Productive Day

(This photo was taken on Thanksgiving Day, but it is a favorite of mine as it demonstrates the essence of my relationship with my little girl.)

Around 1:30 or so, my little girl and I returned to the Cloister after picking up some lunch to go from some health food place (named after some Scottish guy, there are a bunch of them across the country), and she played while I painted. With the exception of a 5 - 5:30 shopping break and then a break to prep and cook for us and my traveling companion (who came over to do some Walt Whitman poetry), I painted on and off from 2:30 until just about 11:30 p.m.

Completed "Writer's Block," worked more on the "Redhead in the Tropical Setting," the self-portrait, and "The Half-Drunk Bourbon."

And with some input from my daughter, started a new piece, yet to be titled, which I will give to her and her mother for Christmas. It involves one of those funky sunsets over the water with a guy (the artist?) looking out.

Again, photos will eventually be available, but the product again is nothing to write home about.

But it sure as hell is fun.

And, again, it was great to stand and paint and drink some wine and share bourbon with my traveling buddy, who was working on some knitting project with a somewhat complex pattern.

My little girl got to sleep around 9:30 p.m.

All is right with the world.

Owl Shop Cigars

A cigar and an Innis and Gunn at the Owl Shop Cigars, New Haven CT November 16, 2007


And a half hour later, I drafted the poem posted earlier this week, "Owl Cigar Shop."

The Process

Why am I enjoying this painting process so much?

It's not as if I can revel in my mastery of the art yet.

Nor am I necessarily happy with my product...though for a guy who hasn't touched a brush in years, I am not unhappy with it either.

But enjoying it I am. On nights that I decide to paint, the process goes as follows:

I will come home and get out of my street clothes and throw on my khakis and a beat up old oxford shirt. I have a rope for a belt, because I need to keep the pants up and don't want to get paint on the belt. I have contemplated painting nekkid, but don't like the idea of wiping paint on myself...(I'm still a little too anal retentive for that)...but I am comfortable.

Then, I pick one of the canvases, figure out what I want to do and get the paint ready...mixing some primary color with others to get the proper shade.

I pour a bourbon.

I put on either a record (which of course causes me to interrupt my work to flip or change it every half hour or so) or a CD (usually jazz, velvet underground, the pogues...nothing like getting dark with some angry irish punk band!).

Then I go to town.

Usually, for efficiency's sake, I will find ways to use some similar colors, with variation on other canvases, so the paint on the pallatte kind of drives what gets addressed next...the brown of a rug in the self-portrait can then evolve into the auburn color of the gal in the tropic setting, which can then become the lighter brown of a bar in the "writer's block" piece.

Another idea I had was to link each painting with a poem that I've written...but that may limit me to old ideas.

Stylistically, it is uncertain where I am...probably a little Gaugin, perhaps some Hopper...I don't have the abstract mind yet to go nuts like Picasso or Pollack, but perhaps in time. I try not to be derivative, try not to look at other artist's work and just go with my own process.

And there is something more sensual about standing before the canvas, the brush an extension of one's self, looking over in the chair to see if my muse is there (and sometimes she is), the music, the bourbon...the moment or two of sitting and taking stock of what is painted.

Will I ever become disicplined? Will I ever create my own sense of discipline to do this right, stay with it?

Who knows?

But as long as the muse stays with me, I shall press forward.

5 Canvases

Tonight, after my wonderful dinner, coffee and pie, I returned to the Cloister, stripped down, threw on my painting khakis and shirt and canvas shoes and began tackling some of my work. I have five pieces in progress, and tonight I touched on four of them (all of these are "working" titles):

- The Self-Portrait

- The Half-Drunk Bourbon

- Writer's Block

- First Attempt at Redhead in Tropical Setting.

A fifth canvas, "The Philogynist," remains untouched in over a couple weeks, as I am unsure how to proceed. It is the first that I started.

Originally, the plan was to paint a little, make a turkey sandwich, go have a beer at the local dive (a can of PBR) and come back and work, but I never got to the sandwich and never left the Cloister. It was a good few hours that I spent working on my pieces.

Photos to follow next week.

A Lovely Way to Begin the Holiday Season

Tonight, I spent thanksgiving at the home of a long-time friend, who cooked a turkey, home-made stuffing, mashed potatoes, green beans and gravy. Flawless! We spent more time hanging out and true to form ate in a tenth of the time it took to prepare the meal.

I brought a bottle of red for myself...a Don Juan Temperanillo. Tasty. Finished the whole bottle.

I am not proficient with power tools of any sort, but had the thrill of slicing up the turkey and did well for myself with her father's electric knife...and all digits and limbs still attached.

Dinner was followed by a cup of coffee and slice of pumpkin pie from Cardonna's. Excellent!

Best part...beyond the dinner and the company, I got the leftovers! Turkey sandwich later tonight.

Time to paint!

Quote for the Day

From "The Moon and Sixpence"

"There is no cruelty greater than a woman's to a man who loves her and whom she does not love; she has no kindness then, no tolerance even, she only has an insane irritation."

An odd quote for Thanksgiving Day, but none ever truer.

On a positive note, each of us should be thankful to have that capacity to love...and the strength at times to sustain such love in the face of such indifferent cruelty. On the flip side, the woman would hopefully appreciate that, despite such cruelty, she is still redeemed in the eyes of the aspiring lover. It is foolish, it is masochistic, but it is real.

Happy Thanksgiving!

The Moon and Sixpence

After an 11-year hiatus, I have decided to pick up and re-read "The Moon and Sixpence" by William Somerset Maugham. It was published around 1919, after the First World War, and tells a fictionalized account of the life of Paul Gaugin. The main character, a 40-year old stockbroker named Charles Strickland, leaves his wife and children, his life of relative comfort, his business, goes to Paris, because he wants to paint. He has to paint.

There's something about the creative process that lures us in...that makes us feel a need to create in some medium or another....writing, painting, sculpting. I enjoy writing, but I also enjoy the process and the sensuality that comes with painting.

I think that this book is what inspired me to pick up the brush 10 years ago. This time, someone encouraged me, but I took the initiative to start up again. I have five canvases going at once...but I have not done much with them lately. Need to focus.

It will be good to read this book again. And while I would not go as far as to abandon my daughter or my family, I appreciate the freedom that Strickland does...in abandoning his middle class life and his obligations...to paint.

Letting Go...and Giving Thanks

Yesterday, I had an interesting discussion with my therapist, a decent guy who seems to show an interest in my well-being. We discussed the issue of control, of learning to "let go," of finding a way to tear down some of the walls that keep my head and my heart separated.

It is a huge chasm between my emotions and my ability to express them...or is it my willingness to express them? After almost 40 years, castle walls and moats and iron gates and more walls have been built around myself. It is a wonder at times that I actually got married, that I was able right after knowing the marriage was ending to engage in another relationship (which, as we learned, I contributed to immolating), that I am capable of having an open and honest friendship with anyone, including my poetry pal/wing gal, or my pal at the Ginger Man.

Another word that emerged as a theme, a motif, was "paradox." The desire to reach out and the ability to reach out is often thwarted by a need to close down, to shut off, to destroy relationships before they are ended. All I can do is find my way out of this paradox to be thoroughly content...to break down the walls, cross the moats, venture out like Don Quixote...with some armor and a helmet. To not be afraid of failure and to go forth and faced it! To be willing to march into hell...

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving, and I am thankful for a lot. I have developed a decent support system, having good friends, a great future ex-wife, a great little girl, my family in Georgia and other places, my long-time friend (who is making me thanksgiving dinner tomorrow, despite the fact she is under the weather), my wing gal (who is one of the few I am willing to open up), plus some neat new connections.

And I am writing, painting, walking, going to find a way to reach out and let go...not of people but of those walls that keep me from truly being the loving person I am.

Control

One of the major issues which I have to address if I want to move forward and be healed is the issue of control. Perhaps due to my deep-seated fear of loss, and due to my desire to try hard to keep close those whom I am afraid to lose, I need to feel as though I have some semblance of control. It's a side effect which has lasting repurcussions.

Another issue of control is worrying about whether or not others believe that they have some sense of control over me. Because if they feel that way, then it must mean that my perception of control over myself and my ability to move independently is a delusion.

But, the key to this whole thought exercise is in two small words: let go.

I need to let go, not necessarily of people but of the idea that I have any type of control, that I can make people stay near me, that I can make people want me or desire me, and I need to also let go of the idea that it matters whether or not someone feels that they have control over me. If someone feels that my emotional behavior allows them a sense of control, then perhaps I should be happy if they feel empowered, instead of resisting. The resisting the notion is what causes the friction.

And I need to let go of the idea that what had come before needs to exist in the same form...people grow, relationships change, sometimes for the better and sometimes for the worse. Part of letting go is the understanding that these changes, however painful in the short run, are not necessarily bad. They just are. And I can't control how they happen. I can impact them, but not control them.

This is not easy to do. I come from a family of control freaks, but I don't think that I can ever be happy in any relationship or with myself if I don't learn to let go, to breathe easy, to give up the notion that having control is so important.

And I need to start soon, if not now.

Flowers and Birthdays

Yesterday, I went over to Justin's, had a flank steak and a manhattan, wrote a bad poem, listened to some piano, and had an o.k. time. There was some nice gals at the table next to me (I was right up front), and they were sweet and gracious and liked musicals and I told them about my LP collection of musicals from the 1960s. And the pianist played some good songs.

But my usual piano bar buddy was not around, as she had to work, and it was a bit lonely. After another bourbon and beer, I left and went home to sleep.

But, early on, I went to the flower shop and bought these lovely pinkish/orange roses, most not yet opened, for a friend who works there...whose birthday was the day before. I guess she appreciated them, but in a way it was a selfish act...I felt the need to buy a woman flowers, as I hadn't done so in a while, and I enjoy the glow on a woman's face when she looks at her flowers. And my friend showed her flowers proudly.

It wasn't totally selfish of me: I did think of her and was opting for a card or flowers and went with the flowers, but a part of me just enjoyed doing it for the sake of doing it and to see them and admire the complimentary beauty of the roses with the recipient, who is a beautiful young Scorpio gal!

And it did make me feel a little better after a slightly melancholy weekend (see poem below).

New Poem: Owl Cigar Shop (November 16, 2007)

The wonderful thing about writing a poem is the ability to express various emotions and to help cleanse the soul of some level of pain...pain caused by guilt, by remorse, by sadness, by a wounded ego, and lastly by feelings of loss.

I do not care if the subject of this piece ever sees it...that's not the point. The point is, I took what I had and from it, created something that can last forever.

This was written in New Haven, while sitting at the Owl Cigar Shop, the night before The Game.

Owl Cigar Shop

(November 16, 2007)

Most women on a pedestal would bask in the light,
would drink up the glory,
would glow naked in the night.

But you defy convention, you buck the norm,
you resist any such diefication,
you refuse to go with form.

And in your unexpected rebellion, my spirit was momentarily crushed,
you mistakenly suffocated my passion,
you unintentionally invalidated my lust.

Yet all I wanted was the connection we had at first write,
yet you needed to break away,
and you chose flight over fight.

So, here I sit where you once did in this leather chair,
cigar at the ready and bourbon so tasty,
and scents of soap and water and memories of auburn hair.

And I do lament that I failed you, that I drove you away,
but mostly, I miss the beers, the e-mails, the quiet talk,
and in the vacuum of our "thing," our passionate play.

(c) fprm, 2007.

New Poem: Song of Bourbon

For my fellow traveler, bourbon buddy and poetry pal!

Song of Bourbon

my eyes gaze longingly...the hand gently extended
my eyes gaze longingly...lips lightly kiss the rim of the glass
my eyes gaze longingly...the sip slow and satiating

bourbon sweet brown nectar
bourbon our mutual friend
bourbon one motif in a trinity

my look, chin down, eyes straight ahead
my hand, once holding brush, proffers the glass
my smile, standing and watching as you sit in my chair

when did this become such a sacred rite
this ritual of sharing the drink
as sacred as the eucharist in the church of us

poetry as liturgy
painting as prayer
the communal creative process transcends

this song of bourbon never ends

(c) fprm, 2007

New Poem: Blue Bar

This poem was written in honor of my new friend, Marcelle, and posted in celebration of her first signed publication agreement. This was actually written before I learned that she would be published, in honor of her body, her mind, her writing, and our future meeting at the Algonquin Hotel.

So, my favorite Harris tweed hat's off to you, Marcelle!


Blue Bar

- Algonquin Hotel, New York City, December 8, 2007

Often i am torn by thoughts of you: split in two different directions,
reading your very public blog and reading our very private e-mails;
uncertain which way i would go...

I imagine the contours of your body; i am attracted to the online image of your legs and your eyes.
And I am drawn in by your experimentations, jealous of those you encounter, and wishing,
like a faith healer, to lay hands on you..

Yet i am also lustful of your mind, wishing equally to explore that interior self:
that sweet soulfulness that i savor, that soulful sadness, that
searching, yearning, and longing for redemption...

Here at the Blue Bar i wait, my chapbook on the table, your poem handwritten and sealed.
My hands shaking, spilling some of my very dirty martini,
wondering, brooding, pining...

And realizing upon meeting you,
that those two worlds in which i encounter you
will become one...

And perhaps, if but for the duration of a couple of drinks,
a few stories and a few good laughs in a new friendship,
we can both seem whole.

(c) fprm, 11-9-2007

Harvard 37, Yale 6

If you look in a future dictionary and find the word, "hubris," you might find a photograph taken from the November 17, 2007 Yale-Harvard Game (affectionately known as "The Game") where Yale was expected to win handily and easily over Harvard after a 9 and 0 season. Both teams were undefeated in the Ivy League, and Harvard lost only two games outside the League. Well, everyone expected Yale to win and win well, including - I think - the Yale team. Sadly, it turned out otherwise.

Harvard won and won well...Yale could not move the ball, could not cover the receivers, could not sack the quarterback and could not, or would not, throw the ball. Harvard did all that and did it well, and once Yale fell behind, first by a touchdown in the first minute and a half of the 1st Quarter, then by a second and finally by 27 by the half, it was just hard to catch up. I read that Yale had never been behind in the whole season, so the team had no experience in playing catch-up, no method or strategy for making a come-back.

It was a devastating loss and for the team and a blemish on a brilliant season. People will not remember the winning season, with 9 wins and 1 loss. They will remember the one loss, to Harvard, on a cool November day.

Now, I don't mean to beat up on the Yale football team...I've been a victim of my own hubris: the loss of an election that I wrongly thought I could win; the end of a marriage I thought could withstand anything; the rise and fall of a relationship where I had thought I had done everything right and turned out I was wrong all along...so I am sympathetic to Yale. But perhaps in my sympathy...or empathy...I was quite sanguine about the loss. They expected to win, they got killed...been there done that. I was not as traumatized as fans or alumni, nor was I angry at the team...I was almost intrigued - sadistically perhaps - to watch an otherwise good team go down in flames at the point that should have been their moment of glory.