This is the painting I gave to my mother for Mother’s Day.
It is a shared memory of going to the market in Monrovia, Liberia. These powerful, queenly women, always danced in front of the store, selling fruit from their baskets. If you bought some, they would sing a Christian hymn. My mother always bought our fruit from them. If you bought fruit inside the store, it cost a lot more, and there were always tarantulas hiding in the banana clusters. Buying from these women was safer, cheaper and the right thing to do! Mr. Abu-Jadi did not mind. I think I remember someone saying that he even stopped selling fruit so that these women could make their living properly.
Painting this, I cried the whole through and did not need water for the acrylic. My tears mixed with the paint. These women would also sometimes babysit me, when my mother was shopping, for money. My mother, a very generous woman would pay each of them, $10 for an hour. In the sixties, in Liberia, this was a fortune, and it allowed these women to take “vacations”. They were always so kind to me, and would cradle me, each in turn, while my mom shopped. They also didn’t let anyone pick on me for being a very conspicuously white child, in an African universe. They loved me and taught me acceptance of other human beings. And I love them. Their names are:
(from left to right)
Jahnjay, Tarday, and Tomah.
To this day, these women have exemplified the word "Queen" for me. Their crowns are the most beautiful of all. Acrylic on canvas. 8x10
Igor Lukyanov of Ukraine, a brilliant artist, sent me the most gorgeous piece to hang on my wall. I am having it professionally printed, and framed, and it will go in my studio. I predict that in the future, this man’s work will be fetching record prices at Sotheby’s. Seriously. Look at this and tell me I’m wrong:
Artist: Igor Lukyanov - and if you steal this I will hunt you down and do terrible things to your front porch.
God bless you and your family, Igor. You are my artistic hero! Brilliant inspiration! The colors in your work always remind me of Anatole Krasnyansky, your countryman. Thank you so much for this reminder to “stay with God”. I really needed this inspiration.
After being away for awhile, it feels a little strange to come back and blog again. A bit like saying, “Hey! Notice me again!” I hope that is not how it is perceived but that’s what I fear. I have a lot to say since so many things have happened in the last 2 months and if you’re even reading this, it means you must have at least some tender feeling for me, if only to pity me and say to yourself, “Poor thing – she still has no life, and is back again.” 
I went to Mexico, had my dental work done and I am now healing up quite nicely. It was at once, as bad as I thought, and not as bad as it could have been. As my father always says whenever I start a new project: “No matter what it is, it will always take longer and cost more, than you expect.” As usual, His Pessimisstic Highness was right. Even though I went to Mexico, it did end up costing a lot more, but still less than in the States, and I ended up with an unexpected result. I also had to stay 2 days longer than I expected, but at least I got out before the riots really got into full swing. All I can say about the situation in Mexico is: Go there for your dental work, but keep your head down, blend in and take plenty of clean underwear. It really is a war zone. Also, don’t let anyone bleach your teeth. That’s all I will say, except that my experience with that can be summed up as: Injury, meet Insult.
I have spent the last month in bed, mainly, and working shorter hours. This has led to a great deal of personal frustration. I have had to learn to eat again and it’s a wierd feeling. My bottom lip is getting a new education on how to keep food in my mouth, along with this weird metal appendage. Vitamins have really helped in my healing along with plain old bed rest and salt water rinsing. Vitamins have given me the energy to take a shower, get up and change the TV channel manually, and generally sprint back and forth between the couch and the refrigerator.
I haven’t had much energy to paint but when I do, I have had to use a stool in front of my easel which kind of throws me off and makes me frustrated. But I have had lots of time to think and absorb so many things that I found too large and cumbersome before my surgery. For instance, I have had loads of time to just sit and ponder the different directions art has taken me in the last 25 years. And I’m finally proud to say that in all, I have experimented in almost every medium and art movement there is. This isn’t to say that I am brilliant in any of them. In fact, in most of them I can confidently say I really gave “bad” new meaning. (My forays in the field of “portraiture” can be described as “stunningly drab” and “conceptual suicide”. ) But I look back over 25 years and I laugh with triumph because without even realizing it, I was fearless. When people told me I “couldn’t” do something, my response was to say “piss off” (as soon as their back was turned of course, which makes it all acceptable) and go do it anyway. The truth was I wasn’t smart enough to know when I “couldn’t” do something.
So as an artist, I’ve been incubating for a very long time, and my breakthrough is finally here. Most people think that when an artist “finds their niche” it means that they finally know what and how to paint/or create whatever. That may be it, but not always. It just means that they finally throw their arms around themselves and say, “You’re not so bad and suicide (or cutting off an ear) isn’t the answer. If you stick around another day, you’re bound to piss somebody off, and that’s “art” too isn’t it?” (Pissing people off seems to be my speciality, when it comes to art form. They either love my work or they hate it.)
So, in honor of that, today after my dental appointment, I intend to get a piece of wood, and paint the word “Defiance” on it. My concept is, a black background, and glow-in-the-dark paint, the letters in a fine calligraphy. Maybe even my own handwriting (which is pretty beautiful if I do say so myself). I’m going to hang it over my bed so that in the night, when my soul overtakes me, I will remember who I am and that sticking around for another day is a work of art.
Artists of a Feather….
I went to my painting class and basically couldn’t produce anything. But I had fun trying. No pictures to post tonight. My eye was really hurting and I had just had a really long day at the slave factory. I wont’ get a day off until next week, since I have to “pay back” a couple sick days and one of the other managers is on vacation.
Interesting news: I’ve become a red head and it’s taken 10 years off my appearance. I have never dyed my hair before. It’s naturally black and it’s become a stereotypical hassle since everyone assumes that since I have black hair, I must be Spanish and therefore, be able to converse in Spanish at the speed of light. Actually, I am slowly learning Spanish but it’s more at a bumbling pace , not quite that of Antonio Bandaras learning Norse in the 13th Warrior. One of these days I’m going to insult someone’s mother without meaning to, and then what? Maybe now they will assume I am English and can “spell”. So much for stereotypes.
I had occasion to remember my high school days today, in a conversation I had with my art instructor. I haven’t really thought about it too much, but I realized, during the conversation, that my high school has produced a number of artists. A great many in fact, and though a few have become famous (I’m not one of them) others have simply lived their lives as artists. I thought you might be interested to hear about them and what they were really like in high school.
But to me what is interesting is that my school produced so many artists, even if most of us never became famous. Behind these famous faces, were really wonderful teachers! We had a good art program, but I really think it was because our teachers were excited about the arts and about teaching kids in general. They became teachers because most of them genuinely liked kids and they truly enjoyed their jobs. As a result, many of us really absorbed what they had to teach and carried forward into our lives.
Julianne Moore – actress/international celebrity: she graduated in 79 and so we were never in class together. But I did meet her in 81 when she returned to Germany for a visit and stopped by the school to say hello to friends and teachers. By this time, she was not yet famous, but she was working in New York way off, and to the left of, Broadway. Julianne was a warm, very caring person — she loved animals and made friends with the military K9 units who daily inspected our lockers for things that go “boom” and things that make you sick and drowsy. Julianne was fabulous as a impromptu guest in West Side Story (Richard Smith, our director, wrote an extra scene and inserted it into the second act) and she was a very happy go lucky sort. She was very bubbly, and always full of praise for everyone. She was not an elitist (far from it) and was always for “the underdog”. She spent a lot of time in the library and painted a section of our school mural as an uninvited guest. These days someone might accuse her vandalism. But I think she genuinely cared about our school and she was very warm and approachable. She was on very good terms with Mr. Bradach, our school administrator and Amy, his daughter, was very close to her. Julianne bought her cigarettes from the Trinkhalle on the main drag outside the compound . She also ate wurst mit pomme frites (french fries) with thousand island dressing. She taught me how to make the dressing one afternoon. Half mayonaisse and half ketchup. Add a little relish. I was upset she ate my pomme frites.
Gerald Brom – aka as simply “Brom” – painter / artist/inventor of an entire genre – Gerald was 2 years behind me. I was in my last year when he was in 10th. We shared the same art teacher and also took chemistry together. Gerald helped me with some of my art assignments and I let him cheat off my chemistry final. I also wrote two papers for him on Romeo and Juliet and MacBeth. Gerald was never much for the year book team and shyed away from all cameras. He was very “geeky” in an artsy sort of way, but was always pretty popular (At least, everyone I knew liked him.) He was quiet, and extremely polite. Gerald was always very sweet, and good natured. He was always ready with good ideas about how to fool your parents into thinking you were “at home, in bed all night.” On at least one occasion, he was someone’s desperately needed “alibi”. We went to Paris with our art teacher, Mr. Martin, together and sat around the Pompidou museum wondering if the post modernists really would take over the world. (they did and he was one of them.) Gerald tolerated my romantic view of the Cold War, and often treated me as the “village idiot”, mainly because already an accomplished artist, he had earned that right. I think I had just graduated when Gerald got his first commission. He was in the eleventh grade. A couple years later, I ran into him at the old school Trinkhalle on Miquel Addickes Allee. We were both buying cigarettes. He bought Marlborough Reds, and I bought Salem 99′s. ( Those were never available in the States.) We went to G-park (aka Shit Park) and he said he was working on a comic for a German graphics/literary publisher. He was famous by the following year. I, on the other hand, was living in a garrett in Paris and starving for perfume while moonlighting as a punk rock band member and back up singer for the Street Lyfe. I later took over the band and it became Suxanne and Her Street Lyfe, but no one remembers that now. Frankly, we were pretty forgettable.
Marcus Calvin – international film star/actor – Marcus was a year ahead of me and graduated in 83 if I remember right. I’ll have to look him up in my old year books to make sure. But here’s what I say to those who have been unkind: When Marcus and I were in school, he was frankly, HOT. Marcus was a good looking, ladies man, with dark hair and brooding good looks. He had a temperament to match. The girls LOVED Marcus and they followed him wherever he went. (I guess they still do but I confess: I had an enourmous crush on Marcus. He was always so nice to me, and we had “Theatre 3″ and “Stage Work” as classes together.) Marcus was always the guy you could never put on a leash. He was wild, uninhibited and he had guts …seriously. A bunch of us were hassled by the cops in Sachsenhausen. Marcus convinced six cops, one of them a Kommandant, that all of us had “diplomatic immunity” and that all of them would be thrown in the klink for even asking our names. And he did it, without props or a supporting cast, with a French accent AUF DEUTSCH. He had them all convinced we were a group of disadvantaged students under sponsorship of Switzerland and that all of us came from the Tyrol. All by himself. Marcus was an amazing actor, even then. But he was also very genuine. When a German girl had incurable leukemia, Marcus spearheaded the campaign to save her life with a fundraiser. He raised 10 thousand dollars in one night, doing stand up comedy in a Sachsenhausen bar that only held at most, 100 people. Marcus was a gentleman. He was the guy at our senior dinner, when everyone was telling him to shut up, named every single member of the graduation class and said at least one WONDERFUL THING ABOUT THEM.
Melinda Olafson – Opera Singer – Melinda now sings for Florence Opera House in Italy- Soprano Virtuoso. She was the defining person in my high school music club. She organized us, taught us to sing and taught us how to be “good sports” when we lost a major music/chorale competition in Berlin. She also showed me how make beexwax candles. Melinda was a very sweet person – she had no ill will toward anyone. I don’t think she ever learned how to be jealous of anyone. She was devoted to the Roman Catholic faith and very patiently explained to the rest of us heathens, how important the Mother of God was and is, to the entire world, both western and eastern. She also wore very funky clothes and lots of silver jewelry. She once told a “counselor” from Campus Crusade for Christ that he was “full of it”. (on an issue involving Catholicism vs. evangelicism) By all newspaper accounts she is still the sweet and indescribably lovely person now, that she was then. She volunteered a summer at Mother Theresa’s clinic in Calcutta and composed a rock opera about it. She has devoted her life to the arts and to the education of children in all developing countries. She is a founding member and a board member of “Teach Them to Fish”, an international organization dedicated to teaching the arts and literature to disadvantaged children throughout the developing world.
Shahin Lockman, MD of Harvard University. Shahin was raised by a lovely Ba’hai woman who taught peace, pacifisim and love for humanity in all things. Shahin is now famous for her work, not as artist, but as a medical researcher finding the cure for AIDS/HIV in Africa. It is thanks to her and her work, that others have a chance to live. But she was an accomplished musician and a gifted artist. She was amazingly adept at using both sides of her brain, and could do it at the same time, or switch back and forth.
Bantu – African artist: painter, dancer, musician, writer and poet. – Bantu and I are the same age and we spent four years in school together. We had many of the same classes. He was always very reserved, and quiet. Girls loved him because he would listen to them and actually respond to what they were saying. He wrote satirical poems about school life and hating our parents. (Angst is not a word that belongs exclusively to the Germans anymore.) He was always in an argument with Mrs. Johnson, the choral teacher, and challenged her to a piano duel once. He won and all of us got a lot of satisfaction out of that. He also was one of the only kids in school who hated smoking and cigarettes. If he caught you with a cigarette he would pull it out of your mouth and stomp on it and tell you (loudly) that it was the road to hell. Bantu and I used to spend a lot of time downtown on die Zeil near the old Roemer Platz. He loved the cathedral and we used to spend hours drawing it on whatever paper we had or could find. Bantu was a huge Marley fan and also was part of our original Marley Fan Club that met in G-park to sing, dance and dream to Marley tunes. But if he caught you smoking he might slap you so a couple of people stopped going with us. They should have stuck around. Bantu’s version of No Woman, No Cry was amazing.
Khalid Gibran – artist/painter/poet – Khalid was related to Khalil Gibran. We met when he was a new student and he was in my Shakespeare class. He really had a hard time with Elizabethan “family values”. His “take” on the many intricate and delicate subjects of Shakespeare’s plays were hilarious. He just couldn’t understand the Elizabethan scandals. For him, the idea of anyone sleeping with a relative was just beyond him, and he thought “those people” belonged on another planet and weren’t human. He was right. I learned a lot about ethics and “right and wrong” from him. Khalid was very, very funny. He was a class clown and his practical jokes were so well timed, so well executed that he was lengendary. In our last year of school, he had a “secret job”. He wouldn’t tell us what it was but he would disappear at lunch every day. We followed him one day. We were astounded to learn that he was doing stand up comedy in a pizzeria called Bologna’s. The owner, an enormous Italian guy, thought Khalid was the funniest thing he’d ever seen and actually paid him a good wage to entertain his customers at lunch. Business people started going there and having meetings there.
“To you, from failing hand we throw
the torch! Be yours to hold it high!”
(Capt. John McCrae – In Flanders Fields – from our high school address and stated philosophy.)
The One Eyed Painter Strikes Again. Duck.
Last week, I was making a copy of a key for a tenant and I got a metal shaving in my eye. Not really serious, but I’ve ended up with an infection and it’s a hassle and just painful more than anything else. But I’m beginning to think maybe I’m a better painter with one eye. Maybe Van Gogh thought he would be a better violinist with only one ear. LOL! I forgot: he didn’t play the violin.
(I dont’ mean to minimize Van Gogh’s personal pain, whatever it was. But it does no one any good to take themselves too seriously. As Van Gogh proved. Sadly.) Working in light and shadow and trying out some texture (which doesn’t come out in this photo.) Light and shadow on canvas is a good metaphor for examination of the heart.
Just a composite out of my head. Untitled / simple study. Acrylic on gesso board. 16x20
Mute Monday – Studying Yourself Without Words- Wrinkles Optional
Self portrait. Study. Acrylic on canvas board. 8x10
Dude – I Had An Epiphany!
I am 43 years old and I have spent a lifetime trying to fit in, trying to belong, trying to do whatever it is that “God wanted me to do” with my life. Tonight, as I painted, it hit me. I’ve come full circle. I am now doing what I set out to do when I was 15. In fact, I’ve been doing it all along and never stopped. Never mind my “day job”. That’s just an American burden that I carry. Have you ever known an American to ask someone, “Who are you?” No. That’s because they never say that. They always ask, “What do you DO?”
For years I thought I was crazy, convinced I had a personality disorder. Because I have never defined myself by what I do for a living. When I was 15, I ran away from home. For two days. Nobody even realized I was gone. But over that two days, I discovered that I wasn’t really cut out for college and so set about to do the whole starving artist routine. For the next 2 years, I fantasized about going to Paris, starving in a garret somewhere, living on cheap wine and bagels. (Bagels are better for you than croissants.) But then I discovered the punk scene, and thought I should go to Berlin instead and spend my youth wasted on Apfelkorn and cigarettes. That seemed like a lot more fun. Eventually, I did make it to Paris, but never did make any breaththroughs in Berlin. I guess I was fated to be “The Outsider” even then, in spite of my flawless German. These days I’m lucky if I can manage to order a beer. And I don’t even drink beer.
When I was 17, I ran away to the US and promptly found out that although my passport said I was American, I was as far from American as you could probably get without committing treason. (Which never appealed to me. I’m too loyal. Even if the object of my affection hates me, I am incapable of “cheating”. This goes for my country, as well as my boyfriends and husbands. Don’t ask. )
So anyways, I became a makeup artist (glamour and special effects) and perfumer and then spent the next ten years starving for art, and running around Los Angeles, Hollywood, then back to Europe for awhile, and then finally, when I couldn’t “run” anymore, reconnected with my parents who lived here, in this God-forsaken place of Nevada, home ot modern day Soddom and Gommorah. So after that decision, I spent another 15 years in a state of arrested development : teenage angst and creative anger, trapped inside an adult body who had “responsibilities”.
I drifted from job to job (mostly getting fired or “constructively discharged”) and when I wasn’t performing (I was also a singer and actress) I was filling up my bank account by doing these awful things that society required me to do in order to prove that I was worthy of existence. Because that’s what counts in America. No one cares who you are. They only care about what you DO, what you produce at the end of the day and it better not be any kind of frivilous thing like “art”, like paintings, or a perfume. An “honest day’s work” has nothing in common with creating beauty, or honoring God, or honoring the soul. It’s about making money. And that’s exactly why the American Dream, if it ever existed in the first place, has failed. It didn’t value the people who created it.
The American Dream, as a concept, was a work of ART. Nothing else. It was an ideal and it became a means to punish people for “not being practical”. Everywhere in America, you hear people say, “Well, if he would just get up off his butt and go get a …” or my personal favorite “He/she is a drain on the system. They don’t DO anything. He/she just sits around making pretty pottery (or whatever) and expects us to hand a life to them…” People in America do not value artists. They are pretty good at rewarding people for giving them sexual fantasy and mental rape however. (Hollywood has never had it so good and it has nothing to do with “artists” and “art”.)
Um…no, we don’t expect you to hand us anything. (Why on earth would we expect compassion and understanding from YOU, someone with so few diplomatic skills that you can’t get even get your point across without insulting people?) We did sort of expect however, that you would have some basic respect for our skills, our vision, our way of seeing the world, which by the way, you have designated as the sole domain and proeprty of Hollywood, and I can’t imagine a more irresponsible custodian.
Anyway, all along, I kept on at various forms of art because frankly, it’s what I “do”. It’s who I am. It’s what I am and I can’t stop doing it unless I want to stop eating, breathing, sleeping and existing. If I do not “do” art, in some form, then I am fast on the road to slow suicide by corporate means. (Workaholism)
Tonight I was painting. And I had an epiphany. I’m not really a property manager. I’m not a clerk in a law firm. I’m not a closing agent. I’m not a waitress. I’m not a legal administrator.
I’m a starving artist. That’s what I’ve always been. I’m a success because I’m doing exactly what I set out to do when I was 15 years old. And like many other artists, I’ll be famous after I’m dead. You’ll see. I’ll bet you $100 bucks.
WIP. Unfinished. The Road "Home" (my parents house). Acrylic on canvas. 18x24
Exhausted. Need a face lift, and a vacation. (Bet I can get one of those in Mexico too.) Evicting 2 tenants this week. Normally, it would break my heart, but this isn’t about non-payment. One is being evicted for being a public menace and the other for being a health hazard. (Fried roaches anyone?)
I confess: I can’t wait till they are gone. May God bless them and keep them far, far away from us.
La Donna Velata - Raphael - c. 1516.
In other news, I’m going to go to see the Raphael exhibit at the Nevada Museum of Art on Feb. 25 when they are opening the exhibit to all, for free. I can’t wait! Just to stand in the same room with “Girl With the Veil” is a huge honor. I can’t afford the ticket price, so I have to wait. (waiting…waiting….)
Here’s my latest attempt at a portrait. I am actually happy with this first, run study. Since I have a photo of the model, I will be working some more on it. Debbie had a fascinating face. She looks like a cow girl, a dancer, a professional and a mom, all rolled into one. I loved painting this.
Debbie, this week's beauty. Thank you so much!
Debbie
Acrylic on canvas board
11×14
Good ni……..
zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
Brangelina, Patriarch Pavle, and Van Gogh. All In One Post.
Last night we were allowed to pick our own subject and paint from photos. So I selected my favorite photo of Patriarch Pavle of Serbia. For those not familiar with this man, please don’t panic. I’m not trying to proselytize. It’s just that we were told to pick someone we found “fascinating”, in a dramatic pose, with dramatic lighting. It’s not finished — I still have to go back, fix the hand and the cane, as well as his shoulder, and some other points (his nose is a bit too “Roman” but the right length. Just have to reshape it.) . The main thing during the class was to get the basic facial likeness, and silhouette. It still needs a lot of detail, touch up, fixing before I am ready to do it again on a real canvas. This is called “doing a study” — sort of a “dress rehearsal”. But I think it’s a good basic start. I comfort myself by repeating this: “Van Gogh only sold one painting in his entire lifetime.”
Rough study of Patriarch Pavle of Serbia. Acrylic on gesso study board. 12x15
Regarding Patriarch Pavle himself, he is known among many humble, simple people as “The Walking Saint”. He went without shoes for many years, because he said, “I will not wear shoes until all children of Serbia have shoes.” (He went on to explain both Christian and Muslim children.) He would not ride in cars until “everyone in Serbia has a car.” He rode the bus on longer trips (more than 15 miles — amazing for his advanced years of 75+) and he was known to stand in front of both mosques and churches alike, during the Balkan war. Even many Muslims loved Patriarch Pavle and attended his funeral in November 2009. So, as for “fascinating” I think Pavle certainly qualifies. I can think of no one else right now who captures my imagination as he does. In this cynical culture that idolizes Brangelina and shallow, vapid entertainment celebrities I am humbled and cowed by the courage of this man.
He pursued a life of peace in a world obsessed by war , genocide, and racism. That’s what I call “fascinating”.
Patriarch Pavle of Serbia reposed in the Lord, (otherwise known as “passed away”/”recieved into the Lord”s hands”/and “passed from this mortal life” on November 15, 2009 at the dignified and grand age of 95. May his memory, and his lessons to humanity, be eternal. And may our humble souls be thankful to God that he was with us for so long, to teach his lessons to so many. May all of us remember his example.
And if I may be so bold as to ask, dear Lord, and dear Patriarch Pavle, please grant me the humility and the courage to paint a true likeness, which will be a testament to the “peace on earth, goodwill toward men” that the humble Saint preached daily, through word, deed and in heart.
Checking in with the Royals and Brangelina
Every now and then, when my life reaches a fever pitch, I feel the need to simply check in with the Queen and good old Whats-His-Name for an annual reality check. For the benefit of my many friends who manage to keep up with my whirlwind activities here at River Rat Apartments, I thought I would recap this week with some unusual fare. I am donning my newly minted (and wet) reporter’s derby and I am currently smoking a truly putrid cigar, while typing away, one finger at a time on my keyboard, in true hard-nosed , journalistic style. (This cigar makes even my nose itch!)
Disclaimer: Spell check has been used. I am a dyslexic. Any errors are solely the fault of Microsoft, WordPress, and Google. Qualifying Disclaimer: Being a dyslexic makes me a hard bed-fellow. Don’t expect any sympathy if you are deaf.
First, the op-ed piece: I am increasingly convinced that Brangelina should break up into two, separate, complete and uninterrupted wholes known as “Bran” and “Gelina”. Together they are somewhat like Cheez-Whiz over Dream Whip, atop a Ritz cracker. Separately however, they will do much greater good, for the greater good. If they break up, the American public (nee the world at large) will then have hordes of free time in which to pursue greatly intriguing matters such as just how for example, a break-up beard should be worn and whether or not it’s appropriate to mix adopted children with one’s natural parents. (By Jolie’s logic regarding her own children, and her own father, Mr. Pitt should engage the services of a very good attorney forthwith. I’ve always wanted to use the word “forthwith” in a sentence. Thanks Brad!)
I am also informed that Prince Phillip (God bless him and save him) deigned to retrieve a piece of litter on a church lawn last Sunday.
Of him, Ted Bailey, another man in the crowd waiting outside the church gates who saw the duke’s actions added: “It was a very environmentally friendly thing for the Duke to do. I admire him for picking up litter. And he wasn’t wearing gloves. You never know where these things have been.” (Did this man really say that? Really?)
In any case, this should make HRM very proud indeed, and all the free nations of the world should be thankful, and appreciative of the Prince’s activities and concern for “going green”. I simply cannot recall the last time a Royal picked up the trash and took it out. And in spite of my current humble circumstances, I’ve actually known a few.
(Hey Clarisse, how’s Prince Whats-His-Name? You know, that lovely man from “Yugoslavia”. Oh right, it’s Serbia now, and the country is practically in shreds over “displaced” Albanians. What on earth are ethnic Albanians doing in Serbia? I thought they had their own land called Albania? Forgive me – I forgot: The Serbs should simply keel over and die on command by NATO goat herders and should never have the temerity to claim their homeland. Does anyone think the same of Palestinians these days? I thought not. Just the Serbs. )
I am at a loss with these events looming so heavily upon my soul that I don’t think I shall ever recover my wits. At least, I do not seem moved sufficiently enough to take out the trash and suddenly discover my hidden attraction to Gelina. Frankly, she makes me sick and I don’t blame the GLT community for being more than a little embarrassed by her. I’m embarrassed that she’s a Goodwill Ambassador for the U.N. I mean, surely the American public could have roused itself to choose a more responsible representative? I can think of several worthy, professional women:
Maya Angelou, Diane Sawyer, Condoleeza Rice, Lucrezia Bori. (Okay, so she’s dead now.) How about my old high school chum Shahin who is currently an MD and “fellow” at Harvard and seeking cures for African women, men and children dying of AIDS? She would be good. She’s not a Christian, a Muslim or a Jew — she’s a Bahai (well, actually I haven’t checked on that lately but chances are pretty good she is still peaceful, non-partisan and pacificist.) Seriously, anyone but Gelina. I cannot imagine a worse choice and I can’t really understand it. This was a woman who said, “
“I think I’ve got too many skeletons in my closet for politics.” (Angelina Jolie). Um, I don’t think those are skeletons. They are hybrid, green, zombie monsters created out of a genocide of male souls.)
If I sound a little frustrated, bitter and angry, I think it’s because I am. You’ll remember our acronym “HALT” (for those that don’t just humour me): Hungry, Angry, Lonely, Tired? I am all of those. And the last thing I needed today was for my 14 year old to remind me that she “needs” a new Samsung messenger 8 phone, and that eating Goldfish and chocolate pudding for supper was okay. (I was at an art class. So shoot me for being “neglectful”.)
I had better stop now. If the rumours are true, and I keep going, I might ruin my chances with Bran. Brad. Whats-His-Name.
Yeah. Back to my life at RiverRat Apartments.
River Rat Apartments - Where the Roaches Run Free and the Inmates Run the Asylum
The Poor Give To Haiti – A Lesson In Humanity
Haiti holds the heart of the world now, and this is a very good thing. She has captured our sorrow, our communal well of emotion, and our global instinct to preserve, protect and to nurture. I am so proud to be part of a global humanity that gives what it can, where it can, and to be committed to a better world for ourselves, for our children, and for many generations to come.
As a Christian, I do not “trust in princes, mere mortals powerless to save.” (Psalm 146) but I do believe in the basic goodness of all people and their basic desire to do good work, to help the poor, to support the powerless, to speak for the disenfranchised.
What is amazing is the ability of those same poor, those same powerless, those same disenfranchised, to reach deep into their own pockets and give what they have to Haiti. This is the classic parable of the New Testament, the “Widow’s Mite”. An old woman, penniless, gave her last penny to help the poor. Of her, Christ said,
“Truly I say to you, this poor widow put in more than all the contributors to the treasury;
44for they all put in out of their surplus, but she, out of her poverty, put in all she owned, all she had (G)to live on.”
I had the good fortune, the amazing experience of witnessing this first hand. I work in a low income housing apartment complex. (And it’s full of “complexes” believe me.)
I work for a very kind man, who owns the property and who believes that everyone, regardless of income, deserves a decent, clean and safe place to live. So although our property isn’t 5 star, it is worlds away from the more common “slums” that constitute “low income housing” in the States. Although it is old, and we do not have washers/dryers inside the apartments, or any other luxury things, our apartments are clean, well maintained and well kept.
But getting back to my story: like everyone else, I’ve been thinking of Haiti, and talking about the disaster and how to help, through e-mail, blogs and all these other things. And yesterday, one of my poorest tenants came to me and said, “I want to ask your permission to go door to door and see if we can raise some money for Haiti.” Ordinarily I can’t allow this sort of thing, but c’mon it’s for Haiti! So I said “yes” and we also put a bowl on the counter.
In 2 days we raised $75.00 in cash from people who truly do not have it to give. For them, it means going without food, or being late on electric bills, or giving up some other necessity. They gave MORE than all the millionaires, because they gave all they had to live on. How blessed am I to live among such lovely people.
I have been entrusted with this $75 in cash, to take it to the bank and give it as a wire transfer to Doctors Without Borders. My tenants chose this charity, because they said, “We don’t have medical care. But we want them (Haiti) to have it.”
I don’t think I have ever been trusted with so much responsibility, so great a task, in my entire, pitiful, pathetic life. I will not fail them.
Injured children, lost, hurt and confused in Port Au Prince. These are OUR children. Can't find the credits for this photo. For now, in this case, who cares about copyright?
