Wednesday, December 31, 2008
niche, Grad Predjama
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Christmas Ornaments
Creative every Day #? (I've already lost track, too busy!)
Saturday, December 20, 2008
making cards
cards to give as gift using my photos, my drawings, my paintings and
my digital art. Each one is different and I spend time choosing cards
to match and "scrapbooking" them with various backgrounds and effects.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
gift card sketches and paintings
give as holiday gifts. Here are a few of them. More in progress.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
The fractal moon
challlenge that I signed on for llast night when I was sick of
Christmas stuff. I decided to do fractal art and creative this
fractal in Apophysis. I then adjusted and brightened it and tried
various color combinations in Irfanview (a free download) and then
created the last image using the changed fractal in photoshop. I
further adjusted it and played with it in Picasa (a free download) and
posted it to Imagik, Monday artday and No Poalr Coordinates. Now I
will go to Leah's blog and let her know what I did. This is a long,
drawn out process so I definitely won't post every day, but I will be
creative every day, LOL!
Friday, December 05, 2008
The Sinking Raft
The Sinking Raft
Slowly, my husband unloves me. He stops
putting the clean laundry in the drawers, then stops
fluffing and folding it. Brings it up and dumps it
in a tangle. Stops greasing my feet, rubbing my back,
making love to me. "I will do everything,"
he said, when he was courting. I dream of Florence,
wife of John, my botany professor. More than forty
years ago, John tried to get me into bed. I refused,
despite his gifts and constant attention, but Katra caved
and fell that long dark fall where you know you'll die
when you hit bottom, and she wasn't dreaming.
Katra didn't die, she became a lesbian, after John.
Who could blame her? And Florence had an unfaithful
husband. I hated John for that. "I'll do everything,"
my husband said. "You can't," I countered.
He tried, but couldn't. Of course
he couldn't. No one could. I can't
do anything. I rarely sleep, stare, zombie-like
at the increasing chaos I can't control
with my exhausted brain and body.
But each time he stops, I see him turning away,
turning his face to the wall, inching toward the farthest
edge of the bed, away from me. He does that, too.
Leaves me in sleep. I leave him, too,
get up and pace the dark for hours, too tired
to be useful. I finally sleep and go
somewhere he's never been, without him.
When I dream of Florence, her refrigerator is full
of broken eggs. She fries eggs for all the women
her husband courts, and everyone gets eggs
but me. But why go back now, forty years later?
Menopause? Dashed hopes, broken dreams?
Is, like John, my husband unfaithful? "Remember
when you used to love me?" I ask my husband.
He tries the same on me. "See how it hurts?"
He clings to me in bed, before he turns away,
clings as to a life-raft in a stormy sea.
I cling to him. We're not unfaithful, only old
and getting daily older.
Mary Taitt
081205-1026-1c; 081205-0945 1st
Slowly, my husband unloves me. He stops
putting the clean laundry in the drawers, then stops
fluffing and folding it. Brings it up and dumps it
in a tangle. Stops greasing my feet, rubbing my back,
making love to me. "I will do everything,"
he said, when he was courting. I dream of Florence,
wife of John, my botany professor. More than forty
years ago, John tried to get me into bed. I refused,
despite his gifts and constant attention, but Katra caved
and fell that long dark fall where you know you'll die
when you hit bottom, and she wasn't dreaming.
Katra didn't die, she became a lesbian, after John.
Who could blame her? And Florence had an unfaithful
husband. I hated John for that. "I'll do everything,"
my husband said. "You can't," I countered.
He tried, but couldn't. Of course
he couldn't. No one could. I can't
do anything. I rarely sleep, stare, zombie-like
at the increasing chaos I can't control
with my exhausted brain and body.
But each time he stops, I see him turning away,
turning his face to the wall, inching toward the farthest
edge of the bed, away from me. He does that, too.
Leaves me in sleep. I leave him, too,
get up and pace the dark for hours, too tired
to be useful. I finally sleep and go
somewhere he's never been, without him.
When I dream of Florence, her refrigerator is full
of broken eggs. She fries eggs for all the women
her husband courts, and everyone gets eggs
but me. But why go back now, forty years later?
Menopause? Dashed hopes, broken dreams?
Is, like John, my husband unfaithful? "Remember
when you used to love me?" I ask my husband.
He tries the same on me. "See how it hurts?"
He clings to me in bed, before he turns away,
clings as to a life-raft in a stormy sea.
I cling to him. We're not unfaithful, only old
and getting daily older.
Mary Taitt
081205-1026-1c; 081205-0945 1st
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
The Uncertain Sky, An Elegy for Donna
aneurism and stroke.
The Uncertain Sky
An Elegy for Donna
As I draw a single line through your name
in my address book, not too dark, so I can read
the letters, not too dark, as if by writing lightly,
you might somehow return,
as I watch the pencil cut letter by letter
through your name, I burst out crying.
I am a flood of tears; I wail and howl.
Though I haven't seen you for months,
almost years, I can't believe you are gone.
For those who saw you daily, who laughed
at your jokes and stories, who felt the warmth
and sweet smell of your skin, how merciless
the morning clouds. I haven't forgotten you.
Even after senility and death, you will be with me.
Outside, the last faded leaves cling to the uppermost
branches. I wipe my eyes and stare
into the uncertain sky. One leaf
detaches, and floats, this way and that,
lifted, then dashed by a breeze, as our hopes
were dashed, lifted and crushed after your stroke.
A momentary shaft of sun lights the last yellow
and gold leaf and together, they vanish.
Mary Stebbins Taitt
Friday, November 07, 2008
Out of Control
Out of Control
Today, my mother is scheduled to die.
She will swallow a lethal dose of poison.
Her begging for death, her plans and schemes,
have finally paid off. She will join my father at last.
Before she goes, I want to race to the nursing home
to say goodbye, to say "I love you." But the roads are snowy
and slick. A good foot of snow, packed to ice in spots.
As I turn to the left, up a long hill, the car slides
backwards, faster and faster, slipping into the left lane.
I panic, stab wildly around with my foot, can't find the brakes.
Cars fly past on both sides. I slide out of control,
can't even steer into my own lane. Finally,
I find the brake, pump it enough to slow the car, and start
back up the long hill toward my mother's death.
I am afraid I'll be late. She'll already be gone
and all my love and goodbyes will stay unspoken,
sticking in the throat of my heart like tears.
Mary Stebbins Taitt
081107-1225-1b; 081107-1st
Today, my mother is scheduled to die.
She will swallow a lethal dose of poison.
Her begging for death, her plans and schemes,
have finally paid off. She will join my father at last.
Before she goes, I want to race to the nursing home
to say goodbye, to say "I love you." But the roads are snowy
and slick. A good foot of snow, packed to ice in spots.
As I turn to the left, up a long hill, the car slides
backwards, faster and faster, slipping into the left lane.
I panic, stab wildly around with my foot, can't find the brakes.
Cars fly past on both sides. I slide out of control,
can't even steer into my own lane. Finally,
I find the brake, pump it enough to slow the car, and start
back up the long hill toward my mother's death.
I am afraid I'll be late. She'll already be gone
and all my love and goodbyes will stay unspoken,
sticking in the throat of my heart like tears.
Mary Stebbins Taitt
081107-1225-1b; 081107-1st
Out of Control
Out of Control
Today, my mother is scheduled to die from a lethal dose
of poison. Her begging for death has finally paid off.
I want to get to the nursing home before she goes
to say goodbye, to say I love you. But the roads are snowy
and slick. As I turn to the left, up a long hill, the car slides
backwards, faster and faster, slipping into the left lane.
I panic, stab around with my toe, can't find the brakes.
Cars fly past on both sides. I can't even steer
into my own lane. I slide out of control. Finally,
I find the brake, pump it enough to slow the car, and start
back up the long hill toward my mother's death.
I am afraid I'll be late; she'll already be gone
and I won't get to say goodbye.
Mary Stebbins Taitt
081107-1st
I want to say goodbye to my mother.
I am out of control.
I am sliding backwards. Backsliding.
I am going the wrong way.
I am in the wrong place.
I can't find the brakes.
I am afraid I will be late
I am afraid I won't get to say goodbye.
I am worried about my mother's death.
Today, my mother is scheduled to die from a lethal dose
of poison. Her begging for death has finally paid off.
I want to get to the nursing home before she goes
to say goodbye, to say I love you. But the roads are snowy
and slick. As I turn to the left, up a long hill, the car slides
backwards, faster and faster, slipping into the left lane.
I panic, stab around with my toe, can't find the brakes.
Cars fly past on both sides. I can't even steer
into my own lane. I slide out of control. Finally,
I find the brake, pump it enough to slow the car, and start
back up the long hill toward my mother's death.
I am afraid I'll be late; she'll already be gone
and I won't get to say goodbye.
Mary Stebbins Taitt
081107-1st
I want to say goodbye to my mother.
I am out of control.
I am sliding backwards. Backsliding.
I am going the wrong way.
I am in the wrong place.
I can't find the brakes.
I am afraid I will be late
I am afraid I won't get to say goodbye.
I am worried about my mother's death.
Wednesday, November 05, 2008
Pirouettes
Pirouettes
How Geraldine Becomes a Seamstress
(Almost resembling a Ghazal)
Geraldine stares, smiles and stares, as the leaves fall
like rain, like snow, like cats and dogs, the leaves fall.
Reds and oranges, yellows and browns, purples and golds,
mustards and plums, soaring, dropping and drifting, leaves fall.
They flutter and wobble, they dance and tumble, catch
the light and hold it brightly, briefly, the falling leaves.
Under the trees, thousands of leaves. Geraldine lifts handfuls,
armfuls, tosses them high and tilts her face up to the falling leaves.
They shine like church windows, fly like maple seeds, sing
like hummingbird wings, rattle like bones, the falling leaves.
She piles up leaves and falls backwards into them,
spreads her arms and laughs. Above her, the leaves fall.
On her belly she tunnels, buries herself, swims and rolls
and comes up like an otter to a sky full of leaves, falling.
She sniffs them: they smell like dirt, like the forest, like autumn,
like the grass and the flower gardens, buried now by fallen leaves.
She strokes them: they feel like paper, like leather, like velvet,
like cloth, like sandpaper, like skin, like love, like fallen leaves.
Fragments of fabric, bright-colored bows, birthday confetti,
plucked petals of flowers, bits for collage—the fallen leaves.
She studies the veins, the patches of color, the subtle changes,
sorts them and matches them, no two alike, the fallen leaves.
She traces leaves on cloth, cuts their shapes, paints. With her mother
helping, stitches them to make a quilt. Sleeps under fallen leaves.
In the morning, leaves again. Geraldine dances. She twirls and pirouettes,
sings, laughs and murmurs merry noises in the fallen and falling leaves.
Mary Stebbins Taitt
081105-2121-2d; 081105-0011-1st
I wrote this this morning at 11 minutes after 12. I've revised it 4 times since then. It's a modified (simplified) Ghazal ("Guzzle") form. Prolly still not done.
How Geraldine Becomes a Seamstress
(Almost resembling a Ghazal)
Geraldine stares, smiles and stares, as the leaves fall
like rain, like snow, like cats and dogs, the leaves fall.
Reds and oranges, yellows and browns, purples and golds,
mustards and plums, soaring, dropping and drifting, leaves fall.
They flutter and wobble, they dance and tumble, catch
the light and hold it brightly, briefly, the falling leaves.
Under the trees, thousands of leaves. Geraldine lifts handfuls,
armfuls, tosses them high and tilts her face up to the falling leaves.
They shine like church windows, fly like maple seeds, sing
like hummingbird wings, rattle like bones, the falling leaves.
She piles up leaves and falls backwards into them,
spreads her arms and laughs. Above her, the leaves fall.
On her belly she tunnels, buries herself, swims and rolls
and comes up like an otter to a sky full of leaves, falling.
She sniffs them: they smell like dirt, like the forest, like autumn,
like the grass and the flower gardens, buried now by fallen leaves.
She strokes them: they feel like paper, like leather, like velvet,
like cloth, like sandpaper, like skin, like love, like fallen leaves.
Fragments of fabric, bright-colored bows, birthday confetti,
plucked petals of flowers, bits for collage—the fallen leaves.
She studies the veins, the patches of color, the subtle changes,
sorts them and matches them, no two alike, the fallen leaves.
She traces leaves on cloth, cuts their shapes, paints. With her mother
helping, stitches them to make a quilt. Sleeps under fallen leaves.
In the morning, leaves again. Geraldine dances. She twirls and pirouettes,
sings, laughs and murmurs merry noises in the fallen and falling leaves.
Mary Stebbins Taitt
081105-2121-2d; 081105-0011-1st
I wrote this this morning at 11 minutes after 12. I've revised it 4 times since then. It's a modified (simplified) Ghazal ("Guzzle") form. Prolly still not done.
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