Please help me name this newest retablo, just finished today. (Think of a retablo as a box containing a story.) What story do you see?
(Click on this second smaller image to increase size of picture. You should then be able to Zoom in and use your scroll bar to see different parts of the image close up. Use + and – to zoom in and out.)
The Dogs Are Barking
They break the morning––a daily rite.
It’s just a warning. The dogs won’t bite.
Two strangers talk but pass unseen.
I doze, they walk, with a wall between.
I lie here posed between thought and sleep.
My eyes still closed. I’m swimming deep.
I resist the trip––that journey up––
preferring to sip from the dreaming cup
whose liquid darker and bitter thick
reveals a starker bailiwick
than schedules, crafts, menus, schemes.
Much finer draughts we quaff in dreams.
I try to sink back into sleep,
once more to drink of waters deep;
but the dogs still bark. They leap and pace.
My dreams too dark for this morning place.
Those dreams lie deep and intertwined,
wanting to creep back up my mind.
But its slippery slope is much inclined
and provides small hope that I will find
again, that world well out of sight
where truth lies curled, still holding tight––
as oysters cleave and then unfurl
with mighty heave, the priceless pearl
of that other mind that slips the knife
beneath the rind of our daily life.
Time is a brew of present, past
and future, too—whatever’s cast
to stew and steep the story rare
that’s buried deep in dreams laid bare.
Dreams are stories we tell ourselves
that draw our quarries to bookstore shelves.
Pinned to the page, they reach their height
and bring our sage self to the light.
But the dogs are barking. They’re hungry, cross.
When I rise to feed them, the poem is lost.
Uncaught, dismembered, it blows away.
Like petals, scattered in the light of day.
Give Me Blue
If it is a blue with no sadness in it:
the blue of the sky above Colima Volcano
with no other clouds in it except one puff
of earth’s hot breath becoming visible
in the cool morning air.
If it is a blue
with no middle ground of safety,
nothing that makes it ordinary.
No hue of boredom
or gray cast of age.
No tint of ever ending––
just pure blue
holding its mood in,
letting you feel however you want to feel.
The blue of glass that reflects the sky.
Iris blue and periwinkle.
Cerulean and cobalt.
If it is a blue with not a smudge of green in it,
or yellow or white or black.
Blue-blue like my sister’s daughter’s eyes
and like the color that a blueberry Popsicle
should be its blue dusted by nature
as though frosted, even in the heat of summer.
Like blue caught in icicles.
The color of a jellyfish
or Noxzema jar.
Bluebottle fly, tenacious,
only its color not annoying.
Blue as a shiver. Blue as blood. Blue as Hawaii.
Not the blue of a heart before forgetting.
Not that blue with a lot of
dullness soaked into it.
But if you have Blue as in Australia.
Blue as in a first place ribbon.
Sky blue,
true blue,
never blue.
Blue that if it’s ever had one gram of sadness in it,
doesn’t show it.
If you have that blue,
and you want to give it to me,
then, sure.
Give me blue.
. . . very far from the tree.
My sister sent me this message and poem that my mom wrote for her egads–over 50 years ago!
Hi there–
I was looking in a box of letters & memorabilia (including my Salutatorian speech from high school, of all things) that Mother gave me years ago, and I found this poem she wrote for me on my birthday one year. It’s so great I have to share it.
A POEM
I’ve used my best china,
Which I’ll wash–I bet.
I made you a cake
Which you already “et”
I’ve washed your clothes
And made your bed,
But please let this all
Not go to your head
Today is your birthday
But tomorrow is not,
So you’ll do your own jobs
You little–darling girl.
P.S.
In regards to your room,
I had meant to do more,
But I took one look
And made for the door.
She was so clever; I wonder if I appreciated it then?
xxoo Patti
Ghosts
It floated off to the side,
disappearing when I turned to face it head-on.
It hadn’t his features, really,
but I felt his presence a dozen times after—
something floating just off the corner of reality.
Then, weeks later, in the bedroom—a bat.
It flickered against the white curtain and then disappeared.
Moments later, there it was again.
I jerked my head quickly around, flipped the curtain out,
examined its other side.
Moments later, there it was again.
Then a circle floated across to join it.
A hair floated down from above and stuck, center-vision.
A few hours later, the fireworks started—
flashing corollas of light just to the right of me,
like subtle flashbulbs going off.
This was when I decided I needed to see a specialist.
Yes, a retinal detachment, he agreed,
but not yet perforated.
Now, my movements curtailed,
I await that new cloudy ghost
that will be a harbinger
of surgery.
Every tope, every cobblestone
brings a new flash of light—
a signal to still myself.
No jumping. No Zumba.
No jogging. No lifting.
I wait, inactive, watching floaters
move to the center of my vision
and off to the side again.
I practice various levels of exertion,
waiting for the flash that signals rest.
I wait for words to float
across my vision,
to rend my inactivity
and prompt me
to pin them to the page––
to stitch them together
into a clearer sight
of what is there, invisible,
inside me, waiting for the tear
to let it out.
They are the ghosts
of the future
and I am the one
who seeks to gather them,
to mend the tear
and anchor
these slippery ghosts.
As we sat in the waiting room waiting (of course) for my eyes to fully dilate so the dr could do his tests, Gloria asked what the red dot was on my blouse. I hadn’t noticed it, but the nurse said, “Oh we put that on her to show she’d been dilated!” Two hours later, I was still waiting for the dot to turn green so I’d know my eyes had returned to normal!!!!
Red Dot Syndrome
Artist’s rendering of my retinal disfunction.
Gloria, contemplating my fate.
Retina specialist humor.
An undashing pirate wench
My reward!!! Gloria got to share.
Someone on a social site I post on once stated that he couldn’t understand the contradiction between my statement that I was an agnostic and the fact that a number of my retablos made use of images of the Virgin of Guadalupe.
One side of the Mexican coin as well as the Universal coin. (click on images to make larger.)
I answered that for me, she was a symbol of that gentle, loving, peaceful, motherly, female side of Mexico that balanced the macho, warlike, violent male side. He didn’t understand this and actually ended our correspondence—a perfect example of that force I sought to counterbalance. I have just finished a retablo entitled “Macho” that demonstrates the male side of the dichotomy.
My newest retablo deals with the dichotomy between the masculine and the feminine in both Mexico and the world.
I also have a sculpture I completed over a year ago entitled, “Anima/Animus.”
Since first reading Jung 32 years ago, I have been almost constantly engaged in examining that force which seems to drive the world—that shifting between anima and animus that the I Ching might call yin and yang and that religion might classify as good and evil. Not that either the anima or animus is purely good or evil, but certainly all is a matter of trying to balance. This is a simplistic statement of a very complex matter, but one I often deal with in my work. This statement is being made after the fact as I very rarely have a concept in mind when I begin a work. I like to see where each piece leads me and I’m as surprised as the viewer may be at where I am led by the process.
ANIMA/UNSHADOWED
This detail examines the shattering of the male side of the ego by a feminine consciousness. The gold object in the glass case is a small replica of the instrument used to sever the head in sacrificial prehispanic temple ceremonies. The hammer shattering the glass is meant to symbolize the gentling effect of the feminine on the masculine.
When I came into the kitchen to make our smoothies this morning, I noticed there was a candle burning next to the virgin of Guadalupe statue on the island divider between my kitchen and dining room. I didn’t say anything about it, but later, Yolanda said, “I lit a candle for your mother today.” Today is mother’s day in Mexico. So sweet. I went and got a pic of my mom to put next to it. This is one of the things I would miss so much if I ever left Mexico. What would replace this special sweetness in the States? My life is so enriched by it.
We have been told our electricity (and thus, our water) will be off all day, so I’ve filled all the sinks and the tub and every pitcher in the house with water to aid in rehydration, flushing and dirty dishwashing. Now, an hour and a half past the time I was told we’d lose power, we still have it. Strangely enough, last night I found my bedroom door was permanently locked and could not be opened by key or turning the knob. Same was true of my back door…and my kitchen door knob is about to fall off. I finally had to take my bedroom door off the hinges as I had to go outside to get from my bedroom to the rest of my house. Everything seems to be going on strike at once. I’m waiting for the third shoe to drop.
Update: Give me a hammer! Give me a screwdriver! Give me an ice pick! Give me some WD-40! Give me some muscle! Give me two magazines and one copy of Three Cups of Deceit (which is exactly the same thickness as the crack under my bedroom door). And what have you got? S-U-C-C-E-S-S!!!!! I fixed both of my doors. Took one off the hinges, rejigged the doorknob (thanks, ice pick), WD-40’d it excessively, realigned the door with a lot of muscle and various combinations of the book and magazines and hammer, and got the pins back in and the lock works—and opens! The back door just took WD-40 and the hammer. I’m still not so sure that someone didn’t try to jimmy it open as I had to pound the lock plate back flat, but—the third shoe that dropped was, I hope, the fact that I did two of the repairs myself and I am now able to freely move through my house…. Applause, please. Comments will do!
The offending door, dismantled
The repaired door, back on its hinges.
And Diego zipped into the open door, ran to his cage, nosed the door open and slept through the entire thing. This is not punishment. He loves his little cage–for sleeping only. He is a puppy and still has the chews.
l
Every year, my mom helped us make May baskets to fill with candy and leave on the doorsteps of our friends. As mentioned in an earlier post, we’d ring the doorbell and run. If the recipient caught us, they could kiss or pinch us—their choice.
Some years we bought fancy handled nut cups from the dime store and used them, but I liked best to make my own. One year, my mother showed us something special to use for May baskets. Her family knew how to make these incredible tissue-paper ornaments that, with a cupcake liner filled with candy glued into the bottom, hung down in a web-like form. We’d pin them at the top and when you held them up they would fall down in a lacy accordion effect so they were a foot or two high. The only way you could really get the effect was to put them on the floor and hold up the top part or hang them from something.
She didn’t remember whether it was her mother or one of her seven older siblings who taught her how to make them, but about five years ago, when I went to the International Music festival in Adelaide, Australia, I went into one of the tents on local cultures around the world and saw my mom’s May baskets hanging all over the tent! It seemed surreal. The tent was displaying handicrafts from the Philippines, and it turns out that my mom’s May baskets were actually hand-cut Philippine lanterns. Suddenly, it all made sense.
My mother’s older sister had married an army officer who served under General MacArthur and my aunt had become a very good friend of Jean MacArthur. She told a funny story about going to a ball and not having a dress to wear and either Jean persuaded my aunt to wear one of Jean’s very fancy satin nightgowns or vice versa. (Wish I’d written down all these family stories when they were fresh.) Anyway, when MacArthur was sent to the Philippines during the war, he took my Uncle Tubby with him.
Jean MacArthur elected to stay in the Philippines with her husband and at one point, my Aunt Betty was there as well. She talked of journeying through headhunter country and other adventures I have forgotten and that she had perhaps embellished, but the point of this circuitous story is that obviously, it was my Aunt Betty who brought the tradition of hand-cut Philippine tissue paper lanterns back to Junction City, Kansas, creating a family tradition that I must remember to hand down to my three nieces—the last surviving members of the family who might be remotely interested in how to create three-dimensional beauty from a flat piece of tissue paper.
I’m going to stop now and go to find two sheets of contrasting color tissue paper and a pair of scissors, to see if I even remember how!!! I’ll post a picture if I figure it out. (I, alas, could find only one piece of tissue paper, so I’ll have to post a less-spectacular example of this family craft that after three tries, I finally remembered.)
Now, I’d love for you to pass along a story about one of your own special family memories, handicrafts or recipes by posting it on my blog.
Happy Mayday, five days late. Happy family memories and here’s to passing them on.
Am I weak? Undisciplined? The minute the NaPoWriMo whip was removed, I sank into lassitude and solitude again and haven’t posted on this blog. The truth is that I’m absolutely exhausted, both physically and mentally. The blade of “the book” has been hanging over me for so long that I think now that it is removed that I crave actual retirement for a few days or weeks or months. Of course, this isn’t possible. Tony and I are giving a talk about the book tomorrow and have another talk scheduled in June. I have 4 more rhymed children’s books I need to find an illustrator for and I need to promote the “Grief Lessons” book. (If you have any ideas, please share them.) I have another book I want to get on Kindle and Amazon and although that should be easy as it is already in print, it means combing old computers to find the Word file and actually meeting with Tony to figure out the process by which he put Grief Diary on Amazon. It takes a very little effort, but I feel laaaaaaazy and have people coming for Mexican Train and pizza tonight and need to get in gear for that soon. So, I’m going to shirk life’s responsibilities for another few hours and watch episode 13 of “The Americans” and pretend for a few more hours that I am really retired. Please don’t give up on me. I like connecting with you all in this way—both those I know and those I will know. I enjoy seeing who has linked and some day I’ll figure out how to link with you or follow you. In addition, I will figure out whether those are one and the same thing. New to blogging, not new to life!
Question of the day: Did anyone else out there ever make Maybaskets and fill them with candy and leave them on friends’ doorsteps on May 1? You’d ring the doorbell and run. If they caught you,
they could pinch you or kiss you. Pictured is a maybasket I made from shredded Kozo paper. The flower is made from cardboard egg cartons cut up, glued and painted. The candy was yummy. I know because I couldn’t deliver this one on May 1 and ended up eating all the candy and had to go candy shopping again yesterday, when I gave this to my friend. More secrets revealed!! oxoxox Judy
