An impasto acrylic painting on canvas, 16"x24". Sold
Thursday, June 24, 2010
The Old Hotel, Part Seven, Rude Awakening
My earliest memory is set in Belle and Joe's dog trot log cabin. I remember floating out of the baby cradle. I had been in that constrictive human baby body for four long earth months. I wanted to return to my home of light. I escaped the tight flesh and moved about freely. The room flickered with oil lamps. I floated over my mother and her mother, sitting close to the cast iron wood burner. I saw Mama Gordon rocking in the nursing chair and Mother sitting in a straight wooden chair, beside her. Out the window I soared. Out to the night. Below me the ground glistened with moonlit frost.
Their front sides baked by the fire, while their back sides were cold. Belle Gordon drowsed while Victoria droned on about a dress that she was planning to sew. She had the Butterick pattern and a length of striped linen from the Woolsworth in Jackson. Belle snored once, then jerked abruptly alert. She went to the little crib in the far corner of the room, where new baby Jan slept. The child was as cold as ice and her breathing slow and shallow.
Returning to the nursing rocker and the small circle of wood heat, she clasped the fading infant to her love beating heart and wrapped herself and the babe in a wool shawl.
"Victoria, your baby is almost frozen to death. No, I will hold her, she will warm up soon."
I was joyous to be back to my true home. Vibrating to a symphony of light. Then after only an instant of peace, I was sucked back and anchored in that infant flesh cage. Waves of healing circled from my grandmother's heart. I was resigned to the body, and then, I glowed with Belle's love, and knew that I would be in that flesh vehicle for many Earth seasons.
Their front sides baked by the fire, while their back sides were cold. Belle Gordon drowsed while Victoria droned on about a dress that she was planning to sew. She had the Butterick pattern and a length of striped linen from the Woolsworth in Jackson. Belle snored once, then jerked abruptly alert. She went to the little crib in the far corner of the room, where new baby Jan slept. The child was as cold as ice and her breathing slow and shallow.
Returning to the nursing rocker and the small circle of wood heat, she clasped the fading infant to her love beating heart and wrapped herself and the babe in a wool shawl.
"Victoria, your baby is almost frozen to death. No, I will hold her, she will warm up soon."
I was joyous to be back to my true home. Vibrating to a symphony of light. Then after only an instant of peace, I was sucked back and anchored in that infant flesh cage. Waves of healing circled from my grandmother's heart. I was resigned to the body, and then, I glowed with Belle's love, and knew that I would be in that flesh vehicle for many Earth seasons.
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Puzzled Child
Digital picture, created a few years ago. From the series, "Time and Space". The girl is my sister. The detail of her face was pulled from a photograph from about 1950. Father was stationed to a Air Force base in the north west. We lived in Maryland. Mother took her three daughters to Washington D.C. We toured ALL the national monuments in one day. This photo was taken at the end of the visit to our national capital. I love Kathi's two year old, pist off expression.
I scanned the snapshot. Pulled out the face. Integrated that into the puzzle pieces. Added a lotus and the Roman numeral clock numbers.
Have a fabulous day dahlin!
18nineties
A personal digital picture. From the series, "Time and Space". 2400 px X 3000 px. Created a few years past.
The woman's face is from a family photo. I guess the time to be eighteen nineties, but I do not know. There is no date on the old photo. I should probably do some research. It would not take that long, but I would rather make myself a "croque monsieur"
This beautiful child/woman struck me from a group of school children. My grandfather, from my father's side is the teacher in the picture. The picture was taken with about twenty children of all ages, sitting outside, where the light was better. My guess, is that it was taken by an itinerant photographer. I think that he had to put a black cloth over his head. I consider this old photo to be a family treasure.
The girl's face struck me. She looked the most alive of all the people in the photo. I have no idea who she is. She looks like she is in a spiritual trance, with her eyes rolled back.
Via techno majic I pulled her face out of the photo, worked it in photoshop, and added other elements. The dragon thingie is a ivory incense burner, that my mother brought back from Japan. (One of the few things that survived the fire.) I scanned the ivory. The letter is an old scanned letter, from my mother to her mother and sister. The date is 1967. The flowery looking things are chanterelle mushrooms that I digitally photographed on my property.
I hope that this art connects with you.
Saturday, June 5, 2010
The Old Hotel, Part Six, Belle and Joe
Joe Gordon and Belle Presley were wizened teens when they hitched up. They grew up on dirt farms in the shining dark heart of Mississippi.
Belle had spent her 15 child years doing her full share of chores. Cooking biscuits on the wood burning stove; washing laundry outback, over the fire, in a big cast iron pot with homemade lye soap; and helping out in the fields during planting and harvest. She walked three miles to the one room school house and learned to read, write and figure numbers. Still, there was plenty of free time to run wild in the woods like a graceful doe. She visited with her woodland friends; flowers, birds, deer and rabbits. She marveled at the yard rooster, mating thirty times each day, mounting the patient hens. She picked blackberries and could make a delicious jelly with nothing but sugar and the free bounty of the earth.
Joe was a strapping eighteen and magnetically driven to marry the beauty with blackberry thorn scratches on her shapely legs. He was prepared to provide for a family from the cornucopia of the land. He could plant and harvest. He shot meat, rabbit, deer and, as a last resort squirrel. Could dress and smoke game. His short attendance at school gave him the ability to write his name and read the Bible slowly. He just didnt take much to book larnin. Belle was drawn to his soulful, long lashed blue, gray eyes.
They were American peasants of sturdy Irish stock.
In the mid 1800's much of poor Ireland depended solely on potatoes for food. The Imperial British had taken all the best land to grow beef that was imported to England. The subjugated Irish were left with only small plots of the poorest soil. They were forced to mono crop potatoes in order to eat.
The potato blight hit about 1840. An estimated one million people starved and another million emigrated on coffin ships. A mortality rate of 30% occurred in the fetid holds of the coffin ships. Driven from the Emerald Isle, emaciated and weak, they were stuffed into the bowels of ships. No sanitation, scant food. Even cattle were treated better. Even Africans, bound for slavery were treated better. Cattle and slaves have monetary value. The ships purse already held every last copper the Irish could scrape together. They had no value, dead or alive.
In America, the immigrants had sufficient fertile acreage to support large families.
Joe and Belle were strong, healthy, sentient animals. Well fed, hard work made them strong. They could help feed the family and eat the rewards of their labors. Living close to the earth and running the forest, gave them confidence of their blessed place in the great scheme of Mother Nature.
Joe's father gave them land. Joe felled timber and built a cabin, with help from his brothers and cousins. Belle's belly became an incubator, as they were blessed with many children. Children who could help with farming and take care of them in old age. They ate well. Sunsets were their TV.
Joe received his calling from God as he plowed the corn field with Sally, the mule. It was just like Moses, as described in the Bible, that he pondered nightly. A huckleberry bush, to the east of the corn field, shined with fire, but was not consumed by the fire. He saw himself in front of a congregation, leading the lambs back to their father.
In the little brown church in the wild wood dale, Joe often recounted his calling to the flock. It gave him credibility. Everyone knew that a man must be called, chosen by God, the Almighty, before he could preach.
God spoke directly from Preacher Gordon's mouth. Booming out shame and burning brimstone. The brothers and sisters of the Holy Commandments Church had been born into dispicable sin. With their first breath, even as new born babes, they were drowning, lost in sin, owned by the devil. Salvation came from deep repentance of sin and being washed in the blood of Jesus. Bathing in blood made them white as snow. Their garments were spotless.
On Sundays, morning and evening and on Wednesday evening, Preacher Gordon belted out the voice of God. He did not write out the sermons, (he was not good at writing) he let God use him as an instrument of voice. "Hallelujah!" "Amen, brother."
The log walls vibrated with God's voice. Then the Holy Spirit entered the congregation. The logs vibrated with spirit. The congregation cried quietly. Then the call was made to the alter.
"Jesus is here to help you. He will walk you to the alter." Preacher said in his tender voice.
The choir sang, "Are you washed, are you washed? Are you washed in the blood of the lamb?"
I was eleven years old.
Mother was by my side. We were visiting, staying with Aunt Laura, on her farm. Victoria was conspicuous, out of place in her up to the minute stylish clothes over swelling belly, among the people of her roots. Daddy was on a secret Air Force mission. It was before the Old Hotel. Carol, Kathi, and I clustered around Mother.
Then the choir sang, "Onward Christian Soldiers, Marching as to War." People were kneeling at the alter, tears flowed. "Forward into battle". "Hallelujah!"
I was entered by the Holy Spirit. I was in a deep trance. I lost consciousness of the surroundings. I was in the channel of No Words. My neuron jell directed my feet up to the alter where I succumbed to wracking tears. I cried for hours. I sobbed on the alter. Flowing an ocean, I was gently walked to the car. Aunt Kat took me home with her that night. This was before the Old Hotel, she lived in a shack with only clap board and tin to repel the elements. She had a deep front porch with rockers and a utility back porch.
I cried in her arms like a dejected baby. I would forever be her baby. Eleven years old and sitting on my Aunt's lap! But my consciousness was still not connected to the commonly agreed upon channel, called "reality". Gradually, with musical voice she soothed me. I went into deep sleep.
The next day Sister Carol, Cousin Banty and I went to the watermelon patch. Banty thumped the melons with middle finger until she found one that was ripe. She broke it open by banging it on the ground. It tasted red and sweet and sun warmed. Thirst quencher.
We walked towards the piney woods. There was an ant bed, about 12 inches high, between the watermelon rows. Carol kicked it. Ants scattered, looking anxious. Carol began crushing the ants with her thumb. Banty joined in, giggling.
I had been saved, the night before, in Papa Gordon's little brown church in the wild wood dale. I said, to my genome and age cohorts, "You should not kill ants. They are God's creatures." They laughed at me.
Belle had spent her 15 child years doing her full share of chores. Cooking biscuits on the wood burning stove; washing laundry outback, over the fire, in a big cast iron pot with homemade lye soap; and helping out in the fields during planting and harvest. She walked three miles to the one room school house and learned to read, write and figure numbers. Still, there was plenty of free time to run wild in the woods like a graceful doe. She visited with her woodland friends; flowers, birds, deer and rabbits. She marveled at the yard rooster, mating thirty times each day, mounting the patient hens. She picked blackberries and could make a delicious jelly with nothing but sugar and the free bounty of the earth.
Joe was a strapping eighteen and magnetically driven to marry the beauty with blackberry thorn scratches on her shapely legs. He was prepared to provide for a family from the cornucopia of the land. He could plant and harvest. He shot meat, rabbit, deer and, as a last resort squirrel. Could dress and smoke game. His short attendance at school gave him the ability to write his name and read the Bible slowly. He just didnt take much to book larnin. Belle was drawn to his soulful, long lashed blue, gray eyes.
They were American peasants of sturdy Irish stock.
In the mid 1800's much of poor Ireland depended solely on potatoes for food. The Imperial British had taken all the best land to grow beef that was imported to England. The subjugated Irish were left with only small plots of the poorest soil. They were forced to mono crop potatoes in order to eat.
The potato blight hit about 1840. An estimated one million people starved and another million emigrated on coffin ships. A mortality rate of 30% occurred in the fetid holds of the coffin ships. Driven from the Emerald Isle, emaciated and weak, they were stuffed into the bowels of ships. No sanitation, scant food. Even cattle were treated better. Even Africans, bound for slavery were treated better. Cattle and slaves have monetary value. The ships purse already held every last copper the Irish could scrape together. They had no value, dead or alive.
In America, the immigrants had sufficient fertile acreage to support large families.
Joe and Belle were strong, healthy, sentient animals. Well fed, hard work made them strong. They could help feed the family and eat the rewards of their labors. Living close to the earth and running the forest, gave them confidence of their blessed place in the great scheme of Mother Nature.
Joe's father gave them land. Joe felled timber and built a cabin, with help from his brothers and cousins. Belle's belly became an incubator, as they were blessed with many children. Children who could help with farming and take care of them in old age. They ate well. Sunsets were their TV.
Joe received his calling from God as he plowed the corn field with Sally, the mule. It was just like Moses, as described in the Bible, that he pondered nightly. A huckleberry bush, to the east of the corn field, shined with fire, but was not consumed by the fire. He saw himself in front of a congregation, leading the lambs back to their father.
In the little brown church in the wild wood dale, Joe often recounted his calling to the flock. It gave him credibility. Everyone knew that a man must be called, chosen by God, the Almighty, before he could preach.
God spoke directly from Preacher Gordon's mouth. Booming out shame and burning brimstone. The brothers and sisters of the Holy Commandments Church had been born into dispicable sin. With their first breath, even as new born babes, they were drowning, lost in sin, owned by the devil. Salvation came from deep repentance of sin and being washed in the blood of Jesus. Bathing in blood made them white as snow. Their garments were spotless.
On Sundays, morning and evening and on Wednesday evening, Preacher Gordon belted out the voice of God. He did not write out the sermons, (he was not good at writing) he let God use him as an instrument of voice. "Hallelujah!" "Amen, brother."
The log walls vibrated with God's voice. Then the Holy Spirit entered the congregation. The logs vibrated with spirit. The congregation cried quietly. Then the call was made to the alter.
"Jesus is here to help you. He will walk you to the alter." Preacher said in his tender voice.
The choir sang, "Are you washed, are you washed? Are you washed in the blood of the lamb?"
I was eleven years old.
Mother was by my side. We were visiting, staying with Aunt Laura, on her farm. Victoria was conspicuous, out of place in her up to the minute stylish clothes over swelling belly, among the people of her roots. Daddy was on a secret Air Force mission. It was before the Old Hotel. Carol, Kathi, and I clustered around Mother.
Then the choir sang, "Onward Christian Soldiers, Marching as to War." People were kneeling at the alter, tears flowed. "Forward into battle". "Hallelujah!"
I was entered by the Holy Spirit. I was in a deep trance. I lost consciousness of the surroundings. I was in the channel of No Words. My neuron jell directed my feet up to the alter where I succumbed to wracking tears. I cried for hours. I sobbed on the alter. Flowing an ocean, I was gently walked to the car. Aunt Kat took me home with her that night. This was before the Old Hotel, she lived in a shack with only clap board and tin to repel the elements. She had a deep front porch with rockers and a utility back porch.
I cried in her arms like a dejected baby. I would forever be her baby. Eleven years old and sitting on my Aunt's lap! But my consciousness was still not connected to the commonly agreed upon channel, called "reality". Gradually, with musical voice she soothed me. I went into deep sleep.
The next day Sister Carol, Cousin Banty and I went to the watermelon patch. Banty thumped the melons with middle finger until she found one that was ripe. She broke it open by banging it on the ground. It tasted red and sweet and sun warmed. Thirst quencher.
We walked towards the piney woods. There was an ant bed, about 12 inches high, between the watermelon rows. Carol kicked it. Ants scattered, looking anxious. Carol began crushing the ants with her thumb. Banty joined in, giggling.
I had been saved, the night before, in Papa Gordon's little brown church in the wild wood dale. I said, to my genome and age cohorts, "You should not kill ants. They are God's creatures." They laughed at me.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
The Old Hotel, part five; I am Confused, Is That a Problem?
I awaken, sticky with sweat. Brain waves slowly pick up pace and I come to beta consciousness. Reality coalesces slowly, through the fog of surreal dreams. My sister, Carol and cousin Banty awakened earlier and have left the shabby room. Some of the clay wads still stick to the ceiling. Others fell to the floor during the night, thuds which punctuated my dreams. The fallen ones lie, like plastic turds around the floored mattress.
I dress in my designated room, #10. Find cold pork and eggs and grits in Aunt Kat's kitchen. Then wander down the front steps to Mama Gordon's room.
Grandmother's room is one of the ones that get cleaned. Aunt Kat is sweeping. "You will always be my pwecious babee," says Aunt Kat and envelops me with a perfumed hug. She wears Avon's 'Ruby Silk" that comes as a cream scent in a spiffy red jar. Kat's face is expertly painted with Avon products, which she sells, she is a walking ad. She wears a blue on blue floral print, cotton shirtwaist dress. Patent leather ballerina flats and matching belt. Her hair is permed, tortured into stylish curls. Silver locks streak the brown curls. Good Christian women do not dye their hair, like hussies. That is just wrong. Wrong even though Aunt Kat doesnt believe that God is as mean as some people say that he is.
"Look, Mama, it is our wuverly babee Jan," Kat hollers in mega decibels to get through to the old lady, Belle Gordon.
Kat looks like my Mother. Strangers recognize Victoria and Katherine as sisters. Same blue-gray eyes, finely wrought bodies, dainty features in perfect oval faces. Both look beautiful and are good Christian women. The difference is that Kat is a sweet soft heart, a Christian saint; and Victoria is a devout Christian soldier, battling evil devil influences daily. God assigned the souls of her four children to Victoria's care and she takes this mandate very seriously indeed. Belts and supple switches are the weapons to drive the devil from her children and make them as pure as white snow. Red whelps on tender bottoms prove her allegiance to the Holy Father.
This sweat dripping, August, 1956, day in the dark heart of Mississippi, Kat is cleaning her ancient Mother's Old Hotel Room. Victoria is in an office across the rail road tracks, typing up a legal brief.
Belle Gordon wears a clean, faded, old fashioned, long cotton dress and a sweater. She is rocking in the Nursing Chair. A low, dark polished wooden chair designed for breast feeding babies. This chair has accompanied her along her wanderings on the path of broken hearts and busted brains.
Belle nursed nine children at her bountiful breast, rocking in that low chair. Actually, eleven children, if you count the two angels who went back to heaven after only a short earthly stay.
Mama Gordon asks me to thread needles for her. She can still hand sew and mend clothing, but she cannot see the eye of the needle. Her hands have a fine tremor. I thread three needles with thread measured by my extended arms. I knot the thread and place the needles in a pincushion home made from bright scraps and stuffed with cotton from the field.
Then my grandmother sits peacefully as I fix her hair. I pull out hair pins. Her white, charcoal streaked hair falls to her waist. It has never been cut. It smells like fertile earth. I brush for one hundred strokes and then, retwist the bun.
She is a heart. A big sweet heart. Her heart has been tempered by pain and sorrow and joy. Preacher Gordon was not an easy person to live with.
I dress in my designated room, #10. Find cold pork and eggs and grits in Aunt Kat's kitchen. Then wander down the front steps to Mama Gordon's room.
Grandmother's room is one of the ones that get cleaned. Aunt Kat is sweeping. "You will always be my pwecious babee," says Aunt Kat and envelops me with a perfumed hug. She wears Avon's 'Ruby Silk" that comes as a cream scent in a spiffy red jar. Kat's face is expertly painted with Avon products, which she sells, she is a walking ad. She wears a blue on blue floral print, cotton shirtwaist dress. Patent leather ballerina flats and matching belt. Her hair is permed, tortured into stylish curls. Silver locks streak the brown curls. Good Christian women do not dye their hair, like hussies. That is just wrong. Wrong even though Aunt Kat doesnt believe that God is as mean as some people say that he is.
"Look, Mama, it is our wuverly babee Jan," Kat hollers in mega decibels to get through to the old lady, Belle Gordon.
Kat looks like my Mother. Strangers recognize Victoria and Katherine as sisters. Same blue-gray eyes, finely wrought bodies, dainty features in perfect oval faces. Both look beautiful and are good Christian women. The difference is that Kat is a sweet soft heart, a Christian saint; and Victoria is a devout Christian soldier, battling evil devil influences daily. God assigned the souls of her four children to Victoria's care and she takes this mandate very seriously indeed. Belts and supple switches are the weapons to drive the devil from her children and make them as pure as white snow. Red whelps on tender bottoms prove her allegiance to the Holy Father.
This sweat dripping, August, 1956, day in the dark heart of Mississippi, Kat is cleaning her ancient Mother's Old Hotel Room. Victoria is in an office across the rail road tracks, typing up a legal brief.
Belle Gordon wears a clean, faded, old fashioned, long cotton dress and a sweater. She is rocking in the Nursing Chair. A low, dark polished wooden chair designed for breast feeding babies. This chair has accompanied her along her wanderings on the path of broken hearts and busted brains.
Belle nursed nine children at her bountiful breast, rocking in that low chair. Actually, eleven children, if you count the two angels who went back to heaven after only a short earthly stay.
Mama Gordon asks me to thread needles for her. She can still hand sew and mend clothing, but she cannot see the eye of the needle. Her hands have a fine tremor. I thread three needles with thread measured by my extended arms. I knot the thread and place the needles in a pincushion home made from bright scraps and stuffed with cotton from the field.
Then my grandmother sits peacefully as I fix her hair. I pull out hair pins. Her white, charcoal streaked hair falls to her waist. It has never been cut. It smells like fertile earth. I brush for one hundred strokes and then, retwist the bun.
She is a heart. A big sweet heart. Her heart has been tempered by pain and sorrow and joy. Preacher Gordon was not an easy person to live with.
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