Oh jeez Louise

Why is it that such sad things seem to happen around Christmas or is it that they happen all the time but the emotions around the holidays run deeper? We lost a very dear friend on Christmas Eve. A week earlier he had a massive stroke while driving out of his neighborhood, drove his truck into the water and was in intensive care since then. He never regained consciousness and most likely never would have. He would have hated being incapaciated so in many ways it is a blessing he didn't linger on. His wife is one of my best friends and we had dinner with them just a few days before. We hung out together, dined together regularly and we had the pleasure of introducing them to the Kerrville Folk Festival this year. He was like family and never knew a stranger. He had had a full and wonderful life as a sailor, a pilot and was taking piano lessons. We will miss his humor and his kindness and his never-ending support of his wife and me in the arts. Not only am I saddened by this loss but now I realize that I am growing into the age bracket where these things are going to happen and I will lose some of those near and dear. Damn, another one of those hard realities of aging.
This has so brought home the message to me to take every day as a precious one and let your friends know how much you value them.

I Am....

A poem I wrote about having Lyme Disease after seeing the incredible documentary "Under Our Skin." See it if you can.

I am …
Homage to Anne Waldman, “Fast speaking woman: chants and essays”

I am a tick bite
I am a sore throat
I am fathoms of fatigue
I am desperate
I am IVs every 12 hours for six weeks
I am aching joints
I am T cell poor
I am Clafarin
I am called a nut case
I am a war under the skin
I am a doctor who misdiagnosed
I am unable to sleep
I am a mid-line
I am a heart gone crazy
I am a $175,000 cure
I am scared
I am a red rash
I am a Herkheimer that feels like the flu
I am a silent epidemic
I am a killer
I am sexually transmitted
I am able to fuck with your head
I am a doctor who had Lyme Disease
I am three years of antibiotics
I am a spirochete
I am an infusion clinic
I am a firing squad without rifles
I am everywhere
I am hanging on by a thread
I am a borelia block
I am a syringe
I am an immune system forever damaged
I am Lyme disease
I am lucky you didn’t kill me
I am a survivor

Kay L. Cox
@2009 All rights reserved

Super wife or at Least I Tried

In the summer of 1965, our house in Nassau Bay was finished and we prepared to leave 7307 Carew in Sharpstown and neighbors that had become family. Ken was working at the Manned Spacecraft Center and finishing up his doctorate at Rice University so I had been in charge of supervising the construction. This involved months of loading our toddler son into the car and winding our way across town. At that time Loop 610 was only in the planning. All of this meant we had little time to socialize with the community around NASA. Fortunately our small Sharpstown house sold quickly and we were at last residing across the street from the MSC. I, at age 25, was figuring out window curtains and my role in the new community.
It would be generous to say I was reluctant to fill the role of a rising executive’s wife. Maybe reluctant isn’t’ the right word…clueless is more like it. My mother knew more about this than I did and I just really wasn’t interested enough to pay attention growing up. I was several years younger than most of the wives of Ken’s employees but tried to keep up. I hated the “division wives luncheons” but felt I should go as Ken was in management. I hired a sitter, donned the panty hose, hat and gloves, gritted my teeth and showed up smiling. I was trying.
The week after we moved in Ken’s office group of employees got together to give us a housewarming on short notice. I panicked and knocked myself out ironing curtains and unpacking between washing diapers and scraping mac and cheese off the floor. I was just relieved I didn’t have to cook. My idea of getting ready for a party at the time was to make sure the bathroom was clean with plenty of toilet paper and somewhere there was ice for sodas and beer.
Fortunately the group was prepared and brought food, drinks, ice and paper plates and napkins. Our breakfast table was covered with newspaper and a huge tray of unpeeled boiled shrimp was laid in the middle. I was dismayed; I had never seen shrimp served with the heads and shells on. I had no idea what to do with them. After a demonstration, I squeamishly pulled the head off a shrimp and then the shell. I thought the whole thing disgusting but didn’t want to appear ungrateful so I just removed myself and became very busy looking after our 20 month old. The beer flowed, the shrimp disappeared. Everyone had a great time and all pitched in with the clean-up. Eventually I got over my shrimp phobia (living on the Bay did I have a choice?) and can now clean and cook them with finesse.
A couple of years and two kids in diapers later, I agreed to Ken’s wish to host the office Christmas party at our house and waded in with both feet. I loved decorating the house for Christmas and spent hours after the kids were asleep creating ornaments and decorations and looked forward to sharing all of it. But the menu was pure agony. Food prep was not and never has been my thing. Like my mom, I can do it but am just not that into it. I finally settled on some kind of Mexican food. The appetizer was the forever Lipton onion soup dip and chips, the only one I knew how to make. I left Ken to get the drinks iced down and prepared chicken enchiladas in baking dishes and a great big salad with pralines for dessert. I so wanted things to look like I knew what I was doing among these more experienced guests.
Guests arrived, drinks served and I popped the enchiladas in the oven while tossing the salad. All was going pretty well until about twenty minutes into the 30 minute baking time when smoke started rising from the oven activating the smoke alarm. I opened the oven door and flames were rising from the floor of the oven where the enchiladas had spilled over. I grabbed the dishes and ran for the baking soda to douse the flames. Ken opened the windows and turned on the exhaust. On checking the enchiladas, they seemed done enough and I announced dinner was ready. All was well and the party went on without another glitch and the kids stayed asleep.
The next year once again I bravely invited the office back for Christmas. We finally had a table in the dining room, my grandmother’s, a buffet (my aunt) and a sofa from my aunt and uncle in the living room so I decided to use real china and go a little more formal with a simpler menu that could be prepared in advance. I borrowed my mother’s silver chafing dish and polished silver trays for small sandwiches. The silver chafing dish sat on a silver tray on the breakfast table with a hot dip and chips underneath. As the doorbell rang with the arrival of the first guests, I lit the sterno under the chafing dish and removed the lid. Soon people went about helping themselves to dip and chips. I went on to talk with guests when I heard a shout from the breakfast room. Shit! There was a fire under the chafing dish. Chips were in flames and before I could get the fire out with a wet dish towel, a leg of the chafing dish melted, the bowl tilted and out went the dip. Good grief! Another fire! What were these people going to think and what was I going to tell my mother? Everyone seemed to still have a great time and made jokes about the dip and fire but I was rather traumitized.
By the time the next Christmas rolled around needless to say I was less than enthusiastic about entertaining Ken’s office. However after a year I figured most had forgiven or forgotten and out of guilt and my need to try again to be the “supportive good wife”, invitations went out to his office for a Christmas gathering. The children were older and I was able to really get going on decorating without the fear they were going to eat them or tear the decorations apart. We put a tree up in the den, another in the living room and even a little one in the guest bathroom downstairs. It was Christmas everywhere.
I had been gifted with a punch bowl and cups (by my mother, of course) which I placed on the new Christmas table cloth in the dining room. The platters of food were going there as well so I prepared a pretty centerpiece down the center of the table of greenery, pine cones and candles on a piece of aluminum foil to protect the new table cloth. The table looked lovely. The buffet held plates, napkins and silver ware.
Guests helped themselves, ate well and were relaxing after dinner with coffee and sweets. The kids were in bed and I was relaxing at last on the floor in the den talking with friends. Others were milling around, talking and drinking. Whew! Life was good, coffee hot and good conversations with real adults. But then Ken came rushing in from the kitchen saying “We just had a big problem but it is over. I took care of it and all is fine now.”
He had been standing in the kitchen next to the refrigerator with his back to the open door into the dining room when the friend facing him and the dining room said, “Is the table supposed to be doing that?” Ken turned and saw flames rising from the centerpiece on the table and it wasn’t the candles. He quickly grabbed the fire extinguisher from the utility room and doused the flaming pine cones and greenery.
Amazingly the remaining punch and food survived untouched. The foil under the centerpiece saved the table cloth; the extinguishing foam was easily brushed off later. It was all over before I even knew anything was happening. But right then and there I decided there was a message in all this. Three fires and that was it. The universe was telling me something. I was done hosting big office parties. No more—to hell with being super wife. If Ken’s rise to fame and glory depended on a classy wife entertaining flawlessly with great success, he was doomed.
I would later hostess many parties for friends and family whom I love and cherish but only taking heed that simpler is better and always have a plan B.

Life little amazements

This afternoon I got a call from Harpo, Oprah's company. They wanted to know if they could quote a line from a response I sent them to Oprah's current book choice, Say You are One of Them.

The book is so interesting...set in Africa, written by an African. Sad and touching look into impoverished families who manage to care for and love each other under terrible circumstances while holding onto their faith. It is a story of children as prostitutes providing for their family accepting the responsibility without question until they are able to finally leave.
They asked me to read a line from my response which they recorded for possible use in promoting the book.
Each day I awaken grateful for whatever the day may bring but certainly would never have imagined this happening.

The Kerrville Wine and Music Festival was so much fun and even better this year having some friends come along. The music line-up was the best we have heard in a long, long time. I adored these guys, Los Texmaniacs, mostly from San Antonio...incredible accordian player and great sound altogether. I was up and screaming "more, more, more" when their set ended and they accomodated. I've ordered their CD...definitely conjunto music...geez, did I spell that right? It fed right into my love for Mexico and so reminded me of my father-in-law, born in Mexico, the son of a Methodist missionary. Dad played guitar and sang Celito Lindo and other Latin tunes. We played the Mexican national anthem at his funeral.
The Wine Seminar was great...so full of information. Four Texas wineries were represented on the panel which focused on port wines. A little plate of chocolate tidbits was served to go with each tasting. I had never enjoyed much port wine before but now think we may try serving one as dessert occasionally especially with chocolate.
The Texas hill country is shockingly brown...the severe drought is taking such a toll...trees are dying, creeks have dried up...so when it began to rain during the seminar, everyone was thrilled. As Kerrvivers, we have learned to expect the mud, the flood and the crud when at a Festival weekend so we made sure we were all prepared with ponchos and umbrellas. Unfortunately all that was in the car so I and a friend volunteered during a slight break in the downpour to walk to the car and get them. We both got pretty wet. After the evening concert, I was mostly dried off when we got to the motel but thought I would never get my feet warm.
Of course, a stop at Schoebel's for lunch coming and going to Kerrville was a must. Their buffet is loaded with lots and lots of veggies with awesome fresh green beans. Others went for their pie...especially the chess pie...not just once but over and over. I was good, darn it, only tried one piece and just ate the top off since I've avoiding wheat.
It was a great weekend and a nice celebration of our 51st wedding anniversary. I doubt when we volunteered to help the Festival out 25 or so years ago in exchange for lifetime tickets that they ever dreamed that these old folks would still be coming. Ha! ha! Here we are!

From Robert Genn's newsletter

As a sometimes teacher, I love these quotes:


"The best way to teach somebody something is to have them think they're learning something else." (Randy Pausch)

Esoterica: In the conduct of your own affairs, understate and over-prove. Give well-planned, information-rich demos. Let folks make up their own minds and take what they want for themselves. Make your comments short and precise. Tenderness and your own humility count. People are human beings first and artists second. Thankfully, some will pull themselves up by their own bootstraps, no matter what you have to say. And while there will always be those who stay put, a properly conducted workshop can be a place of miracles. "The burned hand teaches best." (J. R. R. Tolkien)

So amiss at writing...

I have been terrible about keeping up this blog since I discovered Facebook. Good grief. Now I get all these ridiculous requests for an egg in someone's basket, to tend their farm, discover my chakra color, send someone in the Mafia a new gun and it goes on and on. I have failed the Myers-Briggs so I guess I am without personality. My writing skills have gone down the tubes trying to text my pre-teen grandaughter on her phone. I try to do better but get seduced to join the American Red Cross or Artists United or some poetry group. And then when I do get to my blog, nobody has commented so I think that no one is reading so why should I bother when there is Facebook where it seems that if I sneeze, I get blessed by many. Hmmmmm......

 

This is a wonderful fun fountain in downtown Colorado Springs. It begins as just a blue dome but on the hour it begins shooting water out like an umbrella and rises to reveal a guy playing a horn. Pretty magical. There is lots of public sculpture around CO Springs. I spent a relaxed week there visiting a friend from high school. We did so many things...a jazz concert at The Secret Garden, the movie "Food, Inc.", a farmer's market with more jazz, a gallery opening at a gallery called Rubbish, a tour of the Garden of the Gods and other spots in Colorado Springs. All this began or followed with some great meals of fresh, fresh organic veggies. And the best pizza I've ever eaten at a place called Rico's. What a great place to live...free music every night of the week somewhere. All this with lots of laughter at memories and other stuff and dining al fresco (something just about impossible here because of the heat, humidity and mosquitoes).

Love this from Jan Phillips' Muse Letter

Monet Refuses the Operation

Doctor, you say that there are no halos
around the streetlights in Paris
and what I see is an aberration
caused by old age, an affliction.
I tell you it has taken me all my life
to arrive at the vision of gas lamps as angels,
to soften and blur and finally banish
the edges you regret I don't see,
to learn that the line I called the horizon
does not exist and sky and water,
so long apart, are the same state of being.
Fifty-four years before I could see
Rouen cathedral is built
of parallel shafts of sun,
and now you want to restore
my youthful errors: fixed
notions of top and bottom,
the illusion of three-dimensional space,
wisteria separate
from the bridge it covers.
What can I say to convince you
the Houses of Parliament dissolve
night after night to become
the fluid dream of the Thames?
I will not return to a universe
of objects that don't know each other,
as if islands were not the lost children
of one great continent. The world
is flux, and light becomes what it touches,
becomes water, lilies on water,
above and below water,
becomes lilac and mauve and yellow
and white and cerulean lamps,
small fists passing sunlight
so quickly to one another
that it would take long, streaming hair
inside my brush to catch it.
To paint the speed of light!
Our weighted shapes, these verticals,
burn to mix with air
and changes our bones, skin, clothes
to gases. Doctor,
if only you could see
how heaven pulls earth into its arms
and how infinitely the heart expands
to claim this world, blue vapor without end.

~ Lisel Mueller ~

(Sixty Years of American Poetry, The Academy of American Poets)

Inspiration?

Wheee....I sold another painting which means two things: I have money to travel and I am inspired to keep painting. So off I went to Aaron's super sale on canvases. They are now sitting staring at me in my studio as I write. Writing this blog is a way of procrastinating the inevitable first brush mark on the empty white space. So then may I should think of texturing the canvas before the paint. Virgin canvas is always intimidating and I don't think I am alone in this feeling. I've heard other painters express the same. Sometimes it is as easy as just throwing some charcoal marks on it or putting a wash of some hue all over it. Today I sorta have in mind what I want to do but then I may procrastinate some more with cleaning off my desk, folding laundry. Hmmm....

 

This month marks the 40th anniversary of the first lunar landing. Our community is celebrating that great achievement for the next couple of weeks. Last night my husband and I along with many aerospace folk gathered at the University of Houston/Clear Lake to hear former flight director, Glenn Lunney, speak and to view the documentary, In the Shadow of the Moon. It was an emotional evening for many of us as we viewed John Kennedy's wonderful speech that set in motion our visit to the moon followed by recent interviews of the astronauts that made the trip. It was interesting to hear them speak of their experiences now in reflection 40 years later. At the time they were involved, they were too busy with the technical decisions and mechanics to spend much time in reflection but now several of them related what a spiritual experience it was for them. Ed Mitchell went on to go on a spiritual journey to find the actual remains of Noah's ark. Mike Collins talked of his epiphany spiritual experience. I do recommend the film as it is out on DVD.
Many of these astronauts were our neighbors, most lived on our street or around the corner. I became overcome with sadness and teary watching the prologue of the terrible fire that claimed Gus Grissom, Ed White and Roger Chaffee. I recall when we got the news. We were on our way to downtown Houston's medical center to visit a friend who had just had a baby when the news came over the radio. We were shocked and what should have been a joyous visit had quite a pall over it. It drove home how incredibly dangerous the mission was and how brave were the men who chose the journey. Roger and his family were our neighbors in the next block and by the time we got back to our neighborhood the media was camped in his front yard. Our children were so young they have no memory of this but I will remind them to watch the movie as the whole program was a major part of our lives.
When Apollo 13 got in trouble, my husband was called in to help with the guidance system that he had designed to help them get back down in the lunar landing module. It was a close call and very scary.
I remember when the first man orbited the moon before anyone actually landed. It was Christmas Eve and friends including astronaut Al Worden, his wife, Pam and their girls. We had the TV on and gathered to hold our breath as the astronaut finally came around from the back side of the moon and we all gave a huge sigh of relief when he reported in.
At the first lunar landing, Mike Collins as commander stayed in the capsule while Buzz Aldrin and Neil Armstrong climbed down the ladder to plant the US flag on the moon. Buzz and my husband are still in touch as both are still active in space development. Buzz is 80 now and my husband, Ken, 78 and it is remarkable that they both still have the enthusiasm and excitement about their work that they had more than 40 years ago. Neil Armstrong keeps a very low profile and always has so was not part of the interviews.
Looking back I am amazed at how ordinary we thought our lives were at the time and now realize how extraordinary it was and is to be part of that era in our country's development. I am grateful that there was that opportunity for very young men, some in their twenties, others in their thirties when it began, to courageously step into the unknown, not just as astronauts but as engineers, technicians trying something that had never been done before. Awesome!

Finally

It wouldn't be the 4th of July without watermelon and a parade. But that was just the beginning. We spent the 4th in Charlotte at my son's house surrounded by family and it was just the best ever. Daughter-in-law's cousins came along with her mom and after a big barbecue dinner of grilled chicken, hot dogs, corn on the cob with baked beans, cantalope, watermelon and brownies, we all loaded on to the boat at dark and headed up the lake to some coves for some great fireworks. Dock after dock up and down the coves set off a wonderful display that went on for about two hours. Under a full moon and with a cool breeze and good music, it was just awesome.
The kids crashed after a busy day starting off with riding their bikes in a community parade. Our son set us up at the finish in the shade with chairs and we got to see it all....fire engines, beauty queens, horses, antigue and miniature cars and floats. A great slice of America which makes me very proud.
s

Memorial Day

Last Memorial Day I was in Washington, D.C. and wrote this poem which recently won the Robert Clark Appreciation Award and has been published by Sol Magazine and That Thing We Do 2008:

Memorial Day in McPherson Park,
Washington, D.C.

A soft breeze cools the cement beneath my feet
as geometric shadows of nearby buildings
grow long across worn patches of green grass.
Making their way slowly, one by one they come.
With walkers, wheel chairs, crutches they come,
come to find that certain bench,
to stake a claim on dream time.
Black plastic bags holding what’s left
of a life of hard times and bitter memories
lay near torn and ragged soles.
Darkness will bring nightmares of “Nam”,
dreams of beds and showers
as sirens wail down K Street.

Ducks and pigeons scurry with flapping wings
circling round the woman in green sweats.
Midst the clamor, her hand, a rusty brown,
reaches into a bag and throws the fowl some crumbs.
She who has so little shares what she can.

Oblivious, suited figures hurry through the park
conversations wrapped around their ears.
Passers-by become intruders in this strange land.
Do they bring anything to the table?
Can they hear their pain?
A dark figure stoops under his mighty load
ranting, raving at sights unseen
as he stumbles from bench to bench.
He looks at me and I become afraid.
He shouts a greeting and I nod.

I take a seat on a fading sun-lit bench
feeling overwhelmed.
Here on Memorial Day near the Wall of honor
gather the forgotten ones
lost in the “land of the free and the home of the brave”.
How did it come to this?
Fearful and ashamed
I walk away toward my hotel
knowing that my meal tonight will fill my belly
but will it feed my soul?

Squatting hair

Well, it was haircut week and I am left with what my friend, DeAnne's, brother would describe as squatting hair. What happened? With all the vitamins I'm taking I should have bold, strong, standing-tall hair. A trip to Walgreen's and new gel and we shall see. Is this a message to let my hair grow out? Do I really want to mess with longer hair again? Only if I can have stripes of another color. Perhaps now I should go for the stripes, I think they are called high lights, in hopes that my silver strands will stand on their own.

Foggy Dawn on Clear Lake

Foggy Dawn on Clear Lake

Months after Ike
cold air descends at night
onto the warm, still water.
Lakeshore homes become faint shadows
wrapped in a silver-tinted blanket of cozy humidity.
Silent, calm, ominous
remnants of past destruction
hide beneath the surface.
Sea birds echo the fear
that possible repeats approach with time.
Tossed from anchored slips,
recovered boats line the shore.
Slimy green brown growth covers shattered hulls,
a graveyard of tattered dreams and sails
headed for a dumpster.

Beams of sunrise break through the fog.
People stir from trailers parked in driveways
waiting dollars from insurance, FEMA.
With hopeful eyes and hearts
they stare at their blue-tarped empty shells,
pray that this is the day
they hang sheetrock, lay tile, glimpse the time
they can once again
call this house home.

Masks

We collect masks of all kinds. While in Bali, we were fortunate enough to meet with the Master mask maker in his village and collect a few of his fabulous masks. The Balinese use these masks to play different characters in their dramas and the artist invited us to try on different ones and get the feel of each. On a return visit to him he had arranged a group of men to drum and chant for us and then play for us while we danced wearing the masks. It was an extraordinary time, one of many such events in our visit to that country. When an artist becomes very successful, it is tradition that he/she give back to their village. This artist shared his wealth by building a large community building in his village.

Artists are very honored in their culture and is an integral part of their every day life. Frequently we would come across fresh flowers or fruit placed on a bamboo leaf weaving out near a tree or other plant...an offering to the gods in gratitude for their blessings and prayers for more. Sometimes these offerings would be outside a cafe or a home. In the compound where we stayed in Ubud, the house women would make these simple but beautiful offerings all during the day. Bali is an interesting mix of Hindu and Islam with all sorts of rituals to gods and goddesses so much of the art forms are rituals of faith.

Maya Angelou says...

'MAYA ANGELOU'S' BEST POEM EVER



A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE ....

enough money within her control to move out
and rent a place of her own,
even if she never wants to or needs to...

A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE ....

something perfect to wear if the employer,
or date of her dreams wants to see her in an hour...

A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE ..

a youth she's content to leave behind....

A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE ...

a past juicy enough that she's looking forward to
retelling it in her old age....

A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE .....

a set of screwdrivers, a cordless drill, and a black lace bra...

A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE ....

one friend who always makes her laugh... and one who lets her cry...

A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE ....

a good piece of furniture not previously owned by anyone else in her family....

A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE ...

eight matching plates, wine glasses with stems,
and a recipe for a meal,
that will make her guests feel honored...

A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE .

a feeling of control over her destiny...

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW...

how to fall in love without losing herself..

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW...

how to quit a job,
break up with a lover,
and confront a friend without;
ruining the friendship...

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW...

when to try harder... and WHEN TO WALK AWAY...

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW...

that she can't change the length of her calves,
the width of her hips, or the nature of her parents..

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW...

that her childhood may not have been perfect...but it's over...

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW...

what she would and wouldn't do for love or more...

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW...

how to live alone... even if she doesn't like it...

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW.. .

whom she can trust,
whom she can't,
and why she shouldn't take it personally...

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW...

where to go...
be it to her best friend's kitchen table..
or a charming Inn in the woods...
when her soul needs soothing...

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW...

What she can and can't accomplish in a day...
a month...and a year...


Being happy doesn't mean that everything is perfect.
It means that you have decided to look beyond the imperfections

Latest of a series

 
This is one of a series I'm working on inspired by the fall foliage I saw in NC last fall. My timing is a little off I know being as spring is beginning to pop around here but the memory is still strong. We so seldom get a real fall here on the Gulf Coast the whole experience was a great one for me. Right now there are three in the series but there may be more.

But still there is the question...

what to do with all the "stuff" I am creating? I have a cupboard of journals filled with writing and drawings, closets full of painted and collaged canvases, more drawings, a flat file full of more drawings. I give it away and create more. I recycle and paint over old art work but there is still more. Yes, this is a God given gift to do all this and what I do to fill my soul, to heal myself, to place myself in the universe but God didn't tell me what to do with all the products of all this. My house is pretty funky as you can well imagine.

I think God says "Build a warehouse for all that stuff and let your kids worry about how to burn it when you are gone. Or maybe my great grandchildren will look at it and think geez, didn't she know how to do digital art? What was she thinking?

 

What am I doing here?
This is one of those days where I question what in the world am I doing? I've been painting and writing and painting and writing which I love and it feels wonderful most of the time. But then I hit days where I question whether the world really needs more "stuff" and more "words". And closer in does my world need more "STUFF" or more "WORDS?" Is it enough to just like creating all this? Chances are it ain't gonna sell...poetry rarely sells (I take it back...I just sold 3 poems for $5 each). Most of the time the poet has to pay someone to even read their stuff, much less pay for it. So what am I doing here? And what would make it seem like enough? Affirmations help, for sure. What else? Most success seems to be measured by money so that would be nice. But since that ain't happening, what keeps me keeping on? What keeps any artist keeping on? Is it egocentric of us to blog and hope that someone will read it or do we do it just to keep track of our thoughts and lives? For me, mostly the latter but I do love it when someone comments. Like, wow! Someone noticed me. Maybe for the same reason I read other blogs...to find the common ground and relish our shared humanity.

What a sky! Can you see the hint of a sun dog? It was much more colorful through my dark glasses but I had to stop the car between LaGrange and Columbus to soak up this glorious sight. We were on the way back from Austin and my annual reunion with friends I have known since grade school. We went all the way through UT together and one was a sorority sister. I packed my giggle box and it got good use. It always feels like going home for all three of us even though none of us has lived in Austin for over 50 years.

The first night we stayed at the Barton Creek Resort...not a great experience. Beautiful setting, crappy room, unhelpful staff...won't go back. It has a gorgeous view of the hill country but they could improve their management. All we wanted to do was visit anyway and we are all pretty laid back and didn't let anything bother our laughter and sharing memories.

One I had forgotten happened in high school at a slumber party we all attended at another friend's home. Our dates for the night were invited in and we played some card game or spoons until it was time to say goodnight. Dates were invited back for breakfast the next morning. We all trooped upstairs to don our baby doll pjs to sleep in a row in a big room upstairs. After a late night of gossip we all shut our eyes and slept until time for breakfast. Our dates returned and at breakfast our friend's little brother played a tape of all the things we had said about our dates the night before. He had hidden a recorder in the light fixture. Oh geez...we could have killed him, of course. Her parents thought it hilarious but we didn't and ask ourselves now as parents would we have let one of ours do that to a sibling and her friends? I don't know.

Wooohooo! I'm gonna be a groupie!

I'm gonna be a groupie for Jerry Jeff Walker when I grow up. His concert last night at the Galveston Opera House was once again such fun with a combination of old stand-bys like LA Freeway and Back to the Armadillo with some beautiful new love songs. And he's sober or at least appeared to be. He had a great back-up band with an awesome lead guitarist. What a guy! We saw him a gillion years ago in Kerrville at the first Kerrville Folk Festival. It was held in the Kerrville City Auditorium before the Festival moved out to Quiet Valley Ranch. He was on with Willie Nelson. Wow!

And the Opera House celebrated its reopening after Hurricane Ike when flood waters ravaged the place. It looks great. Still work to be done but they got it open for the first time for this concert. Walker has played the Opera House the first Saturday in Jan for the last 15 years and his foundation presented the Opera House with $7500 toward repairs. Really sweet!

Anyway I sang along and danced in my seat and reminisced about previous times with Jerry Jeff. What fun! And so grateful I was well enough to go! He's just so damn cute!