I heard nothing for a week or two, and then became privy to an email that the downstairs Bathroom at my first friends parent’s former home next door to where he and his wife live was well under way to be completely remodeled and repaired for my stay. That they had pulled up the floor and done the repairs themselves…that they were setting up shifts for my care that included all the afore mentioned as well as a couple of parents. (!) That E-mails had been flying as to who and when and where and what would be needed and moved and rented etc. I was flabbergasted…My Christ, I wasn’t a stroke victim who required this much fuss! Oh NO I was informed…this was serious. This was tad amount to disaster that would require the very fiber of their beings to overcome, and they were up to this huge challenge. A hospital bed would need to be rented…I would need to bank my own blood…links were sent for me to study to prepare for this ordeal.

I contacted my doctor today and the reality of the situation is somewhere in the middle…closer to my end of the argument which is what I plan on reassuring the crew at the strategy meeting (!) scheduled for this Saturday over dinner. However, I am touched that my friends have assembled to help me shoulder this burden…although this much of a fuss is still pretty uncomfortable for me to accept; I guess that it just my turn. Thanksgiving is next week. It’s traditionally a time to reflect on what one is thankful for. I usually spend it in the studio thankful that I’m getting two days off with pay to work on my own stuff. Nothing new there this year however I think that this year I will be thinking of what else I’m thankful for and wondering just how in the HELL I’m going to pay for all the sushi that I’m going to have to buy to cover this Karmic debt. Thank you all…I hope your love and care doesn’t kill me while I’m recovering from having my leg bolted back on.

Happy Halloween

2005-10-30T15:22:00.000-08:00

Hello Dear reader

Since Halloween is supposed to be scary I thought I might just scare the Hell out of you.

We live in a world that lifts mediocrity to the level of iconographic, attempts to squelch originality for the sake of consumerism, has all but succeeded in medicating originality totally out of existence [and I’m actually waiting for it to be a criminal act] and votes people in charge that cater to the religious right wing conservatives who wish to re manifest a world that if it existed at all was based in ignorance, prejudice, deceit and maintaining some status quo that didn’t actually exist. They will not rest until we live in some weird culture that is half way between “little house on the Prairie” and the surface story of “Father knows best.” I’ve recently been listening to the news…I listened while Bush’s personal lawyer was denied even a hearing concerning consideration for the Supreme Court…because nobody knew how she’d vote on issue’s like Roe vs. Wade…i.e. reversing the legalization of a woman’s right to choose whether or not she can handle being a parent. Now I don’t have a problem with denying Bush putting his friends in office, Hell after the debacle in Iraq, his complete hands off approach to the Enron scandal, his standing by while his cronies leaked the identity of a CIA operative over to the Press because her husband wasn’t a TEAM player, and the fact that economy is in such a state that I’m working more hours now but actually making less money in spending potential then 2 years ago with no hope of a raise in pay cause my boss can’t afford it: I want to know why he hasn’t been brought up on charges of Treason, Crony-ism and profiteering at the cost of us Taxpayers. But his supporter’s thank GOD we have a god fearing, right to life, missionary/Empire building mentality (Our Christian/profit by exploitation beliefs or total annihilation of your culture) and they refuse to see the truth. For starters we are borrowing the money to put fourth this Fool’s agenda by borrowing money from Communist China who doesn't believe in any God, whose slowly stealing the manufacturing capability from this country and lending us the money to continue down that road. These fools are losing their jobs and supporting the idiot that’s getting indebted to the thief.

If that doesn’t scare the Hell out of you then nothing will.

Lets start (yet again) with a woman’s right to choose to be a parent. We have had Abortion in this culture since the very beginning of it. Women that were the vehicle of birth control have been burned, tortured, imprisoned and treated like criminals. What is it about this one concept that keeps hanging people up? Because God said we were to be thankful for every child that was sent to us...That might have been true when 7 out of 9 children would die before they were 10 years of age. Not that every child isn't a miracle...but a child should be wanted and loved. And we aren't dealing with a CHILD here. An abortion deals with the "potential Child" i.e. the fetus. if I had a lump of uncooked dough lying on a table I could make bread, pizza, pretzels, or for that matter art out of it...it has the potential to be many things...but one doesn't eat the dough...it must be baked first...and in the process many things can happen...many many things. Of course there's the concept of the Parent to be...

There are member’s of everyone’s personal Circle that has a couple of kids that you find yourself thinking “…there ought to be a law against people like that having the right to have kids.” Well there isn’t. And the need to reproduce is in our reptilian part of our brain so I doubt that there is going to be. However the hormones to wish to pursue the activity that leads to reproduction start early in a human are strongest when our ability to reason is not fully matured probably because if you really knew what the out come would be the chances of us having any kids at all just wouldn’t happen. Trying to get teenagers to not think about Sex is almost as pointless of trying to hold back the ocean’s tides with a sandcastle. It is how they are programmed, that’s why teenagers and 20 year olds look the way they do and why old men like me find ourselves remembering that we were once young. SO instead of teaching people how to deal with these feelings and how to prevent becoming a Parent before we’re actually mature enough to deal with making another person (YES we have that technology!) we feel teaching it is immoral. Immoral is having sex with animals…teaching a teenager about birth control is educating the kid about how it all fits together (for lack of a better example.) However, these Christian right wingers are the same people that don’t want birth control taught in the schools, so they don’t want to teach it themselves and don’t want it taught in schools. They want to teach abstinence. Well ok. I have a good idea...why don't you fast for a week and try not to think of food. One is a hunger just like the other.

They want their trust in God’s plan to be their complete and absolute answer to all things. A group of them were holding up anti abortion signs along Church Street a few weeks back. I actually considered pulling over and engaging one of these people in a debate on the subject. But I realized that attempting to educate people that have decided not to think for themselves is a fool’s errand. This isn’t the issue however. As I have stated in the past for the Record, I am not a big fan of abortion. But then I will never need one. I will never be a single woman who in a moment of passion made a mistake and will now be responsible to raise a child. If it were my sister who wanted or needed one then I’d figure that is her decision and as an American Citizen she should have the best medical care that is available to her to accomplish this, the moral issue is one she will hafto deal with-I don't need to decide this for her. The bottom line is this…by making it illegal you will not stop it, you will just make it unavailable to someone who can’t afford to pay a doctor to do it for them under the table. Thus possibly destroying 2 lives.
I have a friend who’s almost 60 and admitted to me once that he and his brother were lucky…his mother had aborted the 4 siblings that came before them. And I’m sure that it was illegal in the 40’s. Just remember that God himself said that it was up to him to judge and not us. This is what is meant between a separation between Church and State.

And here's another one of those moral issues that leave me shaking my head. I can recall as a child my parents wanting me to avoid any communication or contact with an individual in the next neighborhood over. He was reviled as some sort of deviant of massive proportion, a danger to me and those around me, I’m amazed that he wasn’t stoned regularly and that his house wasn’t burned to the ground knowing how the local society felt about him. Even to mention his name was an invitation for glares at best and being harassed about it at worst. This man’s unforgivable crime was that he was a homosexual. Or so I was told, as I never saw him with another man…I never saw him outside his own yard, my m other assured me it was true and as I got older I found many faults with my mothers ability to apply guilt. These same folks would like to have a man like this to be totally expunged from society. It is immoral behavior. Do lower forms of animals have morals because it happens in them all the time? There is a mountain of evidence that shows homosexual behavior in all forms of life available to this world…it’s probably a genetic hold out from when we were bisexual like worms and slugs. They point at the bible and declare it to be against the will of god, however if they were to read further in that chapter the same feeling is held for people that handle and eat pork…and for some reason that part’s up for interpretation. What this guy did with another consenting male was between the two of them...it shouldn't be part of the public forum.

People are so unwilling to think for themselves that even these “Christian’s” don’t want to actually approach reading the bible with an open mind, they want somebody else to read it and interpret it for them. I used to work with a Baptist a few years ago and occasionally we’d lock horns on this issue. We’d debate evolution…I’d win the debate. We’d debate the actual feasibility of the things mentioned in the bible… I’d win the debate, we’d debate racism (yeah for some that’s part of the bible too…The Klan is supposedly Christian organization) I’d win again. It finally came down to him admitting that he was taught to believe these things despite the fact that he knew that they were wrong. I recalled Mark Twain’s comment that “Faith is believing in something you know ain’t so.”

Christianity is a swell faith when the whole thing is considered-where it falls apart is when people pick it apart and apply parts to fulfill their personal agenda. However we must remember that at the time all this was written down we were just mastering the production of Bronze, working out the details of Iron, living at the whims of Nature and not traveling more then a few miles where we were born and would die. We lived with our animals and we planned on having a whole lot of children hoping that a few might live to be adults. And we needed help on the farm. Disease was caused by demons. The earth was the center of the universe and all the other planets including the sun revolved around it. And oh yeah the world was flat. IF anything bad happened it was either God’s will or the work of the Devil. And as soon as we figured out who was the one responsible for being in league with the devil that somebody would be stoned for it! If you had a disease you would consult with your local holy man…a doctor was a wizard and in league with Satan, a woman's menstrual cycle was considered uncleanliness and they were expected to go and deal with it outside society on the other side of the city walls...I would love it if some poor Southern Baptist man attempted to throw his wife out of her house and told her to pitch a tent on the outskirts of town until this nonsense of her 28 day cycle was at an end. I get this feeling that's another one of those things that's up for interpretation. There was this movie on last night that I watched most of after my bladder woke me up at 3 am. The plot was that a tomb was discovered in modern Jerusalem that supposedly held the actual body of Jeshua bar joseph, or as we know him from the Greeks…Jesus Christ. And of course the Church was in an uproar. They had to prove that this was not so…it threatened the faith. The Israeli’s were trying to be helpful to the Christians and this relationship made the Moslem Palestinian’s nervous. The Jews were under the impression that if this was a Jewish burial then it was not to be touched and everybody just wished the whole thing would go away except the archeologist who discovered it who really couldn't see what all the uproar was about. It was Science i.e. Truth and all this other stuff was conjecture. The one thing that kept going through my mind was that Jesus was sent with a message. The miracles that are attributed to him were to assure us that the message was divinely inspired and should be seriously considered. The message was one of Love and Tolerance. That all were equal in the sight of God, which each choice a man made was between himself and God, that Man was no more nor less a part of the whole system and that should he be respectful of that place. That we were a family and that this sorta bickering amongst us and this “I’ll tell daddy what you said/did” accomplished nothing. Did Jesus performing miracles make this message any more or less true? When will people realize that the people that set themselves up as knowing what God wants from them have some other agenda in mind? We are all individuals, we are all unique to quote the life of Brian.
Its up to the individual to choose if he will stand on his own two feet and let God’s gift of free will allow him to run his own life or if he will hide behind a doctrine that had a lot to do with what we were 4,000 years ago and should be used as a guide to what we should be.

Happy Halloween.

Da Vinci, the legacy

2005-10-08T08:57:00.000-07:00

Salutations dear reader,

There was a program on PBS last week concerning the Modern applications concerning the drawn fantasy devices of Leonardo Da Vinci. They attempted to build his cross-bow catapult and one of his thousands of designs for flying machines. I, as usual, was a captive audience.

If the subject is Da Vinci, the world stops and I’m there. I usually get another piece of information to add to my overwhelming collection of information concerning this man.

I’m sure that those who know me are aware of this fascination with a man who has been dead for over 500 years, a man who skated along the dangerous edge of the established religious rigors of proper thought and action. Funny thing about established religion, thinking for ones self is not something it employs. Established religions function is to lay down rules and direction for what is and isn’t acceptable thought and activity, according to its interpretation of what it believes God wants. It prefers ignorance and dogma to explanation and knowledge. I had a belly full of it early in life, I attended Parochial school for the first 5 years of my scholastic endeavors. Brother was that a disaster. We all learned early just what a serious problem I have with authority and the spoken order from one I don’t respect (or is holding a gun) “Obey!”

To this day the sight or subject of a Nun comes up and I find myself growling. However I choose not to go into this right now…the subject is Da Vinci.

I ran across my first book about Da Vinci when I was transferred into a public school and for some reason I was sent to the Library as some form of punishment. I don’t recall the exact form of my infringement of that society’s rules that I had violated but I thank God that I did it. I was intrigued by this man and his drawings of what he saw and what he thought. Up to that point his was the first original mind I’d ever ran across. He was an outsider to society having not been born on the right side of the sheets so to speak, because his parents weren’t married he was barred from higher position in society thus forced to receive a tradesman’s education. His spelling was an atrocity. His Math skills sucked. He didn’t follow the rules…he followed his heart, he allowed his mind to work. He followed his mind, pushed the boundaries of what he knew and kept a record of this thought process. He allowed his mind to collect information and develop a new idea from what it had learned. He was, my father would like to say, ‘ not staying in step with the program’. The church believed that human Anatomy was the business of God and only God…Believing dissection was a criminal act…Necromancy was the term used…maybe if a man figured out how one worked he’d want to build one of his own and really piss off God. Better to live in ignorance and bury the dead then to piss off God. Leonardo needed to know why these little bumps under the skin moved when the person moved. He needed to know why people and animals had similar features with some extremes appearing in the animals that contributed to their special abilities. He was always collecting information and using it somewhere else. At the time he was revered as brilliant but dangerous.

Today we see his drawings and discover that at least one in 5 of our modern discoveries were made by him first, well over 500 years ago. What I got from this program that was on last week was this: It seems that it was only recently discovered that the blood flowing through the heart makes a vortex that helps close the valves. And Yupper Da Vinci not only noticed this but constructed an experiment to prove it to himself, then he designed an artificial human heart valve that is indistinguishable from one “invented” in the last 10 years. He also discovered that the heart “wrings” itself out when it beats. We just re discovered this in the last 5 years. Trained as an Artist, he was an architect, astronomer, anatomist, botanist, civil engineer, designer, mechanic, military engineer, musician, geologist, etc. etc. He even invented technical drawing-the exploded veiw and multiple veiws. In fact when we speak of someone who has more then one talent we refer to him as a ‘renaissance man’ in the tradition of Da Vinci and other men like him…and yes there were others, dear reader, he was just the best.

It’s been estimated that less then a fourth of the books and drawings of Da Vinci have survived. Most of his legacy ended up in possession of 2 church leaders; a monk and a cardinal. The collection that was owned by the cardinal had pages torn out of it and sections destroyed…probably because it challenged church doctrine. Da Vinci wasn’t in step with the program according to the church. And we never learn... established religious based authority still wants to dictate what is and isn't truth. Is "Intelligent design" based in Science or theology? I want to also assure my reader that I do believe there was intelligence behind the design of the Universe and the things in it, but I didn't learn that in school, and have a problem with it being taught in school. School presented me with the facts as they were known...I reached my own conclusion.

I write this for my Nephew Ben.
I've met the lad once when we baptized him oh so many years ago...I don't get to England that often and my sister doesn't come to NC ever.

My sister has reported that Ben has declared war. He doesn’t want to learn French. She’s had some problems with Ben’s education…seems he wants to learn what he wants to learn and doesn’t want to stay with the “program”. All reports are that he’s not a stupid boy, he's stubborn about what he wants to learn- just knows what he wants to know and follow it where it may lead. I would NEVER tell my sister how to raise her child. She wouldn’t hear of it, just as my father wouldn’t hear of how to raise his son. But I write this with a sparkle in my eye. I get this feeling my Nephew Ben will be taking over my role in the family as the “different one,” the one who follows his heart and pursues the education that will teach him what he wants to know and not what “the program” dictates. The one who won't color inside the lines, whose sentences run perpendicular the lines provided on the 8 1/2 x 11 pre printed lines on the notebook paper. He’ll be the one who collects stuff that no one has any use for because he sees potential in it. The one his friends and peers watch with the look of shock as the most complicated physical problems are solved simply and with stuff he finds around him and in the trash. The one that will find that Leonardo is his patron saint and will collect all the information he can about him. You go Ben, You go with my blessing.

An Art Primer, what is Art?

2005-10-02T10:03:00.000-07:00

Hello dear reader, Instead of leaving you with a personal entry marked for the eyes of “Le Fay” I thought I’d blow off some firecrackers for you. Another Art Primer…this time What is Art? Yeah I know I promised the next one would be design...but I've been working on it. Design is sorta the religion aspect of Art. It's done with a feel, with a sense. To teach it is always done in hindsight, one takes successful designs and dissects them to find out where they work and why. My design books give formula's which when I boil them down I will be happy to share but it has to be handled delicately. It’s sorta like scientifically proving a miracle.

I think now would be a good time to discuss the Subject of Art. What is it? What isn't it (if you will allow such statement to be made)? The shortest definition of Art is that it is a collection of materials assembled in such a fashion that the sum is more then the parts. But then the same thing could be said of 1957 Buick. To add to that definition it can’t “do” anything unless that doing something is the part of the piece. Now that seems odd. For instance, Alexander Caldwell made art that moves…his first pieces were done with motors and gears and drive mechanism…however one really wouldn’t use it as a timer, although one could. His later things in this Vein were what we call “Mobiles": they move according to a pattern that is within the reach of its construction but unpredictable. It moves at its own whim and the whim of whatever breeze may be passing by it. I guess this old chestnut still works best...a famous example is Rauschenberg’s mattress. Robert Rauschenberg did a painting on a mattress. Now if you were locked in the gallery over night, you could take this mattress off the wall and sleep on it, thus using the materials for their initial purpose…but according to Aesthetic theory (aesthetics is the Philosophy of Art) when Rauschenberg painted on the mattress, the mattress as an object ceased to exist. It became an element of the painting. Thus if I were to take a 1957 Buick into a museum and light it on fire as an expression of Art , I’d document the fire and show it with the end product, then the vehicle would no longer be a vehicle but a piece of Artwork.

Now, we’re getting into the Avante Garde uses of Art, and it’s a place that I personally try really really hard to avoid. In my opinion Art requires discipline and the motivation to a finished product. The product of Love between two people is a baby, although the Process is indeed unique and I might add as an enjoyable a process as most of us has come across it is completely separate from the finished product, it is the end result. (I get this feeling that if one were to know that at the end of every sexual act one would instantly have a baby, we'd have a lot of one family single parent house holds, and sex would take on a completely different reputation.)

I think I'll stay with this...It proves a point that I'm trying to make...bear with me.
If one were to visit some new parents and ask to be shown baby pictures we would expect pictures of the child after it was born…rarely have I been shown the video of its arrival, as miraculous as it is and never ever been shown video of its conception. That sorta film is a completely different sorta experience and rarely does one wish to follow from conception through the process of its arrival and then be shown the product. It just isn’t done, that sort visual is private and rarely seen by any who weren’t initially involved. Personally if I had been shown a movie of my conception and my mother’s Labor (which was extremely difficult as she related to me when ever she wanted me to do something that I didn’t want to do) I’m just sure I’d need a whole lot of therapy to put it into perspective. It’s the same with Art. Seeing Art done might be interesting, and Artistic, but the process is private and personal. It’s the finished piece that one sees as Art...I think that I, an old stick in the mud must separate Art from Performance art and put the latter in the category of "drama."

It might be more enriching to watch Michelangelo Paint the Sistine and watch him make his decisions why it was done that way, but for Michelangelo it was personal and private. No one was allowed to see him work, not even the Pope who hired him. I’m sure I’m getting a lot of other Artists upset by this but, you know what? I don’t care…My opinion. And THAT dear reader is what art is. Art is an object or experience that adds to the humanity of the person viewing it, based on their opinion. Art triggers the same aspect of our mind that sees objects in clouds, images in ink blots, the Virgin Mary in a cheese sandwich, or redemption in a De Kooning Painting.

For me Art is a structured response. Art is planned and has “happy accidents” that are more powerful then the planned movement. I once compared ART to doing a dance on stones in a pond. In order for it to be a dance it must be planned. Freedom without discipline is chaos.
Unfortunately I'm in the minority on this particular field. Oh well...it wouldn't be the first time.

A friend gave me something that Nature produced. It looks like some sorta fish. It’s actually the knot of a branch that got buried and had the rest of the branch except the knot worn away, the sand and wear of the weather changed the nature of it so that it took on the appearance of something unique; my hand was drawn to it...as were my eyes. I had to have it and it was given to me. It looks completely natural but unlike a piece of wood. I’m designing in my head a box for it that is totally opposite of this object. I want the box to constructed out of man made materials, have angles and sharp edges to counteract the organic-ness of the object. This will enhance the organic qualities of the object. It’s in process…we’ll see if it’s ART when I’m finished. If I can accomplish marrying these two things so that both are viable on their own, but incomplete without the other then I have accomplished Art. The subject is more complicated then these…trust me. But this gives you something to think about next time you’re looking at something and asking “is this Art?” I might delve further into this subject later. We’ll see.
IF you really want to impress somebody take a painting and turn it upside down...you'll lose the image and the way it's "built" will come into view. I do this with Hokusai prints all the time...that would teach you more about design then I could.

La Fey, a message in a bottle

2005-09-29T19:02:00.000-07:00

Dear Reader

I must ask your indulgence. As some of you know real soon I’m going under the knife. I decided to postpone the operation until I got a few things done…just in case. This was on the list. The following entry is meant for only one set of eyes. A woman I knew many years ago while living in Boston; I will call her “La Fey” as she knows who she is. I’m handling it this way in case her curiosity gets the better of her and she Google’s me. I would ask all others to just go on to the next of my ramblings or find something else to do. If you must read it then please have the class to not ask me about it as it’s just between me and her.

Hey You,

It’s been many years since I wrote you a letter.

I know you’re horrified that I decided to handle this just this way but before I post it I’ll make sure that only you will know to whom I was referring. I couldn’t think of any other way to get a message to you, and to be honest I’m doing this for me.

Your brother’s let me know that you’d come to visit and I asked the younger to send me a picture of you and your kids, I wanted to see your image again as I’m having some work done and there’s a chance that I won’t come out of it; a very slight chance, but a chance. He sent me one of you and your other brother and one of your daughter. You still look pretty good, considering, and your daughter is beautiful. But then I knew you’d have beautiful kids.

My reason to toss this note in a bottle and cast it onto the immense sea of the internet was I didn’t want something to happen to me without being able to say “thank you” to you. My time with you was the only time in my life that I can honestly say that I was happy. I realized a while back that our relationship was pretty much doomed from the start, the foundation was desperation and it was built with the gossamer threads of wishes and words whispered on the phone or in the hundred or so letters we exchanged. Losing you about killed me. I understand that it had to end the way it did, but as I sit and look at your image, even so many years later, my heart still aches about it. Something unmendable in me broke after that and I’ve never been able to feel the same about anybody.

I realized many years ago that there will never be an “us” in the future. To be honest there really is nothing to salvage from the relationship we had… we are both very different people, much has changed for both you and I. It was just something that happened, and it had to happen then and it had to happen the way it happened. It is said that a man hasn’t truly lived until he has experienced love. I guess you were mine. My fondest memories concern you and our time together. You led me to things that I had never considered, done or seen. That is rare for me…but then you are a rare kind of woman.

I apologize for seeming cold and distant the last time we spoke, but the woman I was seeing, who was very aware of your existence stood right in front of me glaring at me the whole time we spoke. Can’t blame her, but I wanted you to know that it wasn’t what I wanted. And the relationship I had with her is long since over. It’s just me now. Me and my 2 animals.

I keep my easel in the part of the studio that I had planned on being where you’d set up. You’d feel comfortable here. It’s much like the one in Boston but bigger. And I have a proper kitchen. I’ve started to draw again and I might work something up from the photo your brother sent. I promise it’ll be for my eyes only.

I hope you’re happy. You deserve to be happy.

If something happens to me I’ve included you in my final wishes. I have left instructions that what I want to give you is to be sent to your brother and he will forward it on to you. I don’t want you to feel compromised- I just wanted you to know that. I guess that’s about it my Little La Fey, I can now cross another thing off the list of things I need to get done before they remove my leg and then bolt it back on. If you want me to delete this message just leave a comment saying so with the first initial of your name. I'll know who it is and It'll be done.

Take care/

Welcome to the dark ages

2005-09-04T09:54:00.000-07:00

I got a phone call yesterday. “How much you charge for a sketch?” I get about 2-3 of these a year. “Well that depends. How big, what medium, of what… You need to give me a bit more information.” “Just a sketch. What does medium mean?” “Local talent” is what crosses my mind. “Let’s put it this way…Charcoal is less then pencil, Pencil is less then Pen.”

“Well my wife wants to pose nude. A decent size…maybe charcoal, some color would be nice.”

I had been interrupted from cleaning my toilet for this. Might I add that cleaning my toilet would have been preferable? “Ok…Lets just say…11 x 17, pencil some color $450 unframed.”

Pause. “Ok…I’m just calling around for some prices. I’ll let you know.”

My first statement after I hung up was to Nathan…a lad whom I call my apprentice although I’m more a big brother to then a technical master, “Jesus Christ…If these people had bones in their noses they couldn’t be more backwards!”

He looked at me shocked as though I was accusing him of something. So I related the conversation that had just transpired. I explained to him one hires an artist. One has seen his work and has decided that he thinks so much of it that he would like a piece by him. One does not take phone bids over the phone for a piece of artwork…It’s just uncivilized.

I have lived here for 16 years. I am still shocked to how similiar this place is to New Guinea where I spent my 20-21 year, although in some ways those people had more of an idea what it meant to be individuals. And yeah I know that me being here is strange…even the people who see my work wonder what I’m doing here. When God is asked about this strange placement of me here, God in his infinite wisdom, and continuous mystery responds simply (as usual) with one word:

“Counterweight”.

And Yes I speak to God. And yes he speaks back…and No he doesn’t tell me things like to kill people or set fires. I am God’s Janitor/handyman. I clean up and make orderly what society has discarded or solve a design quirk that has presented itself that he, in his ultimate wisdom, has decided isn’t worthy of the light show and smoke and mirror-old Testament resolve that we come to expect from “GOD”.

What can I say…I don’t recall applying for the job.

Here’s a lesson for those “people” who would like a piece of artwork but hasn’t grasped the concept that Art isn’t mass produced, despite the slop that is being presented as Art.

Not all poetry is on Greeting cards…

Neither is all Art. Starving Artist sales aren't- they are mass produced design devices designed and exicuted to match the drapes and the furniture.

One does not “shop” for Art over the phone. It’s a visual medium. One must LOOK at art before one decides to include it in ones life.

I’ll bet you the concept of buying a puppy, a house, a suit of clothes, or for that matter anything that is going to be directly attached to you as a human being over the phone is beyond ridiculous. Mass produced Items like a car, a TV, a bed, life insurance, etc…yeah ok…get on the phone. But you must see the house if it’s going to suit your lifestyle. You need to meet the puppy to make sure you will connect and you hafto try on the suit of clothes to see if it fits. These are investments of individuality....something that people for some reason are trying really hard to lose. Did you know that NO 2 Zebra’s are alike- that their patterns are different. No two flowers are alike-each is a separate form of simplicity and beauty. It seems in this society One gets lost in the forest for the trees. One wants blend in and go mostly unnoticed. It seems that individuals in this society want to be associated as individuals by the consumer items that they employ, next time your in the supermarket notice how many brand names are emblazoned on peoples shirts that they wear for decoration. I recall a situation where people are renting areas of their bodies as advertising space. We are reducing ourselves as consumers and not individuals. Art is an individual statement. Art is the hall mark of being unique (that’s why Van Gogh painting’s cost millions of Dollars folks…cause all the images you see of that painting are copies of the original…)

I entitled this blog as Welcome to the dark ages.

In the dark ages people got lost as anything but units counted by the church, taxed by the wealthy and indentured or destroyed by the military. They lived ignorant, miserable, short lives maintaining the gene pool until the day that they would once again be thought of as something more then an exploitable resource. Artists were tradesman who were rarely known by their names. Just hired to decorate a church or some rich guys house.

Guess what….You’re putting your self in that spot cause being unique is just too much trouble…you hafto work at being different…Maybe that’s what he meant by “counterweight”.
anyway enough... my God beeper is going off-clean up in isle 7.

Oh brother, Where art thou?

2005-07-05T17:40:00.000-07:00

Many apologies for taking so long to put in another commentary from my strange and silent life, I’ve been busy.

My job, as the miracle worker for a Greensboro based woodworking shop, keeps me occupied during the day. At night I’ve either been too tired, working on my artwork, doing chores, animal husbandry [Claire managed to get ear mites in one ear (“worst case I’ve seen in quite a while” said the vet, “ Does she spend a lot of time out doors?” I didn’t have the heart to tell him that she usually was asleep on the chair in the kitchen she claims as her throne or spread eagle on her stomach on the cool tile floor in the studio…She’s too fat to fit through the cat door) and a yeast infection in the other…You want an adventure…try holding a greased watermelon with one arm and drill a hole with a q tip with the other. ] and trying to catch up with my commission work, I need to finish taking slides that were due in January for the process to get my master’s in studio art- A process I began 2 years ago, I'm also trying to recover what I know about leather work and to add to it for my own uses and to teach somebody who needs something to do with his hands so that cigarettes don't kill him, long story. Need to update the website haven't been there for months, The shop is always in disarray, the loft always looks and smells like an animal sleeps there and then there's the improvements needed for this place like a large drawered cabinet to store my artwork in that I've been planning for 16 years and the kitchen table that I started 12 years ago, then theres the bookcase I need to build...my books are everywhere … I need a clone, or a maid who likes cats.

The big news is I finished a drawing I started last August, and I’ve been working on the composition for years. It’s the first “Art” work I’ve done in quite a few years. It took way too long…I could only work on it when I knew I’d be un interrupted and when I need to just get away from my life for a while…It sat for almost 4 months untouched cause life demanded my attention. The response has been mostly positive. I am working on a wood cut slightly smaller. I’m going to do it as an egg tempera painting. This is a technique that I learned in my final days of Art school and completely fell in love with. It’s not complicated water soluble and the color lends itself to translucency well. The problem is that you can’t run down to the store to pick up dry pigment…however through the miracle of the internet I’ve been in contact with other’s who pursue this discipline. They have hooked me up with all kinds of info and source. I’ve still got to locate some rabbit skin glue to make gesso. Seems egg tempera don’t stick to plastic gesso…soooo I’m returning to the dark ages and making what I need. No sweat, I’m used to it. My life is torn in three directions, what I have to do for a living, what I have to do for a life and what I have to do for my sanity. Any rich women looking for a pet artist I'd like to apply for the job.

Anyway my health improves, my work progresses and I’m staying out of trouble. I suppose that is a blessing. If only there was somebody who could deal with the world and leave me to do the work I’m designed to do. I'm looking for my design books...I know I promised- I'll get to it.

Dali, Esherick and Me

2005-04-14T21:09:00.000-07:00

Salvador, Wharton and me...

To anybody who’s talked to me in the last 3-4 months, you are aware that I spent my 48th birthday in Philadelphia. The initial mission was to finish seeing the Art museum there, a project I started when I went to Philly to attend a friends wedding, while still in Art School. I was extremely impressed by the collection and I vowed I would finish my tour before the dark hand of Death decided to take from this level of consciousness. I asked some friends to join me, I had promised a tour of the Rodin museum there. It was suggested that there was a Salvador Dali retrospective there if I might like to attend. I’ve seen Dali…I knew what to expect so I figured what the Hell. There is always something to learn from somebody who has mastered their craft as Salvador Dali had…and I’m not necessarily speaking of his painting technique or his choice of his imagery. Dali was the ultimate showman; he marketed his stuff like a barker at a freak show. He never disappointed his audience with what he produced but he was a brilliant showman. I considered the possibility of seeing a museum I had run into in an old Fine Woodworking that I had purchased. The museum was dedicated to an artist/woodworker named Wharton Esherick; it was his house and studio. It seems he was an innovator and fused the concept of more organic less academic methodology to woodworking. He made a set of chairs from Hammer handles, but I figured it could wait till next time. It was then decided that we would stay another day. The rented vehicle had been rented for a week, I was not in a huge hurry to get back; after all one turns 48 only once in one’s life and it had been years since I’d been on vacation. Our hosts were delighted with the idea of us staying another day so I made the appointment to see the Esherick museum for the day after my birthday…April the 11.

We began on April the 8th with my promised tour of the Rodin museum, all agreed that I was correct in my assessment that the Raleigh Museums show handled the presentation about as badly as they could manage. Then on to the Philly- I was delighted by the Dali retrospective…fortunately or unfortunately it had its effect on the folks I went with. Dali is a bit much for people who don’t know what they’re getting involved with. But I was there to look and look I did. I replayed all the stories about Dali I’d heard and put a few of the pieces of his life together that I had lacked to put together before. I saw works that I had seen before and some that I had only seen in reproduction form. Dali was a character; He knew he was a genius and quit Art School by announcing that his faculty was unworthy to judge him. He was an early admirer of Freud’s and spoon fed people’s Psyche to them. He revealed his own demons and his own obsessions, much to the delight of his audience. I was amused and quite impressed with his technique.

We took Saturday off to chill and visit...it was cool. I needed a day off.

The next day I finished my tour of the Philadelphia Museum of Art. I was amazed. I have rarely encountered a collection of gems like I saw there and Never in this country. It refreshed my soul, it cleared my mind, and it pumped new blood to my heart. I rarely reveal this but I need to look at stuff like that to put me in touch with my head. When I am experiencing art the way it supposed to be done then my life seems to make a little more sense; for you see I look at art to understand me a little better. I seek myself there; I ponder my own thoughts, the decisions I’ve made, the things that I’ve considered important and upsetting. I see what I find important and know that it might not be that for other people but for me it’s less like seeing relics of saints but more moments from the lives of the predecessors of my “tribe.” It gives me a sense of history and temporarily I don’t feel quite so alone in this world.

The next day we made the trek to the Wharton Esherick Museum and I hafto admit I was a bit excited. I wanted to see if this guy was everything that he was cracked up to be, if the hype was justified. When I entered, I saw the house and the work. I saw myself. His universe that he created for himself was so like mine that it felt like I was home. His head worked so similar to my own that I was sure I knew what he was thinking when he made decisions about a particular design feature. I must apologize to the guy who gave the tour…I must have scared the Hell out of him…I effervesced with excitement. I was all over the place, pointing and giggling and asking permission to touch and asking hundreds of questions. I kept interrupting to ask my questions, Mr. Esherick was a woodcut artist, he stated he couldn’t understand how one could draw something backwards to come out forwards…I proceeded to give him an explanation how it was done…having more then a few woodcuts to my name. He queried why Mr. Esherick didn’t seem to care for drawer pulls wishing to carve out an indentation or remove a bit from his doors for a handhold. I explained why to him in some detail using my own reasons…suggesting that all I did for my own kitchen cabinets was drill a finger hole in the middle of the drawer front. In his desk drawers was this same device. He wondered why his high bed had such big drawers under them. I told him I had steps leading to mine and the risers were drawers. He discreetly mentioned Mr. Eshrick’s wife’s deciding to live in town with the kids, visiting on the weekends and eventually parting from him to live her own. But I knew it when I walked in…the house was built just big enough for him and the muse. I spent the trip back to NC pondering all that I saw and discovered a part of myself that just might help me get through whatever time I have left. I am a member of the tribe called Artist. Dali was a showman, little is known of his private life. All one saw was the character. Esherick was a private quiet man who was trying to get his talent to pay for his life. Ditto for me. Both quit school because they knew that all that could be taught was technique and all that could be discussed was politics of the peer group. You can’t teach somebody how to be unique. I chose to finish cause I had something to prove. Gala stayed with Dali because she loved the mystique and probably realized that if it weren’t for her he’d probably die, and despite his reverence for her he resented her for her having her hand in every aspect of his life. By the time she married him he was already a legend worth millions. Esherick’s wife probably left because she was tired of sharing him with his muse and knowing that it would always come first. He might have been a legend to his peers but wasn’t worth millions. A woman “friend” came to take care of him when he was older and was with him when he died. She lived in the house until she too died…He built the “silo” with a bigger kitchen and a guest room 4 years before he died-my guess is because he was tired of her complaining that she couldn’t function in a kitchen the size of a closet. Been there a couple of times. The Art muse is a jealous lover. She will allow you to seek a companion if you can find one who’ll put up with being second. The muse thinks nothing of waking you up in the middle of the night with the next piece of the puzzle often demanding that you undertake this assignment immediately, keeping you up for hours sometimes days with a puzzle of a problem. She will only titillate you with a glimpse of the order and vision you seek. She will smile and reveal, just for a half a moment that what she is all about. When you are finished with one project she won’t allow you to rest on the contentment for long…after all this is just one piece of the bigger puzzle…there is much more to do. Depending on the discipline She will barely feed you if the world will truly benefit from your labors. If it’s a gimmick that she’s selling then you might do pretty well, maybe. Then if you are successful at it…you will die and you and your life’s work might be revered as miraculous, maybe. For the person sharing this experience-it isn't usually enough, you promised to be devoted to them not for you both to be devoted to what you do when you insist on being alone. To those of us it decides to make brothers and sisters in Arms, it’s the only life possible for us, for our loved ones will only see us as “genius” when we are pointed out by admirers. All they saw when they looked before then was this insane relative that insisted on living like a hermit and pursuing this strange obsession. I guess I’m in decent company…I could bitch but what would be the benefit? Oh well. Something’s never change.

The mess in Florida

2005-03-31T19:53:00.000-08:00

I know I promised that the next time I got around to posting on this blog that I would deal with visual design...However I feel moved to comment on recent events in this society. Theresa Schiavo died today. Now that it's over I feel that the entire matter was a study in why certain things should be kept private and that our government, the government of the greatest nation on earth, needs to really examine why they do some of the things they do. Instead of helping with this obvious problem they decided to turn it into a political arena, moral posturing, lots of energy expended for appearance sake and the real issue avoided like it was a bomb.
Let’s examine the players in this drama. Both sides have a very viable point. First her husband, This man was her husband. Her life partner, the voice to be listened to when she could not speak. He saw the woman he loved and respected unable to speak, unable to attend to her bodily functions, unable to judge what was happening around her, even aware of other people’s presence- somewhat of a waking coma. I can see him looking at the woman he loves and knowing in his heart if it were him, he'd wish that someone would just allow him to pass on. It may seem cruel to say this, but existing like that is not a life, it’s barely an existence.
Then there are the parents. This is their child. The children of a marriage are reason men and woman put up with each other. The children are their future, proof of their existence. The child must be protected, cared for and at all costs be allowed to thrive. IF there was any chance that Theresa might get well then it was up to the parents to make sure her body was maintained for her "return". It is one of the things most mammals do. I recall seeing a program about chimps in the wild. A certain female had given birth to a dead baby. The Chimp mother couldn't accept the fact that the child was a lifeless corpse. She carried the dead baby for days and as recall more then a week, attempting to get the child to nurse, respond, show any sign of life. I'm 48 and I need to be careful what I tell my father. Should I have some small problem he responds by wishing to make it better and dealing with it for me. I usually decline by telling him "I'm a big boy, I can handle it-really" his spoken reason for his over compensating concern? I am his child.
I haven't got a problem with all this. It is a sorry state of affairs and much wiser minds then my own must make this kind of King Solomon like decisions. My problem was the resolve. They withheld food and water allowing this poor woman to take almost 2 weeks to finally die. IF this woman were a sick animal and I were to withhold food and water till the animal died; the aspca would have me brought up on charges of animal cruelty. IF this were done to a prisoner, the person responsible would be brought up on charges of Premeditated Murder. The problem is that if some doctor would take it as his responsibility to give this woman an overdose of Morphine to send her out peaceably, he would lose his license and be brought up on charges of murder. He'd probably be sued by her parents for everything he owns. According to Society it is more "humane" to starve and dehydrate this poor soul...possibly suggesting that if God wishes it to be different then let him heal this poor woman. It reminds me of the former habit society had concerning houses that were struck by lightening. No attempt would be made to extinguish the fire of the house that was struck, as this was Gods will. Thank God Benjamin Franklin invented the Lightening rod. I would possibly put it to these people, if this is Gods will then why attempt to help anyone in trouble? What would they make of the Good Samaritan? When the Samaritan helped a person in need was he not interfering with God's will?
I believe that instead of President dubya Bush flying back to the capital to sign a bill to prolong this woman's pitiful existence, maybe he might look into proposing a law that dealt with such extreme cases. Yes Life is Sacred but and must be maintained if there's hope. However 15 years is quite a while to wait for her to show any kind of progression towards Life. Maybe consider, with the opinion of 6 or more doctors, that the court's decision should be upheld and as with a firing squad we have 12 doctors draw lots and 6 of them pull a short straw and be issued a syringe with a mystery fluid in it. 5 would be saline solution 1 would be an overdose of Morphine. Their job would be to deliver the contents of their syringe to the individual. None of the 6 would know which it was that sent the patient to their final reward, there would be no malice involved and the poor patient wouldn't suffer. This is just one possible solution to all this mess, I see No positive thing that could come from starving and dehydrating a person to death and making their suffering less with the use of morphine. If one good thing has come out of this media circus, this pastime of the masses: people are contemplating their future and making the appropriate plans according to their individual wishes. I don't pray with words that often. My work is my prayers. However I pray that this woman, Theresa Schiavo has paid her karma debt. That her suffering is over and that she has aquired some kind of peace. I promise next time I'll talk about Art. I'm Going to Philadelphia for my birthday to finish seeing the Philidelphia Museum of Art; a project I started more then 20 years ago. I'll be going with friends and will probably have much to say.

An Art Primer, Drawing

2005-03-15T19:34:00.000-08:00

For the very few who might go to the trouble to read these ravings of the mad Artist in Burlington, I'm going to assume that your knowledge of Art to be limited. I'm assuming this because of the interest in accompanying me to an Art museum.
If my opinions and knowledge clash with any other you may be aware of I'd really appreciate your feedback.

With the invention of the computer as a graphics tool Fine Art as I was taught it is dying. Art supply stores are carrying less and less of the staple materials that one could easily purchase as recently a 10 years ago. Pretty soon we'll be making what we need just like they did 200 years ago. I'm going to relate the subject as I know it, as I understand it, and as I believe it. I recently heard from a friend of mine, another artist, that he visited our alma mater. What he saw being produced was ghastly, I believe the word abortions was used. The use of computer and copy machine art was avante garde when I attended. Now it's the standard and unfortunately without the discipline of manual 'art making' it is chaos.

Visual Art was born in the mind of mankind by that same little machine in your head that sees animals in clouds and faces in bad paneling. The way the theoretical episode happened (according to the way I heard it anyway), from what we are able to glean from the cave paintings in France and Spain certain wall formations reminded our first artist of animals or female body parts (take your pick...one was food the other was sex, the two things that seem to fill male minds) except for certain details. Our Artist picked up a charcoal stick from the fire that had burned out and added the details to his vision. At that moment the concept of written History was invented. If you think about it you will probably agree with me. It got more complicated from that point on...they found colored clays that reminded them of the colors of the natural world around him and mixed with spit added them to his charcoal drawing. We still use these colored dirt products in the form of umber, sienna, ochre etc. These are known as 'Earth Tones', and they are the simplest and cheapest of the colors you can purchase, but I'm getting ahead of myself.
It didn't take long for this activity to take on mystical significance. I won't go into it but leave it at suddenly God had a face and nature could be seemingly controlled.

All Art without exception is born in the mind of the artist. This mental image is recorded and worked out through the implementation of drawing. Drawing is the Mother of all Art. Drawing is the discipline of Art. "I can't draw." If I had a quarter for every time I've heard that after someone sees my work or hears about it I wouldn't have to work next month. My response to this statement is "They did teach you to write your name right? That signature is your unique mark, indisputable in a court of law and all things pertaining to you in contracts, money exchanges, proof of receipt, etc. Drawing is nothing more then the expansion of that mark. It's the ultimate form of hand- eye coordination. In European society in years past, women of breeding were taught to draw; it was sign of culture." I stand by this statement.

Drawing is any mark made on a surface. This is the statement emblazoned on the hearts and minds of every drawing student that comes through the process. It's true, sorta. It isn't quite that simple...but for the sake of argument we'll leave it at that. SOOOOOOOOOO now that we have our understanding of how it all got started and the fundamentals of the process we can begin.

The real trick and "Art" of visual art is the same as music: Composition. How to arrange these marks to make some sorta sense, to stimulate that little mind machine that sees animals in clouds and faces in really bad paneling? That's kinda complicated. I always teach composition using two tools. One is the collected works of Hokusai; Classic Japanese printmaker-the trick is I turn the book upside down. The other is to spread a group of geometric shapes on a surface, and allow the student to arrange them. But for now I must depart. Claire, my female cat is demanding some quality time, she's doing this by licking my hand while I type and sticking those little fishhook claws that god gave her into my arm.
Farewell

May I have your attention please...

2005-03-14T18:02:00.000-08:00

I just recieved an email asking if my "supposed Artwork" was on the web. My god, folks if you haven't gotten the word yet...(I'm speaking to those who might just actually take the time to read my ranting, ie my friends) yes my site is posted. put ursusstudio.com in your little window, hit return and you'll see an eye staring back at you. click on the eye, scroll to the bottom of the bear and click on portfolio. then Choose your poison. I thought I'd told everyone...guess I didn't. Also...I spell like a butcher. My sentence structure is one of a stone mason. I got my degree in ART not in English, I do my best and I yuse spell check but ya know...Nothing is perfect. Try to veiw my inability to use the English language to it full potenshul as a quaint reaffirmation that I'm a humble artist and in no way superior to anybody...I just do my best and hope that people will take it as it comes. Just remember the scene in Animal House when Bluto suggests that no one quitted when the German's bombed Pearl Harbor, and the fault in his history is pointed out, It's suggested "forget it he's on a roll."
farewell.

Monday, what a world

2005-03-14T15:30:00.000-08:00

I must be a genius. I keep having people tell me this and I humbly grumble and suggest they need to get out more. How is it possible that these people are allowed to be this stupid and run around and procreate? Some dame who was doing 80mph, adjusting her make up and talking on a Cell phone almost sideswiped me. I'm not in the least a chauvinist, I think that women should be paid anything a man is paid for doing a job; God knows that there are a lot of really overpaid stupid men out there, I think that No man should decide that abortions should be legal or illegal (cause we'll never need one guys), I love women and admire them for putting up with us, but come one...you’re driving a ton and half bullet at 80 miles an hour and your checking your make up and talking on a cell phone? That's something I can't justify. I swear there's a deep dark hole in HELL for the guy who decided that a woman needed was a phone she could use in the car.
But I have more. I just was at the CVS to buy some Nicorette gum. Every time I go in there there's another fine example of humanity behind the register. "Yes, I need a small box of your cvs Nicorette 4 mg gum please." I'm looking right at the box, she’s closer then I am but they can NEVER find it...I haveto do the "one more up to your left, no your other left, the little one that says CVS on it...no the solid blue...the one that says 4mg on it..." etc. SOOOOOOOOOOO we move on to payment. It's $24.08 -I give her a $50 and 13 cents in change. I'm supposed to get $26.05-right? She hands me $25 back. Then it's on...I have this debate every time I provide change with Paper money. I have given up at the Wendy's that I go to get a salad. They've got the same woman on the register every time and when I give her change with the paper I get this deer in the headlights look. Mother of God...how can we claim to be the greatest nation on earth when we can't handle simple addition and subtraction? I recall a story I heard back when computer's were young. This anal retentive nutcase that I lived next door to had traveled to Peking to help install a computer. When they had run the Test program the official in charge told them to cool their heels at their hotels, they had a few tests they wanted to run before they let these round eyes go home. About 2 weeks later the team of Americans was contacted and told they were free to go. Seems they had taken the print out and handed it to a group of about 65 old guys with Abacus' to check the math the machine had done. When their total was the same as the machine's they figured they could take it from there. I realize that we're very dependant on these machines to do much of the "stupid" work for us...but when we stop being able to do the simple stuff, we might as well give it up. Then there's the other side of the coin...
I've got this X attorney working at the same job as myself, he retired from the law and hired on to apprentice as a cabinet maker about 2 years ago. This guy still isn't getting it. He over thinks everything...he asks question after question and doesn't wait for the answer. Sanding is a mystery to this guy, he always want to know if he should sand THIS scratch out...and God forbid you should ask him to build something...He wants to know what size screws to use (ones that are long enough to connect the two pieces of wood together?), should he use self tapping wood screws or the other coarse thread screws (????), should he cut out this with a sabre saw or the band saw, etc. etc. etc.
I know I promised to write about why I wouldn't go into the Hospital again without a gun...It would fit right in here. Long story short...I thought I was having a heart attack, when I got there they wanted to know what drugs I was on and why...I provided a list including the drugs I was doing for my arthritic hip. They couldn't really pinpoint the problem with my heart. They wanted to keep me overnight. Thing was I had an appointment to do a heart stress test at another Hospital the next day. No problem they'd call my doctor and do the test at the Hospital I was at. I had gotten to the emergency room at 10:30 A.M. I had had half a grapefruit for breakfast. I had bathed the evening before. The finally got me to my room at 7:30 that night...a bit too late to eat and as I was hooked up to IV's etc. bathing wasn't going to happen. What I really needed was a decent night's sleep. I'd begin to nod off and they'd wake me up for blood pressure, take blood, urine sample, check my vitals, check my blood pressure, etc. every hour on the hour I'd be woke up, it'd take me about 45 minutes to get comfortable and start to nod off and they were back. The next morning I was scheduled for my stress test. This test needs to be done on an empty stomach...not a problem I hadn't eaten in 24 hours. Up to this point I had filled out 4 forms listing my drugs and why, my physical problems, what doctors I was seeing and why, etc. Each time I mentioned my hip. They strap this machine to my chest and these wires to me and the Doctor present (with my file in his hand) informs me that they want me to run on this treadmill up hill. I told them I'd do my best but I didn't know about running. Why? Because of my hip. What's wrong with my Hip? I hadn't eaten in 24 hours. I hadn't bathed in 36 hours and hadn't slept the night before. I went off. I used words that one doesn't use in polite company (I use them often and in any company present) but there was that certain broken beer bottle edge to them that suggested that this doctor wasn't used to this kind of talk. I ended my diatribe with "...and if you people can't read a simple form, let alone the 4 I filled out maybe I should just get the F**k out of this Zoo and go home...in fact I'm about a hairs width from doing just that!" Well, the nurses stayed out of arms reach and I was informed that they were just doing their jobs. Yeah well I can't help feeling that reading the forms y’all had me fill out was part of your job. They opted to have me do it chemically. They got around to making this decision around 11:45 am. After they got my heart rate where they wanted it and finished taking their pictures I was taken back to my room and given a hamburger. I was informed the doctor would be in to discuss the results sometime that afternoon. So I waited. I waited and I waited. At about 5 PM I went and found the closest warm body and asked just who I would hafto sleep with to get somebody to get my doctor on the phone to get him to motivate him my way. I was informed I needed to take the matter up with the floor nurse. I approached her and she asked just what she could do for me. I said " I need you to get my doctor on the phone and get him up here to talk to me inside a half an hour, because at 5:30 we were no longer dealing with this afternoon and into this evening and I had every intention of being through the door on my way home at 5:31. " She looked at me puzzled. "You mean you'll just leave without being checked out? We'd really rather you didn't do that." I looked her straight in the eye and suggested I wasn't asking her permission, that that what was going to happen and now she had 28 minutes. I turned and returned to my "cell". At 5:20 she came in and told me that the doctor would see me in 15 minutes. I told her she needed to call him back and make it 10. At 5:29 he entered and informed me that they didn't know what had happened. I was to go on a low sodium diet, take a day or two off and learn to deal with my stress. At 5:35 they delivered me to the door and I was on my way home. One thing the next day I slept when I wasn't feeling queasy, my head felt like someone had removed my spine while I slept and beaten me with it and the day after that I had a headache, a high heart rate and diareaha, I made an appointment with my doctor for the next day and was informed by him then that I probably had a slight case of food poisoning but that they saw nothing wrong with my heart. This little 3 day event of wading though the medical proffesion cost me ab $1200 out of pocket and about 4 times that to my hospitalization.
Oy, Is it me or are we breeding generations of stupider people?
I realize that this isn't a new story. I realize we have system's in place to deal with the complexity of life. But come on...the incidents I relate suggest that we are sticking to systems that are designed to help...not to dictate policy. We either evovled a brain or was given one by a supreme bieng. We need to use the damn thing or we are DOOMED.

2005-03-07T09:48:00.000-08:00

I am Albert A Kauslick. I have been a working artist and a woodworker for almost 30 years. I am old-I'll be 48 this April. I've circumnavigated the world, seen a good bit of the world and after visiting the great cultural capitals of the world I ended up in Burlington, North Carolina. It's quiet here and people pretty much leave me alone. I am tired-I've busted my butt since I was 16 and defended my right to be respected and taken seriously since I landed on this damn rock. I live in pretty continuous pain -I've got Arthritis in my left hip and left knee, my list of medical problems are a mystery to the medical profession, You'll hear about most if you bother to read my ramblings. I've been hurt and betrayed by people I've loved and cared for pretty much my whole life although I do have friends who I would indeed and have trusted with my back, my money, my vehicles and my animals. I am pretty disgusted by the human race I'm forced to share the world with. I know the good and the bad that humanity is capable of and it bothers me that they will always choose greed over charity, betrayal over a bit of personal humiliation, theft over hard work, fear before bravery, pride before humility, prejudice before understanding and 'going along with the crowd' before admitting that the king has no new clothes. I've learned that Religion is usually an excuse to hate and that the more somebody tries to convince you how honest, intelligent and caring they are the more likely it is that they are dishonest, stupid and insincere. I have known a woman’s love and then had it taken from me, but that was many years ago. I've remained pretty celibate since; I just can't put myself there again. My doctor says I need to work on my stress or I really will have a heart attack next time. BUT this isn't what I want to be writing about, consider it a warning - I'm not a happy guy, I'm not trying to be amusing and if I amuse you through my misadventures feel free to laugh, God knows if I don't I'll start screaming again and that really scares the animals. I would like to share my views on Art, my insight on woodworking and my view of my world here at the end of the cultural road, I may go into my views of politics but trust me I am not looking for a debate.

I must go back to work now...I'm working on a drawing of Simonetta Vespucci that I constructed from all the known portraits of her and a few of my own elemets...a labor of love.