I'm not always crabby. Maybe it seems that way sometimes. Last weekend I saw these little, teeny, tiny Fiddler Crabs on the beach. Most of them were no larger than a thumbnail. They don't get big at all. They're called Fiddler Crabs because have one dominant claw that can remind you of a violin. They use that claw for digging, and a waving mating ritual — the crab with the most prominent claw and the best wave wins. It means they will be great providers. Then can dig the best and safest burrows. A perfect place to raise their young. Their big ole claw is their Valentine card! Every species has its rituals. Rams butt heads, giraffes bang heads, frogs croak, and have you ever seen a peacock. Now, that's a display. I suppose we humans have Valentines Day. But we're far more sophisticated than that, aren't we? We're so far beyond comparing claws. This year I'll think of you fondly on Valentine's Day. I hope you have all the love you need in your life and more. Rick, I remember you with love on your birthday. Happy Birthday Rick! I'll remember all those I love, and I wish them well. I've never been very good at sending cards. I'm still not very good at it at all. If you ever thought I shunned you on Valentines Day because you didn't get a card, I'm sorry. I apologize unreservedly. This week, I'll send lovin' vibes out your way. Until next week, I wish you peace.
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I was introduced to this week's artist's work about six months ago by Clint Goodwin, one of my weekly readers. Clint is an award-winning author who writes historic fiction looking through the eyes of a cavalry horse. Very creative. This week's artist is Caroline Towning. She is a great equine artist based out of London. Originally from Yorkshire (near Harrogate), she's been around horses all her life. She said she was taught to ride even before she could talk properly. She went on to University in Hertfordshire where she studied Digital Art, then went on to work at an animation studio. She worked long hours and there was a lot of pressure. Finally, she got a bit burned out. In 2015 she decided to follow her dream and become a full-time artist and painter. She bought an easel and paints and got started. She paints portraits and horses and wants you to feel the horse's breath on your neck. Actually, she says she wants you to feel like the horse is in the room with you. I think she's got something there. I'm happy to present her to you today. Here are the places you can find her on the internet. Facebook Instagram Pinterest YouTube Twitter Website Go out and make some art!
This little drawing kinda says it all about today. A surly peacock. Why do they always look angry?
Let me tell you that living on an island like St. Thomas isn't all butterflies, flowers, sand, seas, and rum punch. Practical things need to be done. Sometimes that involves other people. Today it was the Bureau of Motor Vehicles. If you engage with any government agency, anywhere, you need to have patience. When you're dealing with the Bureau of Motor Vehicles on St Thomas, you need to store up bucketloads of patience, a smidgen of perseverance, and a hip-flask full of whiskey (or rum) before you stand in line. Here's what the Virgin Islands BMV says its vision is: "Our vision is to establish a model of Bureau of Motor Vehicles administration that is comparable to any jurisdiction." Well, that's high falutin. Okay - let me compare the VI Bureau of Motor Vehicles with the Arizona Department of Transportation (ADOT). I've recently had the honor of using the "services" in both places, so I think I have a pretty good perspective. First, because the ADOT website is clear, I knew I would need an emissions test, I went down to the ADOT - Emissions Testing Facility. I pulled into the line and waited my turn. I think there were about three cars in front of me. When I got to the testing station, a youngish guy asked me to take a seat while he put the car through its paces. I sat for about five minutes as the machines whirred. I watched the flashing lights, graphs, and readouts of the magical electronic evaluation system do their job. I paid about seventeen dollars and walked away with my certificate of squeaky cleanness. I then drove about 1/4 mile to the BMV office. I walked through the door and went to a well-signed table that said, "Information." I went to that table, and a friendly person said, "Sir, you need to stand in the green line," as they pointed to a green line on the floor. "Ah, thank you very much," I said. I can understand green, and I know what a line is. Perfect. I waited in the green line for about 10-15 minutes. The line was pretty long, but they seemed to be working through customers systematically and efficiently. When it was my turn, I sat in front of a young lady who helped me through the process of transferring the title of my father's car into my name and registering the vehicle. The whole process, start to finish, including vehicle emissions testing and travel time, took between thirty and forty minutes tops. I walked out with a brand new title and registration with time left over for a beer. St Thomas on the other hand was, shall I say, a little bit different. We've done this several times before, so I thought we had it covered. We took the old jalopy up over the hill from Magens Bay, through Charlotte Amalie and down to the Department of motor vehicles. We got there about 11:30, and I proudly pulled into the inspection area. The guy didn't even turn around. I could have run him over. He eventually came to the car window and asked for the registration document. Okay, I didn't understand him first. It sounded something like "I've got cotton balls in my mouth because I'm trying out for the Marlon Brando's role in The Godfather. So I probably can't articulate the words necessary to communicate. Please interpret my mumbles as - pass me the registration, my good man." How we discovered it was the registration he wanted is beyond me. We just handed him every scrap of paper we had on hand, and he pointed at the right one. Then he walked to the front of the car and said - "Turn on the lights, OK, Left Signal, OK, Right Signal, OK, Horn, Beep, OK." Enough with the front of the car, he went to the rear of the car and said, "Brakes, OK, Left Signal, OK, Right Signal, OK, Reverse, OK.." He stamped his seal of approval on the registration and gave us a slip of paper. Then, again, he did his best Marlon Brando impression and told us to back across town to a building by "The Fort." I knew where "The Fort" was but had no clue what he was talking about. I was afraid to ask for more directions because I didn't want him to make me an offer I couldn't refuse. The stamped piece of paper in hand, we hared off back across town, for what purpose we were still not sure, to that non-descript government building near "The Fort." We still didn't know why we were going, but we went anyway. There was some debate as to whether it was before or after "The Fort" and in what proximity it was to "The Fort." So we headed instinctively to someplace close to the Police Department. Andrea said, in her determined authoritative voice, "I've got this." She stoically wandered into the government building, and was immediately x-rayed and had her phone confiscated. I'm sure, just when she thought she would never see the light of day again, she emerged unscathed, bewildered, but proudly clutching the now twice stamped document. We took our pirates treasure, loaded up the Jeep, and made our way back across town. She discovered, only by chance, they had to check if there were any warrants, violations, or funny pictures of us on the internet. When we got back across town to the BMV there are no instructions as to what to do or where to go; people were just milling around aimlessly. We had to ask one of the customers what the first steps were. I couldn't see the process/directions posted anywhere. Finally, we co-milled around with people who looked like they were all going in one direction. It was like that Apple Commercial in 1984.
It took about ten minutes to turn the paperwork into an incomprehensible void. It could have been from a science fiction movie. The woman at the counter logged our information into her mysterious master log book and gave us a number.
Our number was 109. Then we heard a disembodied voice say, "Number 87, come to window number three." Yup - we're in for the long haul. I have to say; there was no rhyme or reason for the order they were calling numbers. By the time we thought they would be coming to number 109 they jumped and called number 110, then 111, then 108, and again called number 87. There is no way to tell how long we'd have to wait. It was close to 2:20 pm before we heard our magic number. They closed at 2:30 pm today. We had a small party before lodging ourselves firmly in front of window number #2. We were able to get away with paying only $180 for the entertainment we enjoyed at the VI BMV today. I would say this BMV is the most inefficient and shoddily run organization on the island, but I fear there are a lot of places here that fit that bill. On the bright side
I always enjoy visiting Old San Juan. It has a beautiful historical Spanish Caribbean feel. There are plenty of wonderful places to visit in the old town. We've visited Castillo San Cristóbal and Castillo San Felipe del Morro (old colonial fortresses on the north coast) several times. There is something about sitting down for a cold Magna beer just down the street from Parque de las Palomas after several hours of wandering the streets of San Juan that can send me into an otherworldly state of mind. I love to wander the streets of the old city looking for local art. I love local art that has a soul. I don't like things that look like sweatshop knockoffs from a third world country. If you enter the city from the centuries-old Puerta de San Juan, you will find yourself wandering, like many weary travelers, up Caleta de San Juan towards the Cathedral. Just before the Cathedral Plaza, when the church is coming into plain view, look to your left. You will find a small shop on the left-hand side called Tres Mujeres at 63 Caleta de San Juan. This little shop is a cooperative run by, and you might guess if you spoke Spanish, Three Women. This little shop displays the talent of three local women: Ceramics is the department of Yelin Vivoni, Enid Silvestry is in charge of textiles, and the paintings are brought to you by Dafne Elvira. The artists themselves staff the shop so you're bound to meet up with one of them when you're there. This week we were able to chat for a little while with Enid Silvestry.
I really enjoyed looking through their shop. If you every get to Old San Juan wander up from the Old Gate and take a peak in their shop. Go out and make some art! A polar vortex has invaded and seems to be turning everybody in the northern hemisphere into popsicles. And I'm petitioning for warmth for everybody. Not in a bad world-ending Global Warming kind of a way but a kind please give 'em all a break way. I hate the cold. I really, really hate the cold. When I heard about this frozen invader, I counted my blessings. In England, the arctic blast shut airports, snaffled roads, and brought commuters to a standstill. Wisconsin, I heard from Holly, is colder than Antarctica (okay - it is summer in Antartica but still...) A snow plow driver died in Germany when his vehicle fell into an icy river. In Moscow, it's always mind-numbingly cold in the dead of winter, I've seen the movies. Things are looking up though. This weekend promises some warmer air will be pushing its way northward. And, of course, on Saturday, it's Groundhog Day. Punxsutawney Phil has our meteorologic future in his grubby little paws. February 2nd is when Americans set their hopes for warmth on a poor relation to beavers and squirrels. Groundhogs / Woodchucks (same thing) don't even have a cool tail like a beaver or a squirrel. Remember the tongue-twister, "How much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?" No, Well, nowhere in that little ditty does it mention the weather. Groundhog Day is just like all human celebrations. It's time to make merry and send cards to each other. Oh - sorry, that's Valentines Day. Or maybe it's Christmas. Nevertheless, we all like a little celebration every once in a while, don't we? I do. So, let's celebrate anyway, spring never comes along soon enough. And people have to conjure up some hope to get through the rest of the winter. It doesn't matter if Phil says sees his shadow or doesn't see his shadow, officially, winter won't come to a close until March 20th at the Spring Equinox. That's at least six weeks away. But bring on the buck-toothed prognosticator: Have at it, Phil of Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania. I'm anxiously waiting on your prediction. Give everybody some hope, will ya?! Until next week, I wish you warmth and peace too. This week I bring you, Timmy Ham. Sloth used to be his "tag" name, but Sloth is now a thriving art business. He has commissions from large companies like Logitech. He seems to always be on the move and creating something. Part of his artwork is digital, and part of it is physical. I like how he bridges the divide. His style is all his own. He began as a graffiti artist and still does a lot of his work with spray cans. His company produces t-shirts, caps and other merchandise (merch as he calls it). I love a lot of the innovative things he does to get noticed. He sometimes does free art drops in and around the Phoenix area. A free art drop is where he'll put some piece of art wrapped in a parking lot or some other public area. He'll tweet the location so people can come and pick it up. I think it's a fun concept. He'll do larger than life murals or produce an original work on a pair of Van's for you. He has been a prolific YouTuber and has a large following.
I like his art and his drive. He's a young guy on a mission. See him at these places on the internet: Flowers remind me of a peaceful existence. They are at one with nature. I drew a little abstract flower this week to remind myself what peace there is all around us if we only notice. "Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin. And yet I say unto you that even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.” King James Bible, Matthew 6:28-29 I needed the reminder because I spent the better part of an hour and a half yesterday on the phone. It wasn't productive phone time. It was a useless interaction with several automated attendants that caused my blood to boil. I'm sure this is nothing new to you. Each of us has, at one time or another, submitted ourselves to the ignominy of the automated phone attendant. Your Call Is Important To Us Whenever I hear, "Your call is important to us. Please stay on the line, and your call will be answered in the order it was received." I picture myself being put in the hopper of a meat grinder until I come out the other end as the mushy remnants of what I used to be - a strong, confident soul. I know, without a doubt, that my call is NOT important to them and that I have become sausage. I'm a number in a queue. I've become a statistic in a clickity-clack number-crunching system that depends on my compliance. As Pink Floyd would have said "Another Brick In The Wall." Please Listen Carefully Who's kidding whom, when they say, "Please listen carefully to the menu because our options have changed." Bullshit, your options haven't changed since Galileo was jailed for telling people the earth was round and rotated around the sun. So, why are they lying to me? Oh yeah, they don't want me to hit zero to get to an operator/a helper/a real person. That would cost them money. Please Anwer A Few Questions There is the point at which they pile insult onto injury. After prompting me to enter my account information, my security pin, the name of my first pet, my mother's maiden name, a bottle of scotch, and the color of the underwear I'm sporting today, they have the gall to ask for the information again when I get on the phone with a representative. It's like the first interaction never took place. The Next Available Professional Companies say they're using an automated attendant to better route your call to the next "professional" who can best serve their bottom line, oops. I mean to serve you. What they're saying is, "To better serve you, please tell us how we can help:
I Apologize For Your Wait If you finally get the "next professional" on the line, they've been trained to defuse your irritation and their disinterest with feigned minion-like profuse apologies for your wait, though it was probably because they relieved themselves in the bathroom while you were waiting. The representative answers with such self-effacing kowtowing that's just embarrassing enough to assuage your anger. You might even feel like apologizing for putting them in the unenviable position of lying prostrate at your feet. Me I'd rather kick 'em. The Service Cost Center Your call is NOT important to them. Your call has become a disturbance; it has become a bother, a nuisance, your request is now a line item in an income statement to show investors how efficient they are. Most companies count customer support as a cost to be slashed rather than a service that can be provided to bolster loyalty. Unusually High Call Volume "Unusually high call volume," my ass. Okay, when you're experiencing unusually high call volume every day for three and a half weeks in a row, can we still call it unusual? It's time to start calling it what it is: bad management, ignorance, and disinterest. Proper Customer Support A long time ago I worked in customer support, on the telephone for eight hours a day, for the better part of five years. I learned a bit about customer service during that time. I learned about talk-time and ASA (Average Speed of Answer). It was crucial we took each customer request seriously, and to make sure we answered each call quickly and to the best of our ability. We were measured on how well we resolved the issue rather than how long we spent on the phone. When ASA went up, we hired more people. When questions went unanswered, there was additional training. That was proper customer service. Conclusions I have concluded, without a doubt, and you can quote me here: "Automated Attendants are tools of the devil designed to impersonalize, denigrate, create confusion, promote inefficiency, and dash the unsuspecting human heart against the rocky shores of incompetence and disinterest. They allow a company to disguise their apathy and tell the most blatant lies. " There, I've said it. I feel much better now. Until next week, I wish you peace. Last weekend we spent some time on Magen's Bay Beach. It's been rated one of the top ten beaches in the world. The reason I bring it up is we found a budding little artist on the beach. He was a bit young for me to plaster a photo of him on the internet. So, we'll let him be anonymous. I think he was about 10 years old. Let's call him Young Jake. I like the name, Young Jake. This prolific little sand artist was impressive. At about ten years old I was still drawing stick figures, and my sandcastles looked like the buckets they came from - maybe. Here is some of the work Young Jake left on the beach. I love that he was out in the open making work for everybody to see and enjoy.
I'll bet he just thought he was playing. He worked diligently on his creations and always kept his attention on the task. I think this kid might have a great future in the art world. Don't you? Sorry, he has no web locations. Go out and make some art! Everybody seems to have a smartphone nowadays. I think I've seen six-year-olds with smartphones.
Okay, I know not everybody has a smartphone (Brian, Peter, and Frederick you know who you are - though I know Frederick has a super cool real camera). I imagine if you're in my little artsy update audience you might have a smartphone, which has a camera. It's funny how we still call them phones. They're more like a mini-computer that happen to make phone calls. Though my smartphone camera does a pretty good job at almost everything like panoramas, videos, timelapse, slo-mo, zooms-in and out, I'm looking for a better camera because I like taking pictures and some things about my iPhone camera frustrate me.
Because I have a camera on me almost all the time, it's changed how I live my life, at least how I remember my life. I've taken somewhere in the neighborhood of six billion (exact number about 16K) photographs with my phone. I try to keep a diary of the things that I do from day to day by writing down things that happen during the day. Some days I write more than others. I wish I did it every day, but I don't. I use a program called Evernote for my diary. For each entry, I add a couple of photos to the mix.
I use the photos as a reminder, as a touchstone for future reference. When I go back over my journal, as I often do, the pictures help me remember where I was and what I was doing. As I ride that highway to addle-mindedness, I'll need all the help I can get. A fancy new camera might help me take better quality photos but do I need that for the way I use the images? Maybe a new camera can help me document my trek on the Appalachian Trail. I've seen a lot of great videos from hikers on the trail, though I haven't seen any videos from a sexagenarian. I know there has to be some of us out there. I've personally met people in their seventies on the trail. So it can be done. But do I really want to have to carry a separate camera around? It's all about weight when you're "carrying a wardrobe on your back", as Bill Bryson mentioned in his book, A Walk In The Woods. I think, for now, I'll stick with my iPhone and the camera that comes with it. It does the job. I don't think I need a better one right now. Right, now that I've come full circle and I've cleared that up for myself ... Until we meet again, I wish you peace. Let me introduce you to Gwenn Seemel. She is a prolific artist and frequent YouTuber. I love that she posts her videos in both French and English. I listen to the English version. Then I switch to the French version to see how much I can understand. She has, what I think, is a unique style I like very much. Of course, I like it, I don't include anything I don't like - not yet anyway. In her YouTube videos, she often explains her process and how the art market works for independent artists. Most of her videos talk about some part of the struggle of being an independent, full-time artist. I find many of her videos insightful and helpful as I try to navigate how the art market works. I think you will like her artwork. I do. You can find her online by clicking below. Website Facebook Pinterest Instagram Twitter YouTube Sometimes I need a bit of motivation. I need a bit of a boot up the backside. Let's call my metaphorical boot - gratitude. Life sometimes throws some horrible things at you. Atrocious stuff like somebody I had to fire yesterday and the emotional blowup/fallout everyone had to endure afterward around me. There was the passing of my extraordinary father — what a great dad. Sometimes I get in a funk, and I'm my own worst enemy. These things are all part of life. Then there are things like getting together with my friend Dale yesterday, whom I hadn't seen in years. I got to play golf twice this week. I got to spend two weeks with some good friends visiting from England. So many things come my way unexpectedly and at just the right moment. It's difficult to see how anybody could have planned my journey. Let me tell you a little story. When I was about 14 years old during the Age of Aquarius, when the moon was in the seventh house, and Jupiter aligned with Mars, my mother, God bless her, went out to an astrologist, probably after one too many Screwdrivers, to get a reading done on her number one son (and possibly his brother as well). What do the stars hold for their future? Where will they end up? In that report were charts and graphs in triplicate (everything was done in triplicate in the 1970s, or it wasn't done at all). There were hieroglyphs, petroglyphs, moons, stars, and constellations rising and waning planets. It was more detailed than a D-Day battle plan with arrows, and cliches, ships, guns, and even euphemisms. It had all the trappings of a big ole “You bet your sweet bippy,” astrological report. It had lots of stuff in it, that to this day, I don't understand or even believe. I was quite an insecure young man. Fast forward about forty-five years and the predictions made in that forecast have been eerily accurate. Honestly, I do think astrology is a lot of malarky. Maybe that report planted some seeds in my head to give me confidence and provide some kind of assurance that things would be okay. Without getting all mystical and freaky, I am so grateful for the opportunity to have been placed on the planet where I was, in the right family, at the time, and in the body/mind, I occupy. So, when I feel like crawling into bed with a bottle of whiskey and a wet blanket, I pull out my metaphorical boot, and I apply that boot generously to my backside. Life - it's all we got, we gotta be grateful. Until next week - I wish you peace. This weekend we took a trip up to Prescott, AZ. Prescott has a beautiful downtown area. There were two places I visited that were particularly interesting. The first was an outdoors outlet that sold all kinds of gear for the trail. Then, on our way in to have a beer at the famous Hotel St Michael on the corner of Gurley Street and Whiskey Row. Guests of the Hotel St. Michael have included great icons of the old west like Wyatt Earp and Doc Holiday. Teddy Roosevelt and Zane Gray also stayed there. It has a real old time feel to it. The complex that houses the hotel (110 S Montezuma St) houses the studio and gallery of Scot A. Weir. Scot's paintings captured my attention immediately and drew me into the shop. When I interrupted him, he was working on a canvas and talking with potential customers as they wandered in and out of the shop. Scot was indulgent and humored me while I peppered him with questions. Far too many to put down on this little article. I didn't get hardly enough time to talk to him. I was with friends and I was summoned to move on. I'm sure he's glad they hurried me along. Scot just recently moved to Prescott from Wyoming. His style of artwork fits the old west. His landscapes are stunning, and many of his paintings have a whimsical twist that I like very much. His gallery is right in the middle of town, and his shop gets plenty of foot traffic. People were continually in and out of the shop, and he sold one of his original paintings while I was there. Congratulations Scot! I can see why he's so successful, he puts his head down and get's on with the business. No fanfare, no hoopla, just a hard-working, exciting artist with a great eye, and what I thought was a good heart. I hope to stay in touch with him. If you want to see some of his work I'd suggest the following places online. Sometimes you have to be wary of being a target. I don't know what list I got on over the last several months but my travel back to Arizona last week was a comedy of errors and inconveniences. The ride to Heathrow was smooth as silk. Forty minutes down the A1 and M25 straight into Terminal 5. We whizzed down the highway in a way only my friend Peter can do without being pulled over. Though I don't relish leaving, it's so nice of him to give us a ride. At the airport check-in and security was a breeze but frustrating nonetheless. The attendant couldn't check our bags through to their destination. We had to pick up our bags at Kennedy International and slog them via the Skytrain to the Delta counter. We found ourselves with about two and a half hours to burn before the flight. We had to then take a shuttle out to B Gates because we flew out of Gate B65. After sitting in a very crowded British Airways lounge until my backside was close to blistering, we were summoned to board. After the wait, I was looking forward to boarding and beginning the journey. The attendant at the gate attendant took my ticket, scrunched up her nose, and looked at me like I was from Mars or at least a refugee from some Greenlandish glacier. She said, "Mr. Attenborough, please, go with this gentleman for additional screening." Aw crap. The security agent swabbed every bit of gear I was carrying on the plane, including me. At this point, I was wondering if my nitroglycerine tablets would set off some explosives monitor. It is, after all, an explosive. I guess there were no WMDs found and they let me board the plane. When we got to JFK more tedious screening was in store. Instead of going through the US Citizens' line I chose to go through the "everybody else" line with Andrea. She used to be able to go through the US Citizens line, but something must have changed recently. Anyway, I got the third degree from the immigration officer wondering what I was doing out of the country. I would expect that from the UK Immigration but because I am a US Citizen I was surprised to be scrutinized so severely. I am coming back to my own country after all. Nevertheless, we were allowed to pass and moved on to Customs. Oh My God, another bout of additional screening. Are you carrying any meat? Do you have any fruit or vegetables? Are you transporting marijuana? Are you bringing any narcotics into the country? At this time I was wondering what list my name was on and why was it there? I was tired, frustrated, and just a bit intimidated by all of the patdowns. JFK has to be one of the most inconvenient and illogical airports. The Airtrain is a fair walk from the terminal, and as we breached the outer doors to walk across the road to the Skytrain, I was glad I put a sweater in my luggage, and I was wearing it now. I had been worn down, subdued. I was resigned to my fate and stoically made my way to Terminal 2 to check in to Delta and drop off my bags. Oh - an aside. When we first booked our flights we thought we allowed enough time to make our Delta connection. Then Delta moved their flight up an hour. We had to rearrange our onward flight resulting in me becoming a lounge lizard for another almost five hours at JFK. You'd think that was the end of the story. But no, it gets more tiring and more frustrating as time went by. We arrived at the Phoenix Airport - The friendliest airport by the way, and received a text message, "Your luggage has not arrived as expected." That's not the kind of message you want to get when you've been up almost twenty-four hours. A little good news here. The luggage arrived on the previous flight and was waiting for us at the Delta counter. Whew! We had arranged a shuttle to take us home. The problem was, according to the dispatcher, "There's been a lot of cancellations and delays, and it will be about half an hour until someone can pick you up." Unwelcome news. The shuttle finally came. It was a bit quicker than the thirty minutes promised. I thought that was great. We got in the van and headed home. As we were approaching the turnoff to our house, the driver announced that we were first going to drop off the other couple in the van — a round trip of an additional forty minutes after we passed our house. I was just about ready to lose it. Alas, I was too tired. I was too worn out. I was just too, too, too everything. When I got home, I told the driver there was no tip coming from me. I said, "You seem like a very nice man, but I am so angry right now there is no way I could fathom giving you a tip." I was home. I was asleep shortly after that. Bad dreams and all I was so happy to be unconscious, undone, un-awake. It was good to be inspecting the insides of my eyelids. The next day was the next day, and when the sun came up, I was relieved of my anger and angst. Things look brighter in the morning. Obviously, the target above is not original artwork so here's one of my drawings to amuse and entertain you. Until next week, I wish you smooth travels, and I wish you peace. I love clouds and the sea, and I love seascape paintings. Janhendrik Dolsma is one of the best seascape painters I've discovered. I've watched and bought his videos. I love his calm and settled demeanor. He's like a zen sky painter. I can watch him over and over again. His skies, seas, and beaches are stunningly realistic and evocative. His clouds are amazing. You feel like you could walk right into one of his paintings. Janhendrik is based in Groningen, Netherlands but displays his work in Germany, Taiwan, Spain, Belgium, and the UK. People all over the world purchase his work. This video is of Dolsma working on his oil painting 'North Sea Breakers'. A process that took four weeks is boiled down to a nine-minute video.
Last year, I declared 2018 to be the Year of the Iguana. This year, because I have the power, because I have the will, because I have an Artsy Update, I declare 2019 the year of the Guppy! I can do that. I can declare it, I really can! The holidays are coming to a close, and I suppose folks will start straggling back into work next week to get a respite from their travels, parties, and vowing what they will do differently next year. I would prefer not to promise myself things I know I have no intention of doing. The new year comes at an arbitrary time on the calendar. Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, it means Head of The Year. The Chinese calendar kicks off the New Year at the first new moon and floats between January 21 and February 20th. The 2018 new year, The year of the dog started on February 16th. The Romans celebrated New Year in March. Some remnants of the old calendar remain Sept = 7 not 9, Octo = 8 not 10, Novo = 9 not 11, Dec = 10 not 12. So there you have it. The new year has gone shifted over time. But, in 1582 Gregorian Calendar reforms restored January 1st as the first day of the year. So now we celebrate January 1st. It's evident that humans can agree on almost nothing, religion, politics, or even when to start the new year. I can't agree with myself most days. Civil Defense Hint Of The Day: If I were some hostile government, I'd probably plan an attack on January 1st. You'd find three people on duty and most of the others with a hangover. Celebrating is fun though. I like a wee dram of whiskey as much or more than most. I love remembering the good times and looking forward to more good times. I enjoy getting all Auld Lang Syne (Times Gone By) and kissy-face and I like congratulate myself for making another year. I suppose everyone does. We all make plans to be better versions of ourselves at this time of year, and I do believe we mean it at the time, but it's easy to lose focus as time passes between your resolution and reality. How will I maintain focus this year? I'll keep my goals in front of my face.
Whatever it is, I wish you the best of luck and the conviction to make your heart's desire a reality. Until next week, Happy New Year, and I wish you peace.
I've been thinking about Christmas lately, specifically, how my Christmas Spirit overwhelms that part of me that governs common sense.
I do love Christmas, but sometimes I do it up a bit too much.
Here are some of the overindulgences I hope to curb this year. OVEREATING Lots of times, I end up walking away from Christmas dinner needing a massive dose of antacid, a three-notch belt extension, and a wheelbarrow. Okay - maybe a forklift. It's the middle of the night. Visions of sugarplums are dancing in my head. The refrigerator's calling my name. I try to quiet the beast in my head, but the darn thing keeps shouting, "There's turkey down here, there are potatoes too, stuffing anyone!? You know you want it. Come and get it!" I can feel the last hit of Zantac starting to kick in. Do I give in? Do I say, "Ah heck, it's Christmastime nobody cares? It's the middle of the night, nobody will know." No overeating for me this year. I've been working on injecting some common sense into the concrete between my ears. I'll only eat what I am comfortable eating. I can always save some until tomorrow. I love food. OVERDRINKING I'm sure, if you know me, you know I've often been guilty of this. Though, recently I've been able to scale back. I've avoided most of the ill effects by pacing myself. Do any of us know how many hangovers we have left? Imagine if you only get a certain number of hangovers in your life. After that, you join the queue at the Pearly Gates. Old St Pete takes a glance and sends you to rehab purgatory before you can breach those sublime everlasting gates. I want to put that whole Pearly Gate thing off as long as possible. Like the song says, "Everybody wants to go to heaven Get their wings and fly around Everybody wants to go to heaven But nobody wants to go now." That, and nobody wants to be the guy that does that embarrassing thing people will remember forever. No lampshades or togas for me. No Sir. I now realize there are camera phones. If you've never watched yourself doing a drunken rant, I'd recommend it. It sobers you up quickly. OVERSLEEPING The reason I end up oversleeping is that I'm up until all hours overdrinking and overeating. I don't know when to call it quits. It's like some demonic Energizer Bunny gets hold of me. I keep going and going and going. I've found if I avoid the first to OVERS (drinking and eating), sleep comes a bit more naturally. I'm not tossing and turning all night, then staying in bed too late. I used to have a hardier constitution. I used to be able to go to bed late and get up early. I can't now, and it's disappointing. I have to try to manage it I suppose. I do have Tylenol PM and Melatonin. They work wonders for me. OVERCOMMITTING Yes - We've already done it. The old calendar gets full during this time of year. We make plans to do this thing and that. It's just such a great time of year. There are parties and meet-ups and well - parties. We want to do the carols, we want to do the parties, and we want to visit with friends. It's so hard to hold back. Maybe next year we can scale back a bit. I suppose you just have to plan downtime. I'm trying to get better. Really, I am. Yeah - Right. If you tend to do a few OVERS during this time of year, maybe this reminder will help you keep your eye on the ball. It's like GI Joe says, "Now you know, and knowing is half the battle." As for me, I'll be doing what I can. I'll enjoy a walk, a fire, and some good friends. That's something I can look forward. The rest is just gravy. Hmmmm ... Guinness Gravy! STOP IT SCOTT! JUST FREAKING STOP IT! For those of us waiting for the big guy to come down the chimney and leave a little piece of wonderment beneath the tree, You know, that special something you've always wanted, but never told anyone, I hope you get it this year. If you have another tradition, I wish you many blessings as well. No matter how you spend your time this holiday season, Until next week, I wish you peace.
AND NOW - The rest of the story!(Thanks, Paul Harvey)
'Twas The Party Before Christmas(the story behind the poem) I love our annual Christmas Party. We've had the Party here, in Stevenage, every year for the last six years. We invite people from around the neighborhood as well as some friends from outside the immediate area. They all stop in to have a few drinks and tell a few tales. It's a fun time for all. The Christmas Party holds a special place for me though. Let me tell you a story about the first year of the party here at Olde Cottage. We first met Marilyn and Peter the summer before our first party. We hit it off immediately, especially Marilyn and Andrea. We'd just come back from visiting Cornwall and talked about how much we love it there. We go back there almost every year for the beaches, the Southwest Coastal Path, and, yes, the chillin'. We left Marilyn and Peter that summer vowing to stay in touch. Between the time we left England for the summer, and the time we got back for Christmas, Marilyn and Andrea decided it would be a bang-up idea to get folks from the neighborhood together to enjoy a few drinks at Christmas time. I should tell you that Marilyn doesn't do Christmas by half. She doesn't do anything half-assed. She's all in, off the diving board in a frilly suit, and a full head of steam. Peter, as it turns out, has a sacred mulled wine recipe that he pulls out of the Holy Grail stored in a secured vault under number 10 Downing Street. At Chrismas Peter dusts off the holy text with extreme reverence wearing anointed cotton gloves. He peels the parchment back with the care of a conservator then inspects the recipe to make sure it is, in fact, the same document stored with such care the previous year. You'd think the recipe was handed down from Charles Dickens himself. There are all kinds of exotic ingredients. I don't know if I've said too much already. The mulled wine police (MWP) may be coming around the corner as I write. I think the real reason Ed Snowden had to flee to Russia is he leaked the recipe to Julian Assange. Nobody wants to be chased by the MWP. Bottom line: It's exceptional, and everybody looks forward to Peter's brew. The first year of the party, the decorations went up, and the stage set for the night. Marilyn on the oven, Peter on the mulled wine, Andrea at reception, and me on fire. Yeah, I get the dangerous job. I get to play with fire! The party was starting. We had a bit of a toast between ourselves before the rest of the folks began arriving. I guess the word had got around because before long the house was packed with people hobnobbing and rubbing elbows. The place was hopping. Everyone was lovely. Drinks were drunk, hors-d'oeuvres consumed by the bucket load, lampshades worn, music blasted, and I think everybody was having a fabulous time. I know I was. The last person togged up and left sometime in the wee hours of the morning. After we gasped our last and patted each other on the back, Marilyn and Peter trundled off on the short five-minute walk to their home around the corner. Through our beer goggles and wine colored glasses, we started clearing up a bit. Getting enough dishes together to start the dishwasher and organizing food in the fridge so it wouldn't spoil out on the table all night. I think we were brushing our teeth and getting into pajamas when we got a call from Marilyn. It appears, while we were enjoying ourselves at the party, there was a fire at their house. Our friends have a lovely old Victorian house with high ceilings and lots of wood; bunches of wood. The exterior is brick, but the interior is almost all lime plaster and wood. Before the fire, they'd been going through the house meticulously restoring one room at a time, picking out just the right this or that for here and there. They had just lovingly finished the sitting room with original materials and fixtures, and brand new furniture. The work was painstaking and detailed. The fire started in the room they'd just finished. Apparently, one of the candles on the wooden mantle over the fireplace had burned down and caught some decorations on fire. It could have been so much worse. If the fire and not burned itself out and spread just a little it would have caught the Christmas Tree. The whole house would have been a goner. As it turned out, they got off easy. Instead of a conflagration the wood smoldered and created so much smoke it choked itself out. I say they got off easy, but I don't mean that. The whole house got covered in toxic, black, thick, soot. The soot formed webs in all the corners, and the smell was horrible. It's not like a nice wood fire in the fireplace. It's not like the flames of a barbeque in the summer. It's an acrid disgusting smell that chokes you and sticks to everything you wear. We walked over to their house the minute we got the call. Peter and Marilyn were devastated. It certainly looked like an "all is lost" moment. We invited them to come back to our place and stay the night. I'm sure it was not a stellar night's sleep for either of them. The thought of everything in their house destroyed must have haunted them all night. In the morning we suggested they stay with us until everything got sorted and we set up a room for them. This was only a couple of weeks before Christmas. As a result of the fire, we ended up becoming terrific friends spending the entire Christmas holiday with them. We always look forward to coming back to England because they've become family. Adversity can make for unusual situations. We are so lucky to have them in our lives. Our experience is much richer for it. We go places together. We did a week's vacation with them in Cornwall. We go to the races at Newmarket every year. We have the best times in such exciting places like the time we went to see Paloma Faith in Croatia. Paloma didn't show up. We had a great time just the same. They've also come to St Thomas to visit with us and soak up some of that island sunshine. They are just a pleasure to be around, and we appreciate them very much. The point of the story is that you never know what things will bring friends together. In this case, we formed very close bonds through adversity. One night's fire turned into what I hope will be a lifetime friendship. That's what makes our Christmas party unique to me. Yes, it's great to meet up with people you love and don't often see during the year. I love that. We absolutely love getting together with our friends and neighbors during the season. As we head into this season and feverishly prep for the party, for me, I will always remember the lifelong friends we made one dark, cold, and devastating night before Christmas. Until next week - I wish you peace on earth and good will towards everyone. Especially the guy in the parking lot, he needs it. Over the last several years, I've been a member of the Stevenage Arts Society. The Arts Society provides space, classes, and encouragement for artistic endeavors including painting, drawing, and pottery. Twice a year the Society holds an exhibition to highlight member's art. It provides members with the opportunity to have their work presented in the Old Town. This year, one artist, in particular, caught my eye. Her name is Pat Le Mar. Her preferred medium are pastels but she works in other media as well. She paints whatever draws her attention including portraits, cityscapes, and landscapes. This painting is the Old Town in Stevenage. It is a brilliant representation of evening approaching on the High Street. The atmosphere is wonderful. She has training in graphic design and has lived and worked in Stevenage for the last 40 years. I hope to run into her someday at Springfield House. The reason I'm writing about Pat and the exhibition today is last week I went to the show and bought one of her landscape paintings. I am thrilled with my purchase because:
This week, Pat Le Mar is my highlighted artist and I'm very happy to recommend her work. You can find her here on her website. I am putting these two drawings side by side. To the left is a digitally enhanced version of the painting on the right. The one on the left is a bit slicker. The lines are smoother. The colors are more vivid. I think the one on the right has a bit more. The roughness gives it more character though. Let me tell you why I think it's hard to be human.
I know I like to act all zen and calm and portray that I live in patience and serenity with all of God's creatures. I want to think the slings and arrows of everyday life bounce off of me like bullets off Superman. Unfortunately, I am not quite the man I want to be - or maybe I am. I want to confess that I almost ended my little artsy newsletter career because of my stupidity. I nearly ended my life today. Somehow my 30-year-old Marine mind inhabited my sixty-year-old pensioner's frame on Sunday in a grocery car park (parking lot to the rest of us). Uggg. We were coming around a corner, and I could hear somebody outside say in a snarky tone. say, "You're not driving a tank lady." Well, Andrea turned to me and said, "Did you hear what he said?" Of course, my first reaction was to roll down my window and say, "Who the F*#* are you?" Now, Under normal circumstances that would be the end of it. We'd both go off fuming, feathers ruffled, hackles raised. Each of us going off saying, "God, that guy was an ass!" And that would be the end of it. Instead, the schoolyard came out in both of us. He said, "Get out of your car and say that." I did. Oops. He had, what had to be, a six-month-old child in his arms. Oh God, what have I gotten myself into? I said, "You gonna do this with a child in your arms? I'm getting back in the car." He gave the child to his wife. I stayed. Oops again. Of course, I remember this from other stupid childish fights I'd had in the past. Not going to end well. Oh crap! Andrea comes flying around the car and gets between us. She said, "Hey, why don't you pick on somebody your own size!?" He was about 5' 4". I tried to push Andrea aside and insisted she go and get back in the car. WTF now I'm arguing with her. I'm sorry, but I have to resort to emoji freaking webreviations! OMFG! This situation is most certainly not going to end well. As I leaned over, we stood two inches from each other face, his eyes twitching like a junkie needing a fix, his hands were in his pockets. That meant one of two things. 1. There's a knife in the cretin's pocket - BAD! 2. He's not planning on hitting me - GOOD! So, thoughts in my head: 1. If I believe the miscreant doesn't have a knife and I'm wrong - Stay and fight - Oh Shit! 2. If I believe the ass doesn't have a knife and I'm right - stay and fight - I gain nothing, maybe a couple of bruises. 3. If I believe the reprobate does have a knife and I'm wrong - back down - I lose nothing. 4. If I think the idiot does have a knife and I'm right - back down - I gain everything. Secondly, if he wasn't going to hit me, what's the point? I wasn't going to attack him first. I could see all the cameras coming out. I'd be on the worst version of Cops getting stabbed and bleeding out in the parking lot. Or I could be handcuffed, in jail, looking like bad Santa on the holidays with my little white beard on the six o'clock evening news. I'm not a clairvoyant. I'm not Carnac the Magnificent. I can't tell the future. I did not pick the right time or place to make a stand. I made a mistake. I'll admit my error. Walk away. I said, "Sorry - I'm getting back in my car then." And, I really was sorry. I was sorry I got out of the car. I was sorry I was feeling so stupid standing in the middle of a parking lot play "who the hell are you" with an adolescent, testosterone driven moron. I was sorry that Andrea got involved. I was sorry I almost made it on to some police blotter. "Bad boys, Bad boys, Whatcha gonna do." I was sorry deportation flashed across my mind. Oh no, not so soon my friend. Oh-Oh, it's not over. Andrea said to him, "You should apologize to me." He says, "For what?" Oh, God! There's no getting out of this! "Please, get in the car, Andrea!" As my dad would have said, "Andrea has more balls than Dick Tracy!" Somehow we both got back in the car and left him walk off. Did I feel a bit stupid? Yes, a bit. Was I glad I wasn't in the hospital? Yes, a lot. Should I have handled it differently? Well, hell yes. I wish I didn't get out of the car in the first place. It just wasn't worth it. Next time, I probably won't get out of the car. In the mean time I'll try to meditate on the meaningfulness of equanimity. Or, maybe I'll have a beer. Either way, this was a day I almost earned my very own Darwin Award. Until next week - I wish you peace. Sarah Mckendry says she's a Canadian realist artist and the mother of two wild and incredible boys. She works out of her home in the wee hours of the morning after her children go to bed. She sometimes works until two, three, or four o'clock in the morning. Sarah loves the euphoric feeling of the blank canvas in front of her. It's magic. She creates large-scale paintings of landscapes and all kinds of animals including people. I love the scale and the detail she puts into her work. It's so great that she makes the time to work on her art. She is a self-taught artist who makes a full time living with her art. It is a laudable achievement indeed. Please take some time to see what she does from her base at Fort McMurray in northern Alberta, Canada. That's the far-north third of the province. It's almost the same latitude as Juneau, Alaska. You should check out her videos and her artwork at the following locations on the internet. Website Instagram YouTube Facebook It was another beautiful day in paradise, a bit overcast and a bit drizzly. Sometimes I welcome that kind of weather on St Thomas. Since we didn't want to sit around the house and swat mosquitos, watch dust bunnies gather, or discuss the relative merits of Light, Dark, Spiced, or Blackstrap Rum, we decided it was a good day to head to St John. The ferry from St Thomas to St John is a quick fifteen minutes. It's a great place for a day trip. I like to go to a small watering hole in Mongoose Junction on St John called The Sun Dog Cafe. I love it there because, usually, most of the people sitting around the bar live on St John. This day I struck up a conversation with a guy named Jim. Jim is probably not his name, it’s just what I remember. There may have been a few beers involved, so my memory’s a bit shaky on that score. Let’s call him Jim anyway. I instantly loved this guy. He is one of those unpretentious gentle souls who's comfortable in his skin. I enjoyed talking with him. There was no bragging, no guile, and no preening. He was just a nice guy; kind and helpful. It’s not often you find somebody like that. Jim lives on St John. I should say he lives just off St John on his boat. Jim used to have four boats. He was kicking off a chartering business. Then hurricane Irma hit, and Maria fell close on Irma’s heals. He lost three of his four boats. He's living on the one surviving boat. We talked a lot about boats. He was well versed in everything nautical. I know a little, but you could measure what I know about floating things and the sea in a thimble and still have room for rum. Jim spent some time explaining how things like boat batteries, anchor buoys, engines, construction, and the need to be self-sufficient on an island, etc. He was engaging because he was entirely there. Jim wasn't checking his phone or seeing who else cool was coming by. When he talks to you, you have all his attention. The reason I'm writing this is I think the world can use a bunch more people like Jim. We should all strive to be present, kind, gentle and helpful. I don't know how much of what he told me I'll remember, but I will remember how I felt around him. I felt ... important. I believe everybody likes to think they have worth. Lesson - people may not remember what you say, but they will remember what it feels like to be around you. Make them feel important. I want to remember that. I hope you do too. Until next week, I wish you peace. I don't know if you would remember Keith Haring. I had almost forgotten about him until last week when I was on a conference call. One of the engineers I was speaking with was using a Keith Haring painting as his avatar. Do you remember this? I remember Keith Haring's subway drawings and I remember when he died. I don't know why I remember I just do. It must have been in the news. He's pretty famous for this "Radiant Baby" drawing. I found his style interesting. He doesn't make pretty photorealistic oil paintings on canvas. Haring is a street artist. Some of his large murals still survive today. I have to admit, I'm not a bit fan of everything he did, but like many people, he had a story to tell. He wanted to get a message across. He looked to draw attention, and he certainly did that. Keith Haring is an artist whose work I remember almost 30 years after the fact. His style strummed a chord in my memory. His work is memorable. I like that. You could throw a lot of criticism his way, but I think he was a product of his time. The social and political issues were as divisive at the time as they are today; maybe even more then. He was taking a stand. He was making a statement. I like that our society allows for that kind of free speech and expression. You don't have to like it. If you want to see more of his work you can visit his website. He's been gone for nearly 30 years now, so he's not saying much original on social media. Most people don't say much original on social media so ... I hope this week's artist strikes a chord with you. Just when I thought the island couldn’t throw any more curve balls at me, today I got a wake-up call. Literally. My eyelids were just starting to separate, and the cobwebs were beginning to clear when a shriek from upstairs invaded my still half sleeping ears. “Scott! Scott! Come! Quickly! Hurry Up! Now!” Yes, all the exclamation points are necessary I thought, yet again, I had forgotten to lock the door or left the toilet running. I lumbered up the stairs like I usually do to find Andrea in her dressing gown gingerly and quickly carrying a yoga mat out the front door at arm's length. If her arms could have been longer or she could have used a barge pole, I think she would have, gladly. Immediately, I thought, oh, okay, another cockroach. Cockroaches and other bugs usually get that kind of reaction around here, as if they’re trying to escape Stalag 13 and the sirens need to be sounded. Most people know me as Scott, some people know I was a Marine, but most people couldn't guess I have a shadow career. In our home, I'm an expert, or at least very experienced, cockroach sweeper. I even swept one up this morning. Easy peasy. Cockroaches are horrible creatures, and even I get a bit squeamish around them, but I don’t shy away from the creepy little crawlers with a shriek! One time, I was at a bar in North Carolina. It was just outside of Jacksonville, NC - read Camp Lejeune. It was the kind of a bar that had straw, peanut shells, and other unidentified stuff milling about in the mix. I had my cowboy boots on, and to my surprise, I felt something crawling around my ankle: Yup, my ankle. I took that ole cowboy boot off, and a couple of cockroaches scurried out of my boot. Not just one but two cockroaches. I think they were trying to set up housekeeping or something. We’ve all had our run-ins with creepy crawlers, I’m sure. There are all kinds of tiny household invaders on the island. Mostly its mosquitos and noseeums, but there are also:
It was a scorpion, a three-inch-long spikey-tailed scorpion. The critter didn't look all that happy. Maybe I was assuming too much. Perhaps the little bugger was enjoying all the shrieking and stomping going on. I particularly enjoyed that part where Andrea screamed like Jamie Lee Curtis in Halloween! So, there are now three things I'll consider from now on while on the island:
Though most scorpions won't kill you, they can give you a nasty sting. And really, that's something I really don't want. Until next week, I wish you, scorpion-free peace. The first thing that crossed my lips when I saw this guy's paintings could be abbreviated "WTF." Yes, I said it out loud. His paintings are marvelous. You see, Kyle Ma is only 18 years old, but he paints like a master. He is so proficient now I'm anxious to see how his work progresses into the future. His loose and almost effortless-looking style is something to behold. There is so much to learn. I try to take it all in. I watch in awe and try to make it happen myself. It takes lots of practice to know where to put what color when. Kyle seems to be able to do that without a second thought. If you want to see his paintings or follow him on the internet, you can find him on his website, visit him on Facebook, or look at his posts on Instagram. How did I spend Veteran's Day 2018? For many people, Veterans Day is a day of celebration and parades. For me, I walked on the beach and lifted a glass to all those souls who served their country. Veterans Day, in the United States, falls on the same day as "Remembrance Day" / "Armistice Day" in other parts of the world. It is, as you know, on November 11th. So, I would like to thank all the Veterans out there who have served their country nobly and honorably. If you did, I would like to thank you for serving. This year is especially poignant in that it is on the 11th-hour of the 11th-day in the 11th-month one hundred years ago the Armistice with Germany went into effect. Though, since that time, service men and women have been putting their life on the line in many places and in many conflicts throughout the world. That's why veterans' organizations in the United States, in 1954, lobbied to have the day renamed to "Veterans Day" to honor all veterans. A veteran, in this context, means "a person who has served in the military." Period. Serving in the military was an excellent opportunity for me. I was drifting like so much flotsam and jetsam on the ocean of life until I joined. It brought focus and discipline into my life at a time when I needed it and is a large part of who I am today. Since leaving the military, some of the discipline and drive I acquired in the Marines has lingered. I am grateful for that. I know lots of you see me as a drifter who is lucky enough to drift where I please. In part that's true, and I have had some excellent breaks in my life that allow me to continue to do that. However, it all starts with the discipline to do the things you need to do when needs must. I will always be grateful that I was able to serve in the Marines. It did much more for me that I ever did for them. So, on this day, I am doubly grateful. I'm thankful for your services and for the opportunity to serve. I hope you remembered veterans on the 11th. As for veterans, I would suggest you reflect on the benefits you got from your service as well. We are blessed. And for what it's worth: Until next week, I wish you peace. |
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