Category Archives: Art Collage




You flavor my memory with common tastes: Spam and corned beef hash.
You wanted to be the common man, but you were anything but.
The bold aggression and the subtle feminine sweep of what you formed—

beautiful. Your hands never clumsy as they sculpted wood and stone.
Metal bent and melted into beauty at your touch,
and colors lifted the wings you gave them.

I floated, also–– too independent to be formed by you,

but still uplifted that a man like you could love me.
It validated something in me—those hard choices I had made
because I listened to something vivid in myself I had not yet found a name for.
Dreams taught me. And synchronicity.

I had always wanted to be a wanderer­­­­—to try to quench those yearnings
that had haunted my daydreams since I was a child.
I cut the ties that bound and wandered West to find you—stable man
pinned by your wings to obligation all your life.
Instead of pinning me down, you wandered with me.
The gypsy life of making and selling art. The easy camaraderie of that circus life.
The vans and wagons circling every weekend in a different convention center parking lot.
Nights pulled into the woods or by the ocean.
Short nights in transit, parked in neighborhoods where we’d be gone by six.
The song of tires on the road, Dan Bern and Chris Smither. Books on tape.
Pulling quickly off the road to lug a dead tree or a well-formed boulder into the van
or to engineer its route up to the roof,
so we returned home as heavily laden as we had departed—
bowed under by the fresh makings of art.

The texture of our home life was silver dust and wood curls.
Its sounds were the stone saw and the drills and polisher.
The heat of the kiln hours after it had lost its art.
The fine storm spray of the sandblaster,
the whine of drills and whirling dervish of the lathe.
The smell of resin, redwood, stone dust, paint.
The sharp bite of metal. The warm bread smell of cooling fired clay.
Every bit of my life was flavored by what you loved––what I loved, too,
our interests merging so completely that for awhile
we had no separate lives, but one life welded end-to-end.

These remembraces are not organized or filed.
They flutter into my mind like hidden lists blown off tall shelves.
That life now a scrapbook of the past with certain photos plucked out
to be tucked under bedroom mirror rims or carried in wallets.

Snap. You put yourself into my mind.

Snap. Another memory follows,
and I am an old woman replaying her life.
Snap. The creak of the tortilla machine across the street in the early hours.
The loud rush of the surf, the rattling startup of a motorcycle.
The raspberry seed between my teeth,
the scent of the dog’s bath still on my hands,
sand gritting the sheets
and art projects taking over every surface.
Snap. I am me, looking for the next adventure.


Below photos snapped a few minutes ago. Proof of the tale.  New projects.
Click on first photo to enlarge and see all photos.



The prompt today was vivid.

Brittle Beauties: Flower of the Day, Feb 27, 2017

Click on first flower to enlarge all and see slide series.

Glass?  No.  My friend Jan is the Chihuly of plastic.  These beauties are fashioned using a simple votive candle, various cut-up plastic bottles and old CD or DVD discs.  She had to make do with my “super match” at my house as I was fresh out of votives.

Art Play Date Day 1

Click on first photo to enlarge all and see slideshow. 

Jan is the only one who finished her piece.  Mazinka and I will meet again on Sunday to finish ours.  Don’t judge us… they aren’t finished!!! Several people asked for photos, so here they are.  The restaurant two buildings away not only loaned us one of the tables and carried it over for us but also brought our lunches.  I made the blueberry margaritas and the guacamole!

Artful Playing

The art play day I planned for today was actually scheduled for tomorrow, so I’m all set, and a friend just came by and wants me to go dancing, so I’m off. (In case you are confused by that last statement, let me explain that I mistakenly prepared a day early and was all set up and waiting for Jan and Mazinka to arrive when I discovered I was a day off.)  Here are some of the preparations I’ve made for tomorrow’s collage art experience.  Each of us is to bring a bag for each of the others that has 10 objects for collage in it.  I had boards cut and have  paint, sand paper and other things to cover the boards with if needed.. Then we will play.  Morrie’s supervising some of the “found” wood objects I collected for collage.  The bags are my objects for the others (and me.) Tables are covered with oil cloth.  One more I will borrow from the beach restaurant next door.  He carried it over this morning, then I had to carry it back when I realized I  was a day off.  Tools, glue and other “needs” are on the table inside ready to be carried out to the porch tomorrow.  Morrie will be no help.  He’ll probably be tangled up in us all day.  Oh well.  Perhaps I can keep him up all night and he’ll sleep in tomorrow.  Fellow artists arrive at 10.  I’m off to Palapa Joe’s to meet Glen and Mario.  Below is a photo of the note she left me on my “art” table on the porch today, built from cut-off zip ties left over from “Morrie guarding” the spiral staircase with screening so he won’t bother the new upstair neighbors.  Tess and Erin taught him how to climb the stairs–now no way to keep him downstairs and out of the upstairs rooms without this precaution.

Click on first photo to enlarge all and read captions.

Finding Art Along the Way: Art Walk Prelude

These are some of the pieces I’ll be showing in the La Manzanilla Art Walk on January 28.  I have another entire body of work–wall pieces where a part detaches to be worn as a brooch–that I’ll show you in a day or two. These pieces were all made by materials found on the beach at La Manzanilla or La Ribera in Baja:

Click on first image to enlarge all.



Simplicity is something that I rarely do.
Why have only one of something when you could have two?
It takes a lot of veggies to come up with a stew,
and we’d do a lot of limping if confined to just one shoe.

Multiples are awesome. Multiples are grand.
Look how many fingers we have upon each hand.
One finger could not do the job. Neither could two or three.
Simple cannot form a hand, did not form you or me.

Simplicity’s much touted but I think it is absurd.
Who ever heard of stories comprised of just one word?
With a single raindrop, the world could not get wetter.
Sparsity may be more chic, but I like clutter better.

I don’t get minimalism. I’m a hoarder to the core.
When I ran out of wall room, I put art upon my door.
There are no piles in hallways. Hoarding need not be a sin.
I’ve built three rooms onto my house just to store things in.

With so many lovely things in life, collecting is a joy.
With life’s manifold choices, why be niggardly or coy?
At the ice cream parlor, why does one have to choose?
You need not always limit yourself just to ones and twos.

Have a scoop of strawberry and pineapple and mint.
Green tea is delicious and tequila’s heaven sent.
Load your dish with raspberry and coconut and mango.
Why do the simple two step when you could do the fandango?

In short, I am a gatherer. I have too many things.
I like to make the choices that a complex lifestyle brings.
When it comes to writing, a stuffed-full mind is fine!
Reach into words and shake them out and string them on a line.

A solitary animal will never make a zoo.
One grain of dirt, one drop of water cannot create goo.
A single cannon fired will not execute a coup.
The world just is not simple, nor am I and nor are you!


I’m having a yard sale of left-over words.  Below is the “free box.” Take what you will (please note that some of these items have been recently used, but all have been laundered and are ready for a new user):

coy ploy toy bore core 
simplicity complicity duplicity felicity
ooze booze cruise who’s whose choose lose blues news pews poos cues ruse sues twos views woos youse 
doozie floozie twozie
boo  goo hue loo moo new poo queue rue sue soo sioux too to you view woo you


Right in line with the theme of the poem, below are way too many photos.  If you want to see the details, you know what to do, right?  If you don’t, I’ll tell you.  Just click on the first photo and click on arrows to proceed through the photo gallery.  To come back here afterwards, click on the X in the upper left corner.

Beach Walk

We still love La Manzanilla, don't we? We know that all will soon be back to normal, the laguna once more sealed off, the crocodiles sealed off from the beaches and coastline, and the beaches and water once more inviting to human habitation.
It was 35 years ago that I first ran away from home to go live at the beach.  For the past 15 years, I have never lived more than 4 hours away from the ocean, and for 20 years before that, I was within 20 miles of it. During these years, I have written hundreds of pages of poems and stories about the the beach, and as I sat here for two hours today, reworking what perhaps was one of the first poems I ever wrote as I spent a year going to the beach every day to write, it suddenly occurred to me that I would rather be doing art, using the boxes of material collected on the beach during the two months I spent there this year, than writing about the experience. I’ve already done that, and here is where you can find it:

That URL will get you to the most recent beach poems. (You’ll need to scroll down past this one once you’ve clicked on the URL above.)  To see earlier ones, go to the archives (near the bottom of the scroll next to a poem entitled “flip flop”)  and select November, 2014 or December, 2014 for older poems.

Please join me in beach combing by taking a walk backwards—as far as you choose to go—through three years of beach poems—reading and looking at what you wish. Some poems you may just walk by or pick up in your hands and then cast away. Others you may examine closely, reading them in their entirety. And some, I hope, you will choose to store away on the shelf of your mind to remind you that you came from the sea and it is always there for you to go back to.

Now, for the rest of the day, I’m going to do what I’ve wanted to do for a month and a half now—unpack some of the boxes of shells, stones, bones, sand, corroded metal, driftwood and assorted beach trash found on the beach as well as uncompleted “found” sculptures begun in January and February. Then, I’ll  “do” for a day instead of writing about it.

Please enjoy your beach combing today as I’ll enjoy mine.