Digital Arts

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The last post I worked on for two hours, and it disappeared when I tried to save it; ditto the second to the last post. Obviously I an frustrated and reluctant to try again. However, I am hardheaded and am trying yet again. I really want to share my art and my thoughts.

On this past Sunday, my dear friend Kenny returned my Mandaline. Now he plays guitar, banjo, and Autoharp, and thought mandolin would be a nice addition to his gopsil band. But it isn’t wasn’t easy to find a player of mandolin and I had just run across three books of my old music and was aching to get back my beautiful instrument. He had a little joke in store for me: I could have it back, but only for six months. We laughed, as he had learned nothing about playing my baby. You see, I have tiny hands, but strong, perfect for this instrument. After practicing daily for about six months, I’m going to see if my son-in-law Nathaniel who plays guitar is interested in starting up a family band.

I probably mentioned I’m an artist, working in watercolor, beads, and fibre. I also write silly poetry for children, and tiny cartoons to go with it. One day I’ll photograph my favorites and post it here.

Now I have a warning for all, and a sad one at that. I’ve been on Facebook for seven years. About a month ago I noticed someone was using my password, and last week I had over 8,000 comments to one post I had made. It scared me to death because I only have 38 friends. I feel violated. So this is the only public place for me on the Internet. Be well, be warned.

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Too many ideas & too little focus. Another resolution for March. My new idea is this: post at least once a month. Fully developed ideas, positive & powerful thoughts. Something I’d like to leave behind for my family to remember me by.

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My Digital Art

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Best Intentions

I began this blog thinking that I would post two or three times a week. So far this is my second essay in three weeks. There are a few things I want to explain about that.

The main issue is my lousy health. It seems, my doctor tells me, that the painful nodules on my stiff and swollen knuckles are probably gout. A shocking diagnosis. Like most people I assumed that gout was only caused by over indulgence of rich food and gallons of alcohol.

The problem with that is I’ve been a vegetarian for about 40 years and never touch alcohol. After spending two hours listening to doctors discuss gout on the Internet I have learned that my ideas about gout were Urban Legends. The defining aspect of this disease is a toxic build up in the joints of uric acid which can be caused by many factors. So now I await the results of blood tests to check my level of uric acid. If that is not definitive, and often it is not, a biopsy of the nodules is the next step. Or a needle directly into the affected joints to aspirate the scinovial fluid found in all human joints to check for the crystals caused by the build up of uric acid. One way or another I’m in a world of hurt.

To sweeten the pot, the day after I saw my doctor another nodule developed on my elbow, and today another terribly painful one on my throat. I despair.

Suffering from an alphabet of chronic and debilitating illnesses has taken its toll on my entire life. Most days I can do little cooking, cleaning, socializing, or even walking. I am blessed to have a concerned family who helps me survive. A majority of people who live in this apartment complex don’t have this source of joy to sustain them.

My wonderful granddaughters are part of that amazing love. They are still at the stage of sweet innocence that defines the attractiveness of the very young. And these twins adore me. My gratitude for them is boundless. And to my daughter and son-in-law who’ve shaped the raw clay of infants into joyful small pe

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Esmes’ Dough Shell

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Esme Wearing Her DOUGH

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At Bertuccis

My twin granddaughters, Esme & Baya, now 7, love going to Bertuccis as here is where they are each given a small lump of pizza dough to play with. Esme in particular was very creative this past Sunday & made herself a dough headband which quickly lost its shape & nearly ended up covering her eyes. Then I suppose it could have become a disguise for a bandit, or were she much, much older, a gooey eye treatment for crows feet. Baya & I were giggling uncontrollably at her creations though, and that was her objective.

Next Essie (brief sidebar here: my daughter Rebecca once complained to me that I was always giving the girls nicknames & the problem was that they stuck) called my attention to the fact that she’d made a seashell, and held up her finger to show me. It did look very much like a shell, albeit very large & rather gooey. The twins & I love gooey.

Baya meanwhile had been growing restless with all the attention I was paying to Esme, and suddenly slipped from her seat in the booth next to me and disappeared underneath with a large crack in the head. I next saw Esme suddenly start trying to wriggle away from Baya, who’d ended up across the table in Esmes’ lap & was doing everything possible to annoy her-tickling, and reaching up to denude Esmes’ finger of its’ shell. There was a lot of bumping and laughter going on while I pointed out we were in a restaurant and some people were trying to eat. That seemed to encourage them to get louder & sillier.

Next Baya came back next to me-again under the table & again cracking her large head. She was laughing which I took to mean she’d suffered no pain, and before settling on her side of the bench she stopped to plant a big ‘gooey’ kiss on my lips & telling me she loved me.

You would think they were ready to settle down & continue to peck at their dinners a bit. And I use that word ‘peck’ on purpose; they eat like sparrows on a diet. But no, they had eaten a few bites, and were still feeling like playing. The first I knew of this, they were licking those plastic packaged pats of butter, and throwing the empties at each other, laughing uproariously at their new game. Then they discovered the whole packages flew much faster (and wilder) than the licked out empties. By now I was getting worried that their daddy would show up any second and start giving out ‘punishments’. I tried again to reason with them, but that seemed only to encourage them to wilder tosses, out in the aisle, unto the next table-thankfully empty, and still aiming for each other.

There was no way they’d listen to me & stop this ill mannered game. Finally as their ammunition was scattered all over the place and I raised my voice loud enough to sound like an irate adult they stopped. But only long enough to gather up their ammo and reseat themselves, and began once again to eat butter pats.

By the time daddy had returned to the table, I had swept up all that plastic, dumped it on to a dish and covered it all with a crumpled napkin, convinced the twins that I would tell on them, was peace restored as though nothing out of order had happened in his absence.

What have these two learned by the age of seven? To be deceitful. They have an ever ready excuse to always blame misdeeds on the other. That daddy was the parent to be reckoned with. That nana was always on their side (more to follow on that in future blogs), and that they are truly gorgeous.

My political views here also demand a voice here. During the butter war, I remembered earlier days when smaller pats of butter were served on squares of paper underneath with a waxed paper square on top. Now didn’t those butter pats contribute far less pollution to our dumps? I am sure so, for now the zillions of tiny butter boxes have to end up as unrecyclable trash. This thought has disturbed me since Sunday, today being Tuesday, and I don’t know how to stop my wheels from spinning. Or have a voice elsewhere to draw attention to this issue.

Next came the problem of paper napkins, on a huge scale, being used by the multi-trillions ( I don’t know what the right term is for 100times more than a trillion). Some nice restaurants do use. Clothe napkins, but fewer & fewer it seems. There is the esthetic issue also. It is nice to see a table set with nice linen napkins, and they stay put on ones’ lap, unlike their distant paper cousins. I’m constantly finding mine on the floor, which means I have to request a new one from the waitperson whenever they might show up again at the table. (another gripe of mine: I believe waitpersons hide ‘out back’ and only return to the table to ask how your meal is when your mouth is good and full.)

Signing off for now. Hope you found some humor here as well as food for thought-pun intended, of course. This is my first entry here and I hope you will leave comments. I am going to try to stack the deck by notifying my family and friends that I am blogging again after many years off.

Peace, Love & Blessings,
Faye-Merrill
1-24-12

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