tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-120583072024-03-07T09:55:46.697-08:00Half-formed, the Processes of Mary Stebbins TaittThis is a site on PROCESS--writing, photography and art, on process, and on draft. I invite you to dialogue with me by posting comments.Mary Stebbins Taitthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10626507461216769140noreply@blogger.comBlogger216125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12058307.post-18404150218753738532014-06-11T05:54:00.001-07:002014-06-16T12:21:05.128-07:00New art in progress, Balookey's Moleskine SketchbookI am sorry to report that my scanner is still not working, so I have tried to photograph the pieces I am working on. The first one is a collaboration with Andrea.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgql2cnbyx0Mm9JCYxOpqLI2BS13fNSB-vIfwYjMjNbrDs6l2anQYQIf0pZqPGSy4tydpK9PXAnwTn7J5ia-vG3e6hj02-CCsat4FbRMmnhLDejjwcglFz4UhAvabPvkvgZ1MbIuA/s1600/IMG_7220-001.JPG" height="288" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Collaboration with Andrea,<br />
PITT Faber Castel pigment pens and colored pencil</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh13sAhyBK8KSM-NIzNU28SgGfEm8Rxhhzi01hOxPbQsxXpxJrngkaJdlH3N0XzjEsQEoja3yAt3IoOMB1eonmUypzxIDpQjKIOWxghlFt2LlmGHwNQCxQkeaeB5dTW3BtZZ2YQbg/s1600/IMG_7221-001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh13sAhyBK8KSM-NIzNU28SgGfEm8Rxhhzi01hOxPbQsxXpxJrngkaJdlH3N0XzjEsQEoja3yAt3IoOMB1eonmUypzxIDpQjKIOWxghlFt2LlmGHwNQCxQkeaeB5dTW3BtZZ2YQbg/s1600/IMG_7221-001.JPG" height="266" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzzQDrxTPfBIdYsNq8cM0_puoYRDRUTAmJhoLY31W6NuL8TczMEb3NvD_RLIfoFY-Un0mSqsMfhfVjTQcegwHGR4IrZVRksJ6LdAhJZPQqzu87h37X7Sb2ZG5JSoNfIbh1FNXMNA/s1600/IMG_7222-001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzzQDrxTPfBIdYsNq8cM0_puoYRDRUTAmJhoLY31W6NuL8TczMEb3NvD_RLIfoFY-Un0mSqsMfhfVjTQcegwHGR4IrZVRksJ6LdAhJZPQqzu87h37X7Sb2ZG5JSoNfIbh1FNXMNA/s1600/IMG_7222-001.JPG" height="266" width="400" /></a><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSoWDqOm6Emp1n7PTHqKZfmiB3IAm8x_oa4Y5m9yOi5Dhxj6HuEF9EXMtIVQtI89xyIgGIT4beQFyLwuUfkLunDVmiYIEZO4tRuglmGn19fBUGgjDsGsm9Y0Zca8dFAuZ9srtdiw/s1600/IMG_7216-001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSoWDqOm6Emp1n7PTHqKZfmiB3IAm8x_oa4Y5m9yOi5Dhxj6HuEF9EXMtIVQtI89xyIgGIT4beQFyLwuUfkLunDVmiYIEZO4tRuglmGn19fBUGgjDsGsm9Y0Zca8dFAuZ9srtdiw/s1600/IMG_7216-001.JPG" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">day 1</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<br />
The second piece is the one I am currently working on, showing two stages of work. It is for my book, Frankie and Noah have a party. I've never had any serious art classes, so this is not a tutorial, as I may be going about it all wrong.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWTT5bs_28zjjkr7JRn5XxLhg4JOe5pagly3L7ylsPkGy56aL6joRFumEYB7aS884B6t1W0e_ccPbrVRsAXewhTgnhl_MMQw9nW4O37w0Jvcp9bLJsxSTUZqd93PCtI7EG90BSOg/s1600/IMG_7217-001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWTT5bs_28zjjkr7JRn5XxLhg4JOe5pagly3L7ylsPkGy56aL6joRFumEYB7aS884B6t1W0e_ccPbrVRsAXewhTgnhl_MMQw9nW4O37w0Jvcp9bLJsxSTUZqd93PCtI7EG90BSOg/s1600/IMG_7217-001.JPG" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">day 2</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizoTeX4myGRIuY-LWjA-pxtSIZIRcWdUl_vrCOlWdhdRegOzuibJdm2BqrM9zpXjdGmN0v4rF47vLK_9NkfZ7AcAhkZVzOlSENfWsat_Pq28i3rY_GKfvrlPegttWL6nsQzxgKug/s1600/DSCF1492.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizoTeX4myGRIuY-LWjA-pxtSIZIRcWdUl_vrCOlWdhdRegOzuibJdm2BqrM9zpXjdGmN0v4rF47vLK_9NkfZ7AcAhkZVzOlSENfWsat_Pq28i3rY_GKfvrlPegttWL6nsQzxgKug/s1600/DSCF1492.JPG" height="225" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">After a week of work I still haven't got the first layer of paint down!<br />
This is with a different camera!<br />
Getting the colors right without a good scanner is a pain!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHn5_SrWBhDoO2M32_8ufK_qj-Ejd1ATIdfILe7zc3yppDK51xa1JPDrtdjJmTwiOaeqUUz-1t53gWdkEj-EpBpphCdiS9lTBlbtsNhSTFLO68vLpliFIPunFDiJLUWnzetE8Mcg/s1600/DSCF1561-001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHn5_SrWBhDoO2M32_8ufK_qj-Ejd1ATIdfILe7zc3yppDK51xa1JPDrtdjJmTwiOaeqUUz-1t53gWdkEj-EpBpphCdiS9lTBlbtsNhSTFLO68vLpliFIPunFDiJLUWnzetE8Mcg/s1600/DSCF1561-001.JPG" height="275" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Day 8 on this piece<br />
Still not finished!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj4KW06G29AT2qEz8QCW6m7FBF0QeVM1ZROR7DxbyVT91g6zK1R3oNNoXv85FhoBTUWU8nWi4iLrRgSGfwGbKrFHHWGczDMRSOfWkYBK6QK-nioDKp3yrGbAB1SX9mFK7Vd93W4Q/s1600/IMG_7219.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj4KW06G29AT2qEz8QCW6m7FBF0QeVM1ZROR7DxbyVT91g6zK1R3oNNoXv85FhoBTUWU8nWi4iLrRgSGfwGbKrFHHWGczDMRSOfWkYBK6QK-nioDKp3yrGbAB1SX9mFK7Vd93W4Q/s1600/IMG_7219.JPG" height="640" width="426" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Collaboration, 1st half, for Mike</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The last piece is a collaboration for Mike to finish. My intention was to do a simple graphic black and white but I got carried away and colored it. "The owl and the Pussycat went to sea/ in a beautiful pea green boat."<br />
<br />
Click images to view larger. Mary Stebbins Taitthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10626507461216769140noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12058307.post-69468967857115095822014-03-21T10:27:00.000-07:002014-03-21T13:08:32.273-07:00Turn About's Fair Play<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbNbkEGhULaaiWrN4c5COM6B3wC3QcUgFU8WUpsT4VUV1tq1kboOZW8X8SsFFtfsYSfc8Nx65rrM3hpze5-mQ-gatkHaEG2RWr2IE2BuVx3I8M70-bn7oDypajYOLnt1Ot7VmK/s1600/Recently+Updated11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbNbkEGhULaaiWrN4c5COM6B3wC3QcUgFU8WUpsT4VUV1tq1kboOZW8X8SsFFtfsYSfc8Nx65rrM3hpze5-mQ-gatkHaEG2RWr2IE2BuVx3I8M70-bn7oDypajYOLnt1Ot7VmK/s1600/Recently+Updated11.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Snapshots from the trip"<br />
Click the first image to see it bigger.<br />
These pictures were borrowed from the internet <br />
from several different sites. The links to the pages from which<br />
I borrowed the images are at the bottom of the page.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://www.northandaway.be/images/Vildmark5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://www.northandaway.be/images/Vildmark5.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">This is a new story which is in the "writing-down-the-Bones" stage--it's a first rough draft. (*I may change the title) Since this is a first rough draft, I will not apologize for errors and omissions.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Turn About's Fair
Play*<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No one
has seen Uncle Beast. Trey and I asked
everyone we met, fishermen in their boats, fisherman on the docks, kids
swimming, some ladies having a picnic, and no one has seen him since the
fisherman this morning, the first ones we asked. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"I
can’t understand it," I tell Trey.
I am afraid Trey will want to take back his canoe. This must be really
boring for him. But I don't want to jinx
myself by saying it out loud.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"Do
you think he'd leave the river?" Trey asks. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I say
no. Then I think about it a little
more. Meanwhile, we're drifting
downstream. Downriver, rather, of
course. "Beast might tie up and go
for booze," I say, "If he couldn't find any on the river."<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"But
then he'd come back?" Trey asks. Of course, Trey doesn't know Uncle Beast,
he's never met him; he's barely met me, since he caught me stealing his canoe
this morning.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"I
don't think Uncle Beast would leave the river.
He wants to ride the raft all the way down it, like Huckleberry Finn. It's been a dream of his ever since I can
remember."<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"Maybe
he's hiding on us. Or on you. He probably doesn't know about me."<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"That's
just what I was thinking," I said, "Exactly. Unless he saw us going
by together."<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"Two
can play at that game,"" Trey says, "or three. Why don't we hide on him?"<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"Well,
for one thing, if he did leave the river to get drunk, we won't be able to stop
him. 1 want to keep him from
drinking. He's all depressed about stuff
that happened when he was in Iraq, and the doctor says that if he drinks again,
it could possibly kill him."<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"We
didn't see the raft coming down. We
could go look for it, but we might pass him again, and going upriver will be
harder. And, if he's got a mind to
drink, I don't see how you're going to stop him."<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"I
know. I've been thinking about that,
believe me. I feel as if this whole scheme
of mine is totally harebrained. I feel
like a dunce. I'm embarrassed to admit
it, but I didn't think it would be that hard.
I thought that if I went with him and stayed with him, he wouldn't drink. My parents forbid me from going. They said Uncle Beast (only they called him
your uncle David(?)) had a dangerous addiction and it wasn't something to
trifle with. I really thought I could
help. Maybe I should just go home."<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"Let's
hide on him and see if he comes. If he
does come, we'll see how he is, and then decide. If he doesn't come, we'll go back to my house
and my parents can help you get home."<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We find
a super spot to hide. Two trees lean
into the water in graceful arching curves, down nearly to the river's surface,
and then up again. We've backed in
between them and the leaves and branches hide us from view, but we can see out.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Trey
goes ashore by climbing onto one of the trees and running up the trunk to shore
like a monkey. He's going to pee and
then see if he can find something edible.
I admitted I hadn't eaten and was hungry. But I hope he hurries. What if Beast comes by while he's messing
around?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am
getting dozy. My head keeps
dropping. I can't afford to sleep. Beast could slip by.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ah,
here comes a rescue party, a gang of mosquitoes whining in around me in a cloud
from inside the branches and leaves.
That will wake me up for sure.
But where is Trey?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Oh,
snap! There's Beast and Killer. They are poling along under the trees across
the river, which is wider here than it has been. I look frantically around for Trey, and then
here a thump. The canoe jerks upward on
my end as it sinks downward on his, like a teeter-totter. I almost fall out as a flail to catch my balance,
swinging my arms and accidentally dropping the paddle that was resting across
my knees. It slips into the water and shoots
away under the trees toward shore. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I'm
thinking, "Oh snap, I've lost one of Trey's paddles and Beast is getting
away."<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The
trees are too low to paddle under, but Trey is good. We slide out from our spot, clearing the low
trees by about a foot, and slide back in on the other side, close enough to
maybe grab the paddle. I almost fall in headfirst
reaching for it, but Trey gives an extra tiny push and I snag it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Our
attention is focused on the paddle, and when we back out again, Beast, Killer
and raft have vanished. I stare at the
spot where I'd last seen them, but nothing moves other than the ripples in the
river and the leaves on the trees. The
treetops sway slightly, leaving east in the small breeze. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I can't
imagine that Beast would go back upstream/upriver, unless he spotted
us. I can see under the trees for quite
some distance, probably farther than Beast could have traveled at the rate he
was going.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It
occurs to me that there might possibly be an unseen hiding place along there
somewhere, like the ones Beast and I tied up in several times before. We always looked for places to hide so that
we wouldn't be troubled by thieves and other scoundrels, as Pa would say. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I
explain my theory to Trey and he agrees immediately, and we paddle upriver at
our edge, where the current is the weakest and we're party sheltered by
overhanging trees, in case Beast can see out from where he is. When we're up high enough to cut across and
end up above where we spotted him, we paddle hard for the other shore. The current takes us down, and paddle as we
might, we still end up below where we wanted to be. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now it
occurs to me that I should have attempted a disguise, so Beast would not
recognize me. Too bad I didn't think of
that sooner. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I had
marked a tree in my mind as the last spot we saw Beast, and we'd only been
looking away a brief time, getting the paddle.
He could not have gotten too far on the raft, which is not a speedy
craft to say the least.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The
tree I'd marked in my mind was a box elder with a lot of whitish blue sucker
shoots, and tabled in the sucker shoots was a blue plastic bag, probably windborne,
and below that, a yellow plastic bag, probably waterborne from the river was
high after a rain.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There are
several other box elders with bags in them, and at first, I think I might
have misremembered, but finally I spot the right one, and Trey agrees. We're whispering, in case Beast is
nearby. We can't believe how far we
drifted downriver in spite our hard paddling.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As
we're approaching the tree with the blue and yellow bags, Trey points. I follow his gaze and spot an inlet, screened
by low-hanging leaves. It looks too
narrow for the raft, but it is just the kind of spot Beast liked to camp at
night. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Only
it's not night, so if he's in there, he could be armed and dangerous. When whisper this to Trey, he looks worried.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"Does
he have a gun?" he asks. Beast is a
soldier, back from Iraq. He knows how to
shoot. But I don't think he has a gun. What if I'm wrong?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"I
meant, armed with beer or something worse.
That makes him turn into a monster, into a beast. We have to be careful. He probably won't hurt us, but if we surprise
him, startle him . . ." I trail off, suddenly worried about Trey and his
safety. I may have done a stupid thing,
allowing him to come. This whole
venture, right from the beginning, is probably ill-advised, as Pa would say.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Still,
here we are, so we paddle though the narrow opening, ducking under the leaves,
and there's the raft, just like that. No
sign of Beast, but know where he is.
He's the tent, with Killer. And the
booze. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I make
a very tiny whistle, like the sound of a wood thrush deep in the forest, and
then a little quiet down-spiraling song of the veery. The tent bounces, the whole rafts shifts from
side to side, and there is the sound of frantic barking followed by
high-pitched yelping. Killer recognizes
my secret call.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"Tiny?"
I hear Beast's sleepy voice, and I'm afraid we're too late. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I spot
a case of Bud, just outside the door.
Beast isn't usually fond of Budweiser.
He calls it “swill” and prefers something darker, like Black and Tan. He hates wheat beer. I don't like any kind of beer, but if I had
to drink it for some reason, I'd choose wheat beer. This is one of the areas where Beast and I
are different.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"Yeah,
it's me, Beast, me and Trey."<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"Who's
Trey?"<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"He's
the guy whose canoe I stole after you abandoned me, Beast! That wasn't nice of you."<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"You
were being a pain, Tiny, watching my every move like a hawk."<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"But,
Beast, I was trying to take care of you.
The doctor said . . ."<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"I
know what the doctor said, he said I could die.
Fuck the doctor, Fuck Death, Fuck the army. Why do I want to live, anyway, after what
happened to Sadhi and Carl and Fred and Angelina? And everyone?"<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I've
had snippets of the story, but most of those people were in the army with Beast
and were blown up and killed by land mines.
Sadhi was a little girl whose parents had been killed and Beast was
taking care of her in the parent's hut.
It was near the base, and he slipped food to her and stuff and
apparently, someone killed her because she was friends with army guy. A little girl. He says they did bad things to her and
wouldn't tell me what, so of course, I probably know what and it makes me
sick. I don't like to think about
it. I'd be upset if I were Beast, I am
upset, but I don't want him to die, too.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"If
you die, Beast, you're depriving me and Pa and Ma of someone we love, and
depriving yourself of your future, and you're letting the 911 terrorists win
and the evil people who kill children win.
Is that what you want?"<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"Go
away, Tiny. Leave me alone."<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Trey
had been silently paddling the canoe close to the raft. I stepped out of the canoe onto the raft and
was startled to see that the case of Bud had not been opened. Did he have something else in the tent?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I pick
up the case and stagger to the canoe and hand it to Trey, pointing out toward
the river. He understands, and back-paddles. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Meanwhile
tent is bouncing around like Crazy.
Killer was trying to get to me. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I'm
coming in,” I say, and unzipped the tent.
I am immediately knocked flat on my back by Killer, who is licking my
face with gallons of dog slobber.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I sit
up, hugging Killer, and look in at Beast, fearing the worst. He’s curled up in the fetal position on his
sleeping bag, and he’s been crying. No
sign of a bottle. I crawl in and put my
arms around him. His shoulders are
shaking. I try to surreptitiously sniff
his breath, and don’t smell beer or wine or liquor.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I start
crying, too. I was so frightened that I
had failed in my mission, but hadn’t let myself know how scared I was. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Trey
crawls into the tent and plops down right over the top of both of us with his
arms around us and begins singing quietly.
At first, I am too upset to listen.
Then, I realize he is singing in French. The tune seems vaguely familiar. I can’t catch
all the words at first, but finally, I make them out. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“<i>Il était un petit navire, qui n’avait ja-ja-jamais navigué</i>.” Trey sings it through several times, and when
I start understanding it, it seems like the worst thing to sing. It’s about people on a boat who run out of
food. They draw straws to see which one
will be sacrificed and it’s the small child who draws the short straw. I start crying harder when I realize this, because
it seems so perfectly wrong for Beast, but Trey only sings louder. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
When “<i>les petits poissons</i>” or the little fish, jump into the boat so they
have something to eat, I start laughing and can’t stop. Trey keeps singing, and I can tell now that
Beast is listening too. Then he
surprises me, by sitting up in such a way that I am sitting on one of his legs
and Trey on the other, and he begins singing in his surprisingly deep bass
voice, harmonizing with Trey. He knows
the song. From far back in my memory, I see
an image of Beast before we called him beast, when he was just David (?),
singing the song to me in French when I was tiny. His voice hadn’t changed then, and was so
sweet and high. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
The
tune is catchy. I hum along, picking up the words, remembering them, too, from
someplace deep inside. And the three of
us sing and sing and sing.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
links to images:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://www.northandaway.be/zomer_actieve_vakanties_alle_landen.asp?cd=&svc=houtvlottentocht_klaralven_zweden">http://www.northandaway.be/zomer_actieve_vakanties_alle_landen.asp?cd=&svc=houtvlottentocht_klaralven_zweden</a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://www.radastrand.com/en/index_activ.html">http://www.radastrand.com/en/index_activ.html</a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://www.telegraph.co.uk/travel/cruises/riversandcanals/1308625/Europes-waterways-from-Glasgow-to-Venice.html">http://www.telegraph.co.uk/travel/cruises/riversandcanals/1308625/Europes-waterways-from-Glasgow-to-Venice.html</a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://www.magneticjunction.com/huckleberry-finn-on-the-klaralven/">http://www.magneticjunction.com/huckleberry-finn-on-the-klaralven/</a></div>
Mary Stebbins Taitthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10626507461216769140noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12058307.post-80969829203848940542011-12-14T07:47:00.001-08:002011-12-14T08:03:49.840-08:00Making Homemade Block Print Christmas Cards<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvcFKNTAi3RTMCOqYidoANyPc0Sn3sCmkU-UvqIdbbzS6ynetqyzKs7ZPuzdrsEGzaZPPfVwaDOmH0RljoUjynUrhN65_YpIBYEstGGMR2DOVdIINJiXngHt7_o-wPbdTt6LqjdQ/s1600/Picture+110.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvcFKNTAi3RTMCOqYidoANyPc0Sn3sCmkU-UvqIdbbzS6ynetqyzKs7ZPuzdrsEGzaZPPfVwaDOmH0RljoUjynUrhN65_YpIBYEstGGMR2DOVdIINJiXngHt7_o-wPbdTt6LqjdQ/s400/Picture+110.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">drawing the block print design</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM8txh_pPjj_NCff76FSAHCv_tAFmPDA6DtI3y3YEwFQr9GimWjNGqV4HoH4EtUOKvEyjYSGk5aejLNNH3V-DzTXKw_xRBBUuFLsA0DKJ69VrAGQpSzo7N1og9rpUZfaaOrrMojg/s1600/Picture+111.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="301" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM8txh_pPjj_NCff76FSAHCv_tAFmPDA6DtI3y3YEwFQr9GimWjNGqV4HoH4EtUOKvEyjYSGk5aejLNNH3V-DzTXKw_xRBBUuFLsA0DKJ69VrAGQpSzo7N1og9rpUZfaaOrrMojg/s400/Picture+111.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">carving the block print design</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCP6aDW1T5_a9MWscMyJZ3hp-keh9Hp-pM5ZEh-vU-ZbM0MPh9gmEfaKRNJ5w2_4DZkRF3UVzSb3FIe6SQGOyq2uHnnHVsSUlRrKo8YOv7t0pPUapYeINDS9CPaucNosAjvnkjgA/s1600/Picture+112.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCP6aDW1T5_a9MWscMyJZ3hp-keh9Hp-pM5ZEh-vU-ZbM0MPh9gmEfaKRNJ5w2_4DZkRF3UVzSb3FIe6SQGOyq2uHnnHVsSUlRrKo8YOv7t0pPUapYeINDS9CPaucNosAjvnkjgA/s400/Picture+112.png" width="307" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">inking the block print design</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdcYq5Eee1385rDyOOHej2CVGsWJhzz2S6wvKn5acuyV6YvJnE-d8PDp8_KxobfL1kjKBsuUnAVcO6HSOZT7l3FCTasYrvCudJPOHceTnIsyhNWmGJBKejbiCrlSLdbuVIb9XfEg/s1600/Picture+113.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdcYq5Eee1385rDyOOHej2CVGsWJhzz2S6wvKn5acuyV6YvJnE-d8PDp8_KxobfL1kjKBsuUnAVcO6HSOZT7l3FCTasYrvCudJPOHceTnIsyhNWmGJBKejbiCrlSLdbuVIb9XfEg/s400/Picture+113.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">first block print</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8eYnmgA936g7w6Xo167pjOzAT8VPAITc7G3_-L-ot2djfh1jPw91pykvJ0oOYyXNIJceyf04xBikP95zx8oUA5E9Nfqxb1P-8uHQME7FkJ8RV2-9Lc0C3bglVw4Q1ZY7Ape-R8g/s1600/Picture+114.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8eYnmgA936g7w6Xo167pjOzAT8VPAITc7G3_-L-ot2djfh1jPw91pykvJ0oOYyXNIJceyf04xBikP95zx8oUA5E9Nfqxb1P-8uHQME7FkJ8RV2-9Lc0C3bglVw4Q1ZY7Ape-R8g/s400/Picture+114.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">block print inside</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_L-yS-sFk7QM655C6C5VyHxLC1kw84hNBVKQR0N95DAjmLHPXCbtF3y7rDe7EtcHxIlXBjOxaQdkQC6pKnqgIOXUy09lp6Ud4wM87K4kpKEOU3GBfeZ7nMkJQf1LialDVTDwztw/s1600/Picture+115.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_L-yS-sFk7QM655C6C5VyHxLC1kw84hNBVKQR0N95DAjmLHPXCbtF3y7rDe7EtcHxIlXBjOxaQdkQC6pKnqgIOXUy09lp6Ud4wM87K4kpKEOU3GBfeZ7nMkJQf1LialDVTDwztw/s400/Picture+115.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">printing the block print cards and drying them</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Making Homemade Christmas block print cards is a slow and tedious process with many opportunities to mess things up or even even ruin the work. There is no undo button.merrytaithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07389878391357276777noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12058307.post-14738697278540510862011-04-17T16:40:00.000-07:002011-04-17T16:32:05.240-07:00ArtRage: skulls<p class="mobile-photo"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB6EHHYwb2Or9IBNzbSG8alJoYRbsUrWKZ_y2PWXHK8JvwdsC4-85VB_GT1_szJGRkwZ729Ipkmjbl0K0P2FLwrbE0OsJmcgjAEp_HKNNy59y8oQc6Ov-5lQV426Yw465iynvE/s1600/skulls-725243.png"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB6EHHYwb2Or9IBNzbSG8alJoYRbsUrWKZ_y2PWXHK8JvwdsC4-85VB_GT1_szJGRkwZ729Ipkmjbl0K0P2FLwrbE0OsJmcgjAEp_HKNNy59y8oQc6Ov-5lQV426Yw465iynvE/s320/skulls-725243.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5596699414685561426" /></a></p>One of my ArtRage paintings: skullsMary Stebbins Taitthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10626507461216769140noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12058307.post-23140672662684305672011-03-28T18:36:00.000-07:002011-03-28T18:42:18.967-07:00Jacob, Merjon, and the Great Fish (or, and the Sea Witch)This is the first draft (well, draft 1.5 or 2) of new story for a children's picture book and novel. It is for my grandson, Frankie, who shortly will be 5 months old.<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;"><br /></span></div><div><div style="background- ;font-family:Times;font-size:medium;color:transparent;"><span id="internal-source-marker_0.16929482272826135" style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;font-size:11pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;"><br /></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;font-size:11pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;">Jacob Merjon and the Great Dream Fish</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;"><br /></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;font-size:11pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;">by Mary Stebbins Taitt, second draft (1.5, really!)</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;font-size:11pt;"></span><br /></span><p style="text-indent: 36pt; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt; "><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;font-size:11pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;">Back in the times when there was still magic in the world, yesterday, or the day before, Jacob, who gathered crabs and clams, lived with his fisher-folk parents. The times were changing and magic came less and less often, and many people said it was gone from the world, but Jacob knew better.</span></span></p><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;font-size:11pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;">When Jacob was out clamming in the fog, he had seen merwomen and mermen rise out of the water, riding on the backs of dolphins, and had often wished he could do that, too. He knew that the word mer simply meant sea. These were the sea folk, who were blessed, in these days of fading magic, with more magic than the landfolk.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;"><br /></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;font-size:11pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;">One day, when Jacob had bagged his clams in nets and set them in a shallow tide pool to stay alive until later, he went exploring, as he liked to do. He swam out to a little island with a rocky cliff around it. He saw no way up the cliffs, so he swam to the other side. The waves there crashed hard on the rocks, and Jacob almost turned back, but he saw a crack in the rocks, and swimming hard against the power of the crashing waves and the suck of the undertow, he slipped through the crack to a small beach. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;"><br /></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;font-size:11pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;">A boy his own age was sitting on a rock in the water staring at the sky, and he turned to look at Jacob, and smiled. "I've been waiting for you," he said. I was hoping you would come."</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;"><br /></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;font-size:11pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;">When Jacob swam close, and sat beside the boy, he saw that the boy was a mer child. Under the water, which was clear and still in the tiny bay, Jacob could see that the boy had a tail instead of legs. He sat in the water beside him.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;"><br /></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;font-size:11pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;">"You,” said the boy, “are not the 7th son of the 7th son, but you have the seed somehow, in spite of this discrepancy. You have the sight, the ability to learn magic. That happens only extremely rarely, so you are truly blessed." </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;"><br /></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;font-size:11pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;">"I thought magic was leaving the world," said Jacob. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;"><br /></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;font-size:11pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;">"No. It's going into a hiding. That's almost the same thing. But the sea witch has seen you seeing us, and she knows. She will visit you soon, if you give the word."</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;"><br /></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;font-size:11pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;">"What is the word? And what will happen?" asked Jacob.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;"><br /></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;font-size:11pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;">"Have you heard of the great fish? </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;"><br /></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;font-size:11pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;">"You mean the whale that swallowed Jonah?" </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;"><br /></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;font-size:11pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;">Not exactly, explained the boy. "My name is Merjon Marlin. (In expended story, he becomes Merjon Merlin) You can call me Jon. I am the seventh son of a seventh son, something that doesn't happen often, even among our people. We have fewer children now that we are withdrawing from the world. So seven happens very rarely."</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;"><br /></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;font-size:11pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;">"According to our people, there is a great fish dreaming the world. It is he who dreamed your sight. He swallows people, humans and mer people, and they ride in his belly and learn to see the world in a new way. Then he either digests them, or spits them out. It depends on what you see from inside him.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;"><br /></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;font-size:11pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;">“Did you ride inside him? Yes. What did you see? I am forbidden to say. Everyone sees something different, according to his or her nature. But how will I know if it is safe?" You won't. But if you do it and succeed, we will be friends, and you can swim under the sea and play with me, and I can walk on land and play with you."</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;"><br /></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;font-size:11pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;">"I can't promise anything, said Merjon, the merboy, but I can tell you this: the point of being swallowed by the fish is to test you for magic, and even though you are not the seventh son of a seventh son, I know you're magic, because you're sitting here talking to me, and because you can see the merfolk, and always have been able to, since you were tiny. Do you see anything flying overhead?"</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;"><br /></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;font-size:11pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;">"Yes, said Jacob, “there are eight miniature winged dragons, about the size of seagulls. Only they are all the colors of the rainbow and flying in rainbow formation, red, orange, yellow, green, blue and violet." "We call them dragonets," said Jon. </span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;">"Okay, said Jacob, I will risk the test. I am not eager to die and I am not without fear, but I will do it."</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;"><br /></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;font-size:11pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;">The next day, Jacob went crabbing and clamming as usual. When he returned to the fishing shanty for lunch, he senses a presence outside the door. He knew right away that t was the sea witch. He could ser, right through the door of the shanty, in her flowing blue and green gown. He knew she had come for him, but he was frightened, and left by another door.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;"><br /></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;font-size:11pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;">He continued his clamming and crabbing, always aware that sea witch was waiting for him at the shanty. She floated, unmoving, a few inches above the stoop, waiting, patient. At dinnertime, he returned to the shanty through the back door. When his parents returned with their catch of the day, he suddenly remembers the sea witch who was waiting for him. He had been working all afternoon to not think about her, and it was hard. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;"><br /></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;font-size:11pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;">He opened the back door, not the one where the witch had been waiting earlier, but the one he and his parents had used. A woman dressed in the rags of a peddler stood there. Her face was wrinkled and old, her eyes hidden in many layers of skin. But they were bright and piercing.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;"><br /></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;font-size:11pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;">"Who's there, asked Jacob's father."</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;"><br /></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;font-size:11pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;">"A peddler woman," Jacob said, turning to his father, and holding the door wide so that the woman could be seen. But his father was busy cleaning fish and did not look. "Ask her what she is selling," suggested the father, without looking up from his work. Jacob's mother, too, was busy. She was peeling potatoes.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;"><br /></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;font-size:11pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;">Jacob looked the peddler woman in the eyes and said, loudly so his father could hear over the sounds of his work, "What are you selling?" The woman wasn't there. One moment, he'd been looking in the eye, and the next moment, she was gone (don't forget the merman consort). She's gone, Jacob said. She disappeared." He felt a simultaneous rush of both relief and disappointment. Now, he night never be magic. But he would not have to face the fish that would swallow him.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;"><br /></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;font-size:11pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;">"Nonsense," his father said. "She just gave up because you took so long to speak to her. Step outside and catch her." Jacob stepped outside and looked down the cobbled path for the peddler woman or the sea witch, but saw no one. Instead, he saw a whirling waterspout, a combination whirlpool or tornado, and before he could move or speak, it lifted its tail toward him, opened its mouth, and swallowed him.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;"><br /></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;font-size:11pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;">The waterspout dove into the bay carrying Jacob in its belly, swimming like a fish. It swam deep into the ocean, moving faster than a bolt of sea lightning. In almost a single instant, coral reefs hey appeared around them. Jacob had never been that far south. But somehow, he knew what they were. The fish talked to him, not out loud, and not in words, simply in knowing. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;"><br /></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;font-size:11pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;">The fish that Jacob rode in was as transparent as if it were made of glass. The glass was colored, like the stained glass of a church window, and the colors changed, sometimes slowly, sometimes quickly. ((Red-winged blackbird. It's eating crabapples. I took a shot of it, but it won't be good, too many branches in the way. Here's another, and another, tried another shot, also not good. The third one flew.)) The colors seemed most often to be yellow and a pale but bright orange. Red, blue, green, purple and other colors shimmered through. The more Jacob watched the shifting colors, the happier he felt. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;"><br /></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;font-size:11pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;">Suddenly, Jacob was flying. He soared like an eagle. He remembered flying in his dreams. Maybe this was just a dream. He wondered if he could find Merjon Marlin. He pictured Merjon, as he has last seen him, sitting on a rock the shallow bay. Whoosh, there he was. But Merjon was standing on the rock with two human legs. Jacob landed beside him.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;"><br /></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;font-size:11pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;">"You passed the test," Jon said. And he dove into the water. Jacob dove in after him. As they swam deeper into the water, their legs joined into a strong tails. Jacob whipped his back and forth to catch up with Jon, who already knew how to use his tail. As Jon swam deeper and deeper, and Jacob followed, it occurred to Jacob that he should have to breathe, to go up for air. But he didn't feel out of breath. It was the magic. He smiled. A great fish swam up and swam along beside him. Jacob felt peaceful and happy.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;"><br /></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;font-size:11pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;">Jon took him to meet the merfolk and they welcomed him as a friend and emissary from human land. "We will teach you the great secrets of magic," they told him. They gave him crabs and clams and a huge tuna to take home to his family, since he'd been to busy for his afternoon crabbing. “I’ll take you dolphin riding tomorrow,” Jon promised.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;"><br /></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;font-size:11pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF99;">When Jacob returned home, his parents were waiting. "Did you enjoy the sea witch?" his mother asked. His parents smiled. They knew his secret, and they didn't seem to mind. He was glad, and wondered if they too had met the Sea Witch.</span></span><br /><span style=" color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background- font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;font-size:11pt;color:transparent;"> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre; "> </span>The end. (--of the short, little-kid, picture-boo version. The novel version is much longer and involves evil and secrets.) No writing of it until other books are complete!!! (But I can make NOTES!!)) Mary Stebbins Taitt, 110323 1st draft</span><br /><span style=" color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background- font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;font-size:11pt;color:transparent;"> </span><br /><span style=" color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background- font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;font-size:11pt;color:transparent;">110328-1511 NOTE: There is another version of this somewhere—R’dale? The two need to be compared and justified! IMPORTANT!</span></div></div><br /><br />here are two of the tentative illos for the book, or studies for them. They were done by me in Ballookey's Mole.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-mkVbP_Fyu9B8eENF6BeATaN42iiD1YFo4tNdF9k5Uz9j4S3WG3ySZhSc1UeVj5emTZQ3O7wRnFLX1cPr1v7BqRzhH3WgYrfLHZoEmHDiwP8BDHHmKmHE9e2kw4cZltM4SLHuVQ/s1600/Picture+42.png" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 287px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-mkVbP_Fyu9B8eENF6BeATaN42iiD1YFo4tNdF9k5Uz9j4S3WG3ySZhSc1UeVj5emTZQ3O7wRnFLX1cPr1v7BqRzhH3WgYrfLHZoEmHDiwP8BDHHmKmHE9e2kw4cZltM4SLHuVQ/s400/Picture+42.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5589297710450226498" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZkHgGE0Hl8WB5otysL4kXDFzdV8DjoHW8N1N2mnLmR7wI4KbRwS5w_cyJmnGDAi8eXw5abn_LfZPC0sdLAGHrB4fXjoaZc9n-JxrMPRnN_Jhw8iPO4tKyFm0rt2xPZde7_EgGSA/s1600/Picture+32.png" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5587439232944307282" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZkHgGE0Hl8WB5otysL4kXDFzdV8DjoHW8N1N2mnLmR7wI4KbRwS5w_cyJmnGDAi8eXw5abn_LfZPC0sdLAGHrB4fXjoaZc9n-JxrMPRnN_Jhw8iPO4tKyFm0rt2xPZde7_EgGSA/s400/Picture+32.png" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 400px; margin: 0 10px 10px 0; width: 283px;" /></a>merrytaithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07389878391357276777noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12058307.post-76920804192692690552011-02-22T06:19:00.000-08:002011-02-22T10:42:01.576-08:00Art in Progress<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8ghsQ35s5BcFhQVLmG6Wi1FVhotS-QmymF46ZrMM5MBY6cWdZLaeyZxw6_a8K8m0qLrTEsm1H3vMEmhwzCFmSU1aZBRusuvBwxrHM5qFEKN4couUvKWi2MyA5PNZzdMWfSWiHCw/s1600/Picture+50.png"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 524px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8ghsQ35s5BcFhQVLmG6Wi1FVhotS-QmymF46ZrMM5MBY6cWdZLaeyZxw6_a8K8m0qLrTEsm1H3vMEmhwzCFmSU1aZBRusuvBwxrHM5qFEKN4couUvKWi2MyA5PNZzdMWfSWiHCw/s800/Picture+50.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5576517353797750914" /></a>I love doing art! It's so satisfying and a great way to spend a snowy evening. This piece is for a book I am working on for my grandson. it's not done yet.<div><br /></div><div>Click image to view larger.<br /><div><br /></div><div>Stay safe and warm!</div></div>merrytaithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07389878391357276777noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12058307.post-75204474438292320962011-01-09T11:42:00.000-08:002011-01-09T11:49:57.503-08:00Crickets, Brush painting<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVSjEEMMnw85YO7eXa5bBH7hcA3JFX_2E3QnkYekcXMeEPCjFWRs4vSyrOFnVBgLWW87Rv9pWPbg4lqIh5qkDlH4azpImw6WpbHfqK4qE0CcQZJi5xJlZADfLyjl5VzFvG7wj_9A/s1600/Picture+386.png"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 269px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVSjEEMMnw85YO7eXa5bBH7hcA3JFX_2E3QnkYekcXMeEPCjFWRs4vSyrOFnVBgLWW87Rv9pWPbg4lqIh5qkDlH4azpImw6WpbHfqK4qE0CcQZJi5xJlZADfLyjl5VzFvG7wj_9A/s400/Picture+386.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5560274634831955234" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwusMFP7J8-DxPBhbXVaEEPNUpzis1czNbu-YDCn5ilcpGYdd4HtKFdmmtPPWPrhz_SuOD_9d9ltoJ1PrJhyphenhyphen51nlDFnjsfWI-2XILtN9y3DMNEZmjJhOHhb0GYrN3upFa6o-JBGA/s1600/Picture+399.png"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 308px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwusMFP7J8-DxPBhbXVaEEPNUpzis1czNbu-YDCn5ilcpGYdd4HtKFdmmtPPWPrhz_SuOD_9d9ltoJ1PrJhyphenhyphen51nlDFnjsfWI-2XILtN9y3DMNEZmjJhOHhb0GYrN3upFa6o-JBGA/s400/Picture+399.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5560274629147304002" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0-OyFhuI7rKQC0PjcD-TMx5WskoQSN3_GjznPuP6h2qalYOb_xlF7aldzPLWAsfl2sEGhYxaS5iAGyO_8iRhSiT9AsfYyyEswUaMqEYzmxOtWxRU7vHyU0iOLfTKY-NNhg3ydug/s1600/Picture+398.png"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 292px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0-OyFhuI7rKQC0PjcD-TMx5WskoQSN3_GjznPuP6h2qalYOb_xlF7aldzPLWAsfl2sEGhYxaS5iAGyO_8iRhSiT9AsfYyyEswUaMqEYzmxOtWxRU7vHyU0iOLfTKY-NNhg3ydug/s400/Picture+398.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5560274620160321890" /></a><br /><br />What could be simpler than a Zen brush painting? One brush, one color, only a few strokes. Right. What no one tells you is how many times you have to do it over and over to get one to come out right. Practice practice practice. This painting is new. I did it the night before last. I did not follow a prescribed pattern, I studied instead the insect itself. Or--rather--some photographs of crickets. I have had no training. I just want to achieve simplicity on some level. I did, however, use a real bamboo brush, a large one--which is very challenging (for me). You can see how many I did before I got one I really liked.<br /><br />I'd like to try some more when I have time. I think with a little more practice, I might be able to get it to be better and more consistent. MAYBE.merrytaithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07389878391357276777noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12058307.post-6967365306571481222011-01-07T07:22:00.001-08:002011-01-07T07:26:44.109-08:00Considering, small revisionsI didn't like the flea image (see previous post), it didn't sit well with the rest of the imagery and the mood. I also felt the ending wasn't clear enough. I wanted to leave a little mystery and uncertainty, but to indicate the possible ending more clearly. I hope I've done that. Feel free to comment on the changes, but don't be too offended if I go my own stubborn way regardless. Sometimes, I like suggestions, and sometimes, they fall flat.<div><br /></div><div><b>Considering</b><br /><br />No screams show on the map, though you know<br />they hide there, perhaps below the cryptic markings,<br />the dragons, mermen and tridents. Red<br />bleeds the tattered edges of terror. Jagged, the ink<br />hemorrhages into the long fibers of the map’s rough paper.<br />The ink burns the flesh of your fingertips when you reach<br />to locate the memories. You stand on that cliff looking<br />down, twitching your shoulders for wings, but this isn’t<br />a dream. This is your life; each breath catapults you closer<br />to his opened fists, his fingers poised at your neck<br />ready to close. Suppose you ran? Who can explain<br />the geography of the heart, the way the blood and ink<br />of your story is ground from the same DNA as his father’s<br />and his father’s father’s? Observe how your own father<br />holds hands with his father; conjoined twins—they connect<br />at the out-thrust jaw. Note how together, they caress the map.<br />They paint your name across a heart with a blade suspended<br />above it. Small stars indicate honing, and the tip<br />draws to point sharper and smaller than the needle canine<br />of a ferret. From the margins of the map, they erase your face<br />with a wash of your tears. When wind fills with the taste<br />of iron and fear, and you consider your options, you take<br />one small step toward a hurtling topography of rock,<br />shattered promises and silence.<br /><br />Mary Stebbins Taitt<br />for Peter, Joseph and “the General,” with love (Also for Brian Powers)<br />110107-0940-2a(4), 110106-1537-1c(3), 110106-1023 1sr—1st poem of 2011</div>merrytaithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07389878391357276777noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12058307.post-60577597895686937402011-01-06T17:43:00.000-08:002011-01-06T17:46:14.837-08:00First poem of 2011: Considering<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal">Considering<o:p></o:p></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">No screams show on the map, though you know</p> <p class="MsoNormal">they hide there, perhaps below the cryptic markings,</p> <p class="MsoNormal">the dragons, mermen and tridents. Red </p> <p class="MsoNormal">bleeds the tattered edges of terror. Jagged, the ink </p> <p class="MsoNormal">hemorrhages into the long fibers of the map’s rough paper.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The ink burns the flesh of your fingertips when you reach</p> <p class="MsoNormal">to locate the memories.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>You stand on that cliff looking </p> <p class="MsoNormal">down, twitching your shoulders for wings, but this isn’t</p> <p class="MsoNormal">a dream.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>This is your life; each breath catapults you closer </p> <p class="MsoNormal">to his opened fists, his fingers poised at your neck</p> <p class="MsoNormal">ready to close.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Suppose you ran?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Who can explain </p> <p class="MsoNormal">the geography of the heart, the way the blood and ink</p> <p class="MsoNormal">of your story is ground from the same DNA as his father’s</p> <p class="MsoNormal">and his father’s father’s?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Observe how your own father </p> <p class="MsoNormal">holds hands with his father; conjoined twins—they connect </p> <p class="MsoNormal">at the out-thrust jaw. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Note how together, they caress the map. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">They paint your name across a heart with a blade suspended</p> <p class="MsoNormal">above it. Small stars indicate honing, and the tip </p> <p class="MsoNormal">draws to point sharper and smaller than the baby toe </p> <p class="MsoNormal">of a flea. From the map’s margins, they erase your face </p> <p class="MsoNormal">with your tears. When wind fills with the taste </p> <p class="MsoNormal">of iron and fear, and you consider your options, you take </p> <p class="MsoNormal">one small step toward a topography of rock, </p> <p class="MsoNormal">shattered promises and silence.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Mary Stebbins Taitt</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">for Peter, Joseph and “the General,” with love<o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal">110106-1537-1c(3), 110106-1023 1sr—1<sup>st</sup> poem of 2011</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Second poem of 2011 (a Haiku):</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><!--StartFragment--> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><b>Sweeps of Blue</b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Like simple brushstrokes,</p> <p class="MsoNormal">snowflakes whisper over drifts, </p> <p class="MsoNormal">pile in arching curves.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Mary Stebbins Taitt</p> <!--EndFragment--> <p></p> <!--EndFragment-->merrytaithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07389878391357276777noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12058307.post-11683950439107008902010-11-26T09:03:00.001-08:002010-11-26T09:03:55.334-08:00Baby with cat, in progress<p class="mobile-photo"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO9v8xKalX-u1OlTUXSJdCiyFRKTmUMWRY7ZVY-DX4eLc790uXq-jvQ6aJ_FWa8qx0gxvydOyj3Abqv_hjGZJexaEu0acyO_oSMM69clGAXWgEuFU34SCWawpedUjxwPeSCRViMw/s1600/baby+with+cat%2523271-735335.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO9v8xKalX-u1OlTUXSJdCiyFRKTmUMWRY7ZVY-DX4eLc790uXq-jvQ6aJ_FWa8qx0gxvydOyj3Abqv_hjGZJexaEu0acyO_oSMM69clGAXWgEuFU34SCWawpedUjxwPeSCRViMw/s320/baby+with+cat%2523271-735335.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5543905285486995378" /></a></p><p class="mobile-photo"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4o2opc7k0kqMBRowKnVu4BpyCUIf0pUxUHUF6xmHj7q1_-LLKAIpO74-nSUqaNoQ0PA6_rjP0UsCK1ElJtu5CiryO37rXcIImXqwanuqOYYGurEHvZ94is6S7evGLXoIRdmNiyw/s1600/baby+with+cat%2523272-738183.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4o2opc7k0kqMBRowKnVu4BpyCUIf0pUxUHUF6xmHj7q1_-LLKAIpO74-nSUqaNoQ0PA6_rjP0UsCK1ElJtu5CiryO37rXcIImXqwanuqOYYGurEHvZ94is6S7evGLXoIRdmNiyw/s320/baby+with+cat%2523272-738183.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5543905298029565842" /></a></p><p class="mobile-photo"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyYpvsfImSh9ndJwidUwXkeUkTRxrGjnSqnX6lSgPQlOCa2e0lzr6g1AqsCEqglSCmjBIiUHcOuwYknSf2WR6ZHmWh2dHssDMKCRqtasyMga-uLmN6pWpRCsLvEdf6AwJCESAIaw/s1600/baby+with+cat%2523273-743812.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyYpvsfImSh9ndJwidUwXkeUkTRxrGjnSqnX6lSgPQlOCa2e0lzr6g1AqsCEqglSCmjBIiUHcOuwYknSf2WR6ZHmWh2dHssDMKCRqtasyMga-uLmN6pWpRCsLvEdf6AwJCESAIaw/s320/baby+with+cat%2523273-743812.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5543905317207936786" /></a></p><p class="mobile-photo"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitU60obOuhGAsM0wdst8CQHD66lIpsMzWs-GzHVTftaNHRQHOYLIXwGmxWlcUdOngfPsNT6h7ZDcvo-fDfjUuBUwo_0PbTWRFMKO_KhKS8JsAmW20NPR91jBCKDbGOO8WJHeMwuw/s1600/baby+with+cat%2523274-744598.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitU60obOuhGAsM0wdst8CQHD66lIpsMzWs-GzHVTftaNHRQHOYLIXwGmxWlcUdOngfPsNT6h7ZDcvo-fDfjUuBUwo_0PbTWRFMKO_KhKS8JsAmW20NPR91jBCKDbGOO8WJHeMwuw/s320/baby+with+cat%2523274-744598.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5543905323065360482" /></a></p><p class="mobile-photo"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTsFKXlun6iBpYrZbhMqGYHzkfXwn3fqY927QMcUgk5nzxeE_zGTfGJ8gFiu0j-2QTEzCkP35RFtMIVjvudcOzghoeTuTGx91pEkT5C2PNTOTvTkWHurZ-y-YZaQahAKrhTfV8WA/s1600/baby+with+cat%2523275-745829.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTsFKXlun6iBpYrZbhMqGYHzkfXwn3fqY927QMcUgk5nzxeE_zGTfGJ8gFiu0j-2QTEzCkP35RFtMIVjvudcOzghoeTuTGx91pEkT5C2PNTOTvTkWHurZ-y-YZaQahAKrhTfV8WA/s320/baby+with+cat%2523275-745829.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5543905329701414018" /></a></p>for my secret project. Not quite done yet.merrytaithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07389878391357276777noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12058307.post-18480990032893304402010-11-11T22:09:00.000-08:002010-11-11T22:42:45.466-08:00Bethany with Crown of Thorns (The Human Condition II)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiUfmCa5IDePQOk1bMbBeR-TJdy0h9SjlRK4iJEeTN-jROhuU9XxVajxAQnK74ifzkDCd29V22h82OdyQNxKtyoTuCCSOuaqTRC_5QeLDEs8u7YWj9Pci_ibxOzsTHiBUp4pWmBA/s1600/Picture+342.png"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 412px; height: 549px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiUfmCa5IDePQOk1bMbBeR-TJdy0h9SjlRK4iJEeTN-jROhuU9XxVajxAQnK74ifzkDCd29V22h82OdyQNxKtyoTuCCSOuaqTRC_5QeLDEs8u7YWj9Pci_ibxOzsTHiBUp4pWmBA/s800/Picture+342.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5538541698609521122" /></a>merrytaithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07389878391357276777noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12058307.post-72169889337755899462010-11-11T07:11:00.001-08:002010-11-11T07:11:59.199-08:00Bethany<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitydeClt2QpYA2ugXp8YQRYYHnXY0PcwyPE1hojUw0F0M1SOovTPPjy4C7c6-L3YcF4RLZihXcuBZ3ia7qHokOCtSTSqBw96j0MLJ_PY14SMlibSpF7kU-JYgRH9_i7waqNF1Uwg/s1600/Picture+341.png"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 412px; height: 549px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitydeClt2QpYA2ugXp8YQRYYHnXY0PcwyPE1hojUw0F0M1SOovTPPjy4C7c6-L3YcF4RLZihXcuBZ3ia7qHokOCtSTSqBw96j0MLJ_PY14SMlibSpF7kU-JYgRH9_i7waqNF1Uwg/s800/Picture+341.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5538303981813187602" /></a><br /><br />I did this as yet possibly unfinished painting in the car driving to and from Krista's baptism last night. I did it on my iPad using Artrage. I did not start from a photo of any kind, not even a reference photo-- it's a freehand digital finger painting. I used almost all the available tools--experimenting with them, just for the fun of it. I combined things that might be hard to combine on paper: oils, acrylics, water colors, pastels, crayons, pencils, air bush, etc. I think I used everything.<br /><br />I painted it in the car in the dark in the backseat hurtling along the freeway over bumps and around turns. I am working to learn the new iPad Artrage. I couldn't have painted with oils or acrylics in that situation. I couldn't even type--I tried it!<div><br /></div><div>For some reason, I kept wanting to add a crown of thorns, but felt it would be sacrilegious. I was thinking perhaps it reminds me, maybe because of the colors, of a famous painting of Jesus with the crown of thorns. I had a painting in mind, after I thought of it, but I googled it and couldn't find it. Maybe it wasn't a <i>famous</i> painting. Maybe just something I saw in someone's house. Originally, Bethany wasn't smiling. Smiling, it seems like a crown of thorns would be wholly inappropriate.<br /><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">Click image to view larger.</span></div>merrytaithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07389878391357276777noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12058307.post-80771530203570823032010-11-07T18:16:00.001-08:002010-11-16T06:32:41.035-08:00Writing Letters<div class="mobile-photo"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKZCFrRez4ZlFss60ubeL_KiafIKf7DI5C34w_Mbmih-9WVwa15NLnzEYLwcHUgxBuAylUrWmIkyAfi2pmlY5sGXMqO5mdee7XA6NsN3M_Nc8z3TaADOIDPCkOI9Dv0v5ZXrI0PQ/s1600/youngwoman+writing+let+%23266-776905.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5536997010100868082" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKZCFrRez4ZlFss60ubeL_KiafIKf7DI5C34w_Mbmih-9WVwa15NLnzEYLwcHUgxBuAylUrWmIkyAfi2pmlY5sGXMqO5mdee7XA6NsN3M_Nc8z3TaADOIDPCkOI9Dv0v5ZXrI0PQ/s320/youngwoman+writing+let+%23266-776905.jpg" /></a></div><div class="mobile-photo"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0obgMeKpi7FSLQuPca0NbHIYY_Mlw3qIoArrMnD00XIYRtBUs4xmI-polophFQgJ65dLykSZq7O0o650qH4094gHMfRn5S3FllV-l0SKbAECAEXrWcTxQsSMbNqeE1YJD9SmBAg/s1600/youngwoman+writing+let+%23267-779386.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5536997018778639490" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0obgMeKpi7FSLQuPca0NbHIYY_Mlw3qIoArrMnD00XIYRtBUs4xmI-polophFQgJ65dLykSZq7O0o650qH4094gHMfRn5S3FllV-l0SKbAECAEXrWcTxQsSMbNqeE1YJD9SmBAg/s320/youngwoman+writing+let+%23267-779386.jpg" /></a></div><div class="mobile-photo"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_VJHttyaKALrDaPlbt9gEi8UKPNxgY_24VLVszCIAuWmwO4457DnilNg6PjZzylF6sYFXBYmKa48KaQxA0O09YbBg3zTX5em7cKceo_H1glhAksdyWR7fXAl9uTTPYfsiWUPpyg/s1600/IMG_4553-781545.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5536997024856064002" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_VJHttyaKALrDaPlbt9gEi8UKPNxgY_24VLVszCIAuWmwO4457DnilNg6PjZzylF6sYFXBYmKa48KaQxA0O09YbBg3zTX5em7cKceo_H1glhAksdyWR7fXAl9uTTPYfsiWUPpyg/s320/IMG_4553-781545.JPG" /></a></div><div class="mobile-photo"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm-V2zAHW1xB0BQUU1mBgOuEBVAJtDImdCFg3_efDzYdWWsfpSuUn28q3yYLCfBMvKVXVYxo_6mT1yUjl63ge2VBcqWgtR58SgzsWt8_SJ7z9XKZqjDZnLWyM59IOJ7TbtYm2hwQ/s1600/IMG_4574-783276.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5536997036567115074" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm-V2zAHW1xB0BQUU1mBgOuEBVAJtDImdCFg3_efDzYdWWsfpSuUn28q3yYLCfBMvKVXVYxo_6mT1yUjl63ge2VBcqWgtR58SgzsWt8_SJ7z9XKZqjDZnLWyM59IOJ7TbtYm2hwQ/s320/IMG_4574-783276.JPG" /></a></div><div class="mobile-photo"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl2W7NQitfYl357lqQy-tleLYdOjypMLdUyAmiqJazGzPsZBWLOoSWNpiPKvpND9NoG4B-r_IKyO9FEhwQdXZqJw0s5h8lEzyfA_ljT0HOazxMqTFRcWmtEd-C8oGZouZ_6bFoBQ/s1600/IMG_4575-784533.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5536997038809682610" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl2W7NQitfYl357lqQy-tleLYdOjypMLdUyAmiqJazGzPsZBWLOoSWNpiPKvpND9NoG4B-r_IKyO9FEhwQdXZqJw0s5h8lEzyfA_ljT0HOazxMqTFRcWmtEd-C8oGZouZ_6bFoBQ/s320/IMG_4575-784533.JPG" /></a></div><div class="mobile-photo"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfoXcjj9E5GaMfx-EZW55ioxBxgfFppHyUBz-k-wU_gnouuMLx2Zb7FJQp0OGKvXJAo4-o-nRtAiJdf2l_E47f5iBGdaybHj7o6KlkjXYvIwup2Gf13Su4FKbBWlhdJyXBni8i-A/s1600/youngwoman+writing+let+%23268-785355.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5536997044674969762" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfoXcjj9E5GaMfx-EZW55ioxBxgfFppHyUBz-k-wU_gnouuMLx2Zb7FJQp0OGKvXJAo4-o-nRtAiJdf2l_E47f5iBGdaybHj7o6KlkjXYvIwup2Gf13Su4FKbBWlhdJyXBni8i-A/s320/youngwoman+writing+let+%23268-785355.jpg" /></a></div><div class="mobile-photo"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiVc9r722Z2MlhGcY6odknpElMmLc7KmPzHdz43RM9Jsszu4AyzhyGN2QIKVNaVBN1EIXWkt2K29JUgjipOgQEROk4kHQsUGJORj13XNub1iWMzkc7-Vr2-RRIMvQZhDmYNoBDcA/s1600/young+woman+writing+letter+%23268ar+101107-1702-787072.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5536997053506103250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiVc9r722Z2MlhGcY6odknpElMmLc7KmPzHdz43RM9Jsszu4AyzhyGN2QIKVNaVBN1EIXWkt2K29JUgjipOgQEROk4kHQsUGJORj13XNub1iWMzkc7-Vr2-RRIMvQZhDmYNoBDcA/s320/young+woman+writing+letter+%23268ar+101107-1702-787072.jpg" /></a></div>ONE more for the secret project.merrytaithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07389878391357276777noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12058307.post-9029386686847322112010-10-31T10:41:00.001-07:002010-10-31T10:41:20.645-07:00Happy Halloweeh--in progress<p class="mobile-photo"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjcgXLStuZkjzZDq8ppIIV9Z0Q4qD_wiXnBqWCCrEuc8qiZnoPNVspX_SGV52ArElZ94wwct68EmYJVKDfTWMC4HxkdKKFlZvkgYqu5DyQS67QLAVPLABXxlDj3Rp010L8aiZ6iQ/s1600/Happy+Halloween+2010b2-780646.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjcgXLStuZkjzZDq8ppIIV9Z0Q4qD_wiXnBqWCCrEuc8qiZnoPNVspX_SGV52ArElZ94wwct68EmYJVKDfTWMC4HxkdKKFlZvkgYqu5DyQS67QLAVPLABXxlDj3Rp010L8aiZ6iQ/s320/Happy+Halloween+2010b2-780646.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5534266715365543026" /></a></p><p class="mobile-photo"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHawi358w5JUfTaYJM7prlWwfP9s2g3illEH4Ub7PxWVT0soOQ8a9ejkgHzPAOScKqj4iKJ4JKP4qHo8UEu2VLmTzCII9bJekY2ce7MTUNW6KKeMpU6vFZyqA1o0XoSyBHmN-HOg/s1600/Picture+318-782968.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHawi358w5JUfTaYJM7prlWwfP9s2g3illEH4Ub7PxWVT0soOQ8a9ejkgHzPAOScKqj4iKJ4JKP4qHo8UEu2VLmTzCII9bJekY2ce7MTUNW6KKeMpU6vFZyqA1o0XoSyBHmN-HOg/s320/Picture+318-782968.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5534266722268987730" /></a></p><p class="mobile-photo"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinqDazEV9MUGq_vOMeP6hc2eZVgAyO-lYVOqvTcEmYzc0kv-kgSNpweyj5LmvQiFrKJZBl0D0U6R4xQzGCIYCpgepuzrGckrIXbRDdlEtGYR9SSGU_FS2yFbAFfocVn8xUI87_GQ/s1600/Recently+Updated38-1-784287.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinqDazEV9MUGq_vOMeP6hc2eZVgAyO-lYVOqvTcEmYzc0kv-kgSNpweyj5LmvQiFrKJZBl0D0U6R4xQzGCIYCpgepuzrGckrIXbRDdlEtGYR9SSGU_FS2yFbAFfocVn8xUI87_GQ/s320/Recently+Updated38-1-784287.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5534266728065267522" /></a></p><p class="mobile-photo"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGnr96ZKQa5bEGozbTVFrc6knwNHM3Ni9m3xs7dIXif0oLmjflPrsMKDe9vjs_9-llJKOUTIr9m2v9PKmhpDjYCCXa3JeBYCj3XqtJgGutnNPSO9aOSf6Rzti7m6MQ673B0MglvQ/s1600/101025+Heidi+visit+Lower+Huron-785698.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGnr96ZKQa5bEGozbTVFrc6knwNHM3Ni9m3xs7dIXif0oLmjflPrsMKDe9vjs_9-llJKOUTIr9m2v9PKmhpDjYCCXa3JeBYCj3XqtJgGutnNPSO9aOSf6Rzti7m6MQ673B0MglvQ/s320/101025+Heidi+visit+Lower+Huron-785698.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5534266734085532034" /></a></p>The making of the annual halloween card/self-portraitmerrytaithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07389878391357276777noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12058307.post-35123515598668345342010-10-28T15:00:00.000-07:002010-11-16T06:32:41.038-08:00Messy Baby Tentative Final<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5DaUCjzVdwlbTgg7xK8pkwGyLO4sR0lPhKY3rFFNSuZ7IXgw6D-FQsgiBDwhVbBOIyiSbA68jWaZoOXQbTGRbJrQ2pRzgvUb4RLvr37qj4KMQzEBynBNjfraWh3oWEarmDJEMCA/s1600/Picture+313.png"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 725px; height: 500px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5DaUCjzVdwlbTgg7xK8pkwGyLO4sR0lPhKY3rFFNSuZ7IXgw6D-FQsgiBDwhVbBOIyiSbA68jWaZoOXQbTGRbJrQ2pRzgvUb4RLvr37qj4KMQzEBynBNjfraWh3oWEarmDJEMCA/s800/Picture+313.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5533220508398031746" /></a><br />I am not really happy with this, but mainly, I am unhappy with the scan of it. The electric blue, for example. The original painting is somewhat softer.<div><br /></div><div>Look back to see earlier versions (process).</div>merrytaithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07389878391357276777noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12058307.post-48174687565752129122010-10-28T08:16:00.000-07:002010-11-16T06:32:41.040-08:00The Messy Baby project continued<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ9sQ-i_CmPC-El-ovQA8kLu9hfo-otjM9MuReIeUanZwq_ttdV00pvaIIRHehBQgo0GdSaKLlwBhj2rof4iR-rhcLGJKgRRnFeVMO-RpY58xwD7lIYv_p9SipXR-oEKcu-0Ma9A/s1600/Picture+312.png"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 725px; height: 500px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ9sQ-i_CmPC-El-ovQA8kLu9hfo-otjM9MuReIeUanZwq_ttdV00pvaIIRHehBQgo0GdSaKLlwBhj2rof4iR-rhcLGJKgRRnFeVMO-RpY58xwD7lIYv_p9SipXR-oEKcu-0Ma9A/s800/Picture+312.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5533116267520664690" /></a><br /><br />After an hour of severe flickering, our power went out last night--it flickered while I was cooking--making cooking difficult, and went out while were eating--I was painting this picture. I packed up and went to R'dale and spent the evening in my studio painting--a large area of GPF had no power--high winds, downed trees--but Detroit was unaffected.<br /><br />I know there are lots of things wrong with this as YET unfinished picture, but I had such a good time painting it that I felt like an artist for maybe the first time ever. (NOT DONE YET!)<br /><br />Remember, this is a SECRET project, so don't mention it.<br /><div><br /></div><div>Scroll down to the older blog posts see the entire process of this painting.</div><div><br /></div><div>This is a multi-media piece, which so far has gouache, pencil, acrylic and water color. It is the final image I am interested in, not any sense of faithfulness to a particular medium. However, I must say, I really enjoyed the process.</div>merrytaithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07389878391357276777noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12058307.post-80168947882772943012010-10-27T12:48:00.000-07:002010-10-27T12:50:11.697-07:00Messy baby--started the painting with gouache<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8jPRYs-tj_EaawviLpizvd7BS2j_mTVQxrEZojxwh3WlU0eG07U-gMi-QCfx0yFJH7GF5E0B8_IseWXBFG1xBmRHJ3Nm6ucuVGSQJivwN_bc9McFrE-XQWarYdo_i-b07yynBEA/s1600/Picture+311.png"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 725px; height: 500px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8jPRYs-tj_EaawviLpizvd7BS2j_mTVQxrEZojxwh3WlU0eG07U-gMi-QCfx0yFJH7GF5E0B8_IseWXBFG1xBmRHJ3Nm6ucuVGSQJivwN_bc9McFrE-XQWarYdo_i-b07yynBEA/s800/Picture+311.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5532815350553370466" /></a><br />First two colors addedmerrytaithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07389878391357276777noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12058307.post-35344324268318171462010-10-27T11:32:00.000-07:002010-11-16T06:31:50.665-08:00Messy baby sketch<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB3lqaxZ0f3O26M4kznltWFihh47IY9rmvSnA35MeuFxxy8sC_uVlhWKSOa6A417VPyN4Bcf9y2X_cwcJ4qp9KSpGs8SmG3M2kJZBpdJ9A-QZc6AXR5q8sv-Wz-4WQJCTurl4s8g/s1600/Picture+310.png"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 725px; height: 500px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB3lqaxZ0f3O26M4kznltWFihh47IY9rmvSnA35MeuFxxy8sC_uVlhWKSOa6A417VPyN4Bcf9y2X_cwcJ4qp9KSpGs8SmG3M2kJZBpdJ9A-QZc6AXR5q8sv-Wz-4WQJCTurl4s8g/s800/Picture+310.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5532795839260793410" /></a><br />The first (ha ha) step of making a painting is the sketch.merrytaithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07389878391357276777noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12058307.post-52127282257798820492010-10-27T10:26:00.001-07:002010-11-16T06:31:29.628-08:00reference photos (art) for next painting<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh41oN0ZiaQWqb2-QGfB9O0RJOTJSvKRpktsRLIaMuzEPo63i0IaAhzRG_uRT3w671OagD9-jW8c2uGBfOJOMDGYlTL3BTBlVxVxLsy41BMwmcR5H1PZcAqa8D5511-yAVHOvhlVw/s1600/Picture+309.png"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 725px; height: 485px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh41oN0ZiaQWqb2-QGfB9O0RJOTJSvKRpktsRLIaMuzEPo63i0IaAhzRG_uRT3w671OagD9-jW8c2uGBfOJOMDGYlTL3BTBlVxVxLsy41BMwmcR5H1PZcAqa8D5511-yAVHOvhlVw/s800/Picture+309.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5532778649454073778" /></a><br /><br />I had to email the composit to myself and print it on another printer. Now I am ready to sketch. Scroll down to learn more about the process and up to see future steps, when available.merrytaithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07389878391357276777noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12058307.post-42671237126668330042010-10-27T08:04:00.000-07:002010-11-16T06:31:06.057-08:00Messy Baby Digital composit<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5SqXlDDqh5n9zcqdEgXvAAfEoLGjrVPctWM9HKGQgsfST5pCn9NKE_Gu3hRgAUwrN3egxGmjPZ2vClrlzL1C3yLOnLDV143ZvMNVaqjIRaDnjCZ3zn56W-9m00R0fQvuzji40-Q/s1600/Picture+307.png" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5532742496950180962" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5SqXlDDqh5n9zcqdEgXvAAfEoLGjrVPctWM9HKGQgsfST5pCn9NKE_Gu3hRgAUwrN3egxGmjPZ2vClrlzL1C3yLOnLDV143ZvMNVaqjIRaDnjCZ3zn56W-9m00R0fQvuzji40-Q/s800/Picture+307.png" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 500px; margin: 0 10px 10px 0; width: 725px;" /></a><br />I am going to start a new painting and I spent the morning creating a digital composit from which to paint--that it, a reference to study as I work. This is for a children's book I am working on--I'd say more but it's a secret.merrytaithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07389878391357276777noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12058307.post-10980140221942329242010-10-26T09:22:00.001-07:002010-10-26T09:24:22.342-07:00Self-portrait of the artist with Andy Warhol showing original photograph<div class="mobile-photo"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTE7doZkE-LL36dkOANymn9iuMRTs2iizrutGSlergtIyePS_OxPE6dzR-fkEKjAG7X4sJzd8FcbXDTeSEQ01F_ymvio4RROkEmJ4EJRmUp39fWgy-VjtRkDE_-WZt57IBltdVhg/s1600/IMG_4294-732566.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5532390892782764498" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTE7doZkE-LL36dkOANymn9iuMRTs2iizrutGSlergtIyePS_OxPE6dzR-fkEKjAG7X4sJzd8FcbXDTeSEQ01F_ymvio4RROkEmJ4EJRmUp39fWgy-VjtRkDE_-WZt57IBltdVhg/s320/IMG_4294-732566.JPG" /></a></div><div class="mobile-photo"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNB719AbK9wBMNRzMmUsM1BCxwbiHfQey_P6pxAwnvkDjq6uZryp8WAqxT9wP990N8BZlqEY0KzUABb_oIBU8UblHeo77-PoJovo0TJQcEv1tLC5vOnHtrPnI_T5DqN_p42SadAw/s1600/Picture+304-733775.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5532390897122791154" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNB719AbK9wBMNRzMmUsM1BCxwbiHfQey_P6pxAwnvkDjq6uZryp8WAqxT9wP990N8BZlqEY0KzUABb_oIBU8UblHeo77-PoJovo0TJQcEv1tLC5vOnHtrPnI_T5DqN_p42SadAw/s320/Picture+304-733775.jpg" /></a></div>Inquiring minds want to know. The original photo was taken at the DIA<br />
by Heidi Chester. Click images to view larger.merrytaithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07389878391357276777noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12058307.post-18354906733663692862010-10-05T08:45:00.001-07:002010-10-05T08:45:06.225-07:00On Process<p class="mobile-photo"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg69oKc4BcAQRIRplFvUcXxfKZlJr1QlLqQwrE3UczVVjHrJS3sx5evKmmZXOJJUbe9GwBBXTerTSSr32ji_H5HyjXzmShCLAO0E9rymI2y0vfcYNxL296xsOg6JwVsp6KwbHbLnQ/s1600/keith+paper+testing+%23242-706226.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg69oKc4BcAQRIRplFvUcXxfKZlJr1QlLqQwrE3UczVVjHrJS3sx5evKmmZXOJJUbe9GwBBXTerTSSr32ji_H5HyjXzmShCLAO0E9rymI2y0vfcYNxL296xsOg6JwVsp6KwbHbLnQ/s320/keith+paper+testing+%23242-706226.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524588542759388530" /></a></p>I got some posterboard for a project and am testing the paint<br>(gouache) on it. These are unfnihsed for now.merrytaithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07389878391357276777noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12058307.post-40793838648334248052010-08-15T18:15:00.001-07:002010-08-16T16:47:59.150-07:00A Tale of Two Paintings<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFc9mdKaLXigF69gSAVkXMWBC032wIOzPzYra8jEssq3qsuukMQJg5e_doHEeTAfGbbzIUOuObhoRZmy3d4gEUQS6E03FgLTeSiIkVxw_pDvREsHDpvX0MKbHcjhBd_foMeR9vSQ/s1600/Picture+346.png" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5506015644218023442" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFc9mdKaLXigF69gSAVkXMWBC032wIOzPzYra8jEssq3qsuukMQJg5e_doHEeTAfGbbzIUOuObhoRZmy3d4gEUQS6E03FgLTeSiIkVxw_pDvREsHDpvX0MKbHcjhBd_foMeR9vSQ/s400/Picture+346.png" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 400px; margin: 0 10px 10px 0; width: 323px;" /></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkJy7XRV8f3q-ya1-R8GE3jXiQjuJ2RSFW-4df7AmTihqsSD92mhaj_5YiEp5mX8OBuz4QVYoEFqaVSZ5SSZ5IVcEYvssNGOF0KZOApNkWozXA-48WxVSm5hI-Ka6DPZPDbXDgeg/s1600/Picture+342.png" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5505810655987040146" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkJy7XRV8f3q-ya1-R8GE3jXiQjuJ2RSFW-4df7AmTihqsSD92mhaj_5YiEp5mX8OBuz4QVYoEFqaVSZ5SSZ5IVcEYvssNGOF0KZOApNkWozXA-48WxVSm5hI-Ka6DPZPDbXDgeg/s400/Picture+342.png" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 400px; margin: 0 10px 10px 0; width: 312px;" /></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi39qI6P69impFQCsyFmM4wtNykWw4LDYA7EOI1zlVbn5Pmj86FX_ILLr2O-Injf0gt-_eXwhw5V-BZGfBiESypvfumtprrBQadHK7ZuV-GseiRpLMNOskXeGCQNGLYMl1F4Q_usQ/s1600/Picture+343.png" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5505810643606965410" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi39qI6P69impFQCsyFmM4wtNykWw4LDYA7EOI1zlVbn5Pmj86FX_ILLr2O-Injf0gt-_eXwhw5V-BZGfBiESypvfumtprrBQadHK7ZuV-GseiRpLMNOskXeGCQNGLYMl1F4Q_usQ/s400/Picture+343.png" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 400px; margin: 0 10px 10px 0; width: 313px;" /></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKGC25y4oeg4nFXgPnZVyKWMTDVndY_azH93fLiJuJpVm-tDpeD-CLelbZ0kMCLf_2_10gmStyWsZ9WCl53R-9S9hBj1PswmjL_ICo0W9yqpAdJmmiUkBswsbPg1LcV6aWbmusuQ/s1600/Picture+299.png" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5505810629792693234" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKGC25y4oeg4nFXgPnZVyKWMTDVndY_azH93fLiJuJpVm-tDpeD-CLelbZ0kMCLf_2_10gmStyWsZ9WCl53R-9S9hBj1PswmjL_ICo0W9yqpAdJmmiUkBswsbPg1LcV6aWbmusuQ/s400/Picture+299.png" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 400px; margin: 0 10px 10px 0; width: 269px;" /></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiycc1Bbnas3X1AGHf1vbqNDjEuxx1BZZq3aTD7evs__Wn7EspG1ZkvP2y4P_EfnEC1hhSY7rPgVgJqpAdkvyeafcti5K5jy9xFM5JXVk49VI6v9gdoTCErXr1UoGL9NSjNQgaqAQ/s1600/Picture+344.png" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5505810620386475250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiycc1Bbnas3X1AGHf1vbqNDjEuxx1BZZq3aTD7evs__Wn7EspG1ZkvP2y4P_EfnEC1hhSY7rPgVgJqpAdkvyeafcti5K5jy9xFM5JXVk49VI6v9gdoTCErXr1UoGL9NSjNQgaqAQ/s400/Picture+344.png" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 400px; margin: 0 10px 10px 0; width: 326px;" /></a><br />
<br />
Many years ago, I squatted in the pouring rain with my Nikkormat and my mother--who held an umbrella over my head--and snapped a photo of a yellow lady's slipper on the property of my botany professor, John L. Morrison. As a gift, he had the picture printed for me. It sat on the wall many long years and got all faded.<br />
<br />
I was trying to learn Sketchbook Pro app on my new iPad and decided that I wanted to "finger paint" a picture of the Yellow Lady's slipper. It took me 3 1/2 weeks to complete it, in part because I was a newbie, and in part because I'm not that good. My friend Pam Perkins Frederick asked me to paint one on paper, which did--in gouache on green paper. I did it in three sessions.<br />
<br />
The top picture is the new painting for Pam in gouache. The second picture is the same one 3rd draft, the third picture is the scan from the end of my first session working on it. I forgot to scan it at the end of my second session. The fourth picture is the iPad version which I made for Ballookey. I did not look at that while doing the new painting, I looked only at the original photograph. I did not draw either of these nor use a photograph in any way other than for reference. I painted them from scratch, both of them. The final picture is the original ancient photograph printed in 1971 but probably taken several years earlier.<br />
<br />
I had considered doing one in water color and one in oils or acrylics, or both, but I'm tired of it for now and want to paint something new. (For some reason, I never get tired of painting Keith.)merrytaithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07389878391357276777noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12058307.post-1147382470019234912010-08-11T11:47:00.000-07:002010-08-11T11:50:07.895-07:00Excerpts from White Horses by Douglas Milliken<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoTitle"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Pushpins<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">He always calls her at work. Like a faint insectile whine—while in the drafting room explaining a layout to a trainee or sorting out a plan, while in the cloakroom or walking down the hall to the bathroom—her name will drone over the PA. </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">You’ve a call on Line 2. </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Then a pause, always a pause, implying the opinion of everyone listening. </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">It’s your husband.</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> Always needing to ask an irrelevant question. Always pulling her from her work. It’s embarrassing. If she’s on the road with her partner, viewing a site or just catching a bite to eat, her cell-phone will vibrate in her pocket or chirp like a lost bird from inside the hermetic confines of the truck, from where she’s left it behind. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">He likes to know what she’s up to, he says. Little red pushpins on a map. He likes to know she’s okay. Meanwhile, April holds forth its war of attrition, floods the culverts with runoff and rain, chokes the gutters, makes a mess.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">It’s not that he’s jealous, she thinks, suspicious or fearful of an imagined usurper. He’s just needy. Like a baby and its bottle. Never secure if too long apart. His voice is a hand on her shoulder. From her drafting table, she watches her co-workers as they come and go, protected from the elements by rain-lashed vaulting glass. She watches the way they move their legs, the way they flash their teeth, speaking in muscle and skin, and she wonders if this problem is pandemic. If men are always needy when they ought to be jealous. And if men are always jealous when they ought to be alone. </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><b><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></span></o:p></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Sequence III: Night Country</span></span></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">The moon sets behind the silver hillside of your shoulder, spilling night over your heath and moor, your harbor and mountain range in slumber—knees drawn up and hands folded to your breast—as I lie in our bed beside you, reading the shadow map of your back-turned body’s keyhole silhouette. The tide of your breathing ribs. Clouds rising from your arctic lips. I lie beside you and yearn to sink into you. To ease my hand from the cool dark into the warm tangle of hair at the nape of your neck, to find and unbraid the stitching zipper woven along your spine. Pull you open and step inside as if into a labyrinth of root and stone, allowing your continents to draw me in and embrace me with their gravity. I press my feet through the inside of your feet. My hands through the inside of your hands. Feel my lungs inflate as your lungs inflate, your ocean engulfing the whole of my sea. Feel my eyes blending with what your sleeping eyes see. Feeling the distinction fade.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">from </span></span></i><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">A Broken Leg or Broken Wing<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><b><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></span></o:p></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">I found my cat in the hayloft above the horse stalls, above the snorts and knickers and hard clumping hooves. Above the lattice of girders and beams, the sweet smell of oats and cold manure, I found him: all narrow-ribbed and matted in the belly, striped in snow leopard grey. Over a foot of snow had worked its way in between the clapboards, sweeping in a single great drift over and among the heaps of loose straw, and on this drift my dying cat slept.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> I trudged through the calf-bracing snow and knelt beside my cat. I wanted to touch him but did not want to wake him. I watched his belly slowly rise and slowly settle with cold breath, watched his twitching tail, watched his fur ripple with a chill as the needle pricked his skin. Watched the poison merge with and become his blood. Watched his twitching tail still.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> Afterward, I didn’t know what to do with him. How can you bury a cat when the ground is frozen and buried in snow? So I did nothing. Left him where he lay. Curled in a cue in the misplaced snow of the loft. I told myself I’d come back in the first thaw, bury him then when the frost momentarily slipped away. But the truth was, I didn’t dare touch him. I was scared he might not feel alive.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> Somehow I managed to avoid the loft for a week. The horses got oats and water and were fine with oats until the farmer found out and made me shuck down more straw. Wide-set eyes and chapped hands clutching a pitchfork, thrusting to pass it to my hands. The steps up were drifted over again, no trace of my last climb up or down, but in the loft my cat lay still uncovered. A curl of grey on the white. And before I shucked the frozen straw down through the empty center of the barn, I knelt again beside my cat and finally touched him, stroked him as I should have stroked him before the needle bit in—before I fed him to the pinprick—and when he looked up at me with cold black eyes, not angry but simply accusing, it was not horror I felt but regret. I shouldn’t have treated him that way. I should have treated better this small thing that I loved. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">His name was Brick. Like in the play about the hurdle jumper.</span></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->merrytaithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07389878391357276777noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12058307.post-68534420038585426062010-08-10T12:39:00.001-07:002010-08-10T12:39:40.591-07:00Progress<p class="mobile-photo"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfUS2neBNrESGRlIQSw0KGpdlqvrzQmmVfVUPjbNwfC3SGd2w0IuQSqeeEN7iwFBlPxcfW3Ob1e7yILIw7nJkgiHm3fxHBbxKnxnN8JLZIPGAwbdMlWLx0-YbJ-yPR7IL9PLSIVA/s1600/Sketch+2010-08-09+20_13_37-780591.png"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfUS2neBNrESGRlIQSw0KGpdlqvrzQmmVfVUPjbNwfC3SGd2w0IuQSqeeEN7iwFBlPxcfW3Ob1e7yILIw7nJkgiHm3fxHBbxKnxnN8JLZIPGAwbdMlWLx0-YbJ-yPR7IL9PLSIVA/s320/Sketch+2010-08-09+20_13_37-780591.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503868231134999474" /></a></p><div class="gmail_quote">So far tonight, I started a new portrait of Keith, I wrote pages 132-137 in Disappearing, and saved chapter 2 to send to you. Last night, I saved chapter 1, but forgot to send it. :-(</div><div class="gmail_quote"> <br></div><div class="gmail_quote">I'm interested to see how this portrait will turn out with more work.<br> <br> Sent from my iPad</div> merrytaithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07389878391357276777noreply@blogger.com0