DisCo Is Here and Filled With Memories.

BEFORE my mother died she told my sister and me that she had "gotten rid" of all the love letters our father wrote her while he was in the Army during World War II.
We were heartbroken and as I remember it she couldn't understand why.
She didn't know, however (or at least I don't think so), that there were many rainy October Saturdays when my sister and I would sneak downstairs, go into her bedroom, and search the back of her lingerie drawer for those very letters. They were wonderful!
Well, I don't know how my own children will feel about the love letters between their father and me before we were married. We were officially together 26 years - a good chunk of time - but it's been over for (officially, again) 18 years now.
When I was looking for something to add to my DisCo Project - I knew I wanted to bind up the book sections to make another book - I was frantic. Nothing was right. I slowed down and took a careful look around the room and came up with this: old love letters. Pieces of my past. Sections of heartache. Promises unfulfilled. Longing, desire, plans for the future.
What better to add to weathered bits of paper than weathered bits of promise and hope?
Holes were punched and I bound them in such a way that the letters can't be taken out and read. Peeks may be obtained of some of the pages - a word here and there - but unless the book is taken apart they cannot be read in their entirety.
This, I think, is like the past. A word overheard now and again, a glimpse of a person's face as you passed their doorway, but the entire picture can't be put together with these few bits. And even if the letters are read someday, I don't think anyone can fully appreciate this once happy couple's dreams and plans. Still harder to find in these clippings are the reasons the marriage failed.
It certainly didn't fail because of these letters. Like most plans, it failed because of miscommunication, pride, ego and the inability to put yourself in another's shoes.
I think I will probably add more to this book. Maybe love letters from another gentleman after the 26-year marriage ended. Maybe not. Maybe those are for burning - femminismo
(edited Aug. 2 for grammar)

Isn't It Surprising My 'Re-Posts' Are Both About People and Not Art? Or Maybe Not Surprising.

Seth at The Altered Page has let us have another chance to "repost" a blog page or two. I "talk" so much I'll only post one.

Thursday, December 6, 2007 Not Alone in the Dark.

IT was a dark and stormy night. Really, it was!
It was pitch dark, pouring rain and I was leaving Clackamas on the right highway headed in the wrong direction: north instead of south. There was no turning back. I knew what eventually lay in front of me. It wasn’t going to be pretty, either. It would involve three lanes o f traffic, with more vehicles constantly merging onto the road on my right.
I stuck to the middle lane. All of us were eager to get home, especially those large pickups and SUVs — passing on both my right and left — throwing up water spray that covered my windshield. The wipers were going rapid fire, “swish, click, swish, click.”
Northward I flew, saying aloud “I can do this!” Again, aloud, I spoke to my fell ow drivers: “We all just want to get home safe.”
The radio was off. I couldn’t concentrate on anything but staying in my l ane and remembering to breathe.
Parkrose exit. I could have gotten off there. Powell - another exit with a name I knew. I pi ctur ed the long stretch of Powell Boulevard and the bridge to the other side of Portland.
The freeway seemed to collapse in length and become shorter and shorter as the minutes went by. The airport exit came up before I knew it. I would have to get off this road soon or end up in Washington.
The airport exit! I knew the airport. I could find my way home from the airport. I had gone out of my way by a long shot, but from there I knew I could find my way home.
Unfortunately I turned off at Cascade Station, thinking it was the first parking area for ov ernight or weekly parking at the airport. I didn’t know it was a humonguous new shopping center with stores for almost anything you might or might not need.
I considered going in and asking for directions, but something akin to a Y chromosome kicked in. If I asked for help I would be admitting defeat: “I couldn’t do this alone.”
I have a difficult time asking for help, but that’s too long a story.
I did call my husband on my cell phone, however, to let him know I might be late getting home. I had called him when I left Clackamas.
“Where are you now?” he asked.
“I’m out by the airport. Yes, I can see it from here. I’m at Cascade Station, near that new Ikea store. Oops! Someone’s in back of me. Gotta’ go.”
I dropped the phone into my lap and drove off. Ahead of me was a Subaru in a right turn only lane. I saw a blue sign: I-84. Things were looking up. When the light changed we both turned right and then stopped at another light. I decided to trust the Subaru and followed its taillights when the light turned green. Soon we were on I-84 ... going in the wrong direction.
Sandy Boulevard. Another familiar street. I abandoned my friend in the Subaru and left the freeway. Now I was on Sandy, headed east or west. Your guess would have been as good as mine. No daylight; no sun to show me my way home; no stars either. Only more rain.
My cell phone rang. It was my husband asking “Where are you now?”
“I’m headed down Sandy,” I said. “Say, there’s an adult toy shop. Need anything?”
I don’t know who I was trying to reassure with this attempt at humor, him or me.
I stopped at a light then. There was a car beside me on my left and I glanced over at the intersection of the one-way cross street looking for information and saw a sign that read “City Center.” Yes!
“I’m at an intersection,” I said, “and there’s a sign to city center.”
“Take that,” he said. “You can find your way back that way.”
However, to go that way I would need to cross three lanes of traffic — one beside me on my left and two other oncoming lanes. I remembered my driver’s education manual and knew this wasn’t an option. Then I spotted a motel on the right just through the intersection.
“I’ll bet I can turn into this motel, go through their parking lot and turn onto the one-way street headed toward downtown. Goodbye,” I said.
Soon I was hurtling toward “downtown” which turned out to be I-84 again, but in the correct direction. I got into the left hand lane to make sure I would get the Salem and, eventually, Beaverton exits.
Finally I was really on my way home. I was on my way to the safest place in the world. Why had I ever left it, I wondered.
That night, holding my husband's hand and trying to fall asleep, I was amazed to have traveled all that distance and come to rest, at last, here in this snug harbor. A million thoughts went through my head. They were all related to my trip and the “what if’s” that so often haunt us late at night.
What if I’d had an accident? What if I hadn’t been lucky?
But I had been. I was lucky to find my way home safely, lucky to be snug in a safe little house with someone I love. Lucky, lucky, lucky.
I believe in skill. I believe in intelligence. But I’ll trust lucky any day.

Summer Evening Pleasures.

WHAT do you get with a summer evening in Oregon?
If you are lucky, you're not wearing a jacket. (Tonight, no jacket.)
If Mother Nature feels generous, you get a great sunset. (Tonight, great sunset.) Pleasant breeze? Yes, we've got that. Flowers? You betcha!
Today started off with gray skies, and I got grumpy and gave up. I put on my wool socks and clogs. But in the afternoon things cleared up and the sunshine was back. I guess that's the prediction for this weekend. We'll see ... .
I came home tonight to paint paper and finally got down to it after doing a little blog visiting. I get so tired of sitting, though, since I do it so much at work as I proofread and edit. I just couldn't stand it. Standing and painting paper is great relaxation for me, even if I do feel guilty listening to the Mister running machinery in the backyard. But then, he could paint too. I wouldn't mind. Especially since he gets a bit over zealous sometimes whacking away at shrubbery, trees and plants. I thought I would show you these floating daisy faces before they either fade or mysteriously disappear.
Here is some of the painted paper and I don't really know what they are going to turn into. (7x12 inch sheets, folded in fourths) I think I want to fold the edges about an inch and piece them together somehow. With glue? Thinking ... thinking ... THINKING! I don't know. Something will spark an idea. I had talked about maybe quilting/piecing them together.
Seth at The Altered Page has another collaborative project going: On July 16 post one or two of your own favorite posts. If you want to do this you need to go to his blog and leave him your name and he will post the links to all those who want to collaborate. He's calling this "Buried Treasure," and since there's not enough time in the day to read everyone's blog, he thought if we put our best stuff out - hence, Buried Treasure - then folks could get some genuine booty, pirate's gold, with these quick reads at folks' sites. Click on the link above for more info.
Don't you love these lilies? They are the ones over 6 feet tall. Wowser! Last summer was the first time they bloomed and this year they've gone crazy-beautiful.
Here are my Tanabata wishes I hung in the magnolia tree July 7. Since it's the festival of the stars, I thought it was serendipitous to find the wired stars in a drawer. You can see the sunset against the side of the house, pleasant breeze blowing the paper strips and the drying lawn from our drier summer weather. The ferns are still magnificent though. They don't give up for nuthin' - femminismo

Today Is A New Day.

WELL, actually, today is almost over. Only a few more hours here and it will be tomorrow.
But it was a new day today and somehow it finally worked out OK. Some more gloominess today and trying to figure out what is going on. A good cry, some talking, some work in the yard, took some pictures, had a hot shower, then painted some paper.
April is National Poetry Month and I have not honored it here yet - so let's get on with it!

THE RETURN
Earth does not understand her child,
Who from the loud gregarious town
Returns, depleted and defiled,
To the still woods, to fling him down.

Earth can not count the sons she bore:
The wounded lynx, the wounded man
Come trailing blood unto her door;
She shelters both as best she can.

But she is early up and out,
To trim the year or strip its bones;
She has no time to stand about
Talking of him in undertones

Who has no aim but to forget,
Be left in peace, be lying thus
For days, for years, for centuries yet,
Unshaven and anonymous;

Who, marked for failure, dulled by grief,
Has traded in his wife and friend
For this warm ledge, this alder leaf:
Comfort that does not comprehend.

- EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY

I WANT to show you the little book (up above) I made of my papers I painted (last post). There is a special punch and some plastic binders the receptionist at work uses, and she showed me how to operate this and the papers got put together. My friend, JoAnn, said maybe instead of the plastic, use ribbon, yarn or wire. That sounds good, too. Next time.
Tonight I started painting more paper - greens on one side, purple and pink on the other. Does the transfer of the eye detail look familiar? It was on Seth's blog, a detail from an exhibit at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, I believe.
I also took pictures of my Disintegration Project this afternoon as I worked in the garden. I decided to turn over the book pages and allow the back side to get some of the sunshine due in the next few days. AND I couldn't stand giving the slugs refuge for much longer, so they are now g.o.n.e. Pictures of the pages coming soon. May 1 is the day to figure out what to do with them.
And Judy Wise, who attended, taught and learned at Artfest, is doing some self portraits on her blog, and since I like to steal her ideas, I did my own self portrait tonight. I'll leave you with that - femminismo

Three Hundred Twenty-One Posts, Oh My!

CHOOSING sleep, reading a book or blogging, I find myself irresistibly drawn to the computer and recording some words and thoughts here.
The ancient practice of journal writing made more simple - or maybe not. Sizing the photos and then sitting down to complete the task: There's nothing simple here.
But I have some things to show you. I transplanted two miniature roses in the front yard on Monday and it was very, very warm here suddenly. So when I decided to take a break, I got some water, fruit and then checked in the old mail box - the one that sits by the side of our road - not the one on the computer.
And there in the mailbox was my artwork from Seth Apter, the Altered Page guru. I admire his work so much I sent away for some of it and now got to take a break! A cool glass of water, a piece of fruit (yes, that's a pear that's very well traveled on the bumpy road of life) and a package to open is so.much.fun!
I really like the Madonna and child, Seth, and thanks for the wonderful wrapping. I have taken the plastic bag inside and filled it with the string, tissue paper, and some items from my work table and desk. JoAnn, my pal, also donated some great stuff. Now to leave the baggie of stuff somewhere so someone can make a grand art project from the findings. More fun and nothing goes to waste.
I also worked in the back yard at the potting table, and although I think I've done it again and waited too long, I decided to start some globe thistle seeds in peat pots so I can watch them more closely and then just stick the whole thing in the dirt.
At the back of the yard I was leaning over the fence, admiring our neighbor's orchard and the way the sun was setting in the west. The grass is carpeted with white violets - if you click on the sunset photo and look toward the base of the tree on the left you'll see a bed of them. It appears the tree did not fare well during the snow and ice storms this past winter. Oh I love saying that: This PAST winter!
Here is a closeup of some of the white violets that have crept over into our yard. (The purple and white ones cross pollinate (I guess?) and we have lovely light blue and lavender ones.) The Mister is such a sweetheart, since he puts off cutting the grass until the crocus and the violets have had their time.
The soft, warm spring air is full of sweet flying insects and the birds are getting their fill in this pleasant weather. I hope you are happy, safe and content tonight and I hope tomorrow finds you with something to do that makes you feel even more content and pleased with yourself and the world - femminismo

Disintegration Happens When You're Watching ... When You're Not.

HERE are my packets for the Disintegration Project that Seth Apter at The Altered Page inspired.
I am so glad I read his mysterious post and figured out he would be letting books or pages disintegrate over the winter! Yes, it's always been one of my deep-seated goals: having a book rot in my garden.
Now you know!
Actually, it's only recently that I've been able to do anything harmful to a book. Books have always been my salvation. I remember keeping my nose in one at recess so I wouldn't have to play with the other kids because I was so shy. (I know there are people out there gasping at those words! "Shy? She's shy?!? No way! Yeah, right.")
Well, it's true. I still covet books. They are dear to me. I don't know that I could stand to hold a Kindle instead of paper and book board.
Well, feast your eyes on these pics, my pretties.
And one more photo that make me grab my camera and take a picture WHILE I was DRIVING! (Don't tell my kids or the Mister ... or my insurance man.)
Do you think the little cars were in case the price of gas goes up again? I think it must have been Grandma and Grandpa in town buying one of the little cars for the grandkids. I bet there were some excited youngsters in town that day.
You know, if I had one of those - just a little bigger, however - I could drive one to work. OK. Nobody steal that idea. I'm contacting the Patent Office right now - femminismo