Category Archives: Creativity

Better Late Than Never: A Fairy Tale of New York

[Shane MacGowan. Photo by Martyn Goodacre/Getty Images]

Music, once admitted to the soul, becomes a sort of spirit, and never dies.

~~Edward Bulwer Lytton

I love music. The older I get, the more varied my tastes have become. Spotify is my second home. But, I have a problem.

Many times I have forged new trails in the snowy slopes of the Juneau Icefield, Alaska. I led the way. When my friend, Greg, and I began rock climbing near New Paltz, NY, I led the way. When I X-Country Skied across a frozen lake in Pennsylvania, I was alone, so I led the way.

But, with music, I never led the way. I was, most often, following someone else’s lead. A perfect example was some time in the early 1960s. My friend, Jimmy, came over to our house one day holding a vinyl LP.

“You should hear this guy,” he said.

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll put in on our Hi-fi.”

“Whoa,” I said a few minutes later. “This guy can’t sing at all. He’s no Fabian. Who is this?”

“Bob Dylan,” he said.

The rest is history. Dylan became my #1 Poet/Hero/Songwriter/Philosopher. I am Dylan’s Influencer. Back in the day, Jimmy, was the Influencer. But I never learned my lesson. I never seem to discover new talent by myself. For many years my working philosophy was that if it wasn’t Dylan, the Stones or the Beatles, then it somehow wasn’t worthy of my time. But, that’s history. Now, on Spotify, I find an artist and download a song or two. I see who they are playing with, and I continue following leads. I’ve rarely been disappointed where my wandering has taken me.

In the last dozen years, I’ve had a musical Library of Congress-person enter my life. His name is Bob Goldstein, and he is the loving husband to my daughter, Erin. His musical knowledge is the stuff of legend. After every visit to Orting, WA, I came away with a list of CD’s to buy or artists to download. If the State of Washington had a law that sets a limit on the number of CD’s one person can own, Bob is clearly guilty. I stand in awe of Bob. He is truly a leader when it comes to finding new talent.

So, in the spirit of the recent holidays, I found a playlist titled: Indie Christmas. Indie artists are among the most cutting edge but underrated talents out today. Today’s music, by the way…?? Try going into a Starbucks on any given day at any given time. [The company used to provide an ambience that was suited for conversation, writing, reading or just thinking. Like the cafés of Paris or London.] The music is the most insipid and relentlessly awful noise that could, if you don’t take care, make your ears bleed.

So, don’t ask me about modern pop music. My glare of pity will be your answer.

Well, on this Indie Christmas list was a band I had heard about several decades ago. The Pogues. My first impression, at the time, was that they were much too punk for me. Indeed, they are punk but with a mix of Irish/Celtic melodies. I gave them a long listen. They gave me gems. I was sold.

Now I have a new artist to follow. The lead man for the Pogues is Shane Macgowan. His style and energy is something to behold. I finally found someone of note, all by myself. I was not out there alone, though. My daughter, son, son-in-law, all know of the band. Yes, I found him/them, but I had to run to catch up with that once elusive bandwagon. That part wasn’t hard.

What is hard is that I won’t be able to follow Shane’s newer music. The man died a month and a day ago.

I love 99% of the songs I’ve heard, but the one that keeps me awake at night and thinking and listening during the day, is Fairy Tale of New York. Was it the holidays? Perhaps. Was it the lyrics? Yes.

It’s dark and heartfelt. It’s bawdy and chaste. A playful duet. A cutting accusation.

I read a comment: “This song can make you cry and dance with joy at the same time.”

That’s an achievement. So, to welcome in the New Year (and I hope a far better year than last), here is a link for you to enjoy. I strongly suggest googling the lyrics and following along so you can get the full measure of what Shane is saying.

Do enjoy and have a great New Year !

The Pogues – Fairytale Of New York (Official Video) – YouTube

https://www.youtube.com › watch

John, Jean & Judy Play With AI/An Ode To Owego, NY.

Pat, Best of luck to a really wonderful guy! Hope you’re always happy! Stay as nice as you are and you’ll never, but never have any problems! May God Bless!

~~Sue M.

May we always be friends!

[From Page 102 of my 1963 High School Yearbook Tom Tom]

[Arial view of my hometown. Owego, NY. Photo: Fred Brown Collection]

If you are a friend of mine, an acquaintance, reader or just a fan, you are aware that I grew up in a small town on the Susquehanna River. The Southern Tier of New York State. The indigenous people who first lived there referred to it as Awaga, which means “Where The Valley Widens”. The photo above shows the old cantilever bridge, the dilapidated buildings of Front Street. These are the streets I walked when I was growing up. That was the bridge where I would stare at the crushing ice on frigid January days.

It’s all different now. The new bridge looks very smart. A RiverWalk takes you under the renovated RiverRow shops and restaurants. But, somethings never change. My memories. My adventures. The good times and the bad times are etched into my cortex, only to die when I do.

So I gathered my friends, John, Jean and Judy to compose an ode to my hometown. I thought I would keep it simple, clean and spare. I refused any embellishments, any hyperbole or exaggeration.

So here is my simple song to Owego (AI helped me a little):

Beneath the cerulean canopy of the sky, my hometown unfurls its splendor like a cherished tapestry, woven with threads of golden sunshine and the delicate hues of blooming magnolias. The meandering river, glistening like a necklace of sapphires, winds its way through emerald hills and pastures where wildflowers sway in harmony with the breeze. Each cobblestone, worn smooth by generations of wanderers, bears witness to the footsteps of childhood escapades and stolen kisses beneath the willow trees. The very air is laden with the scent of fresh-baked bread from the corner bakery and the intoxicating perfume of jasmine that lingers in the night. Oh, how I love this town, where the very soil sings with the stories of my ancestors, and the stars above seem to twinkle in recognition of the profound bond between my heart and this haven of cherished memories.

There is a saying in the community of writers that states never use a quarter word when a nickel word will do.

I hope you enjoyed my small change. If you click “like” on this post, I will tell John, Jean and Judy all about you.

Yesterday, Two Loves Walked Out Of My Door

One of my loves walked out of my building and out of my life. It was a lovely late morning. I was handed $50.00. We parted with only a few words. Then, around 4:00 pm, a second love departed. I was left hold $150.00. Cash. Unmarked bills.

I know what your thinking, but it’s far worse than that. These ‘loves’ were not flesh and blood and mesh stockings. They were dreams and hopes I held for a long time…in my heart. One dream dating back almost sixty years.

Okay, I’ll end this agony for you (assuming you’re still reading this).

It all started when we left our Adirondack home this past October. We were moving into a one bedroom apartment in the City. We had to cull, cull and then after we had cheese and crackers, cull once again. I donated, sold or gave away about 50% of my cherished library. That’s okay, in a way, there was no way I was going to get through all those books anyway.

So, consider the challenge: Trying to fit years of accumulated objects into a small apartment. It was clear to me from the start that more had to go.

Yesterday, I took a reluctant step to cutting another boatload free and give something to the outside world.

The first to go, was my kayak paddle. I bought it in 2012 when we purchased kayaks to paddle around Rainbow Lake. I spent many hours, untold hours, alone or with Mariam or my son, Brian exploring the tiny bays and crannies of the large lake. Mariam and I and Brian would pass cheese, a beer, crackers or some wine while we held the boats together and drifted under dark blue skies with patchy cumulus clouds.

The halcyon days of my middle years.

[Lightweight. Functional. I never named them. Some things that you love, don’t need names. Photo is mine.}

I took a monetary loss on the paddle. But I consider it even considering the hours I held them and cut through the waves.

The item that walked in the afternoon was something that had a much longer history than this paddle. It was an Osprey Internal Backpack. I bought it around 2015. I had plans to hike the Northville Lake Placid Trail. Solo. I had a hammock, a sleeping bag, foam pad and light-weight stove…all on my list or in my possession.

There’s some history here.

I first attempted this trail (152 miles +/-) across the Adirondacks, in the summer of 1965. It was the summer before I went away to college. My father and I were going to do the whole thing in two weeks. The only glitch was that we each carried about fifty pounds (far too much for such a hike). We made it thirteen miles before we decided to bailout. We failed.

I tried to do it again sometime in the late 1970’s. Solo this time. Again, I had packed too much. I decided to walk out the same place where my dad and I had done, years before.

[The decision to end the hike on this trip involved some very strange occurrences. A bad feeling in my heart…and soul. Something evil, I felt was following me. I was running with a full pack when I reached the road where I would go into Wells, NY. Horrific and furious thunderstorms drove me to seek shelter on the porch of an empty cottage. It was a terrifying experience for me. I never wrote about it and It still has me thinking about what it was that was ‘after’ me that day. There’s really more to the story, I have to admit. And that part harkens back to the trip with my father. Another story. Another time. But, nearly as frightening.]

I wasn’t using my Osprey pack in those days. I had an original Kelty pack.(then considered to be the Porsche of backpacks). That pack was given to my son several decades ago.

[The Osprey. I took a major financial hit on this. Photo is mine.]

So many dreams.

Someone said to me recently: “We all have to give up our dreams, don’t we?”

I’m wondering.

“Why?” I do not want to go gently into that good night.

Heart of Glass

Don’t tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass.

~~Anton Chekhov

[Our glass horse from Murano, Italy. Photo is mine.]

Sometime in the ancient distant foggy and shadowy history of human existence, someone discovered how to make glass. This is thought to have occurred around 4,000 years ago. I don’t have the month or day, but I’ll check on that and get back to you later. This happened, of course in Mesopotamia, in the land between the Tigris and Euphrates Rivers. (Interestingly, the fabled location of the Garden of Eden, but that’s for another story.) It was here that the earliest evidence of proper glass making is found. I’ve often wondered how these things happen. How did a civilization have individuals that found out that by melting sand one can make a substance as fascinating as glass? It truly boggles the mind. At least my mind.

When I was a child, my parents drove from Owego to Corning, NY. This was the home of the Corning Glass Works. I sat with eyes wide from amazement while the glassblowers performed for the crowd. Their cheeks would inflate like Louis Armstrong as they blew through the Blowpipe into a glob of molten silica, soda ash and lime to produce astounding pieces of art. It awed me then and it amazes me now, still.

On a recent trip to Europe, I finally got to visit Italy. We stayed several days in Venice, a city I could probably write a book about. It is an awesome place by any standards. One of Mariam’s goals was to visit an island about forty-five minutes from St. Mark’s Piazza. We were going to Murano. I confess I didn’t know the significance that this tiny island has in the world of art glass. Stepping off the small boat we were escorted into a hall about the size of a high school gym, maybe a bit smaller. There I sat, again transfixed like my old child self, and watched something almost miraculous occur. A glob of melted sand was being heated to about 3,000℉ (when the furnace was open, I could feel the heat from thirty feet away) and slowly transformed into a horse, on its hind legs, rearing up like Trigger. I saw it all with my own two eyes. How did this craftsman do this? I looked at his hands for burn scars. Nothing. We bought one or two pieces in the gift shop. It sits in our apartment, on a sturdy bookcase. I can see it as I write this. I wanted to name him (I assume its a him but it really doesn’t matter) Lucifer. Not for any religious reason except for the fact that he was born and formed in the hottest furnace I’ve ever been near. Born of fire. Please don’t bring up The Game of Thrones…”A Song of Fire and Ice”…it’s not a reference I care to pursue.

[A recently completed bowl in the glassblowers shop. Murano. Photo is mine.]

[The glass maker’s very pure silica sand. Photo is mine.]

On the boat ride back to Venice, I found myself thinking of glass and my interest in its nature. As a long-time Earth Science teacher, I knew that glass can occur in nature. But, you may well ask, can nature achieve the necessary high temperatures? Volcanoes? No way. Molten lava has a temperature range of 700℉ to 1,200℉, almost cold enough to handle. That was a joke. Don’t try that without an adult nearby!

So where in nature can silica (sand) melt? Well, on a beach. On a beach when lightening strikes. The heat will fuse the quartz sand into globules called fulgurite. That is a bit oversimplified but for this blogs purpose, let’s go with it. This is not to be confused with “Beach Glass”. That is merely a product of some ya-hoo’s discarded broken bottle of Pabst Blue Ribbon that has been tumbled by the sand and surf for awhile.

I also recall visiting The Old Manse in Concord, MA near the North Bridge. It was the home of Ralph Waldo Emerson, built by his grandfather, Rev. William Emerson. Hawthorn and other Transcendentalists often gathered there to hold lofty discussions about philosophy and religion. You know, like a dated version of Starbucks. When newlyweds Nathanial Hawthorn and his wife, Sophia lived there, they would etch poems onto a window or two. These are still visible today.

[A Hawthorn poem on a window in the Old Manse. Photo is copyrighted by Alamy.]

One of the poems:

Man’s accidents are God’s purposes.

The smallest twig leans clear against the sky.

~~Sophia Hawthorn, 1843

All very lovely and poignant, I must say. I stood in the room with the window shown in the photo. I studied the etchings. I felt the glass (when the guard wasn’t looking). I was seeking the ripples at the bottom. I had read or heard somewhere that glass is not really a solid, rather a very slowly moving liquid. Sorry, but that, I found out, is an Urban Legend.

I’ll end here with another short quote. It’s an oblique reference to glass:

Just tonight I stood before the tavern

Nothing seemed the way it used to be

In the glass I saw a strange reflection

Was that lonely person really me?

~~”Those Were The Days” by Gene Raskin

A reflection? A mirror. Now I have something more to think about…

{Note: Most of the facts presented here are from a Goggle search.}

Greetings Bob

It’s your birthday. Eighty-two years ago Hibbing’s population grew by one. The one birth when a boy who grew up with a soul and a talent of a Byron, Rimbaud, Shakespeare, hobo, drifter, prankster, patriot, rebel and more, all with the soul of a true poet.

Your songs are sung not for the masses, not for everyone…but only to the one pair of ears that are hearing your words. You wrote for him, for her and for yourself. 

I want to give you a gift, Bob. Shall it be boots of Spanish leather or a jingle jangle moment while dancing on the beach? Shall it be a flat chested junkie whore or a prince who keeps watch along the watchtower?

Did you really see an old man with broken teeth stranded without love? Or was it some image in your 115th dream? 

It really doesn’t matter in the end, because at the break of dawn, you’ll be gone. But death is not the end. And after one too many mornings the paint will fade and the water moccasin dies. And the masterpiece will be painted.

Happy birthday, my close person friend. Keep singing until your voice turns to dust, but don’t lose that long black coat.

I remain, 

your fan and I will remain in awe…

Patrick

 

A Dialectical Critique of “Teenager in Love”

[Dion. Photo probably taken in the 1960’s. Source: Mancrushes.com]

If you ask me, far too many words have been written about the hidden meanings and subtleties of Bertolt Brecht’s Mack the Knife or Pirate Jenny. Granted the Weimar Era in Germany (1918-1933) were pretty wacky times. But lyrics like: “You gentlemen can watch while I’m scrubbin’ the floors…”, are not all that existential. I love Puccini and I think Nessun Dorma is the aria for the ages, but does it rate being a theme song for the World Cup? It’s a song about sleeping which triggers the yawn reaction. Right?

One could write an interesting article about the sub-text of Fly Me to the Moon by Old Blue Eyes, but it probably doesn’t rate a tome or even a Master’s Thesis from Ball State University.

Some of you will say that the Nobel Laureate, Bob Dylan penned some interesting songs. I’ll give you a point or two for bringing him up, but really, can you stay forever young? No. You’re born, you age and then you die. Nice sentiment, though. And, you must admit, Lay Lady Lay borders on the pornographic. While I’m on this individual, there’s Rainy Day Woman 12 & 35. What is that all about? What kind of title is that? It reminds me of foul weather and a questionable number of females. My readers will surely bring up the fact that I mention Mr. Dylan in not a few blog posts. That’s only because someone gifted me a fifty-seven pound book of his lyrics. I use it as a paper weight on the desk where I write these stories. But, speaking of a master of songwriting, we must include Meatloaf (please don’t email me about the fact he had a wonderful songwriter who gave him the gems that made musical history. Yes, I’m thinking of Bat Out of Hell and the deeply felt and tender ballad I’ll Do Anything For Love But I Won’t Do That. The words are positively sublime bordering on the sacred and just beside the transcendence of pure art. I won’t even mention the song that did more for teenage sexual education than a semester of Health & Hygiene taught by the school nurse. I’m talking, of course, about Paradise By The Dashboard Light. (It’s really a song about baseball disguised as a teen lust ballad. Some claim there are deeper meaning in this song, but I only write G-rated blogs.

I know there are a few of my readers who will be asking: What about the Beatles? Well, what about them? The team of John Lennon and Paul McCarney did, I admit, write a few interesting ditties like A Day In The Life (but we all knew Paul was dead anyway) and I Wanna Hold Your Hand, a true tune about friendship among the post-adolescent crowd.

But I digress.

I really intend to breakdown a song that…well…a song that is for the ages. I’m referring, of course to Dion’s Teenager In Love.

Unlike Pavarotti, who was born in Modena, Italy on October 12, 1935, where so few singers have originated. Dion (born Dion Francis DiMucci) was born only four years later in The Bronx, where all the doo-wop singers hailed from.

I’ll skip over his early life and his later life (when he became very religious) and concentrate on his middle years which probably should include some of his later younger years when he became something of a “Pop Star”.

When I was a teenager I went to the Touring Dick Clark Show at the EJ Rec Center in Johnson City, New York. He wasn’t there that night. Neither was Fabian or Frankie Avalon (but that’s a different blog for a different time).

I think I saw Jimmy Clanton sing Venus In Bluejeans and Johnny Maestro may have sung Sixteen Candles, but I don’t remember. (Another vague and maybe false teen memory was that my brother, Dan, stood at a urinal next to Bo Diddley in the Rec Center’s Mens Room).

~ ~ ~

I will keep you waiting no longer. Here is my analysis, line by line, of Dion’s monumental hit Teenager In Love:

Each time we have a quarrel [precurser to a failed marriage?], it almost breaks my heart [note ‘almost’]

‘Cause I’m so afraid that we will have to part [Co-dependency?]

Each night I ask the stars up above [suggestive of psycho-active drugs]

Why must I be a teenager in love? [the ultimate philosophical question]

One day, I feel so happy, the next day, I feel so sad [clearly a bi-polar disorder (manic-depressive)

I guess I’ll learn to take the good with the bad [passive/aggressive sado-masochism]

Repeat second verse

Repeat third verse

I cried a tear for nobody but you

I’ll be a lonely one if you should say we’re through [common threat used by abusive partners]

Well, if you want to make me cry that won’t be so hard to do [Hmmm. S-M again?]

If you should say goodbye, I’ll still go on loving you [not realistic because he hasn’t yet met the blonde named Taffy in the apartment down the hall]

Repeat second verse

Repeat fifth verse

Repeat sixth verse

~ ~ ~

Well, there you have it. I hope I’m leaving you with some food for thought and something to chew over in your mind. And to think that dozens of volumes have been penned on the analysis of Bob Dylan’s work. There once was a guy who would go through Dylan’s trash (when the singer lived in Greenwich Village, New York. I wouldn’t even know where Dion’s trash can is so it’s not like I’m a crazed fan or something.

For next time, I’m taking notes on Melanie. I will be dissecting her seminal song, I’ve Got A Brand New Pair Of Roller Skates And You Have A Brand New Key.

Have a great month of May and remember it’s my birthday. I’m one year younger than Melanie and eight years younger than Dion.

420: The Key to the Secrets of the Universe

[The house where I grew up. Owego, NY.]

In 1971, five students of San Rafael High School (CA) decided that they would smoke cannabis next to a statue of Louis Pasteur. They chose to wait until all the after-school activities were finished. It was 4:20 in the afternoon (PDT). The date? Why, April 20, of course. While they smoked, they would lean against a wall. They were dubbed The Waldos. When I made this astounding discovery, I assumed I had stumbled on something big…really big. I knew something the vast majority of people had no clue about. (In reality, I was almost the last person on the planet that did not know the hidden significance of 420.) It’s now an international day to light up. This was blog-worthy. This needed to be revealed to the general public. I would have to be careful, because this kind of knowledge had the potential of causing wide-spread mayhem, social disorder and was downright dangerous. Much like the Trump Years would be decades later.

The rest is history, or so I’m told.

Over the years, the significance of the number 420 would evolve. Well, now it’s up to me to help you through the sometimes contradictory maze of esoteric meanings (Numerology) of this unique number. I have never let my readers down and this post will prove that I’m still in full command of arcane knowledge of all sorts. All of what I’m about to reveal to you is important, vital and meaningful. If anyone thinks that I’ve bent the facts, stretched the truth, ignored opposing views, used only the things that support my point or that I’m beginning to show my age, then I challenge you to unplug your iPad and Google these things. It’s all there. Trust me.

I dug deep into the bowels of Google.com to find the following facts. Whatever dark things you see in these facts, know it isn’t just me. So don’t blame the messenger. Following me now as I lead you into a brave new world of interesting and ominous information.

–Look at the lead photo of this post. Do you see the address of the house where I grew up?

–Bob Dylan’s Rainy Day Woman 12 & 35. 12 times 35 = 420.

–Hitler’s birthday is April, 20.

–420 High Street is the address of the cannabis store in Palisades Park, NJ.

Now, if you’ve stayed with me this long, then allow me to move slightly to the side and take a step into some new territory, still keeping the general theme in laser focus.

In 1979, Douglas Adams published The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy. In it, the protagonist asks a super computer named Deep Thought to come up with answer to the ultimate question: What is the truth about the meaning of existence. The computer took 7.5 million years to finally spit out the answer: 42. That’s the true and final word. 42

It didn’t take me long to find the opening to the Rabbit Hole and go down into it, head first. Here’s what I found:

–42 is the Atomic Number of Molybdenum. Which happens to be the 42nd most common element on earth.

–There are 42 Laws in the game of Cricket.

–There are 42 generations in the Genealogy of Jesus.

–In the End Times, according to the Bible, the Beast will reign over the earth for 42 months.

–There are 42 lines per page in the Gutenberg Bible.

–In Chinese, the number 4 is shi. In Japanese, the number 2 is ni. Together the word is shini, which means to die.

–In Sing a Song of Sixpence, there are 4 and 20 blackbirds baked in a pie.

So, that’s all I’ve had the energy to research. I’m sure you will buy into this. It’s all backed by rock-solid logic and facts! How can you argue?

Well, you might say, it’s all a coincidence. To that, I would say: Trust me and have some imagination.

And never let the facts get in the way of a good story.

[I’m not sure what Elon has to do with any of this, but I found this article in a newspaper. So it must be true.]

{Note: all photos are mine. The numerous facts were found using Google.}

My 600th Blog: Lat. 24 N./Long. 81 W.

[Ernest Hemingway’s typewriter. Located at the Hemingway House Museum, Key West, Florida. Photo is mine.]

Today is only one day in all the days that will ever be.

~~Ernest Hemingway

I am sitting in the air-conditioned Monroe Country Public Library (Key West Branch). It’s quiet, cool and has a WiFi that takes no prisoners. I chose this place to celebrate the posting of my 600th blog. (Confused? See Title.)

So I posted my first real blog on July 18, 2012. It was an excerpt from my first published novel Standing Stone (2012). I was totally unsure as to whether I had the energy and ability to write real content. In truth, only a year before I had very little idea what a “blog” was. I’m still learning. If my math is correct, that’s close to eleven years ago. I was sixty-four years old. When I’m sixty-four, I probably thought at the time, where will I be in eleven years from now? It wouldn’t be telling lies if I said that in my most dazzling dreams, I’d still be pounding on the keys of my laptop (actually, today I’m using my iPad) and trying hard to amuse and inform and entertain. Time will tell if I’ve succeeded.

What follows is a short list of the various places and topics I’ve written about in the years after 2012. They are scatter-shot…in no particular order. Just a quick look back:

I’ve told you stories of Adirondack Trolls, my frustration with snow, ice and sub-zero weather, thermometers that never run a battery down. You’ve heard of the joys and hardships of living in Big Bad New York City. I’ve reposted a true story of my father’s youth, “Coal for Christmas” every December (does that throw my count of posts off??).

I shared my joys of visiting my daughter, Erin and her husband and my only grandchild, Elias from Orting, WA. You’ve read numerous complaints about my bad back and the health issues I’ve had (including my diagnosis of leukemia).

I wrote of my love for the desert and our wandering in Death Valley and the Mojave. Numerous tales were written from England, Ireland, Portugal and Paris. I told you how I celebrated several birthdays in recent year (i.e., when I turned sixty-eight, Mariam and I walked sixty-eight steps along the nave of Wells Cathedral and paused to kiss).

Sadly, I wrote too many posts of sad farewells of my family…and my very best friend of over sixty years, Greg Stella who passed in July, 2022. Rereading those posts still make me cry.

I’ve concocted outrageously silly stories of the demise of or moral failure of our favorite cartoon characters like Popeye, Dennis the Menace and Mr. Peanut.

I’ve shared ghost stories and posted ghost photographs (leaving you to be the judge of the real and the fanciful).

I wrote numerous recollections of my childhood sweetheart, my family home in Owego and my time-warping walks down Front Street in my aforementioned home town.

I described how, on a beautiful autumn afternoon (or was it in the spring?) of helping a cemetery caretaker dig a grave for a woman I never met.

There are many posts that told you of my love of the poetry of Bob Dylan. I even wrote a pre-death eulogy for him.

I’ve tried to celebrate my love for my wife, my children and my grandson. I told you how sad I got in Bruges, Belgium, Pere Lachaise Cemetery in Paris and along a footpath in England.

I have played with different writing styles like noir and meta fiction. I’ve written short short stories.

And I did it all for you, my readers. I never wrote anything cruel, hateful or boastful. I was honest with you. I respect those of you who took a few moments out of your busy lives to read my efforts. Scrolling this page, I see that there are too many “I’s” and not enough “you”. I apologize.

I will close this rambling post with a photo and a microscopic story:

[The famous Key West Kapok Tree. Photo is mine. Taken by Mariam Voutsis.]

Legends about about the Kapok (native to Indonesia) Tree. One belief: The Devil entrapped a unwary carpenter inside the tree because he had the temerity to carve out rooms in the ginormous trunk. Another: The Tree is said to grow into the heavens (it is known to grow up to ten feet a year).

The Tree has many uses. It is soft so artists use the wood for carvings. It is used for dugout canoes and…caskets.

Good-bye for now. The beach beckons.

Be kind and never let anyone to be lonely or forgotten or be invisible.

Don’t Be Fooled By Trompe-l’oeil

[Illustration source: Google search. Artist Erik Johansson.]

Why did Van Gogh become a painter?

–Because he didn’t have ear for music.

~~

Whenever my artistic girlfriend is sad, I let her draw on my body…

–I gave her a shoulder to crayon.

~~

I used to do fine arts, until I decided I didn’t like arts.

–Now I’m doing just fine.

~~

When you’re colorblind in an art gallery, every thing is a pigment of your imagination.

~~~

So, as I was saying, I came close to being arrested by the Art Police (Security) at the Metropolitan Museum of Art (MET) about two weeks ago. What, you may very well ask, were you doing? Trying to find a cavity in Mary Magdalene’s molar in the Medieval Hall? Did you haggle over the $17.00 glass of wine in the Balcony Lounge? Unwrapping a mummy? Or did you try to slip a halter top on Andromeda in the Sculpture Hall?

Actually it was none of the above.

I had spent more time admiring the newly restored and painted statuary in the Greek and Roman Art Gallery. It was awesome to see the statues in living color. I felt like Marcus Aurelius in flannel-lined jeans. We lingered until Mariam pointed out that she thought there was another exhibition I had mentioned. Yes, I said. There is something about Cubism and something or other on the second floor. I checked my Apple Watch. We had forty-five minutes before we were due at the Balcony Lounge for S. Pellegrino, Chardonnay and Hummus with Pita. We had time. The walk would be good for me. I needed the exercise. We headed for the escalator.

On the way, Mariam pulled out the exhibition folder and said: Here, is this it? It’s called Cubism and the Tromp…I stopped on a dime. Wait, I said. Trump? I’m done here. Let’s go home…No, wait, she said. It’s called Cubism and the Trompe-l’oeil Tradition.

I told her the only French I knew was to say “Zwei bier, bitte”. I had so find a bench to sit. I was shaking. I thought it you said…C’mon, she said. It’s not anything political. I felt relieved. A few minutes later we entered Gallery 199. We walked slowly through the rooms, absorbing the ambience of artistic…art when I spotted something on the wall. I walked over. It was framed (!). But something wasn’t right. There was a nail sticking out. I stared. No, there are several nails sticking out. I glanced around for the Security to alert them to the danger of someone snagging a sweater or a Polo Golf Shirt on those dangerous nails.

[Notice the nails. Photo is mine.]

Upon closer inspection I was astonished to see that it was only a painting of a nail. My tension eased. Besides, the Security Guard, whose name tag read: Richard, was chatting up the red-head Security Guard from Gallery 201, (name tag read: Amber. He was making headway.) I stood back. This was something else indeed. I walked back the first room and read the writing on the wall. Whoa. This was Trompe l’Oeil. I scratched through my fanny pack for my French Phrase Book. It meant the eye deceives. Suddenly, a memory flashed before me. I remember a poster I had back in the early ’70’s. It was M. C. Escher, perhaps one of the most famous graphic artists in a long time. It was all coming back to me…

I returned to Gallery 199 and looked for more. I saw a painting from half-way across the room. I swear it looked like something was painted on wood. Wait, I thought. I assumed that artists used stretched canvas to paint on. Moving closer I was amazed to see that it was a painting of wood on canvas. I was feeling dizzy. This was awesome. This was really fun to look at.

[Indeed. Wood painted on canvas. Photo is mine.]

This was heady stuff. And there was more:

[I wanted to open the curtain a little more. Boy, was I fooled. Photo is mine.]

I felt Mariam pull on my sleeve. Look at that one, she said. I looked. Whoa. I’d better get over there and keep all that stuff from falling on the nicely polished hard-wood floor.

[Fooled again…Photo is mine.]

The painting above impressed me the most. Notice the comb interacting with the leather strap. This was not an exhibit I will easily forget. We walked through a few more rooms. I checked my Apple Watch. Time for hummus at the Balcony Lounge. After paying the bill (large enough to choke a horse) we made for the main exit doors and. There’s a yellow, Mariam said, let’s hurry and get it. I slowly descended the grey granite steps and walked to the cab, passing a saxophone playing the blues…in the rain…on glorious 5th Avenue…under a leaden sky…in the Greatest City in the World.

I was secretly hoping that cab was really there…and not just painted on the pavement.

~ ~ ~

I am sad to say that I lost my M. C. Escher book sometime in the last forty years. (I think it was a Tuesday). In the meantime, I’ve been busy trolling the Internet. Talented street artists have done some mind-blowing work with 3-D visual arts. Here are just a few examples: Enjoy…

[Park Bench. Artist: Julian Beever. Bored Panda.com]

[A common theme in this genre, fear of heights. Source: Google search. Bored Panda.com]

[Source: Google search.]

[Source: Google search. Artist: Erik Johansson]

[Source: Google search. Paste magazine]

[A living room rug to die from for. An advertisment from Tempu.]

[The shower is especially dangerous. Tempu]

A final word to my friends and readers: I apologize for not providing a full description of the artists at the MET. I don’t think I ever forgot my Moleskin notebook before that day in the Museum. The two ads were photos of iPad images. Tough to do. If you’ve enjoyed this post, ‘like’ it and move on with your life…which is, I’m sure, far more interesting than the musing of someone who can barely paint a brick with a brush from Ace Hardware. I never had an art class until I moved to NYC in the early ’90’s. Well, actually I took a six-week Screenprint and Etching course in Poole, England during my year in the UK. Full disclosure: My etching of Durdle Door in Dorset…I did it the way I saw it. But, it will print in the reverse.

Oops, I’ve done it again.

I will leave you with Escher’s most famous pieces. I believe it’s called Waterfall. Find a book about all this. You’ll love it.

[Artist: M. C. Escher. Source: Google search.]

A Song. An Image. A Tear

“Sometimes,” said Pooh, “the smallest things take up the most room in your heart.”

~~ Winnie the Pooh

I am a fan of talent shows. I don’t mean the kind we used to see on the Miss America Contest from Atlantic City. Bert Parks standing off to the side and singing “There She Is, Miss America” would make the whole event worthwhile to me. No, I’m talking about the County Fairs, School Events…perhaps even an open-mike night at a small Irish Pub. The talent is usually young people…a new dance routine learned at Maggie’s Dancing Studio down on Main Street. I’m envious of those who can stand up before a bleacher full of strangers (and some family). The thirteen year old girl on the school stage singing “Am I Blue?” or a nine year old singing “Both Sides Now“. Whatever is lacking in true talent is made up for in pure guts. I could never do it.

But I digress.

Every so often I spend a few minutes surfing Facebook for clips of Steve Martin’s first time on The Tonight Show, or an ‘official’ music video of Bob Dylan’s latest release. This is my time to catch up and upgrade my cultural literacy.

Several weeks ago I happened upon a collection of postings from America’s Got Talent. It was here that I first heard a pre-pubescent yodeler from Iowa or a darkly frightful young woman illusionist from Indonesia. But I paused on a segment featuring a ten year old autistic boy (who is also blind!). His foster father held his hand and did the introduction while the boy rocked back and forth, holding his cane. His name is Christopher Duffley. The clip is eight years old but I had never seen it before. The dad said the boy would be singing “I Want To See You“. I googled the song and found a tune by that name written and preformed by Boz Scaggs. I’m not totally certain it’s the same song…but it’s a moot point. The point is that I was very moved by what I was watching. The boy’s first faltering notes. His unease apparent.

(I have a vested interested in this topic. My daughter, Erin, teaches a couple of autistic boys in Orting, WA. And my grandson is approximately the same age as the boy on stage.)

But he gave up the cane, grabbed the mike and sang. The live music behind him on stage adjusted the pace and tempo to fit the child’s tiny voice.

But such bravery.

I felt a warm tear rolling down my cheek.

And, as fathers sometimes do, I saw my own son (now thirty-five years old) as that boy. I tried to climb into the father’s head. I couldn’t.

I could not do much of anything but watch, watch until the next tear fell.

[Note: For further information on autism, go to the link below:]

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