Doubt

No, I never saw the movie. I'm talking about the doubt I'm feeling about my own abilities. Of late, I feel as though a lot of my personal "powers" are on the wane-the idea that where I used to jump out of bed to just grab the day, now I think about sleeping an extra wink...or two.
Creative efforts all seem flat-like I've been here before-I've done this already. This is a feeling I can't seem to easily shake with my sculpture...and writing and painting seem to be strained. I still consider 50% of good painting to be a bravissimo and self-assuredness that I just don't seem to be able to conjure. Lately, the painting has excited me-but what's a few good strokes when you finish off by making some insecure dabblings in the corner or-better yet-not at all.
Bad day here in Black Rock.

Breaking in

Painting- an observation: ain't it strange how the spontaneous gesture made with a few slashes of paint can be ruined with only a little bit of afterthought (aka, the tiniest of edits seems to melt away all the magic that your intuition has placed on the canvas or paper)...it's almost as if a single question has the power to destroy (well, at least compromise) all that a trance-like session between yer hand, the paint and the surface produced. Not that all of those sessions create wonders-actually, few of them are "meaningful". But those that last seem to embody the sum total of what has been learned-all in a few brushstrokes. Guess I better qualify that and say that these paintings have "personal" power-maybe they are not meant to be seen by other eyes-but this does not diminish their power.

Trailing off

I've been doing a lot of walking/hiking lately. My good friend told me about an opportunity up here in the neighborhood-the trail conference up here was csting about for Trail Maintenance people on a newly-cut trail up here in Jenny Jump State forest/park. There was a 7 mile orientation hike yesterday and I'm thinking of joining up either as a Crew member (to build water dams, stone steps, clear major passageways along the trail) or a TM (trail maintenance person), clearing branches and cutting overgrown foliage to keep the site clear (and bramble-free). I certainly have enough experience to handle the latter, after "cutting line" on my brief surveying stint. Just please pass me that machete, please!
What I'm thinking is that I'd like to include Johnny, but dunno about having him roam the woods while I'm working-I'm nervous about him taking off, like he did that one time. At this point, I'd be lost without him: we've grown very attached since early December. Needless to say, we've both been through a lot since that time. Can you hire someone to train your dog to never leave your side? Guess I might as well ask about a relationship that will never lose its fervor...Mary, from whom I adopted Johnny, says that there is no sure way to have a dog like this-that they have their own minds and may or may not return... that there is always that possibility that you'll never see that dog again. I'm torn between not doing this trail thing if it means taking away from my time with the dog (each of my days are a week's worth-in dog life-to him)and taking him and letting fate decide if we are meant to be together forever. As someone who never had any good off-leash experience, this is a hard choice.

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.