Back-Yard Impressionism

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First, I would like to recommend opening a banana with Kung-Fu. Seriously. It will change your day… if not your life.

Second... well, there is no second.

What I did today was more PR, conveniently inside of the Frist Center, downtown Nashville, where they just so happen to be having an Impressionist... ism... Exhibit. Yep, Monet, Manet, Courbet, Renoir, Degas, Cézanne… right here in Hicktown.

Gloria went with, since I didn’t want to go alone and I didn’t think that I could pull off the seeing-eye-dog thing again. Not at an art exhibit.

Did you know that you can stand in front of a Monet all day, and it will never sink in that that is a real Monet, or whichever? God, and the picture frames. I know, I am so starved for art. Anyway...

Despite all the famous names, this was my favorite… Jules Bastien-Lepage, Hay Making

There are times when you see things so beautiful, you think, I am done, I need nothing more from life. It was that beautiful. I wanted to cry. I did cry. I came so close to touching it… touching her. Gloria told me not to.

The painting is enormous, the size of a wall. You walk in the room and she is just sitting there in that field. The clarity is stunning. She is so tired and worn thin, dazed, with the world and life all a blur around her, the realization that this is how the rest of my life is going to be just dawning on her. Twelve inches from her face and I swear I could hear her breathing.

Anyway… You know how if you don’t really know a lot about a certain form of art… a movement or a trend… it all kind of blends together…say for instance how one generation says another’s music all sounds the same. And it does. That’s because all of the artists of that age, that moment, have figured out what is ‘right’ and they are all trying to create their version, their interpretation of the same ‘right’. Distinctions are minimal and miniscule and tough to notice if you’re not pretty hung up on that particular scene. There’s nothing wrong with it. It was just kind of funny to walk into a room with five different heavy-hitter artist’s work, and have to make an effort to sort out who is who… and I know who is who.

Oh gawd, and one hick gal was about eight inches from a Monet—nothing famous, one though, from the time in his career when you really needed to step back from the work to see things in 'focus', unless you were appreciating the brush strokes—but I don't think she was and she says, “Gawd, now that’s just ugly.” She was amazed by what three steps back did for the work. I didn’t give her a flyer.

Then I thought we would never find the truck, because I put down bread crumbs and there are pigeons by the truckload in Nasville. Nothing works like it used to back in the old days.

Welcome, Inadequacies, Adequacies and Reviews

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I'd like to take a moment class, to welcome the Soviet Chairman. I know that most of you are already acquainted, but it brings me great pleasure to know that yet another Lit/English major will be cringing at my poor grammar and flailing stories. Anyway, big Howdy! ya'll, for the Soviet Chairman.

   

I can feel an inadequate-writer phase coming on, which will probably result in an inadequate-Steve phase. Hence, French toast for breakfast again. French toast can cure anything, I’m certain.

So, I did a little door to door yesterday in the rain. Business to business, more like. The new flyers look great. Aggie’s Printing needs plugged, for the little good it will do.

I must say that I suck… and yet am somehow magnificent at PR. Thanks to my noodle’s glitch; it doesn’t dawn on me to extend hand (handshaking… ick) and name along with flyer and business card... no matter how many times I approach a front desk.

On the other hand - thanks to my noodle’s glitch - I am easily awestruck by people’s confidence and assertiveness; mesmerized by their business and creative skills. It shows. And folks do love having sunshine blown up their skirts. The wide-eye shy kid always gets a piece of candy… and a tour of the shop.

Anyway… I finally finished reading Great Expectations last week. I like Miss Havisham and her house… very creepy-cool. Pip is a sniveler, and the ending sucked.

And that’s why I don’t review books.

Speaking of which, my P.G. Wodehouse anthology arrived. Sam Clemens has always been my epitome humorists. Or was he a satirist? Anyway, we’ll see how Mr. Wodehouse fairs against the American master. Don’t worry, there won’t be a review.

Oh! And Howl’s Moving Castle! Aside from the whole Speed Racer thing, pretty cool.

"Another Cancer, Another Love Story"

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They were in love. The kind of love that only grows from having roots that share the same soil... that are intertwined from birth. As near one as two could ever be. 

It was evening when he noticed the pink ribbon she wore.

“When did you…?”

“This morning,” she said. She was calm. Her voice as stilling as it had ever been. As if there was nothing to worry about.

“Why didn’t you…?”

She reached out to him.

“They weren’t certain. I knew you would worry… so I… I’m sorry. I wanted them to be certain first.”

“But I…”

“I know… I know you would have. And thank you, thank you.” She reached for his face. “I love you so very much. But there’s just nothing you can do. Not this time.”

“Nothing? They’re certain?”

“Nothing.”

He looked away… down, and she glanced there too, at the earth, solid and alive, under and around their feet. Then back up, at this tower that had been so bent by this silly, silly burden… her burden. She wanted to draw him to her, inside of her, where he could feel that she was not afraid, where he would understand that soon she would be more a part of him than ever.

“How long?” he asked.

“Tomorrow. The next day. Maybe.”

She felt the cool of his tears, like rain, and she knew that it was foolish, but she wished for one more gentle shower that they could dance in… before.

They woke to the sound of men and machines.

“Over there,” a voice said, “I’ve got her marked.”

“This one?” another voice asked.

“Yep. We’ll have to put a cable around her, pull her away from the house.”

“Get that cable over here!” someone shouted.

A chainsaw barked to life.

The morning was crisp and he wanted to draw her nearer, to feel more of her warmth, her life.

“I’m not going to let this happen to you,” he said.

“There’s nothing you can do,” she replied. “Don’t you see? I’ll be inside of you soon.”

“But… I’ll never see you again.”

“See me? Don’t be a silly boy. You will be me… and I will be you. Isn’t that better?”

“Yes… I suppose… but still…”

“Hush,” she said.

They listened to the careless men, tramping through the leaves and branches.

The chainsaw revved.

“No!” he shouted. His voice was so strong and loud that the ground shook and everything and everyone for miles around heard it and felt it. Everyone and everything but the men. Men are deaf. 

They cut into her base and pulled her with the cables and drew her away from the house that she had cooled with her shade for years and years.

“It’s all right,” she told her love as the blades cut deeper. Her voice was a soft breeze. “It’s all right. Let it be…”

And she began to fall.

He wouldn’t listen… couldn’t listen. He reached as far as a tree could possibly reach and caught her in his topmost branches.

“Don’t,” she said. “Don’t. Let me fall.”

“I can’t.”

The men, who had scattered, began to gather back around his base.

“Well I never,” one of the men said.

“Let me go,” she begged her love.

“I can’t… I can’t,” he said.

“They’ll…”

Below, the men were looking up, rubbing chins and scratching heads, as men often will.

“What do you want to do?” one of the men asked.

“Drop it,” another man replied.

The chainsaw barked back to life.

And he did not... could not... let her go. 

... a word of explanation... if needed... trees to be felled are often marked with pink paint or ribbon.

Timber Framing, House Cleaning and the Muse

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So, I’m a little embarrassed—now that I’ve gone on youtube and seen some real timber framer’s handiwork—saying that my sawmill shed is timber framed. Sure, I used timbers, but… No. Not even.

Anyway, I ordered a book. The next building will be the real deal. I figure by the time I get to the barn (which, if you can keep a secret, will probably be my new house and studio) I’ll be up to snuff… a bonifide professional.

But it’s raining today, so I get to clean house.

Cleaning house always seems like a waste of a whole day of life. Until you’re through of course. Then the house you could hardly stand to stay in one single minute longer, you just want to snuggle up inside of and marvel at all of your wondrous, clean stuff for the rest of forever and ever.

My eye is on the prize.

This too, was one of those weeks that it sucked to be a hermit. That is, it sucked to not have a real girlfriend. I go through phases. Like everyone I suppose.

I know.

But sometimes you just want to be a boy, (I do anyway) building a fort in the woods near the creek you’ve dammed with stones, and have the girl from two farms over—who you didn’t know lived only two farms over, but you will soon, because she is right there in front of you in a sun dress and an enormous straw hat and funny boots, and she didn’t snap a single twig or crunch a single leaf getting there—appear and say, ‘Cool. Can I help?’

Sometimes…

But that’s silly.

So I had to swap back to my old Printer.

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There are two Printers in Gallatin: one big, one little, one right behind the other… as in, sharing an alley.

     The big one is nice, but it smells like cigarettes. The big one is my old Printer, the place that Bret had my pretty, color flyers printed up black and white.

     Well, when I decided to get the flyers re-printed in color, I inadvertently called the Little Printer.  No problem, I thought, I'm aquainted with underdogs, they're on the line, I’ll give them a shot.

    The lady at the little Printer was helpful enough. She asked if I needed them right away. No. Three or four days would be fine, I told her, and left the work in her capable hands.

     Eight days later I call her to see what is going on.

     “I was just about to e-mail the proof," she says.

     So I wait.

     Nothing.

     I get the e-mailed proof the next day with an excuse attached.

     But I’m all about cutting some slack. Proof looks pretty good. Letters are a little too bold: lower case is indistinct. Can she reduce them? I ask. “Sure, no problem. I’ll do it and e-mail the proof back.”

     Nothing.

     I’m still good with the slack cutting.

     I call the next day. I get a man...a potentially Muslim kind of foreigner kind of man.

   

     “Is La La there?” I ask.

     “No.”

     “Well, she was supposed to send me the final proof on some work that I…”

     “Yes. We need a deposit first.”

     “She was just going to tweak the lettering a bit and send me a proof. Then I was going to come down…”

     “Yes, I know. We need a deposit before we give you a proof. This is how it is all over in the printing business. Deposit, then the proof.”

     But I hadn’t been told this, and I already had one proof. And this is where the potentially Muslim foreigner part comes into play. I’m thinking, maybe this guy doesn’t understand what I’m saying, my English, since I tend to be a bit abstract and all.

     So I say, “La La said she was going to adjust the lettering and e-mail it back to me. She didn’t say anything about a deposit.”

     “I don’t care what La La said, I am the boss here! I am the owner! You need to deposit before you get proof.”

     I am done cutting slack.

     “Hold on a second,” I say, “I’m counting back from ten.”

     “... three, two, one...”

     “We can cancel if you would like,” the boss-owner says.

     “I think we should.”

     “No problem.”

     Click.

     Wow. Now I know why they're the underdogs.

     Then I start to get cranky. I… they… have wasted a week that I could have used to advertise. I look like a fool for giving the underdog a shot. I’m a romantic, gullible idiot. And I still don’t have any flyers!

     I storm off to Gallatin. I have to get my artwork back from Mr. Congeniality, take it around the corner to my old Printer and eat crow.

     Coming down the mountain I’m trying to unharsh my mellow and rehearsing various dialogues with Mr. Sunshine when this occurs to me…

     “Good morning, you must be the boss and owner.”

     “Yes. How can I help you?”

     “I came to get my artwork… we spoke an hour ago on the phone.”

     “Yes. La La, did this guy have any artwork.”

     La La is hidden in the back. She hands out a folder. The boss removes the proof from the folder and hands it to me.

     “How much do I owe you for that?” I ask, pointing to the proof.

     “I’m not going to give you the proof,” Boss says.

     “I don’t want it. But how much do I owe you for making it?”

     “I will not sell it to you!”

     Language issue again? I don’t know, but La La comes out, maybe to translate.

     “I don’t want the proof,” (little did he know I had one in the truck that I had printed off from La La’s late e-mail). “But she,” I glanced at La La, “spent some time making it. What do I owe you for that time?”

     I don’t think they were counting backward from ten, but there was that much silence, while they both digested what I was suggesting.

     La La started to make some kind of apology. She didn’t understand what the problem was, what the company policies were or what the Boss and I had talked about on the phone that morning. She had been so busy and la, la, la…

     Finally the Boss cuts her off and says, “I appreciate your offer. That is very… kind. But no printing, no charge. If you like the proof and want to leave a deposit, we can…”

     Well, there was no chance in hell I wanted that guy’s… that shop’s… bad mojo on my flyers. This was an exercise in killing with kindness.

     One at a time.

     Oh, and my old Printer said they’d work something up for me… no deposit required.

Little Icky, Big Icky

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So, normally I don't complain about genetically engineered fruit. 

I probably don't even know when I'm eating it.

But the peaches at Walmart are too big.

I can't take a bite out of them without getting peach up my nose. 

And this, my friends, is too much of a good thing.

And then I came around the corner of the house,

La, La, La

on my way to the mailbox with a Netflix movie...

( 'An Education'...

I wouldn't recommend it)

Only to find this tasty little morsel...

Yikes!
Don't think for a moment that I didn't almost wet my jammies.

That's a deer carcass for you City Mice...
What's left of it anyway.

I'll let you guess who I won't be kissing on the lips for the next week or so. 

Once in a Lifetime... Maybe

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Of all the things we humans will never get to do in our lifetimes, I think that going into outer space and seeing a chicken lay an egg… in person… are the two least likely to happen.

I can  now cross the latter off of that list.

So, this morning I go out to feed the chickens and gather the eggs that I didn’t gather last night. (Bad Farmer. Bad, bad Farmer).

There’s a hen sitting in the number one nesting box. I figure she’s thinking that since I didn’t collect the eggs last night, they’re hers to sit on. Think again Chicky.

I reach to get the eggs. She pecks me. Whatever. We spar a bit and finally I get her to stand up. She’s straddling three eggs. They’re gross. All muddy or poopy, I don’t know which, but I don’t want her sitting on them. And while I’m trying to find a clean spot to pick them up by, Fonk! A friggin’ egg flies out of no where and hits my hand.

At first I thought the egg was one of last night’s that had rolled up behind the hen when she stood, then rolled back down while she was harassing me for taking the poopy eggs. I guess my brain did not want to accept that I had just witnessed an egg shoot out of a chickens butt, let alone that I almost caught it. And I do mean shoot out. That hen was throwing some crazy heat.

And really, whose brain would want to accept this. The odds of this happening have got to be stupendous—at least as stupendous as getting to ride on the Space Shuttle. But there it was: a shiny wet, new brown egg. Fresh out of the oven.

I love possibilities.