tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9342327919744234672024-03-13T07:38:33.918-07:00The (Sometimes Bitter) Sweetness of LifeRandom observations from a life that I sometimes rather not call my ownMateohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14322385825762963648noreply@blogger.comBlogger17125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-934232791974423467.post-37369520269892754122012-06-19T09:04:00.001-07:002012-06-19T09:04:15.721-07:00Update: Wolves in Squirrels' Clothing Etc.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I have indeed been neglecting my posts here and my brain queue is quite full of things I want to share, if only to empty my head. I have a tendency to share a lot via FB about the mundanaities of my daily life. Here is one of a few interesting (at least <em>I</em> think so) updates.<br />
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As you may have read previously, the inhabitants of my garden space are always a source of fascination for me. I have noticed of late, one of the band of squirrels that comes to forage has developed a "growth" beneath the fur on his back. Now, I know about such things from my upbringing in the country. We always referred to them as "wolves." What they are actually are a type of larval parasite transmitted by a Botfly. You can read all the sordid details of the life cycle of the Botfly here: <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Botfly" target="_blank">http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Botfly</a><br />
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These tag-a-longs are usually nonlethal to the host animal. The reason I know about them is the prevalence of "squirrel hunting" in the South where I grew up. My kin (I always went along, but I cannot honestly ever remember having carried a gun myself) always waited until after first frost because the cold temperatures would "kill-off" parasites like these and the meat harvested would be cleaner. Yes, squirrels were a part of the country diet, not a constant one and only from time to time. And, yes, I have partaken.<br />
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What is interesting to me, besides the fondness of remembering life as I once knew it, are the present day epiphanies I seem to get from observing. This squirrel is not ill or sickly and is seemingly unaffected by the rather large hump on its back. Now, I know all about "natural selection" and all that but I haven't observed any procreational activities as such, so, I won't presume to know or care if this one is getting laid or not. I am sometimes envious of the squirrels' inability to be self-aware and tendencies towards ferality. It all seems freer to me.<br />
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The point is, these creatures go about their day of working (I use this term loosely, but <em>they do build tree houses and make sure their screaming and bleating offspring are cared for</em>), feeding, playing not-at-all alarmed by their own or other squirrels' appearances. All the while we humans sometimes overstress about such superficial issues before leaving our abodes each morning. Having been ill for an extended period of time, I simply quit going out in public. This was partially due to my physical limitations but more than I like to admit was/is also due to my mental stressing at being seen, visually scrutinized, by my fellow cohabitants in my own microcosm. The<em> human </em>ones. <br />
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If I couldn't bear my own gaunt and pallid reflection in the mirror, I couldn't really expect much different from any stranger on the street, right?<br />
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Humans have an uncanny way of shunning those of us who are reminders that death is constantly among us and will ultimately come to each and every door to collect its due. I don't mean to generalize humanity as a whole, but most of us just get a mite uncomfortable at the thought, sight, smell, sound and feel of death and dying. It is the very ferality within us that makes this so.<br />
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I am no longer afraid of this inevitable visitor. I no longer even fear the suffering that may come as a consequence of my mind and soul being ripped from a fallible flesh shell. I have experienced both ( <em>without</em> actually having breached the threshold) in my journey thus far and can only muster a mental shrug when it comes to such matters now. Life and the world we live in is more awfully fear-wrought. Dying seems easy when facing relearning how to live, to<em> be</em>, in the wake of dying.<br />
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It is what it is.<br />
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Still, I get up everyday and make the bed with intent, with all its folds and pillows, just to ensure I'm not tempted to crawl back beneath the sheets to lay waiting for that final visitor to come my way.<br />
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Namaste.<br />
<br />Mateohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14322385825762963648noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-934232791974423467.post-57900343945708345202012-06-11T11:22:00.001-07:002012-06-11T19:23:25.839-07:00Remembering: Recipes of My Youth<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Growing up in the rural South may seem to some as a precursor hindrance to personal growth. I am not entirely in disagreement with this thinking, given the deep-seeded prejudices in and about the Southern psyche. I have had to grow beyond some of the skewed thinking that had entangled itself like kudzu into my fledgling worldview, but I also have had to realize all that permeated my forming sentience was not always restrictive or confining. Some experiences were absolutely beautiful happenstances of being a child of the South, thinking simply and enjoying each day for itself and the discoveries therein. <br />
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As the Summer season begins and the Sun turns its powerful and wilting gaze upon the Earth, the sights, sounds and scents of the present trigger some<em> backward </em>(in its purest and loveliest form)personal remembrances: The smell of pure tomato essence on a hot day when removing the "suckers" from the vines, the glimmering array of dew-drenched grass, revealing the "spiders' eyes" at dawn and dusk, the first glow of a "lightening bug" signaling that cacophony of "katy-dids" about to begin in the canopy under a star-filled Southern sky, much like the dimming of the lights in preparation for an orchestral performance in a concert hall. <br />
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Another seasonal treat we enjoyed during Summers past were blackberries. The prickly vined, heat-loving berries that left more than a few stains (and scratches) on my person, clothing and memories. Good stains, the kind that are indelible and remind one of sweltering childhood days well-spent. <br />
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There was a particular hill, simply monikered "Blackberry Hill" by us kids, that was the ultimate and endless source of this sweet, inky treasure. The "hill" was actually just piled remnants of soil and refuse timber that had been removed when a gas pipeline was interred, cutting a swath of treeless land through our tiny rural community like a scar of modernity. The hill was there for enough Summers for me to remember it and the fun we had there. It was an absolute tangle of briars and vines, much like the briar-patch described in the Uncle Remus' <em>Br'er Rabbit</em> stories that comprised my youth, along with Garis' <em>Uncle Wiggly</em> adventures as well as Twain's great storied epochs. These works, while sometimes considered controversial in modern times, taught me more about the purity of imagination and sense of community among all creatures, both imagined and real and painfully flawed, than the fire-and-brimstone sermons in the white-clapboard Baptist church nearby. Anyway...<br />
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We kids (and as in most of my stories, "we kids" means mostly just my brother and myself, sometimes with a kismet addition of visiting cousins or distant relations, far removed) equipped with hand-me-down bikes and swords of sticks, managed to transcribe two paths that intersected at the peak of this almost two-story hill. Not a task done easily and bearing us with a bevy of scratches, but it greatly increased our access to the sweet dark fruit of our labors of intent. We would gorge ourselves on this heat-sweetened sticky bounty and, when satiated, pick all the ripe ones left to bring home to Mama.<br />
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And, what she did with them was plain, simple magic. She'd make cobblers for the most part, as any good Southern woman and mother would do. She was originally from East Texas (on the fringes of what I believe to be the <em>true</em> South) Her cobbler crust is buttery and spongy, like angel cake, soaking up the butter and juices of whatever fruit with which it is baked. I rarely touch a cobbler anywhere otherwise, not reveling in the (sometimes bitter-tasting) pie-like crust I see so much of everywhere else. They're just not like Mama's.<br />
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While she busied herself with the makings of a homemaker's day, we'd return to the hill and let our imaginations ink themselves on the recently paved road to our rural enclave. Those berries stained our fingers as we used them to tattoo our names, ideas and fanciful patterns atop the gritty road top. Wild creatures and worlds came to life before our very eyes, of our very own making. Sometimes these images we scrawled with our amatuer hands would last weeks before being blanched by the hot sun and finally scrubbed away by a not-too-infrequent afternoon thunderstorm. I remember getting in trouble with my father for this, something about marking up the road that led to the church didn't set right with him, but I don't like to think about such things. <br />
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I like to think about my Mama's magical way with blackberries. The simplest being, upon our return from the heat of the day, welcomed with a glass of milk, iced with frozen blackberries, a touch of vanilla extract and sweetened with a little sugar. A spoon was provided for fishing out the berries and, with each retrieving dive, made the milk a little more bright purple each time. Pure and simple magic that refreshed my parched body, sweetened the sometimes bitterness of life and saved my soul and imagination (and most likely my hide, a time or two) from a father's reproach.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-v5qMPvFwONk/T9Y0MeImUdI/AAAAAAAAAFI/QL-msl77tGQ/s1600/berry4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-v5qMPvFwONk/T9Y0MeImUdI/AAAAAAAAAFI/QL-msl77tGQ/s320/berry4.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Mateohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14322385825762963648noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-934232791974423467.post-12003189351793362102012-06-07T14:45:00.001-07:002012-06-07T15:20:05.082-07:00Trailer Park Daily: Pecking Order<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I have always enjoyed the opportunity to observe the local flora and fauna wherever I may find myself. Doing this has been facilitated by purchasing several bird-feeders over the course of the last few years while nomadically travelling mostly across the great state of Texas, with a year-long stint in central Oklahoma. I use the descriptive "several" because if you have ever observed over-zealous squirrels feeding, then you know the havoc they can wreak on a plastic seed-dispenser. Once, I returned from a weekend away to find my feeder<em> completely chewed through and lick marks in the seed dust adhering to the insides.</em> Yet, I haven't minded. I'm glad they congregate alongside the birds as well as the few moments or extended hours of observation they provide by just being...well, <em>just being.</em><br />
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Now this isn't an attempt on my part to expostulate on what or who each of them represent or why this or that is relevant to today's societal or political climate. I'll leave that to the Orwellian scholars and conspiracy theorists. Much less, I do not want to even venture into being a pivotal part of the equation, I am content to merely act as the catalyst "seed-bringer." I am well aware of my selfishness; the motivation is more along the lines of pure escapism or gleaning inspiration. There is no "behind-the-scenes" altruism or "between-the-lines" meanings. My clumsy prose contains too many words in its own right to be hailed as a lacy veil for deep profundity, more so likened to that clunky ill-fitting sweater you got for a Christmas gift, the one you only wore the day of 75 degrees and you wish would shrink to not-at-all-fitting size.<br />
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Case in point: That last sentence.<br />
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There may well be a parable here somewhere, but that will be ours to discover separately.<br />
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One of the single-most important aspects to having a bird-feeder is vantage point. In the trailer parks I have resided,as a rule, real-estate is a precious and scarce commodity. From the first moment I learn we are relocating, I begin to scour the Internet looking for places that have a comfortable, woodsy feel. There are<em> a lot</em> of RV parks in Texas and they range from treeless gravel No Man's Lands to exclusive, lush, amenity-rich Stepford-esque conclaves. My preferences and budget put me somewhere in a happy medium place between the two extremes. <br />
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But I digress...<em>often</em>.<br />
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I spend most of my free time in two places in my not-so-roomy confines: At my office desk and in front the kitchen sink hand(!)-washing dishes or preparing meals. (Oh, and if you think my enjoyment of hand washing dishes makes me a freak, <em>read on</em>.) When installing the feeder, I always keep these two vantage points in mind. I have sequestered my studio space away from these windows because it is way too easy for me to become distracted by outside loveliness. However, in my early mornings with coffee in hand, perusing the day's news, I have serendipitous moments of observing the simplicity of the natural order of things. The microcosm attracted to my small lot in life brings me much more inspiring fodder than the seed offered brings those that feed on it. These creatures would certainly thrive in my absence, but I am woeful to think what I would do without this voyeuristic luxury that costs me a mere ten-spot a month.<br />
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Birds of all different feathers gather daily in loosely overlapping phases during a typical day in the trailer park. Rain or shine, they congregate, the earliest of visitors being a myriad of small birds like finches, thrushes and sparrows, busily tweeting(in its truest sense) and darting to and fro. In the later days of springtime, they are often accompanied by their baby charges, almost independent but still loud for food and puffed up with down. What these tiny winged ones lack in size, they certainly make up for with their numbers. I would love to interject the social mores of the significance of community, but the simple logical odds of <em>safety in numbers</em> works just fine for them.<br />
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Enter the Cardinals and Mourning Doves. The former are loud, brassy and brilliantly colored while the latter are timid, wide-eyed and mottled a rain-cloud grey. Yet, as I have observed, both of these species come to feed with their coupled mate. It is very easy to tell the two cardinals apart; the showy male is an intensely colored red while the female is a dowdy brownish grey with a tint of rouge. The doves are like smokey silvered-mirrored twins, impossible for my amateur eye to distinguish sex or hierarchy. The brash staccato of the red birds is frequent and unmistakable yet, the rare, every once-in-a-while, soulful cooing of the mourning doves leaves a haunting mental echo one doesn't easily forget. I have always had a penchant for the melancholy resonances of life.<br />
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After the sun rises just above the horizon line of trees and the morning traffic of the nearby freeway peaks, the squirrels awaken and meander down the trees, stretching as they go. These boisterous creatures are inquisitive, agile and quite entertaining. Some consider them pests to feeders and gardens, but having a life-long affinity for them colors my tolerance otherwise. They have always been the convivial "monkeys of the jungles" that surrounded, composed even, my childhood. I have had the fortunate experience of rehabilitating a few "hurricane babies" during my lifetime. I really must share my experience with my one-time temporary pet squirrel "Rocky." <br />
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Just not here and now. <br />
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Digressing...<em>again.</em><br />
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These squirrels, unlike the slender grey ones of my youth, are reddish-brown plump opportunists, full of mischief and ingenious trickery. They mostly fight and squabble amongst themselves, barking and sky-rocketing into squirrel-on-squirrel chases that look more playful than menacing. Come high noon, with their bellies full, they slowly migrate back up to the neck-stretching heights of their nests within the breezy canopy overhead. I have even observed and documented a few winks of a nap by some before their skyward trek. <br />
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The only other mammalian to recently grace my small garden has been a lone wild rabbit. This one intrigues me. It likes to feed on the looked-over birdseed that has begun to sprout beneath the feeder. I can only recall observing rabbits in a group, or <em>warren, </em>and in early morning or at dusk. This loner can be seen all throughout the day wandering the well-vegetated grounds. The inquisitive artist in me wants to know this one rabbit's story, to feel a sadness for it that it probably cannot feel for itself. I want to help it find what it might have lost and seems to be looking for <em>in perpetuity</em>.<br />
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Robins, Blue Jays, and even the occasional Woodpecker, come 'round as well. The red-breasted Robins come in early Spring and remain on the fringes observing the groupings of birds around the feeder. They are also keen on absconding with the early-arriving caterpillars that can voraciously de-leaf a garden. I have only seen a precious few Woodpeckers and really didn't think them to be seed-eaters. Their drumming is more often heard than they are seen. The Blue Jays arrive much later, the harbingers of early Summer. They are huge in a size comparison to most of the birds I see. They are loud and territorial too. I just discovered that they have the ability, much like the Mockingbird, to mimic the sounds of a hawk as to scare other birds away from their preferred personal space, which just happens to be particularly expansive. I have had the (un)fortunate encounter of seeing two of these bad boys collide mid-air, talons entangled, in a blur of blue.<br />
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Last year, I stopped putting seed out for awhile because I witnessed a hawk preying upon the birds gathered at my feeder. Now, I am all about the understanding of the circle-of-life and such, but I felt more like an accomplice of entrapment than the catalyst I wanted to be. <br />
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Stupid human guilt. Interposing motive on species that are A) probably far more adapted and evolved than we, and B) are unencumbered by the frailties of an over-developed human sense of self. (oh, and C) <em>THEY CAN FLY!)</em><br />
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By now, you maybe mentally(or literally) eye-rolling and cringing at what is obviously deep-seeded psychoses. <br />
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This is free therapy for me, remember?<br />
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And, if you call the guys-in-white with the far too 80's strap-and-buckle fashion jacket, I'll know who you are: <br />
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All<em> three</em> of you.<br />
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From time to time exceptionally different species of birds, rare to me, make sporadic visits to my garden space. Some that even prompt me to scour all of Google to find out more about them, or, at the very least, what they are called. With names like "Painted Bunting," "Vermilion Flycatcher" and "Rose-Breasted Grosbeak" you can imagine the surprised enthusiasm I feel when one of these "odd" birds comes by me. There are still a few I've yet to identify, like the one bird who is reddish-orange in color and has an elongated side-flattened beak and feeds sideways. I am always perplexed by its agility of neck posturing. I could only wish to be as flexible.<br />
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Yet, I appreciate them none-the-less for the mere fact that I am observing something entirely foreign to my former and present human experience. I am changing and evolving by the simple act of watching, learning, soaking in and mulling over. I am constantly feeding my hunger for mind-and-soul growth by feeding them some measly seeds. <br />
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Bird and squirrel watching is sometimes, most times even, easier than the human fray.<br />
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My cynic self often tries to intervene and scoff at my craving for the simplest of things.<br />
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I just chuckle back, drink deeply and enjoy the chattered-filled view.<br />
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<br />Mateohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14322385825762963648noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-934232791974423467.post-53558805260331280422012-06-05T09:15:00.001-07:002012-06-05T10:06:53.372-07:00Art of the Past: Tired of the Mire of Over-Thinking<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RjapvqEmN8A/T84iSpOxbDI/AAAAAAAAAEQ/x4pD0QguX5s/s1600/11437_182475113814_6108126_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RjapvqEmN8A/T84iSpOxbDI/AAAAAAAAAEQ/x4pD0QguX5s/s320/11437_182475113814_6108126_n.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em>Phrenology series: Desire </em>by Mateo</td></tr>
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I can feel myself getting stronger with each day that passes. But, I seem to be in a daze of angst while trying to once again join the world of the <em>living. </em>I had prepared myself for the gloaming, the fading away and not <em>"raging against the dying of the light."</em> And, I was okay with that. I was actually more than okay with it, I relished it. I became enamored with the promised respite from the suffering I had long become accustomed.<br />
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I now find myself in flux, a purgatory of sorts after a brief and frenzied period of hyper-productivity. I just chalked it up to the process of leaving; I had relinquished and accepted what I thought was the end of my <em>his-story. </em>I was in a mad dash to proffer a few last minute details while I was still able. The urgency was a highly intoxicating elixir to my creative self, the only part of me that didn't want to die.<br />
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That last sentence seems contrary to what I believe might actually happen once one passes through life's back door. I would like to be completely certain that the creative self, the psyche, the soul, lives and thrives once free from the physical constraints of the highly fallible and susceptible flesh. <br />
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Enter: Self Doubt. Not entirely an enemy, but not a best friend to anyone, either.<br />
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I realize I am over-thinking things and I must allow my mind and body to become re-balanced with my renewed spot in the grand workings of life. I have to admit the things I lost (job and steady income, sense of daily purpose, validation of being of the legitimate hard-working class, etc.) were the very things that were eroding my painter's soul and making me completely miserable. Not that being an artist isn't all of the things aforementioned; it is a matter of intent. My material life is now far less lush, but it may just be the prod I needed to find my way, not back to self exactly, but to the <em>me </em>that is an integral part of the collective <em>we.</em><br />
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I am working on some very difficult posts that will eventually find their way to these pages. I am dredging up some past and present demons in order to make the river flow easier and vacate my soul and memory of some long-settled silt. In the mean time, I am following the rhythms of grace and nature, hopefully emerging with a renewed determination. <br />
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I have recently been having extremely vivid and thought-provoking dreams. And, if there is anything I have learned from this artist's life of mine, these periods of dreaming are always followed by a time of lucid and energetic phase of painting. Ebb and Flow. This gives me hope and comfort in these trying times of readjustment.<br />
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Namaste, Friends.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-PrvRSBCyrtc/T848eieJmOI/AAAAAAAAAEc/2VfT3xbBo28/s1600/24179_387205003814_3760866_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-PrvRSBCyrtc/T848eieJmOI/AAAAAAAAAEc/2VfT3xbBo28/s320/24179_387205003814_3760866_n.jpg" width="294" /></a></div>Mateohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14322385825762963648noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-934232791974423467.post-37582043998839675352012-05-31T14:20:00.001-07:002012-05-31T14:20:58.141-07:00Art of the Moment: Heart Strung<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-mJ9iYqaya-Y/T8fL63N5ScI/AAAAAAAAAD8/fAo55wrGodA/s1600/246589_10150926855078815_1948735601_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-mJ9iYqaya-Y/T8fL63N5ScI/AAAAAAAAAD8/fAo55wrGodA/s320/246589_10150926855078815_1948735601_n.jpg" width="248" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Original Sketch of <em>Heart Strung </em>by Mateo 2012</td></tr>
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I have always been fascinated by illustrious anatomical elements of the human body and the roles they play as interpretive symbols in writing, visual arts and music. I have explored these in the past and am currently working on a series of works based upon the human heart in different allegorical scenarios. I did the sketch above in late January while feeling very weak and lousy health-wise. In my physical sickness, my mind/soul/heart wanted to be free from its fleshy binding. The idea of an industrious heart being tied to a scape of barrenness is the resulting idea. There are other elements involved, but I like to keep some of my ideas close to self and allow the viewer to decode and interpret for him-/herself. A detail of the nearly complete acrylic painting appears below. I intentionally kept a spartan color palette and in a darker range in order to be able to convey an inner luminosity. I hope you enjoy this little insight into my methods of madness and creative process, for expounding is not something I have ever particulary been comfortable doing. But, that is one of the purposes for this blog: to unbind my mind and thoughts from the sometimes constricting, self-imposed boxed-in life experience. <br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-gHT3uYorqvM/T8fMAiR6I2I/AAAAAAAAAEE/Up55nZmsHjU/s1600/165889_10150926855643815_562643814_9937683_973596333_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-gHT3uYorqvM/T8fMAiR6I2I/AAAAAAAAAEE/Up55nZmsHjU/s320/165889_10150926855643815_562643814_9937683_973596333_n.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Detail: <em>Heart Strung</em> acrylic on panel by Mateo 2012</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Mateohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14322385825762963648noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-934232791974423467.post-84847850763139646662012-05-31T08:02:00.000-07:002012-05-31T08:26:50.009-07:00Remembering Uncle Skeet<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-PhYis_sMH1s/T8eBJ3xtIYI/AAAAAAAAADw/r8GXA_YVjT0/s1600/1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-PhYis_sMH1s/T8eBJ3xtIYI/AAAAAAAAADw/r8GXA_YVjT0/s400/1.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">*</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
His real name was Gregory. We called him "Uncle Skeet." The origin of this moniker and, well, most of the details of his life are sketchy at best and mostly unknown to me. He wasn't even in direct relation with the rest of us, but in my family, that seemed to matter less or not at all. In fact, extracting any details about my family's history is and has always been an act of futility. Many of those with first hand knowledge of these events have long been passed or have rewritten such memories for themselves in a way that is conducive to more palatable remembering.<br />
<br />
The onset of the Memorial Day weekend prompted me on this trail of remembering. I am fairly certain he served in one of the world wars, probably the latter. I just remember him being a permanent fixture in the family homestead, cared for by the matriarch, my grandmother. Her life is one chock full of strays and sordid tales all her own. She is one fascinating lady and I mourn not being able to spend time in her presence as I once did. But, that is another story for another time.<br />
<br />
My memories of Uncle Skeet primarily consist of him occupying a certain chair in a certain corner in front of a certain ceiling-height plastic plant. I spent the majority of my summer days at my granny's working the gardens and their abundant provisions, feeding the chickens and experiencing various other sorts of small farm life details. Uncle Skeet was always there, in his always place resting from what I can only imagine was a long and tiring life. We always greeted him with awe and respect as children are brought up to do. He wasn't one much for words, especially when he was behind an oxygen mask for the latter days of his life's journey. He gave us cough drops as if they were candy and we took them gratefully, realizing even then, a gift from someone with few monetary resources was a great treasure. I secretly thought of his being there was like having a living, breathing Abraham Lincoln in our lives.<br />
<br />
He was there, in his chair, for Christmases, Easters, and every gathering that dotted the early years of my childhood. There was always a new robe or pair of slippers or some sort of comfort offering for him on these special days. I hope he felt the belonging we felt with him there. I cannot imagine my childhood without him. <br />
<br />
In whispers and shushings throughout my young years, I ascertained a few colorful details about this talis-man. I heard he had shot a man, perhaps in self defense, perhaps not, and had served time in prison. He was a veteran and a chance few <em>away from the always place</em> encounters with this man occurred when he spent time in the VA hospital in Biloxi, Mississippi. These trips were enigmatic for me because the trip to the place of suffering was punctuated by the promise of a Gulf Coast seafood meal while in these foreign climes. I was a wee knee-high lad during the end of his life, so the remembering is merely a series of events, puncturing the dark murky sky of the past like ominous constellations.<br />
<br />
Then, he was gone. Empty chair, no oxygen tank, no more mentholated candies for us kids. No more trips to the hospital or nursing home. Just a trip to the local funeral home, church and graveyard. And waiting. Waiting for the VA to send his hard-earned painted gold and black marker. If I remember correctly, I think there was something amiss with the first and another period of waiting for them to make it right again. <br />
<br />
Although my memories are anemic and paltry, they are fond rememberings of a robust and true picaresque character.<br />
<br />
Uncle Skeet has long been gone for many years, but he will never be forgotten.<br />
<br />
<br />
<h4>
*the picture at the top is not an actual picture of my Uncle Skeet, but one I found while perusing B&W photos online and the visage of the man jolted my memories of the scruffy, time-worn face and attending eyes of the true Uncle Skeet.</h4>
<br />Mateohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14322385825762963648noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-934232791974423467.post-78194298417736042682012-05-25T14:34:00.000-07:002012-05-28T08:44:59.566-07:00Daily Art: (Extremely Stylized) Self Portrait<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-hVarFbM37tU/T7_2lsr5AoI/AAAAAAAAADk/aj8prdJxREo/s1600/23829_381244503814_562643814_3718602_2195050_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-hVarFbM37tU/T7_2lsr5AoI/AAAAAAAAADk/aj8prdJxREo/s400/23829_381244503814_562643814_3718602_2195050_n.jpg" width="288" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i>Jack of Secrets & Sorrows </i>by Mateo</span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I did this painting a few years ago as part of a solo show called "House of Cards" at what was then known as the Chesser Gallery in downtown Mobile, Alabama. Creating art amongst Mobile's denizens and fellow artists is a period of my life I will never forget. Someday, I hope to recreate and live another personal renaissance there. For now, the road and my memories are my home. This painting, represents, to me, the artist as self and the burning passions that drive me. The <i><b>Élan vital, </b></i>the Life-driving force for meaning, substance and sustenance and being of the world and transcending its bounds to become a free-willing, full-of-faith seeker of Truth.Mateohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14322385825762963648noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-934232791974423467.post-30897679227722398772012-05-23T17:10:00.001-07:002012-05-23T17:15:00.759-07:00Escaping the Trailer Park<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-jEdnOJaxWk4/T715jU9V35I/AAAAAAAAADY/0Vc7iq7r-g0/s1600/picplz+05+March+2011+14.01.36_edit0.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-jEdnOJaxWk4/T715jU9V35I/AAAAAAAAADY/0Vc7iq7r-g0/s400/picplz+05+March+2011+14.01.36_edit0.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Going to Refresh My Texas-Parched Soul for a Serendipitous Few Days in the South</b></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Well, life in Texas is as per usual: Hot and Dry(already!) Packing up the truck for a few days' break to the Southland. It will be lovely to see my Mom and savor her home-cooking. Glad for the unexpected chance to get away for a few days. I am a little apprehensive about leaving the garden, though. But, I have almost mastered the art of preparing for such excursions. Alas, I'll still miss it. Have been working against time and trailer-park internet interruptions, and thus, won't be making any posts to my blog until I return. Namaste, Friends.Mateohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14322385825762963648noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-934232791974423467.post-43988870762973942122012-05-21T21:52:00.001-07:002012-05-23T17:12:23.453-07:00Art&Thought: The "Wonderings" of Cain<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-pNpwKaVxwzE/T7sajJcq22I/AAAAAAAAADM/KAcJlFG-dMg/s1600/2627_62914983814_562643814_1558375_3372463_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-pNpwKaVxwzE/T7sajJcq22I/AAAAAAAAADM/KAcJlFG-dMg/s320/2627_62914983814_562643814_1558375_3372463_n.jpg" width="312" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Momentary expression of profound cynicism: "When we ALL become celebrities, who will be our fans?; when we ALL become gods, who, then, will be left to follow us?"-Mateo </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>Cain</i> by Mateo ca. 2005</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>Mateohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14322385825762963648noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-934232791974423467.post-52118863236485604272012-05-21T10:13:00.004-07:002012-05-21T10:13:57.430-07:00Monday: Just Like Me<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Lx4wd5rbrVc/T7pu8_A3HyI/AAAAAAAAADA/HSlDPOM6OPU/s1600/Sunflower.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Lx4wd5rbrVc/T7pu8_A3HyI/AAAAAAAAADA/HSlDPOM6OPU/s400/Sunflower.png" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I Sure Hope the Bees Spread the Pollen from this One- It's a Fighter!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
This is a picture I took at dusk yesterday of a sunflower that I inadvertently, and then adamantly, nurtured since last Fall. It is a simple Sunflower, born of a birdseed that got picked over and ultimately deposited by the many birds(and squirrels) that forage my garden for the seeds I put there for them.<br />
<br />This particular plant began to grow near the beginning of the very mild and rainy winter we had here in Texas. It seemed to die away and go into dormancy during the difficult season.<br />
<br />Just like me.<br />
<br />I first noticed it again when it suddenly resumed a surge in growth in early Spring. It was quite shabby and Charlie-Brown-Christmas-Tree-esque and I was offended it was marring the still bare architectural limbs of my budding fig. (I was irrationally angry and offended by a lot of things last Fall.) So I transplanted it and it didn't take kindly to the good-intentioned change. It wilted and refused to stand proud like any self-respecting Sunflower should. <br />
<br />Just like me.<br />
<br />I went through some tough times with my health in the next several weeks and stayed in bed for most of them. I felt sapped and weak and longed to relish my favorite season, Spring, that was spreading its warmth and breezes just outside my door. At my first chance, I ventured out to check on the compact container garden I keep, wondering precisely about that very Sunflower. I expected the worst. I really couldn't muster hope for any other result. But...It was alive, thirsty and hungry, but alive!<br />
<br />Just like me.<br />
<br />So, I made it a daily goal to get myself out of bed, dressed, and vertical long enough to check on that flower. This became a ritual of strength, a personal challenge to keep life in <em>something</em>, this stupid inanimate reject random plant. I was secretly obsessed and felt a little embarrassed by that. I was running fevers much of this time and my body was fighting and here I was mentally begging this plant <em>NOT TO DIE.</em><br />
<br />
Just like me.<br />
<br />The Sunflower soon became proud, stout and began to follow the sun each day. It survived a plague of silk worms that fell from the budding trees as the spring unfolded.(Some of my other plants were not so lucky.) It stretched and grew taller and began to bud. I was excited to see that this haggard plant would achieve its ultimate goal: to bloom and to spread its genetic vigor to thrive. And, in the last few days it has begun to unfurl its petals and give the world a full on view of its face. It's still quite imperfect and scarred from its long journey, but it is<em> here</em> and in its own way, it is <em>beautiful.</em><br />
<br />
Just Like Me.<br />
<br />
<br />
*This is quite a rambling share, I know. But there's a parable or some kernel of truth in it-dammit! Now back to the garden...Let's hope this goes well, I have FOF disorder: Frequent Over-Fertilizing. Namaste, Friends.Mateohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14322385825762963648noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-934232791974423467.post-33026655494773407192012-05-20T13:36:00.000-07:002012-05-20T16:15:59.904-07:00Sunday/FundaySundays are my favorite days because I get to do those things I like to do that renew my spirit, soothe my soul and heal my body. All this helps me to be a better person during the week. So, it's like my sacred day. I haven't attended a formal church service in several years, but that's another story for another time.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-MWo7N9dSjls/T7lMiSRd4oI/AAAAAAAAACg/MPrFclHDcVI/s1600/303980_10150393983903815_562643814_8450789_85178795_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-MWo7N9dSjls/T7lMiSRd4oI/AAAAAAAAACg/MPrFclHDcVI/s400/303980_10150393983903815_562643814_8450789_85178795_n.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What the Start of a Typical Sunday Looks Like at The Love Loft on Wheels</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Lately, I spend most of my days alone, except for Roz, my dog. She is very much favored of Steve, my other half. She loves me and I, her, and we share some wonderful moments together. But... He's the <i>FUN</i> Dad because he likes taking her on long, meandering walks to meet her friends at the dog park. She is more socialized than I these days. She likes people and interaction far more than I do.<br />
<br />
Facing an illness does this to a person. It sequesters one to their own self-imposed prison dwelling, hospital, or hospice. Otherwise, it's just awkward and uncomfortable and a constant reminder we all are on a path of physical demise. One cannot blame the otherwise healthy people for being genetically designed to be repelled by sickness and death. Again, that's another long, sordid story for another indeterminable time. I'm just not ready or healthy enough yet.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-xYn7yBBvLXg/T7lFkMxokFI/AAAAAAAAACU/7sr92y_uHio/s1600/148781_10150883706798815_562643814_9805364_329788027_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-xYn7yBBvLXg/T7lFkMxokFI/AAAAAAAAACU/7sr92y_uHio/s400/148781_10150883706798815_562643814_9805364_329788027_n.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is ROZ. You're Going to Read A LOT about HER!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
But, come Sunday, we are all three together, at the same place, at the same time. Very much a communion and gathering of three beings trying the best they can to hang on while this rock keeps spinning on its axis. Life, Work and Family hover in our all-too amateur jugglers' hands and we are constantly trying (and failing often) to not drop one of those bundles of things of importance. Add chronic and terminal illness to this game, you're going to have to drop something sometime. Keeping the dream aloft, the things that <i>matter</i>, lest they fall away and become shattered relics of life gone by, wasted, worked away. If there is one thing I have learned from this harrowing season of illness is: <i>A</i> <i>Life doesn't have to be complicated to matter.-</i> I'm still chewing on this one and relishing its simple profound flavor.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-USJRlS6koMk/T7lUk0NxVDI/AAAAAAAAACs/I-uLgCDS2ek/s1600/pearsforJen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-USJRlS6koMk/T7lUk0NxVDI/AAAAAAAAACs/I-uLgCDS2ek/s400/pearsforJen.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>HOLY TRINITY</i> by Mateo 2012</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
So, on Sundays, we come together. No agenda, no awkward silences.<br />
This is so because this is our <i>sacred.</i><br />
We communicate in hushed murmurings sometimes punctuated by bright brassy laughter.<br />
We draw nourishment from fresh fare whimsically mated out of reverence for the nonchalantness of the day. Our table is a day-long <span class="st"><i>smörgåsbord</i></span>, just smaller proportions.<br />
The bed rarely gets made on these holiest of days.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
No rules, no lofty rites, no shame, and no guilt.</div>
<br />
And, We are Okay with Being Okay with That. <br />
<br />
Namaste, Friends!Mateohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14322385825762963648noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-934232791974423467.post-79499399881053261152012-05-19T19:11:00.003-07:002012-05-20T16:17:54.369-07:00Daily Art: Current Work-in-Progress<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-gWYNTPJMmls/T7hSGtFq4bI/AAAAAAAAACI/3B1qghUfTSc/s1600/156227_10150881798283815_562643814_9800068_1389714817_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-gWYNTPJMmls/T7hSGtFq4bI/AAAAAAAAACI/3B1qghUfTSc/s400/156227_10150881798283815_562643814_9800068_1389714817_n.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Mason Jar of Heart with Fireflies</i> for my Brother</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />Mateohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14322385825762963648noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-934232791974423467.post-43461899220856972132012-05-19T11:32:00.000-07:002012-05-20T16:18:16.588-07:00Garden Daily<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-qGu5U3YCbXk/T7flwt53HsI/AAAAAAAAAB8/Vaf7-6NeCYY/s1600/tomato+-+Copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-qGu5U3YCbXk/T7flwt53HsI/AAAAAAAAAB8/Vaf7-6NeCYY/s400/tomato+-+Copy.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My First Tomato from the Garden</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />Mateohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14322385825762963648noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-934232791974423467.post-3494686175007266782012-05-18T21:20:00.000-07:002012-05-20T16:18:26.970-07:00Good Night Art<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-7wSTsB2_asc/T7cfaVz4qkI/AAAAAAAAABw/rMBMgqkDcnM/s1600/2627_62914968814_562643814_1558372_4396211_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="178" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-7wSTsB2_asc/T7cfaVz4qkI/AAAAAAAAABw/rMBMgqkDcnM/s400/2627_62914968814_562643814_1558372_4396211_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>OutCast/CastOut</i> by Mateo ca. 2005(?)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />Mateohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14322385825762963648noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-934232791974423467.post-16464214179389637522012-05-18T20:07:00.001-07:002012-05-20T16:18:46.409-07:00Random Art of Mine<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lrHP07kJd5M/T7cOQ4m-hHI/AAAAAAAAABk/mjd-K3prbv4/s1600/61936_442204893814_562643814_5193028_5791957_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lrHP07kJd5M/T7cOQ4m-hHI/AAAAAAAAABk/mjd-K3prbv4/s400/61936_442204893814_562643814_5193028_5791957_n.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cheap Key-Breaking Lock and Therefore Destroyed</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />Mateohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14322385825762963648noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-934232791974423467.post-54832130809719032222012-05-18T19:50:00.003-07:002012-05-19T11:45:02.169-07:00My First Post from FB<div class="statusUnit">
<div class="tlTxFe">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Ddyd9tIflGM/T7cKVedzlhI/AAAAAAAAABY/RHO38M8kls4/s1600/us2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Ddyd9tIflGM/T7cKVedzlhI/AAAAAAAAABY/RHO38M8kls4/s400/us2.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me and My Man-He's on the Left</td></tr>
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<div class="fbTimelineFeedbackActions clearfix">
<br />
Too Much Talking. Too much Typing.<br />
<br />
I took a break from FB for awhile for several reasons. And, I really
didn't miss it. Now, don't get me wrong, I thrive on all things posted
that make me go "LOL" and "WTF" and "awesomesauce." What I DID miss were
the PEOPLE. I was simply exhausted and being clever online is an
exhausting full-time job. I gave up my REAL-life job to recuperate
mostly from an il<span class="text_exposed_show">lness that went simply
from manageable to acute in a span of a few short months. Then I
returned...<TADA!> and am slowly getting my strength back, but my
tolerance for long-winded embroilments isn't as hearty as it once was.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="text_exposed_show"> Maybe I
should take up drinking again. (Update: I did)<br /> <br /> More Typing. More Talking. <br /> <br /> I do have a life outside of FB. Not much of one, but it's real and it's mine. <br /> <br /> And, YOU see much of it right here online. <br /> <br /> There are some things I hold <b><i>sacred.</i></b> <br /> <br />
My husband, for one. (Yes! I do have one.) And, our family, which
includes Roz. And, yes, we're married. No, we don't have a piece of
paper from a city hall somewhere stating such, but, trust, we are very
much each one half of the other. To have, to hold, to laugh. In sickness
and in health, and trust, he has loved me through more sickness in the
last few months than health. He was watching me die. And it hurt him
deeply to feel so helpless. <br /> </span><br />
<span class="text_exposed_show">So, while we all get embroiled in the
politics of the day and squabble over word choice and what should be
civil rights for ALL, I am liberating the word "<b>marriage</b>" from the
naysayers. I'm not going to add "gay" or "same-sex" to it, I'm just
going to live it and relish all the joy it brings. <br /> </span><br />
<span class="text_exposed_show">[Pause for you to check to see if your marriage is still intact.]<br /> </span><br />
<span class="text_exposed_show">It is? <br /> </span><br />
<span class="text_exposed_show">AWESOMESAUCE!<br /> <br /> More Talking. More Typing<br /> <br /> *I live in America and I am still afraid to press <post> because the fear remains.</span><span class="UIActionLinks UIActionLinks_bottom" data-ft="{"tn":"=","type":20}"> <label class="uiLinkButton comment_link" title="Leave a comment"></label></span></div>
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</div>Mateohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14322385825762963648noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-934232791974423467.post-62103782270810967832012-05-18T19:34:00.000-07:002012-05-19T11:42:07.041-07:00The Beginning of the Ending<h2>
The Beginning of the Ending</h2>
This is the initial spark of what I hope becomes, not just the rantings and ravings of a middle-aged mind, a stream of consciousness that hopefully gives a certain perspective of life. <i>Journey on.</i>Mateohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14322385825762963648noreply@blogger.com0