Skip to main content

rain ... rain will tear me apart (again)

untitled; 6 x 9.25 inches, pen and ink on pages from an old math text book.

Big big rain today so the parka was pointless. Darker than hell, too. The wind was manageable until the causeway but then it was either me or the umbrella. C rather caustically remarked that it would be a fine day to own rubber boots. Yes it would, but the world just doesn't care about the few size fifteen bears out there.

Reached into the pocket of my rain jacket and found this.

It's either a butterfly or a nattily-hatted woman opening her coat.

* * * * *


Little article in the NYT about the fine citizens of New Hampshire and their growing resentment over the healthcare bill. Hoping that new senator in Massachusetts will just kill the thing. Because they don't like the government making them buy health insurance, and all the small businesses will go broke picking up their end, and the government is getting too big, and the whole damn thing is just un-American.

I'm only starting to understand that 'American' means: leave us alone (unless we're scared, and then you can tell us to do anything).

* * * * *

Watched Control this weekend, C's pick. A bio-pic of Joy Division frontman Ian Curtis. Just really, really well done.

* * * * *

Bone dead tired these days, the first time this winter like it's seemed I could just lie down in the road. In the bath last night I woke myself snoring.

* * * * *

Celebrity Rehab is back, much to C's enjoyment. Amazingly, there are people on this show who look worse than Mackenzie Phillips.

Comments

  1. I thought the title was singing at me! Sounds like you need a vacay, or just a good long sleep? Definitely butterfly. Happy Monday. . . .

    ReplyDelete
  2. Rain? Rain?

    Where is the Love?

    ReplyDelete
  3. love the drawings. thanks for this whole post!

    ReplyDelete
  4. omg i love man on old math text book.

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

the indisputable weight of the ocean

People are always telling me that my work is too dark. So I've put up this sunnier story, but even it has a shadow, as its original publisher – a fine Atlantic Canadian literary magazine called the Gaspereau Review – is no longer in business. ---------------- It was a simple enough thing and that thing was simply this: Edmund Kelley was a gentleman. Of course his mom called him her 'little gentleman', as in 'Oh Edmund, you are my perfect little gentleman,' which did seem to hold to a certain logic that these type of things often follow, considering her affection for him and the fact that he was, after all, only ten years old. Still, Edmund himself was not particularly fond of the diminutive aspect of that title. Gentleman was enough; gentleman summed up the whole thing rather nicely, thank you. He was definitely a more refined version of your average child. He lived in a state of perpetual Sunday m

Oona Balloona (doesn't care about new tables)

Well, it's Friday, and since I'm pretty depleted in the chit-chat department, I might as well put up some pictures of Ol' Giggles At Ghosts before Grandma starts sending me hate mail. Man, what a goofball. At this rate it's going to be, like, eighteen years before she has gainful employment and moves out of the house. I mean, come on . * * * * * C is especially crazy and frantic today. About two months ago she decided that she no longer liked our dining room table (take that, dining room table! no more BFF for you!). Since then she's switched the dining room and kitchen table (and all the rest of the furniture in the house -- about thirty times, but that's another story) as a provisional solution while she scoured area stores for an upgrade. And she thought she had found one, on Wednesday, at JYSK ( Whatever , I said). But when she ordered it, JYSK called back to say that they were really low on stock, and that the stock they did have was damaged, and

some paintings to keep you company

  at the stations of seeing ; mixed media on cradled wood panel, 24 x 30 inches.   $350 local.     At the Stations of Seeing I expected something on the level of poetry moving the machinery within but instead it was wreckage and difficult instructions Recursive Procedures for Life Structures and that sort of thing. IF—THEN—ELSE where the option is optional CASE, which is multi-situational DO—WHILE the function is zero BREAK and LOOP again and again until failure. please CALL, if you can, or while you are still missed. . . . I went away for awhile, for various reasons, and now I am starting to come back. Where I finally end up is anyone's guess, but one of the stations on the path of that return is a willingness to sell my art again; this post is about just one of the larger paintings I currently have for sale for clients and customers in the Kingston area. A good place to start. The prices for these works are lower because the transaction is personal, easier — come by my stud