Rehabilitation Hospital:
I really don't want to do this sketch; I guess I will just put it out there. Vincent is sharing a room with me; I have a bed now. Alright, the room is long with one corner cut out for the bahroom. Not sketching the bathroom. Anyhow, the wall, where the beds snuggled up against, is blue; the other walls are cream on the bottom and an off gray on top. Of course the currents that all use in rooms such as this.
I can't do this. I want to sketch but I can't concentrate and I don't want to type up my surroundings. So, I'll force myself to just write anything, anything at all.
Anything: yepp; this may be nonesense. Nonsense is better than nothing. Oh, forgive any mispellings and any wrong forms of a word. Tired. The past six weeks, maybe longer, has drained this body greatly. With tomorrow Thanksgiving, I will sleep as late as I please--no schedule to keep! I feel as if I have been locked up in a jail for a very long time. My emotions are messy; messy emotions are hard to deal with. Did figure out that I have this emotional situation that someone finally named for me: "Out of Control." It isn't that I am out of control, it is that my home that once I managed is no longer in my control, no part of it, nor form of it, absolutely nothing. It goes much much further than that. This includes relationships. With a strained marriage already, a teenage daughter who is rebelling, a grandson who is soooooo upset with me for not coming home, I am a stranger in my own home. What will it be like when I return? I already do not feel comfortabel going home; it doesn't even feel right to call it home; I am homeless in the sense of "feeling" a home. This experience has brought much to my attention. Through it all, I have had a few good friends. Words of wisdom, and words of hurtful truth from each has allowed me to see where my future lies. I have a very hard road ahead. The most important part of this journey has been finding my place with God once again; God's grace has shown itself; God's voice has loudly spoken, "This is MINE, do not worry, I will take care of this, just live, love, pray, keep faith and hope, and share. This is MINE; take care of you as I help you; This is MINE." Yeah, I was yelled at two days ago while showering. Started my prayer, and not but a few seconds into it, I heard God yelling at me. Ha ha, my parent was screaming at me; guess I hadn't been listening to well lately. So, now, I am taking care of me.
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Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Sketch Twenty
This sketch is a sketch of feeling:
Night came. I fought.
No longer fight.
Close my eyes.
Complete the dark.
Night came. I fought.
No longer fight.
Close my eyes.
Complete the dark.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Sketch Ninteen
I am tremendously behind in my sketches; life is not slow for me; the hospital and my work (composition instructor) consumes me; I see the same walls too often as I sit in my office, stand in the rooms where instruction takes place, sleep in my son’s hospital room—instead of the hall now, look out the same windows daily, drive the time from hospital to home, home to hospital, hospital to work, work to hospital, make those errands between those drives, forget much of what work has to be done other than attending to my son’s emotional needs, being his support; I forget me often and others that need me as well; my hats are stretched thin; I see papers mostly, my son’s bed with him in it mostly; I know this isn’t a sketch per se, but it is the sketch of me currently; currently as I am; currently as I am and not wanting to be, attempting to fight all that eats me: My Lord Jesus Christ I pray every night falling asleep in the pray to wake in the prayer, letting that prayer take my dreams where need to be, an attempting to pray between every task that I do to allow me to find time for all others that are in need, and still find time for me. Once I was a prayer warrior, had forgotten, but this cancer—a cancer that attacks my son—has found a way to bring me back to those nightly long prayers. The me I had forgotten is returning; the me I once loved is returning; the me who knows how to fight is coming through; the demons shrug as I see more clearly, as I pray more daily; the demons know I will not run this time, I will not close myself off from God as I did before. Every night is a battle for me and a friend, for me and a family member, for me and some other I may just happen to meet. Pray; I say pray. I have found part of me again.
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Sketch Sixteen
The Hall
In the hall of Lutheran Hospital, the hall that connects the third floor of the Orthopedics Hospital to the regular part of the hospital are windows on each side--large windows that a car can go through, windows that start two feet from the floor and stop two feet from the ceiling, windows that aren't divided by much except about every three to five, where a piece of wall jets out. The windows are situated much like window seats without a cushions. In this hall are three offices and a small boutique center, which is no longer in business. The offices and the empty boutique divide up one side of the hall, making a center nook, the place where I sleep in the evening. This is how the three offices and the empty boutique are arranged: The empty boutique and one office is placed closes to the regular hospital, the office down the hall. Some 30 feet is left for chairs and tables, the nook I mentioned, before the next two offices appear. After those offices, another open space where the windowed-wall cuts into the doors that lead to the Orthopedics Hospital. The offices, upon inspection one day, when noticing a door open, has the very same large windows as the hallway. Here, in the nook, a pocket of sorts, is my bedroom by night. The chairs and couches in this part of the hall are different from those in the other cubby hole area and the waiting are for ICUe, except for the chairs used around the tables. (I must stop this observation briefly to tell you about one conversation I can hear, one of many that becomes part of this hallway: much grief finds its way to this hall. An older gentleman with a midlife women pass me to stand in front of the empty boutique. She begins to cry, he pats her back, in a hug I suspect, but I can hear the light patting; whispers and whimpers persist. There is much of this here; and still there is laughter as families meet, coming to know grief, often over an older person, not the young--the young are few here.)
Back to those windows; they intrigue me. The large windows allow vision to the construction of the main hospital, a fifth floor addition. Sometimes I imagine the crane not functioning correctly, the items upon its lift smashing through the hall. Here, it is quieter, even during the day, less traffic, even when the carts come barreling through with equipment and people walking to and from each hospital. The waiting room is always full, the elevator always busy.
As I attempt to finish this sketch, I am not in the hallway. I cannot honestly recall the wall colors. I can see the pattern in the chairs: the green and green blue colors. As vivid as I think the pattern is in my mind, as often as I have it, I'm without words to describe it because it is not in front of me. At a glance, from memory, a person can assume it is camouflage, which I say it is, but the pattern . . . I must see it, is not truly leaves and twigs--or is it. I've yet to determine if there is a genuine pattern with all the times I have stared at it. (Again grief can be heard as I sit alone in the hallway, sit on one of the couches that make up my makeshift bed late at night; a man talking to a brother, a sister, I do not know who, but someone who comes across as family by the way he speaks. His mother has been sent her from St. Joe. The situation is not good. She has been made more ill by the actions taken at St. Joe. His anger doesn't override his grief, but his voice speaks the pain of negligence, of lawsuit. The many different issues that bring us here.)
I have made time to write while in the hallway. My makeshift bed all tore down, I sit looking about me. The walls are a dirty cream, not quite a tan with a peach tint. Those chairs--let me get to them in a moment. The floor is carpeted: green mainly, a dark green, probably a hunter green with a cream and barn red in a splattered patterns highlighting the greens. This carpet comes in a darker type pattern as well, which creates a square outline in some areas of the hall--well this one is rectangle. Now for the chairs and couches: a person can witness leaves and twigs, but the lay out of the pattern is very deceptive because squares come in--some squares have tattered edges. There are a few vines with leaves at the tips, but don't stand out. The colors of this pattern also throws a person off: slate gray, off-dirty white, three to four tones of green with a blue hint in them. The couch pattern I've stared at mostly develops its own character, an entity, as if it shifts shapes, moves as if uncomfortable with its being: an eye within a jaw, the jaw jetting out sharply like that of a broken skull where the jaw protrudes. This same pattern repeats, but because of its position on this couch it stands alone.
There are two coffee tables in here; all the tables are alike among the three areas. The top is bordered by light colored wood, the same wood used for the legs (and beneath most likely). It feels like polished compressed wood. The top itself might be formica, a tan, brown mixture of colors in a splattered-marbled pattern.
Oh, those chairs have wood along the back and the cushions are divided by the same wood, making the couches look like individual seats, three side by side. The couches and chairs are wood framed benches of sort.
On one wall hangs a TV--LG; a light switch at the edge of this wall (this is the wall against the centered offices). Across from it, on the other wall, hangs a picture. Until now, I have not noticed it, I have not paid attention to it, nor looked at it.
I will not be finishing this sketch unless my son is placed back into ICU. He has moved to the regular part of the hospital, meaning he is better. There is much more to sketch.
In the hall of Lutheran Hospital, the hall that connects the third floor of the Orthopedics Hospital to the regular part of the hospital are windows on each side--large windows that a car can go through, windows that start two feet from the floor and stop two feet from the ceiling, windows that aren't divided by much except about every three to five, where a piece of wall jets out. The windows are situated much like window seats without a cushions. In this hall are three offices and a small boutique center, which is no longer in business. The offices and the empty boutique divide up one side of the hall, making a center nook, the place where I sleep in the evening. This is how the three offices and the empty boutique are arranged: The empty boutique and one office is placed closes to the regular hospital, the office down the hall. Some 30 feet is left for chairs and tables, the nook I mentioned, before the next two offices appear. After those offices, another open space where the windowed-wall cuts into the doors that lead to the Orthopedics Hospital. The offices, upon inspection one day, when noticing a door open, has the very same large windows as the hallway. Here, in the nook, a pocket of sorts, is my bedroom by night. The chairs and couches in this part of the hall are different from those in the other cubby hole area and the waiting are for ICUe, except for the chairs used around the tables. (I must stop this observation briefly to tell you about one conversation I can hear, one of many that becomes part of this hallway: much grief finds its way to this hall. An older gentleman with a midlife women pass me to stand in front of the empty boutique. She begins to cry, he pats her back, in a hug I suspect, but I can hear the light patting; whispers and whimpers persist. There is much of this here; and still there is laughter as families meet, coming to know grief, often over an older person, not the young--the young are few here.)
Back to those windows; they intrigue me. The large windows allow vision to the construction of the main hospital, a fifth floor addition. Sometimes I imagine the crane not functioning correctly, the items upon its lift smashing through the hall. Here, it is quieter, even during the day, less traffic, even when the carts come barreling through with equipment and people walking to and from each hospital. The waiting room is always full, the elevator always busy.
As I attempt to finish this sketch, I am not in the hallway. I cannot honestly recall the wall colors. I can see the pattern in the chairs: the green and green blue colors. As vivid as I think the pattern is in my mind, as often as I have it, I'm without words to describe it because it is not in front of me. At a glance, from memory, a person can assume it is camouflage, which I say it is, but the pattern . . . I must see it, is not truly leaves and twigs--or is it. I've yet to determine if there is a genuine pattern with all the times I have stared at it. (Again grief can be heard as I sit alone in the hallway, sit on one of the couches that make up my makeshift bed late at night; a man talking to a brother, a sister, I do not know who, but someone who comes across as family by the way he speaks. His mother has been sent her from St. Joe. The situation is not good. She has been made more ill by the actions taken at St. Joe. His anger doesn't override his grief, but his voice speaks the pain of negligence, of lawsuit. The many different issues that bring us here.)
I have made time to write while in the hallway. My makeshift bed all tore down, I sit looking about me. The walls are a dirty cream, not quite a tan with a peach tint. Those chairs--let me get to them in a moment. The floor is carpeted: green mainly, a dark green, probably a hunter green with a cream and barn red in a splattered patterns highlighting the greens. This carpet comes in a darker type pattern as well, which creates a square outline in some areas of the hall--well this one is rectangle. Now for the chairs and couches: a person can witness leaves and twigs, but the lay out of the pattern is very deceptive because squares come in--some squares have tattered edges. There are a few vines with leaves at the tips, but don't stand out. The colors of this pattern also throws a person off: slate gray, off-dirty white, three to four tones of green with a blue hint in them. The couch pattern I've stared at mostly develops its own character, an entity, as if it shifts shapes, moves as if uncomfortable with its being: an eye within a jaw, the jaw jetting out sharply like that of a broken skull where the jaw protrudes. This same pattern repeats, but because of its position on this couch it stands alone.
There are two coffee tables in here; all the tables are alike among the three areas. The top is bordered by light colored wood, the same wood used for the legs (and beneath most likely). It feels like polished compressed wood. The top itself might be formica, a tan, brown mixture of colors in a splattered-marbled pattern.
Oh, those chairs have wood along the back and the cushions are divided by the same wood, making the couches look like individual seats, three side by side. The couches and chairs are wood framed benches of sort.
On one wall hangs a TV--LG; a light switch at the edge of this wall (this is the wall against the centered offices). Across from it, on the other wall, hangs a picture. Until now, I have not noticed it, I have not paid attention to it, nor looked at it.
I will not be finishing this sketch unless my son is placed back into ICU. He has moved to the regular part of the hospital, meaning he is better. There is much more to sketch.
Friday, October 8, 2010
Sketch Fifteen
Droid: What is a droid?
I am still figuring that out. It is a hand held device that connects you to family, friends, internet information, even your enemy (by mistake of user probably). At least I haven't been in contact with my enemy, but I can imagine this phone becoming a brain and doing just that to make my life even more miserable than it already is while learning all its gadgets hidden everywhere. There is a plug for FB, for Google, for gmail, for all mail, for ESPN, for . . . I don't even remember. Two days in to find the plug for settings. This tiny device sends me messages right from my FB. As nice as this is, a small fowl up has caused problems with replying from the mailing system to FB. Not useful as it is. How to find this bad connection is a question to be researched. Time is the important part of this device because time is how to know this device, unless of course a person decides to read the whole book, the thick book. Well, this black object that is rectangular with rounded edges and only one actual button-like device on top has a screen less the size of my palm and symbols to be touched for direction. Unlike a few of the droids, this droid slides open to a place full of buttons with letters and symbols. Aaaa, the joy of typing with the thumbs. Will I ever learn this new creation called a droid?
I am still figuring that out. It is a hand held device that connects you to family, friends, internet information, even your enemy (by mistake of user probably). At least I haven't been in contact with my enemy, but I can imagine this phone becoming a brain and doing just that to make my life even more miserable than it already is while learning all its gadgets hidden everywhere. There is a plug for FB, for Google, for gmail, for all mail, for ESPN, for . . . I don't even remember. Two days in to find the plug for settings. This tiny device sends me messages right from my FB. As nice as this is, a small fowl up has caused problems with replying from the mailing system to FB. Not useful as it is. How to find this bad connection is a question to be researched. Time is the important part of this device because time is how to know this device, unless of course a person decides to read the whole book, the thick book. Well, this black object that is rectangular with rounded edges and only one actual button-like device on top has a screen less the size of my palm and symbols to be touched for direction. Unlike a few of the droids, this droid slides open to a place full of buttons with letters and symbols. Aaaa, the joy of typing with the thumbs. Will I ever learn this new creation called a droid?
Sketch Fourteen
I have no clue what I exactly want to write. I think about doing character sketches, but find myself too tired to attempt thinking about these real people. The old lady wore me out. There is so much more about her, that I will probably add to the entry as time goes by. I keep thinking about the story I want to finish, but it requires time alone at night with me being able to sleep to noon the next day. Not going to happen. I guess a sketch about nothing is just as acceptable. My eyes keep wanting to close, and I won't let them. I feel the lethargy settling into my throat, where my chin is digging into my neck. Am I a crane that can tuck my head under my wing? Is that the bird? I nearly fell asleep standing up while riding the elevator up to the third floor. It doesn't take that long for the elevator to move, but it felt like an eternity. Ha ha, a sketch on sleep deprivation. No better sketch than that. Try it for a week. Still, I don't have a clue what a soldier goes through in the war zone. I don't think I want to. This war zone is enough for me, being deprived of sleep due to a son in ICU with tumors, all filled with cancer. My battle zone isn't about saving my life and a buddies, it is only about saving my son's. At least the buddy is there to watch over you as you watch over them. Okay, I went off topic a bit, but I think my point has been made, if there was a point in all this. Was this even a sketch, or was it a journal entry? I think it was a journal entry. My phone is beeping me: "I'm charged, unplug me!"
Sketch Twelve
This bed is unusual. It move with a press of a finger. The dull white does not shine, does not scream "come sleep in me." Wheels hold this bed up. The mattress fluctuates with weight, and people are told it is for comfort. I have sat on this bed; I find no comfort in this mattress that sinks when in an upright position. For a specialty bed, a person would assume that comfort would be the upmost importance. That is my problem, I assume. This bed, which moves with a press of a finger, has its difficulties, or I should say the administrator who attempts to use it. The symbols are not perfectly clear to what part of the bed shall move, or where certain latches are to allow access to the bed. This bed is like reading a binary code; only the maker understands it. Uncomfortably a person lies in this bed with sheet and blanket draped over the edges, with tubes and wires streaming to and from the person, hoping not to get caught in the action of the bed. This bed is not made for comfort, it is made to make the person "get better," for a person to "want" his or her own bed. Where is the healing in that?
Monday, September 27, 2010
Sketch Eleven
I am attempting another sketch to keep up with the game plan. Don't know if it will work or not. This is suppose to happen once a day. I don't have a computer up at the hospital, and was able to get home briefly today. Now I sit staring at the screen while also talking to a friend. With one hand I type this. No sketch tonight, just thoughts. Scared, worried, crying, laughing, so many emotions I cannot swear I know what each are. I took time away to look at the post my oldest daughter put up for and of Vincent on FB. Reading and seeing the pics have made me cry. Tears are stuck in the tired-creases below my eyes. Just when I think there are no tears, they come, and when I think I should be crying I have none. I don't know how much of an emotional rollercoaster I can ride. Well, not a sketch, but writing. I am going to attempt to work on the piece promised in a challenge, sketch out each section as I go to put it together.
Hope to be on tomorrow to keep this going on schedule instead of playing catch-up.
Hope to be on tomorrow to keep this going on schedule instead of playing catch-up.
Tenth Sketch
Stun Gun
Students are filing into the classroom. I am obviously not looking well. Those students who are already in the classroom when I arrive look at me differently. I usually come in with a less serious tone, I know I do, because I come in bubbly and smiling. I spill out the words of the weekend, almost losing it twice. Their faces say it all. They are glad to have less work, but cannot believe what they are hearing. I can't believe what I am saying. Two words keep popping up: crazy, surreal. I have never heard my class so quiet or attentive. Tragedy is an attention getter. I do not like lightening the work load they have because they do need to work. The students look blank, mouths actually dropped open, hands over mouths in disbelief. I can believe it less than them, but it is true. One students, after the early dismissal, gives her comfort--I know what it is like, I know because . . . . She does know, she really knows, and she is standing here before me smiling. I will make it.
Students are filing into the classroom. I am obviously not looking well. Those students who are already in the classroom when I arrive look at me differently. I usually come in with a less serious tone, I know I do, because I come in bubbly and smiling. I spill out the words of the weekend, almost losing it twice. Their faces say it all. They are glad to have less work, but cannot believe what they are hearing. I can't believe what I am saying. Two words keep popping up: crazy, surreal. I have never heard my class so quiet or attentive. Tragedy is an attention getter. I do not like lightening the work load they have because they do need to work. The students look blank, mouths actually dropped open, hands over mouths in disbelief. I can believe it less than them, but it is true. One students, after the early dismissal, gives her comfort--I know what it is like, I know because . . . . She does know, she really knows, and she is standing here before me smiling. I will make it.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Please forgive the interruption
I will attempt to keep up this blog; however, a serious family manner has arisen; my son Vincent is in the hospital due to a tumor that was just found today after an ER run last night.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
Ninth Sketch
The Moon of Man
The moon full on the night of equinox, clouds shadowing her fullness. The night of the wolf exists, I think to myself. The perfect moon, the moon to play hide 'n' seek, the moon to kiss under, to bite under, to tease the one you love. I feel the pull upon my heart and wonder who is my wolf tonight, will she allow me to have a wolf tonight. The clouds heighten the craters, which are just visible to the human eye. These clouds make the moon look rugged, like a man gone unshaven for a day or two. A little ruggedness isn't bad, in fact, some intimidation is needed at times, but not against the love, against those who would take the love. The moon loves Earth, loves man, without man, she would lose hope of being, her little control a delight of life. She gives the sign when birth is to come, when conception is possible; she guides the heart like no other at night, especially in her fullness. There are times, man should fear her, a woman should fear her, when all of Earth should fear her. She has more control then we want to believe. Time has not made her more than what she is, it is because she is and man cannot deny her. The equinox has only heightened this time, this night, emotion swelling without a place to let it go, without a source to give it to. She will not give me my wolf, not tonight, she knows it is not time.
Friday, September 24, 2010
Eighth Sketch
What shall I sketch today? I don’t know. Maybe this sketch will just be a ramble of garbage because I still don’t feel good. I don’t. And I don’t care about doing any work. I will be going to bed early tonight; at least I plan. This isn’t a damn sketch, this about me; this is not to be about me, not me not me.
He stand in the middle of a street, sunglasses on, his lips not in the position of a smile, and not quite a frown. The buildings ‘v’ behind him, like that of a movie where the artist has taken the time to enhance the background. The impression I get from this photograph is his want in being a model. The straight on look of his lips does not help this upcoming appearance. I want to move his lips, just a little to take out the straight lip tightens with the small wiggle visible at the left on the upper lip. Was he trying to give a snarl that just didn’t work out?
I look deeper into the pictures, trying to determine if this man is Hispanic, Native American, or Oriental? The sunglasses hide the possible way to identify this man’s origins. It doesn’t matter. This picture is eye catching, the background is intriguing, the photographer has done well in bringing out the best in this man.
He stand in the middle of a street, sunglasses on, his lips not in the position of a smile, and not quite a frown. The buildings ‘v’ behind him, like that of a movie where the artist has taken the time to enhance the background. The impression I get from this photograph is his want in being a model. The straight on look of his lips does not help this upcoming appearance. I want to move his lips, just a little to take out the straight lip tightens with the small wiggle visible at the left on the upper lip. Was he trying to give a snarl that just didn’t work out?
I look deeper into the pictures, trying to determine if this man is Hispanic, Native American, or Oriental? The sunglasses hide the possible way to identify this man’s origins. It doesn’t matter. This picture is eye catching, the background is intriguing, the photographer has done well in bringing out the best in this man.
Seventh Sketch
Yes, I forgot yesterday! I thought about it. Wasn't feeling well, and just forgot. So here is yesterdays. Today's post will come a little later.
Thursday, I awoke to a scratchy throat, to a headache, to eyes swollen from both lack of sleep and sinuses. I can smell a pool full of chlorine each time I breathe in. What is this? Why? Today I will not work, will not put in my 6 to 7 hours of students' work. I feel guilty, but do not care. My day will be about me, will be lazy. My kitchen is not clean; it calls to me. I do not care; besides, the person assigned the chore did not do the work on Monday. I clean what I need and am done. I am tired. I do not go back to sleep. I am bored. I will not read from the papers. Instead, I sit in front of the computer, look at post with pictures--I do not read, except the message with larger letters in messenger. I have a few good conversations. I know I must motivate myself. I will not. I do not run the sweeper, my granddaughter does, who has been dropped off after a doctors appointment. She cannot stand the dog hair and dandruff on the hardwood floor. She does an amazing job. I hug her. She puts in Mama Mia. Good. I cn taek this sound.
Midday, my spirits are lifted. I attempt to read. I cannot focus. I don't want to. I don't care. Is it right? I don't care. I stay in pajamas until three, four. I talk to Sam while he talks to Gin, we have some good laughs and some serious discussions: all good. Music is great. I don't care about getting anything done!
Being Lazy Sketch
Thursday, I awoke to a scratchy throat, to a headache, to eyes swollen from both lack of sleep and sinuses. I can smell a pool full of chlorine each time I breathe in. What is this? Why? Today I will not work, will not put in my 6 to 7 hours of students' work. I feel guilty, but do not care. My day will be about me, will be lazy. My kitchen is not clean; it calls to me. I do not care; besides, the person assigned the chore did not do the work on Monday. I clean what I need and am done. I am tired. I do not go back to sleep. I am bored. I will not read from the papers. Instead, I sit in front of the computer, look at post with pictures--I do not read, except the message with larger letters in messenger. I have a few good conversations. I know I must motivate myself. I will not. I do not run the sweeper, my granddaughter does, who has been dropped off after a doctors appointment. She cannot stand the dog hair and dandruff on the hardwood floor. She does an amazing job. I hug her. She puts in Mama Mia. Good. I cn taek this sound.
Midday, my spirits are lifted. I attempt to read. I cannot focus. I don't want to. I don't care. Is it right? I don't care. I stay in pajamas until three, four. I talk to Sam while he talks to Gin, we have some good laughs and some serious discussions: all good. Music is great. I don't care about getting anything done!
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Sixth Sketch
I know, I know, I know. I need another sketch! I've been pondering this all day. I thought I knew the sketch I wanted to do, but now find that I don't want to share it. Why you ask? Some of it is a little more than I want to have explored on this blog site.
In front of me sits a Spanish / English, English / Spanish Dictionary that is often useless. The orange block on top of the yellow block holds two different languages. The orange block holds black lettering in English, as I have given the title. The yellow block has red lettering in Spanish: El New World, Diccionario, Espanol / Ingles Ingles / Espanol. The thickness is the old fashion standard of a novel. And with that thickness comes a lack of knowledge, missing verb tenses because supposedly a person should know the root word. Many mornings, as a ritual, I sit at this same computer, in front of the screen, preparing a statement in Spanish to a friend who speaks it fluently. This is my way to learn Spanish, which is made difficult by the lacking dictionary. Sam is kind, he does not laugh at me, and shares his knowledge. How could learning another language be made more simple? I ask the dictionary every morning when I look upon its pages, "Why do you not have all the forms listed under each form, allowing me to look up all the tenses with explanation. Even explanations are missing. Dictionaries that are of two languages need to have explanations, to explain. Yes, the book would be that much thicker, but do I care as a person learning a new language? NO.
Almost a worthless sketch, but at least I put something down. Something is better than nothing.
In front of me sits a Spanish / English, English / Spanish Dictionary that is often useless. The orange block on top of the yellow block holds two different languages. The orange block holds black lettering in English, as I have given the title. The yellow block has red lettering in Spanish: El New World, Diccionario, Espanol / Ingles Ingles / Espanol. The thickness is the old fashion standard of a novel. And with that thickness comes a lack of knowledge, missing verb tenses because supposedly a person should know the root word. Many mornings, as a ritual, I sit at this same computer, in front of the screen, preparing a statement in Spanish to a friend who speaks it fluently. This is my way to learn Spanish, which is made difficult by the lacking dictionary. Sam is kind, he does not laugh at me, and shares his knowledge. How could learning another language be made more simple? I ask the dictionary every morning when I look upon its pages, "Why do you not have all the forms listed under each form, allowing me to look up all the tenses with explanation. Even explanations are missing. Dictionaries that are of two languages need to have explanations, to explain. Yes, the book would be that much thicker, but do I care as a person learning a new language? NO.
Almost a worthless sketch, but at least I put something down. Something is better than nothing.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Sketch Five
Applebee’s
Monday, September 20, 2010
Fourth Sketch
Waiting Outside a CVS/pharmacy
If you have not already . . .
please add my blog, which is more than sketch work, lukiaskywritingtobefree.blogspot.com.
Much appreciated!
Much appreciated!
Third Sketch
Sketch of a Woman
A third day of writing a sketch. I have no idea what to write. I know this can be done. I will put into practice what I tell my students for their freewrite journals: “Write anything, don’t care what it is, write, even if it is the Goober for two lines, just write.” So, here I am writing. I thought about a sketch of me, and then sketching out a grandchild, but it hasn’t inspired me. Well, a sketch of the tattoo that is on the mythical me for my upcoming story. Yes, that shall be done. (I know this is going up late, very late; had to run to the ER at 8:30, didn't get back until after midnight--too tired to care about posting at that time; and all is well, nothing serious.)
She stands in a candlelit dance studio, lightening dancing through the sky. She is only in her skin colored, low-heeled dance shoes. The butterfly wings were completed but two hours ago, butterfly wings that have taken a little more than a year to complete. She has made herself madam butterfly. The wings begin at her ankles: the curl of the wing wraps around the ankle bone and rolls to the back of the leg, flaring slowly out with small jagged, caressing, edges. Those edges smoothly jet to the sides, but never completely around the leg, the outline of the design just visible to a person who may stand directly in front of her. At the back of the knee, the wing widens more, little do the jagged edges appear as the wing caresses into the curve of her inner and outer thigh, but never reaching the front of the leg. Upon reaching the buttocks, the division of the wings begin to meet between the each individual cheek, the coloring of the wings are a marbled-lining of deep blue hinted with silver, a light turquoise, and the deep blue of a lavender flower to this point. The colors become more defined upon the cheeks of the buttocks, as well as blending into each other more precisely into a pattern of chaos, of memorizing tranquility. Only if she leans over can a person witness the separation of the wings. At the bottom of the buttocks the wing wraps toward the front as it does from the top of the buttocks, taking in the entire hip, narrowing as the lower wing travels to just below the navel. The colors once again take on the pattern of marbling. The wing loops below the navel into the opposite lower wing, an intricate gathering that makes a low lined “V.” The upper wing begins above the navel.
Just as the lower wings connect, the upper do as well, the “V” turned opening down. A diamond, laying on its side, encases the navel. Each wing pulls back in its elegant, intricate entanglement. Just a small area of the lower wing is hidden as the upper wing begins to widen. The top of the wing reaches the first two lower ribs before wrapping around the side to the back. The colors continue as they did before and after the buttocks, reaching around to the back, slowly edging up the shoulder, becoming jagged in areas as parts dart out, but not too far, never reaching around to the front again, the pattern hovering at the very edge of where arms lay at rest along the side. Not quite under the arm, heading towards the shoulders, the wing begins to narrow, the division of the wings in the center of the back visible again about three-fourths up from the waist. From this division a wing begins its movement up and over the shoulder—covering the curve of the shoulder and just hugging the neckline—where a wing plunges inward, slightly, narrowing greatly, until an inch from the areola to go around the darkened flesh but never entering the teat area. The wing ends with a small balled-hoop, just as the wings had connected above and below the navel.
A third day of writing a sketch. I have no idea what to write. I know this can be done. I will put into practice what I tell my students for their freewrite journals: “Write anything, don’t care what it is, write, even if it is the Goober for two lines, just write.” So, here I am writing. I thought about a sketch of me, and then sketching out a grandchild, but it hasn’t inspired me. Well, a sketch of the tattoo that is on the mythical me for my upcoming story. Yes, that shall be done. (I know this is going up late, very late; had to run to the ER at 8:30, didn't get back until after midnight--too tired to care about posting at that time; and all is well, nothing serious.)
She stands in a candlelit dance studio, lightening dancing through the sky. She is only in her skin colored, low-heeled dance shoes. The butterfly wings were completed but two hours ago, butterfly wings that have taken a little more than a year to complete. She has made herself madam butterfly. The wings begin at her ankles: the curl of the wing wraps around the ankle bone and rolls to the back of the leg, flaring slowly out with small jagged, caressing, edges. Those edges smoothly jet to the sides, but never completely around the leg, the outline of the design just visible to a person who may stand directly in front of her. At the back of the knee, the wing widens more, little do the jagged edges appear as the wing caresses into the curve of her inner and outer thigh, but never reaching the front of the leg. Upon reaching the buttocks, the division of the wings begin to meet between the each individual cheek, the coloring of the wings are a marbled-lining of deep blue hinted with silver, a light turquoise, and the deep blue of a lavender flower to this point. The colors become more defined upon the cheeks of the buttocks, as well as blending into each other more precisely into a pattern of chaos, of memorizing tranquility. Only if she leans over can a person witness the separation of the wings. At the bottom of the buttocks the wing wraps toward the front as it does from the top of the buttocks, taking in the entire hip, narrowing as the lower wing travels to just below the navel. The colors once again take on the pattern of marbling. The wing loops below the navel into the opposite lower wing, an intricate gathering that makes a low lined “V.” The upper wing begins above the navel.
Just as the lower wings connect, the upper do as well, the “V” turned opening down. A diamond, laying on its side, encases the navel. Each wing pulls back in its elegant, intricate entanglement. Just a small area of the lower wing is hidden as the upper wing begins to widen. The top of the wing reaches the first two lower ribs before wrapping around the side to the back. The colors continue as they did before and after the buttocks, reaching around to the back, slowly edging up the shoulder, becoming jagged in areas as parts dart out, but not too far, never reaching around to the front again, the pattern hovering at the very edge of where arms lay at rest along the side. Not quite under the arm, heading towards the shoulders, the wing begins to narrow, the division of the wings in the center of the back visible again about three-fourths up from the waist. From this division a wing begins its movement up and over the shoulder—covering the curve of the shoulder and just hugging the neckline—where a wing plunges inward, slightly, narrowing greatly, until an inch from the areola to go around the darkened flesh but never entering the teat area. The wing ends with a small balled-hoop, just as the wings had connected above and below the navel.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Second Sketch
Native at Johnny Appleseed
In a tent, aligned with many other tents, at the Johnny Appleseed Festival, an older gentleman is dressed in Native American skins. The small popped-out-belly dangles little over the clothe that hangs from his hip. He stands, first without being noticed, and then, his bare legs lead to stares as he turns to reach into a kettle that sits to the left of his seat, where he had been sitting behind a small table decorated with Native American items to sell. The clothe moves, little in its draped position, this mind worrying if he may mistakenly flip the lightly flapping clothe up. He is now with his buttocks to the passing people, as if this is an everyday occurrence, as if he was in a chip and dale show. Surprisingly, his legs are not flabby, the muscles moving as they should with the proper ripple as he moves some item unseen to the passer-byers. I stop to think about the woman who sits in the tent across the way, wondering, how long did it take for her to get use to this, does she think it is disgusting, has she finally tired of staring at the partial naked body and wondering when his junk will become visible? I am thankful there is no wind.
Friday, September 17, 2010
First Sketch
Hello, my name is Dawn Cunningham Luebke. As a writer, I must keep writing. I often find myself going days without writing even a few lines of poetry. Two nights ago, I promised myself to write one sketch every day for a year. I plan on sticking to this promise. I must stick to this promise. I hope you find this post to be interesting as I continue my effort from day to day. I just hope I am not fouled up by life--life in general, such as a grandson grabbing my hand while typing, pulling my chair away from the computer as I compose, to dance with him to Happy Feet. This post is one hour eighteen minutes late for Friday.
Must Be Rain
For two weeks, the shower had been broken. Baths had become a cuss word.
On a Tuesday, the eldest son, Bud, bought all the replacement parts. By evening, the shower head was working, the hand held shower piece flowing.
The first to step in was Auntie.
In the living room stood Bubby, Bud’s son, only son, listening closely, head cocked, a curious look coming over his face as his Mammaw walked out of the bathroom. One word exploded as his finger pointed, quickly stepping to the closing bathroom door: “Shouw-er, shouw-er.”
Mammaw scooped him up, saying, “Yes, shower. The shower is fixed.”
The water sounded like the trickling rain just before the storm. Once Mammaw sat him onto the couch, he was up again pointing, “Shouw-er, shouw-er,” grabbing his Mammaw’s fingers, pulling her along to the bathroom door, where he pushed open the crack door.
“Yes, Auntie is taking a shower,” but Buddy kept insisting, while climbing upon the toilet to stand on the lid, “Shouw-er, shouw-er.”
“No, you can’t take a shower now; Auntie is in there.”
The shower curtain was slowly pulled back a bit, a head appearing with wet dripping hair, “Do Buddy want a shower.”
“Shouw-er, shouw-er,” he pointed. The words repeating.
“You take a shower with Auntie.”
Buddy quickly slid off the top of the toilet, dancing, “Shouw-er, shouw-er,” his feet bouncing in delight, “Shouw-er, shouw-er.”
“Alright, let’s take off your diaper,” Mammaw reached down, realizing before it was too late, that he might be a little more than peed.
He was moving for the tub, ready to climb in, Mammaw pulling him back, “Wait Buddy, we have to take care of that diaper.”
Mammaw took the diaper off slowly, seeing the full diaper wasn’t as bad as she thought. “Okay, Buddy,” she lifted him into the tub as he pushed back the shower curtain, giggling with joy like a child that had found his long lost favorite toy from under the couch.
Must Be Rain
For two weeks, the shower had been broken. Baths had become a cuss word.
On a Tuesday, the eldest son, Bud, bought all the replacement parts. By evening, the shower head was working, the hand held shower piece flowing.
The first to step in was Auntie.
In the living room stood Bubby, Bud’s son, only son, listening closely, head cocked, a curious look coming over his face as his Mammaw walked out of the bathroom. One word exploded as his finger pointed, quickly stepping to the closing bathroom door: “Shouw-er, shouw-er.”
Mammaw scooped him up, saying, “Yes, shower. The shower is fixed.”
The water sounded like the trickling rain just before the storm. Once Mammaw sat him onto the couch, he was up again pointing, “Shouw-er, shouw-er,” grabbing his Mammaw’s fingers, pulling her along to the bathroom door, where he pushed open the crack door.
“Yes, Auntie is taking a shower,” but Buddy kept insisting, while climbing upon the toilet to stand on the lid, “Shouw-er, shouw-er.”
“No, you can’t take a shower now; Auntie is in there.”
The shower curtain was slowly pulled back a bit, a head appearing with wet dripping hair, “Do Buddy want a shower.”
“Shouw-er, shouw-er,” he pointed. The words repeating.
“You take a shower with Auntie.”
Buddy quickly slid off the top of the toilet, dancing, “Shouw-er, shouw-er,” his feet bouncing in delight, “Shouw-er, shouw-er.”
“Alright, let’s take off your diaper,” Mammaw reached down, realizing before it was too late, that he might be a little more than peed.
He was moving for the tub, ready to climb in, Mammaw pulling him back, “Wait Buddy, we have to take care of that diaper.”
Mammaw took the diaper off slowly, seeing the full diaper wasn’t as bad as she thought. “Okay, Buddy,” she lifted him into the tub as he pushed back the shower curtain, giggling with joy like a child that had found his long lost favorite toy from under the couch.
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