Jason Sho Green

A fellow blogger forwarded me this: Sometimes doodling can get out of control. From afar these amazing quilted assemblages of ball point pen marvelings appear to look like well executed portraits. Up close, you have bought yourself a ticket to an entire world of doodles. Wow.

www.jasonshogreen.com

The Ties That Bind

Chapungu Stone Sculptures, Loveland, Colorado

Periodically I will post more pictures of the Chapungu stone sculptures.  Walking around the sculpture park in Loveland can be almost overwhelming. The logistics of transporting these statues from Zimbabwe to Colorado are more than I can imagine.

" . . . the Zimbabwe sculptors create art that is simple, authentic, rich, sensitive, imaginary, and has unique dimension.  Themes of father, mother, child, family, hardship, loss, humor and joy are universal facts of life. These artists are adept in bringing collective happenings to the present moment in stone. John Ostlund

www.chapungusculpturepark.com/

She Was Beside Herself

I have not reached that enviable position of "being comfortable in my own skin" so I manufacture a variety of tricks to convince myself that I am actually ok.  Being beside myself is one of them. It eliminates the necessity of facing an unidentifiable obstacle alone. The obstacle could be almost anything, probably benign, but you never know.

1) To have an identical twin is a nifty trick, especially when she is brave.  My twin seems to be everywhere these days, popping up when I least expect her. She just returned from getting a flu shot, as well as a whooping cough booster which was sweet of her because she knows I hate needles.  Strange, Jan got the shot but my arm hurts . . . 

Anne

Jan

2) And then there are the puppets. The puppets play a far different role, they don't accompany me on my daily journey but remain home and only come out when I demand a performance. These performances are frequent, my puppets are much happier when kept busy.  They bring out the best in me, they bring out the worst in me. What is important is that they tell me what I need to know about myself.  Therapy is too expensive, and besides, my puppets are more fun. 

Gracie and Deedee

Nick

So many pictures this time, but I think they were all necessary, don't you?

HIS EYE IS ON THE SPARROW

A female bluebird was hit by a car as she swooped low across the road, and the condition was soon fatal.

Her male mate brought her food and attended her with love and compassion.

He brought her food again, but was shocked to find her dead.

He tried to move her - a rarely seen effort.

Aware his mate was dead and would never come back to him

Again, he cried out with adoring love

And stood beside her with sadness and sorrow.

Millions of people were touched after seeing these photos in all continents. The photographer sold these pictures for a nominal fee to the famous magazine in France. All copies of that edition sold out on the day these pictures were published.

And many people think animals and birds don't have brains or feelings. You have just witnessed love and sorrow felt by God's creatures. The Bible says that God knows when a sparrow falls. Imagine how much He cares for us!

I May Not Be Much, But I'm All I Think About All Day Long

"a wild, fresh wind blowing. . ." by Charles Bukowski

a wild, fresh wind blowing…

I should not have blamed only my father, but,

he was the first to introduce me to

raw and stupid hatred.

he was really best at it: anything and everything made him

mad-things of the slightest consequence brought his hatred quickly

to the surface

and I seemed to be the main source of his

irritation.

I did not fear him

but his rages made me ill at heart

for he was most of my world then

and it was a world of horror but I should not have blamed only

my father

for when I left that… home… I found his counterparts

everywhere: my father was only a small part of the

whole, though he was the best at hatred

I was ever to meet.

but others were very good at it too: some of the 

foremen, some of the street bums, some of the women

I was to live with,

most of the women, were gifted at 

hating-blaming my voice, my actions, my presence

blaming me

for what they, in retrospect, had failed

at.

I was simply the target of their discontent

and in some real sense

they blamed me

for not being able to rouse them

out of a failed past; what they didn't consider was

that I had my troubles too-most of them caused by

simply living with them.

I am a dolt of a man, easily made happy or even

stupidly happy almost without cause

and left alone I am mostly content.

but I've lived so often and so long with this hatred

that

my only freedom, my only peace is when I am away from

them, when I am anywhere else, no matter where-

some fat old waitress bringing me a cup of coffee

is in comparison

like a fresh wild wind blowing.