And now na coś kompletnie innego

Starting teaching life-drawing classes at the Art Center soon. Better start drawing myself. A few glasses of wine and a trip to the bathroom mirror. Do get to know me. Click on the image below:

Jak pozbyć sie tych kilku osób, które od czsu do czasu czytają ten blog: zmienić popularny, międzynarodowy język na coś przerażarającego, nieznanego, obcego. Albo(r), lepiej still/better nieruchomo: Ponglish.

Art Camp

Last few weeks I spent with Lizzie in Los Alamos teaching animation to children at Art Camp. Delightful children:

Made a mass of video, still sitting in the laptop hard-drive, some on DVD, some clogging other portable chips; soon, very soon, we'll put it on one big disk, edit a "best-of" and post that online. The kids all have their own material on DVDs, which we gave them.

Taliban

Don't seem to get too many significant images of the Taliban. Once, some time ago, I read a quote from a seemingly Sandhurst trained Pakistani officer referring to "those Taliban chaps". That for a while formed a picture in my mind, false no doubt, of "them". The image above I find confusing. The warriors look like gentle girls, they have a stash of unfermented apple juice disguised as rockets in the back of their Ford pickup, what look like rifles in their hands are actually native Afghan musical instruments, and the organic produce for their barbecue outing is sitting in a cooler in the cab. The truck is provided by the US Army (that, apparently, is true, even if not entirely intentional).

Reflect!

Look at all these posts -- and still no Reflections on the Process of Making Art.
I hurl myself through dark canyons and across awesome calderas to get over to the right side of this infestation of sierras, but! by the time to I open the studio door there is always something, something, something  wrong, something not quite right, something off...
I do paint, you know.  Well, alllmost every night. Very, very gradually, good things are happening in the last piece that I am working on, but stzooooo part time!
Yes! There are many factors that determine that the most essential issues in life are not dealt with and that stupid, diversionary piddle gets top billing. Oooooh! It's so hot in hot in here (a blast of 126*F air hits me as I pull open the door), perhaps I'll take my shirt off -- still don't look like a very skinny Pablo Picasso -- the brush! my favorite and most true brush, all stiff and twisted -- can it be rescued? The blue, the fucking blue. Prussian,. Shall I keep adding the dark, cheap (Hobby Lobby Art Supply shelves -- look! Prussian Blue. $10.00. Big tube. Winton? Who cares. That will take care of the whole surface. Get it! Buy it! I must! Yes ! Get two! Prussian Blue lust! Ultramarine! yes! Get that too! Cobalt! Yes! Haven't had Cobalt for months! Years perhaps! maybe never had much real Cobalt of my own ever before <---- stupid color, who needs it.)  blue. Violet. Never consciously bought Violet before. I wish I had some
Sent out a few probes recently -- one art center, one gallery. No one replied. What shall I  do? Second time in the last decade that I have approached anyone. Am I getting a bit too pushy? Should I get a grip on myself?

LA 2

No. I must admit that I adjusted some of the detail in the previous post.
He was not a Russian postdoctoral Physicist driving a classic convertible Mustang with a shock of blond hair bobbing as he decelerated before the pedestrian crossing.  She was not a ravishing East Asian beauty, immersed in deep contemplation. The sad truth is that he, Soviet not Russian, long lost and forgotten sleeper planted but never to be activated (the Evil Empire is gone, remember?), was driving a very old Subaru with the duct tape holding the plastic sheeting in the windows deteriorated to the point where a lot of fresh air was entering the cab. His toupee (blond, that much is true) slipped forward, causing him to wince which might have looked like he was smiling. She, standing anxiously at the crossing was in a hurry to get back to her post as the cashier (service representative) at the Chevron convenience store. Columbian,  with a strong Native American accent to her look, which gave her a slightly Asian air, she, just like him, did attend ESL classes where they met five times each week over the last decade or so, but neither ever learned enough English to hold anything resembling a normal conversation in the language, and thus never had a chance to express a longing for a deeper relationship with each other. More about all that another time.

LA 1

This morning...Los Alamos.

Came down NM Rt 4 on the East facing side of the Jemez Mountains unobstructed by early weekenders, unharassed by crazed scientists late for their sessions with the still unheard of and lurking beyond our wildest dreams New Weapons of Mass Destruction.

Nice start to the day.

Los Alamos: not just a bomb factory.

Obedient, compliant, I allowed my eyes a casual mingle with the gaze from the guard in the check-point booth. Skim past the Lab, rattle down the bridge, linger at the always-red lights, hang a right -- its downtown.

In the park on a bench by the pond: distinguished looking old man almost reading a newspaper, but really gazing over its edge at well fed ducks and geese pottering around by the fountain. At the edge of the freshly mowed lawn of the park: young couple, in love no doubt, sharing a joke, cuddling while strolling and pushing a state of the arts jogging stroller with a chuckling infant inside, its eyes wide with wonder at the lush, green, and sparkling world around it. On the sidewalk by the pedestrian crossing: beautiful young East Asian woman, stopped, deep in thought, a coffee cup with Home Brew from the nearby Starbucks slowly rising to her lush, receiving lips. On the road approaching the pedestrian crossing: Russian postdoctoral scientist, his shock of blond air bouncing lightly even as his classic convertible Mustang slows before the crossing. Her till now closed eyes open wide in shock and surprise, deep black, blazing. His blue eyes narrow as his face folds into a gentle smile. She smiles back, perhaps they know each other from ESL classes. She crosses, even though she was not planning to.

What a town!

Różnego rodzaje suszy

A bit of a panic these days. Trying to paint, teach animation at Art Camp in Los Alamos, and fend off mundane obligations, all at once. At least I'm not writing stupid short stories and painting stage sets. I miss digging ditches, moving rocks, and tidying the shed.

Two weeks to go.

The monsoon has come early this year. Everything has been hot and dry up until now. A dry spring and a dry early summer. No problem with weeds, very few creatures around, even the hummingbirds aren't annoying me; bees, poor bees, no more bees, nothing to do with the drought though -- even the Carpenter Bees haven't returned this year to make their perfect little holes in our porch posts.

Something in the air

Late afternoon clouds still hanging there at sunset. What does it all mean?

Could it be distant moisture?

Travel blog moment 2

I just love it when airlines lose at least some my luggage for some of the time. Since they are obliged to quickly deliver it the moment when and if they locate it, this is at least a slight punishment for no longer serving free nuts during flights, not to mention all the other indignities imposed on passengers these days. Also, it saves me the discomfort of dragging the item from the carousel through terminals, buses, car trunks, parking lots, hotel lobbies, elevators etc. The airline sends a happy minion, no doubt relieved to be spared more mundane tasks for a spell, to travel to obscure locations, weird motels, creepy hide-outs in deep woods, or to wherever travelers find suitable destinations. Beyond that, this situation offers the faint hope of permanent loss, leaving me faultless in a separation from a large chunk of matter that I have an unhealthy attachment to (like all my good socks, for example).

Travel blog moment 1

I'm still reeling from a spell of travel, even now, two days after returning home. The East Coast: mushy green, overgrown, over-mowed; stark contrasts, monotony, blight, and wonder. The air stayed humid even without recent rain, bugs gave it extra texture. The roadkill always looked fresh, not like here in New Mexico where you see ravens savoring last morsels off the ribs of a long dead elk on the shoulders of highways for months, like familiar landmarks ("...past the third ribcage on NM Route 4, take a right at the bullsnake skin..." etc.). There is a never satisfied appetite for red meat out there and creatures generously hurl themselves under oncoming wheels to provide for others. In this American dream you, the consumer, pick your moment to streak through the hurtling traffic all the way to the fast lane, grab a carcass, scamper back into the lush green beyond the roadside and bury your features in the still throbbing flesh.
To be continued...

Secret City

I don't often post images of Los Alamos. It is a bland, very "normal" looking place, large parts have a human (non-vehicle) scale, not like anywhere else in New Mexico. Low crime, polite people on the sidewalks, polite drivers behind wheels, a gentleness wafting in the thin, high altitude air. And yet, from here arose the greatest violence designed by humans on this planet. Here's a self-portrait, which sums-up well my hopes and fears in this town:

and a violent metaphor of an image representing the true nature of the town itself (location of both photographs: parking lot at the high school). Worth clicking upon:

Suspicious circumstances

.

The tourists are swarming again.

Here in the Jemez Valley we struggle though increased traffic and desperately try not to wave at seemingly familiar vehicles which turn out to have Wisconsin or New Jersey plates. A minor discomfort, you might say, compared to the transformation that occurs in locations such as Santa Fe, where the crowds choke downtown places completely changing the experience of being there.

Lizzie and I decided to experience first-hand being in the midst of the first wave of these meandering voyeurs last Sunday. We nudged our way through traffic on NM 550 to Bernalillo, where, to accommodate Lizzie's lust for posh places, we boldly strode into the most officially posh hotel in our humble county, the Tamaya Hyatt Resort Hotel. We poked our noses in here and there: nice enough, nice enough, I guess. The lounge had fake logs burning in a fake fireplace. Yes, very nice, very nice, even if it is 90*F outside; the air conditioning made it almost bearable. The tables were chess boards with the pieces already assembled in their appropriate places and not glued down, so we settled for a quick game which turned out to be a crushing defeat for me, as usual.

We were on our way to Santa Fe, but hard to pass through Bernalillo without sampling its other delights: bowling in Santa Ana Casino and cakes and coffee at the Flying Star Cafe.

Once in Santa Fe we exposed our cameras and camcorder; this not to just blend, but also to record the swarms recording each other recording the place. We found a perfect site: the parking lot at La Fonda Hotel, with a great view if Saint Francis of Assisi cathedral. Got some great footage of crazed, camera wielding crowds, which Lizzie later edited into a "witty" little video: "The Tourists of Santa Fe".

As we were about to leave Lizzie lowered her camcorder sights to the sidewalk below us; we were at first floor level. A small boy, perhaps five years old, walked briskly round the corner, glanced around and sat down on the curb, as if hiding behind the car that was parked there. At that moment a large, fancy looking sedan turned the same corner and stopped by the car that the little boy was hiding behind. An overweight, shabby-looking, middle-aged man got out of the passenger side leaving the door wide open, perhaps in anticipation of having to get back in again in a hurry. He walked around the parked car and spotted the boy. He did not approach him any closer, but begun talking and gesturing towards him. At the time I could not hear what he was saying, but later, when we played back the video, it turned out that he was saying things like: "Where is your Mum and Dad?", "Are you lost?" etc. The boy seemed to reply (unrecorded). At a moment he suddenly got up and quickly walked back in the direction which he first came from, disappearing round the corner. The man stood gazing after him for a while, then turned to the driver in the car, which still stood in the middle of the road, spread his arms in disappointment, got back in, and they drove off.

We studied the video at the first Starbucks we got to (sucking-up their electricity to our starved batteries at the same time). On each viewing, the scene seemed more and more horrible. What do we do? What do we do? Police? I don't have a natural rapport with law enforcement officers, but after some agonizing, we decided that this seemed the best course.

The Santa Fe police station, a largish building off Cerillos Road, looked closed, the parking lot was empty, and it seemed dark inside. We knocked, we shouted. Just as we gave up hope, I gave the door handle a last twist, twitch, and push, and to our surprise, it opened.
"Hello, hello, anyone there? hello!" No reply.
We went inside. A large room with chairs. A waiting room? There was a sign: "Reception", but it was unattended. Another door had a sign: "Authorized personnel only!" in big red letters, so of course I opened it, first knocking politely a few times.
"Hello. Hello, anyone there?" No reply.
We went deeper.
It turns out that police stations, abandoned ones, are fascinating places. Weird stuff lying everywhere, chalk-boards with notations, explanations, and questions, cute little desk decorations; an air of eerie stillness, suspense, suspended action. Crowds and crime raged in the streets outside, but here it was break time; coffee mugs stood stained and empty, donut plates had a few crumbs lingering, perhaps to be picked with sticky finger tips at a later time.
"Hello, hello, anyone there?"

We finally arrived at what seemed the other end of the building. There was daylight shining through a door that appeared to lead to another lobby. Suddenly, a large figure in a black (NM police) uniform sprung in front of us, startling us, but appearing to be even more startled himself, at the sight of us.
"What? What are you...what are you doing here? How did you get in here?"
I was already somewhat prepared for that kind of question.
"Oh, we need to talk to someone, want to report something."
He still wanted his question answered.
"How did you get in here?"
"The doors are open, we came in."
"But...open?...but..."
"We want to show you a video."
"What? Video? Video! I don't have time!"
"Someone tried to kidnap a little boy. We taped the incident and thought that you might need to see it."
"I don't have time, I don't have time! I have a woman chained to the wall."
This time I was startled.
"A woman? Chained? To the wall?"
"Yes, yes. She's very violent. I'm alone. Look."
He pointed up to a monitor on the wall above us. All three of us peered at it carefully. Indeed, there was a woman chained to the wall in some nearby dank cell. She didn't look very happy, and was clearly trying to get herself unchained.
"I have to go. Leave a message on that red phone outside. Someone will get back to you. I have to go."
We turned to leave the way we came.
"NO!! NO!! Go out this way!"

                       *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *

We left the station feeling somewhat crushed, had a conference about the matter in the car and decided not to use the stupid red phone, but to find another cop somewhere.

We traveled a couple of blocks down the road, heading vaguely towards the freeway when there it was: another police station. Perhaps the last one was city, county, federal, and perhaps this one was whatever the other one was not; we didn't read the signs carefully, but just started tugging at the door, knocking, bellowing "Hello, hello!", jiggling the door handle, being already experienced in entering police stations, but this time to no avail. As we turned to walk away, a uniformed figure appeared in the murky lobby, peering at us suspiciously. We waved our camcorder at him.

"Can we show you something. We have something we would like you to see."
He reluctantly opened the door, and we edged our way in, though it seemed like he he would have preferred that we stayed outside. We described the situation, which we had witnessed, and offered to show him the video. He refused.
"No crime was committed." he said.
"A stranger approached a lone kid, obviously aimed to get him into his car. Isn't it criminal to try to abduct children in the street. Now he's probably wandering around looking for another kid..."
"No crime was committed."
"What? You need to wait 'till he does get a kid into his car?"
"I can only act when a crime has been committed."
Lizzie, locked into a sullen, focused persistence, kept nearing the camcorder screen towards his face, the horrible scene outside the Cathedral played over and over, and he drew back each time she advanced.
"No crime was committed."

I paused to consider that perhaps there was a crime, actually being committed at that very moment, which I ought to mention to him. A few hundred feet down the road a woman was chained to the wall. A man, was alone in the building with her. Hm, what is the Law here? Is that a crime already? Should we go back and see if a deeper, further crime has been committed since we last passed through there? We had the camcorder handy, battery fully charged at Starbucks, even knew which monitor to head to.

Never mind.

Meant to watch the local news that night, but forgot.

Santa Fe, New Mexico

Schools close early for the summer holidays, here in the United States. Now, the important project has become keeping my daughter from loosing control of her body and tearing her away from the computer. The fact that she is composing essays, editing videos, searching for universities to attend next year, and other intellectual tasks makes not much difference; she might as well be playing computer games since her body will turn to jello and through isolation from the alien, non digital world her brain will congeal into unsocialized ubernerdiness.
So, off to lofty Santa Fe we trudged; see a bit of the world. Somehow, we skipped all the art galleries and museums.Who needs them when you can hang out in restaurants and spy on people. Boy, did we have adventures!

Hm. Perhaps I will write about all that when I feel a bit more coherent...like obviously I'm not at this very moment.

Santa Fe, the City Different. A few observations:

Post for post's sake

Just to give myself the impression that I am still blogging, here goes: a post. The lonely post for the month of May.
That last short story was a very unpleasant surprise. So unpleasant, in fact, that it stopped me writing altogether. I will resume writing, I will resume painting, and I will resume altering the shape of the landscape with hand-tools, but right now I am standing back, taking a very deep breath (smokers cough stifled), and will take a long look at what happened here.
Kind actors and other "theater people" passed the hat around  for a gift certificate to an art supply shop, so I'm all set with all kinds of exotic materials, which I would not normally buy. Let's see what comes of this.

Done it

Almost.
I wrote "Redemption Postponed" in two or three days. "Panic in Islington" took, what seems like, that many months. Why!? I can't say it's a better piece of writing. Perhaps I wanted it to be a better piece of writing so badly, that I got  tangled into a proverbial mother of knots. Mother appears again, different sort of mother but not bad. Needs a little more, not another scene, but more development in the ones that she occurs in. No father again, hmm. Main character, Zosia (daring of me to write a female PoV:) is clear in my mind; she needs a bit of tinkering with in the earlier parts, I was writing a slightly different character back then, and never finished editing those parts. Fiat stays as is, minor tweaking perhaps.  Navajo Joe needs another scene to make sense; I deleted a weak scene with him -- never replaced it. Guido and Bolek: a little finessing, but no big alterations. Helga needs a little more. Terry and Jane stay as they are. Blitzie the dog needs a wee bit more description. Slow sections need some better composition here and there. Hard to break into them with additional material, but they could be made stronger. Action bits the same. Too many words, not enough meaning.

I hate to admit this to myself, but I can see the whole thing growing by about another thousand or so words (currently stands at over 15,000),. Still a short story, just takes a long time to spit it out.

Wallgreens, Bernalillo

Wallgreens, Bernalillo
I pull out my list of instructions for a British passport photograph.
"This isn't for an American passport, none of that kind of three quarter view with left ear showing, you know, no hat, turban, bandages, " I remind the man. He looks a little crazed, and doesn't really understand what I mean.
"I'll take care of how my face looks. You know, the grinning, frowning, or raised eyebrow stuff. I'll try to keep my eyes open for as long as it takes and stay neutral, keep my mouth closed, you know, that kind of thing. I'll even take my glasses off. I look weird without them, but I'll do it anyway."
He looks even more confused. Too much input.
"I want it 45 millimeters high by 35 millimeters wide. OK?"
 This he seems to understand, even though the measurements are metric.
"Yes, sir. We can do that."
"My head must be between 29 and 34 millimeters high."
"Er...yeah, OK sir, we'll aim for that."
"You take care of the red eye, get me in focus, make sure you use color film, no shadows on my face please, print it on white paper, you got white paper?"
"Yes sir. We can do white paper."
"Great! We're all set. Where do I sit."
"This way please."
He pulls down a white background blind.
Oh, not white. Plain cream or plain light gray, please."
He looks at me in horror.
"White. It has to be white, sir."
"No. Look here." I pull out my list of instructions. "It says no white. It has to be cream or gray."
"We can't do that. We can only do white."
"Look this is for a British passport. They're different. It has to be cream or gray."
"Sorry sir. We can only do white. We only have white."
"I'll go to another Wall-greens. They'll have other colors, right?"
"No sir. Only white."
"Look. I'll bring you a sheet of craft paper. You sell that stuff here? We'll tape it on the wall, you take the picture, I'm out'ah here, OK?"
"No sir. We can't do that. It's against the rules,"
"Rules?..."
"Its against the Law, sir."
We gazed at one another for a long time. I gave up. He won. More or less the same thing happened in each other store that I went to. I guess I'm going to have to search out a subversive pro, hidden in some dark alley. Some other day.

Breaking away

Since I'm not posting any of my work recently and seem too busy writing on other sites to write here, I'll slip in a piece by my daughter, Lizzie (link to her video documentary under "Links" on right). Done in art room at school.

Process interrupted

Not entirely, but...
I have stopped posting any visual work progress. Happening now, aside from major digressions, are odd bits of employment, theater set painting, travel, and coping with long postponed tasks. It all leaves tiny little mini gaps for a series of furtive, hesitant, tentative explorations on paper, repair and maintenance of older pieces and art materials, and writing. Writing is at a stage where my painting often arrives at. The task has grown to meet to meet the expectations that have arisen from within the the monstrous thing that I am creating. The process has created possibilities that were not included in my original intentions.
The piece that I am writing now has wavered between short story, long short story, novella, and beyond. Each form seems to require different development and structures in its detail, so I have parallel versions of this piece uncomfortably nesting together in one file. Parallel versions, reflections perhaps of how my incarnate being (mal-?) functions. It's a parallel universe arisen, first on a whim, growing like a cancer (:o) in my psyche, interrupting normal drowsy day-dreams, merging with "real" memories, demanding fulfillment, wholeness, and realization. Poor little thing.
I posted possible opening under working title of "Panic in Islington" on the "Further Issues " site.

Dry stuff

On our way to Denver we made what turned out to be a longish stop at a bunch of sand in Southern Colorado. It turned out that only I was in a truly hiking mood, but just being there in the great silence and emptiness was affecting for all of us. Even being way out in a calm sea does not compare to this.

Self portrait: me in the desert:

After an hour or so of trudging though the sand Carol and Lizzie reached their limit of endurance (poor things):


However, Lizzie makes one last effort to follow in my footsteps in a style carefuly developed for this kind of terrain:



























Journey's end:



Time to say goodbye:



Onward:






View from highest point in this area of the dunes, about an hour and a half later:



A snaky form greets me on my return:



Meanwhile, Lizzie unearthed a dragon fallen from the sky:

The Great Sand Dunes in Southern Colorado. Note: we all left our hats in the car. A foolishness.
The bits of white, here and there, represent last bits of fast melting snow. The sand was slightly damp in places, which made for easier travel, but where it was soft and dry (most of it), walking was a seriously aerobic experience.

Wet stuff

Since I haven't been blogging that long, I thought I'd set myself a record for not blogging.

We've been traveling a fair amount lately. Well, it is "Spring Break". Our latest expedition took us to Colorado with the purpose of checking out the University of Colorado in Denver where Lizzy, our daughter, shows a faint interest in attending the Film School. I'll install images as I gradually awake and recover from the stresses and strains of these ordeals.
First, a telling glimpse of the extreme conditions of the local terrain. A frozen lake in the High Country of New Mexico:

Then, rising and dropping, and finally dropping down (talking altitude here, of course) into Pagosa Springs in Colorado. Big hot springs scene. I had to put up with sights like this at the motel:

I stay away from water. Nasty wet stuff, but my family seems to enjoy it. Others do too, so perhaps there is some kind of mysterious pleasure in wallowing in it. Note the multicolored sediments that built up over the years on the wall. The charming couple are enjoying their tall, cool drinks while their butts and other parts dissolve in that 105*F mineral mix:

In another pool, an interesting triangle:

View towards the river with still frozen mountains in the distance:

Climate Change

Middle of March, isn't it? You would think all this would ease-up a bit. But no, mid-winter blizzards carefully reconstructed for our pre-spring entertainment. For anyone who visits this blog just to check out the weather in New Mexico:

These plants look quite amazed, don't they:

A few moments later, the blazing, high altitude New Mexico sun comes peeking out. Solid changes to liquid and then rises as gas to presumably form clouds and start the whole cycle again further down the road. Earlier this morning, I saw very similar looking white clouds rising up in the air. That time (that part of the morning was still early summer, temperatures were climbing), a dust devil whipped through a male juniper pulling out a cloud of pollen, the most allergenic substance known to man. But much worse for woman:

And now its snowing again...

Meanwhile...

Meanwhile...

Leaning against the studio wall, stand all these.
This theater caper took me away from everything. I stopped painting, stopped writing, stopped digging trenches in the sandstone, and even stopped moving large rocks to more suitable locations all around the landscape.
Now I've committed myself to do a little oil painting of two friendly dogs sniffing each other pleasantly set against a scene similar to the main section of the stage set, as a present from cast and crew to the play director. This is both good and bad. Bad because it is kind of stupid to paint a couple of dogs being nice to each other, good because it will make me get my paints and gear out of hibernation, move me to the studio, and I hope, generate momentum to get me going on all my other work.

Writing, hmm.
I can hardly complain that I haven't had any time to write. A few days subbing at the high school did eat up some of my free time, but normally, with a laptop at hand, I should have been able to knock out a few hundred words...the kids are having exams, so I don't feel too guilty ignoring them. Besides, I can keep them entertained and amused, and give them insightful educational moments while going back and forth from the keyboard. It worked before.
The problem, obviously, lies somewhere else, somewhere deeper. The first short story, seven thousand odd words, I wrote in three or four days. Encouraged, I thought that I could just keep going like that, and whip out reams of the stuff endlessly. But that first story already sat somewhere inside me, and only grew as I wrote. This sucker, which I'm writing now is very demanding of the kind of attention, that I am not experienced in giving. It wriggles, writhes, and morphs completely out of my control; I have bits written which belong at various sections, which is really straining my composing skills to link-up and lay over the structure that I devised for the story.
Also, the monster is growing in size in a way that I cannot control. It wants be a novel, but I really, really don't want to write a novel at all. I want to write a short story. Short story is such a nice form. But, how do I fend of all the all the themes, sub-texts, and narrations clawing and whining for attention. I must be strong -- it must be a short story. A very long short story, but a short story nevertheless.
Writing, I am discovering, is a very different brain activity from painting. In painting, I devise a process, and then engage in the mechanical activity of going through its phases. I need to open intuitive, right hemispheric activity and I'm all set. This word thing, on the other hand, and all the words and cousins and nieces of words I can only reach in that linear quarter of the gray matter, but to connect them to what I am trying to put out requires stunning acrobatics of linking the two hemispheres together, melting my wimpy little white corpus callosum. Practice? Perseverance? No one told me this was going to be so hard; shame on you all.

Do it! Do it!

Go on, do it, do it, you can do it, go on!...

The End?

As a final note on the production of "Sylvia": I was quite amazed at the quality of the stuff that cast put out. They were really good. Oddly, I wasn't expecting that. Everyone seemed completely connected to their roles; I don't know how they do it.
This could be my last serious flailing at the theater production site this time around. I might go back to touch up a few edges, add a few branches, dab on some highlights, but otherwise, its over.Last panel, not too great, but it will have to do (Burnout produces overkill).
This is supposed to be an airport scene. It's on one of the revolving flats, the othr sides consist of the view of building out of a window, and the interior of the psychiatrist's office. People will be sitting and standing in front of it a lot of the time, so the bottom section will remain mostly unseen:

Tidy-up & do widzenia:

Now, back to painting and writing.

Technical

Time for winter to be over, and yet it persists. On my way to the theater yesterday, I had to face this chilling site in the Valle Caldera:

Anyway...back in Los Alamos, still snowing, but at least it was warm inside the theater since the cast and crew got there before I did. A few last minute adjustments:

Ready?:...

Director's table:

The sound and light booth:

And we're off. This is a "Technical" rehearsal (lights, sound, props etc.). Dress rehearsal ("Hell Sunday"), next Sunday. On the left, the husband, on the right, wife, in between them Sylvia, the dog (bitch?):

 

And goodnight: