Aftermath

That's the name of one of those old Stones' albums, yes?

In this case, I mean it to signify what comes after all the drama and the death of both parents.

Even though she's gone, I talk to my Mom regularly, thinking I need to give her a call for this or that. Since my Dad was always quiet (it was extremely rare for him to get on the phone and in person, he had few words), I only think of him-much like when he was alive.

Now I'm in the process of paying all the bills, doing all the legal paperwork and cleaning out their house, which is quite a task. But after all, who among us will die neatly, with all their "i's" dotted and "t's" crossed? Shuffling off the mortal coil is hard enough, never mind trying to leave little or no trace. I'm sure whoever has to take care of my "trail" will curse me and wonder about just what I left behind. I wrote a story about this in which the one who died narrates-damning those who "clean up" after him and dissect his idiosyncratic and odd collections.

Tears come erratically-I never know when the gates of the waterworks may open, although rarely does this happen in public. Seemingly odd combinations of memories-you could almost call them dream-like-bring me over the edge and into the place of mourning.

My work has not suffered-although things seem a bit more choppy and days off are usually devoted to estate "maintenance" rather than artwork. There is a cathartic feeling in sorting through their possessions and keeping, tossing or recycling. I've become a member of "Freecycle" -last week, I "recycled" a small room full of National Geographic magazines, which my Dad had a real penchant for. There are now loads of Decoy carving books, art instruction books, collector guides (my parents discovered the flea market business after they were officially retired) that I need to find buyers and/or homes for. The other question is about selling the house-not that the market would allow this, but how and when is an issue. And the other issue looming is: where do I want to go from here? I'm free-I could live anywhere-New Mexico keeps coming up-but, in the very shadow of my parents, I am such a homebody and someone who is so happy in that home-will I risk a new place even though I've got (relatively) little to hold me back?

This is Johnny, the dog that rescued me-I adopted him on Pearl Harbor Day-a week later, my Dad got really sick and a downward spiral followed. This dog thinks he's a king and I s'pose he is in my eyes.

The Last of Them

We pay little attention to them, these puffs of air that are part of the definition of living-we toss them away, disposable tissues.
But here and now, listening for each one, I count them all and know they will end soon. The oxygenator at the foot of the bed seems like a death machine, with its important wiring and its automatic shutoff, which is synched to a tombstone. On that tombstone both the date of birth and the date of death was carved a long time ago. The tombstone doesn't care about pills or walkers or Mom's Timex.
My Dad, mouth open in a rictus of his very last breath, still waits for the holy wafer that will never come. The makeup artist at the funeral home will have to give him the bad news.
My Mom died in her sleep, which I remember is what she wished for when we last discussed death. I was maybe ten, but she was world-wise and had all the good answers. She also died by the side of someone who loved her-all that I could ask.
They blew taps for Dad -both the Union and the military helped bury him. Mom had a bit less help, but bury her we did. I don't know what happened to her Timex, but I'm sure it's still ticking, even though she has been released from her vigil and, of course, time goes on without her.

Balls

Re painting-the secret:

Balls to the wall-No hesitation, no fear (the bumpersticker I used to make fun of...) -lay that brush down and lay it down hard. But know when to stop or what color not to use or when you have a balanced composition or when you look like you're copying or when the painting is looking TOO simple...or TOO complex.

In short, don't ask me-finding my way with paint and brush still seems to be a matter of luck. Some times, you get the right combination, sometimes not. I can understand why Bacon needed drink to achieve the "correct" attitude (altitude?)- the mood that fit him the best for brushing out his works. There is a certain feel and feeling that seems to fit me as well-for instance, there are days when I know painting is off-limits-a potential waste of pigment and paper (I presently paint on paper). Other days, my hands/brain/eyes can be coaxed into formulating images, lion-taming the color at (or on) my fingertips. But in no way can I tell you what will ensue. Exciting-what an adventure for this artist.

Saw "You're Gonna Miss Me" last night-a bio on Mr. Roky Erickson-there was a bit in there- by who I do know remember-on the idea of a young disturbed and beautiful Roky being loved by his fans versus the older version, who is far less charming, scarier and sad. There was a sense of love here on the part of Roky's brother, Sumner, who stood by him through all the schizophrenia and the bad times. This was bracketed by the admirers of Roky (including myself) who stand in awe of his work, but are maybe a little bit less enthusiastic about the actual person, who now stands hunched with his long stringy hair and looks prone to flights of not-so-charming madness.

One thing must be known-the man is/was unique and his music stands in amazing testimony to this.

No name for this one yet-for the red covering, I used what can only be described as rubbers for 1940's high-heeled shoes-beautifully aged and colored.

Marks on a bit of paper

So this is what it's all about, this thing called painting?
A struggle to put down some colored scratchings on a paper plane. Of course, that plane (whether paper, wood, canvas or wall) needs the credibility of thickness (a surface that will not easily slip away) and some sort of defined border to signify an end to the marks made (this is only a personal choice/condition).
The first colors and shapes seem to go down easily, in an almost subconscious manner. This is structure enough fo me to build on-or should I say, to erase, to add to, to paint on, to glue to, to white over-however and whyever that surface gets "built". This part gets easier or more frustrating for me-my shapes and colors slide around looking for anchors-those anchors being other shapes and colors that work well together...but the frustration (as well as the challenge of working with the unknown, with the unplanned) comes in when nothing gels and masses float around the paper plane, lost-looking for a likewise mass to relate to, to anchor to, to formulate what might be called a painting. How easy it all sounds, but how very tough the going can be.
What comes to mind is a weaving process, retelling tales until the story is somehow complete, whether meant only for the storyteller or for his lovers and strangers.

a (very) human comedy

As if in a TV sitcom, my Mom is being transferred (from the hospital) to the same nursing home as my Dad. Maybe they'll have some good moments together-I only hope this will make their respective stays there easier....that it will make the place seem a bit more like home.
Two days ago, Mom seemed to be suddenly "hit" with dementia-this seemed to come on strong-so strong that it was almost too much to take-one day she's talking normally and making great conversation-the next day she is raving. Paranoid-talking about people listening to her, wanting to hurt her and chain her up. And the TV is talking to her and people are stealing her voice. Cripes-all this coming on faster than a freight train. Since that conversation, she has evened out a bit more-now much more rational and like the person I knew.
Maybe being with my Dad will give her perspective and keep her in a more rational space-at least he'll be there as a check. I hope so.
More snow today-ain't this winter one of the nastier ones? Well, at least it is so far, but that could be my perspective and my perspective only...worries have given birth to more worries and the solutions have all flown south...as those around me keep reassuring: this, too , shall pass.