Crack the Whip

Lately I've been finding out how similar my experiences were to other alumni at the world's hardest school, through our magazine RISDXYZ (thanks to Amanda Blum for writing about it, in a piece called "Submission": http://issuu.com/risd/docs/risdxyz_fall-winter_2014-15?e=0/10291099), but at the time, we were deeply in "survival mode". I used to characterize my time there as "Art Boot Camp", because the purpose of our training was to weed out the weak and insane, leaving only the best and strongest among us to excel. And that's the point behind any really difficult process; it's similar to my martial arts training with its' belt ranking system, which is similar in tone to the military, and the same intense vibe as my former ballet studio. We all wanted to win at our chosen trade(s) and profession(s).

In that teeming cocktail of teenage insecurities and intensive learning is a road about a mile wide that goes right into the heart and soul of who you are as an artist/scholar/athlete/scientist/engineer/author/thinker. It's supposed to develop the strength and toughness that's necessary for us to go on. But not all of us make it. Just ask any Navy Seal: their C.O.'s tell them right beforehand that's the day's exercise is called "You Not Breathing" (thanks to Marcus Luttrell with Patrick Robinson for that scene from their movie adaptation's first few minutes, of actual Navy SEAL training footage).

We did exercises called "Drawing with a Blindfold" or "Figure Drawing from Memorization to a 5-Minute Timed Clock With Your Back Turned to the Model"; you know, the kind of stuff that gives most students the "heebee-jeebees". That's the actual phrase one of my former housemates from R.I.S.D used to describe how she felt about her experience, and what her time there brings about nowadays, like a shell-shocked soldier struggling with PTSD. She went to our school for "Fashion Design", so she could be the real-life version of a Bryant Park show during "Fashion Week" in NYC, or a leading contestant on a major show like "Project Runway". Guess what she does now? She surfs, repairs wet-suits, and knits the same wool hat over and over and over again. Yeah, like, that bad.

Another rich suburban kid I knew, whose F.O.B. Armenian parents bought him everything he could ever desire, now works for a big factory studio (run by someone else), where he sits at one desk among many, compulsively animating the exact same robot car and/or booby anime girl with rabbit hybrid ears for his fetish fans and addicted gamers every single day, much like a dysfunctional business manager I worked with who HAD TO eat the exact same turkey sandwich on whole wheat bread every single day, or he would freak out.

My "fashionista" seamstress friend had a nervous breakdown over "my" unwashed dishes in the common kitchen sink during my RISD experience; you know, when I had all studio classes to complete AND three part-time jobs. In truth, they were a combination of all of our dishes in the house, but my cleaning compulsive mother had told her to "teach me how to clean", even though I've done every house chore known for her all my life. I'm talking about a "gnashing-teeth, hysterical tears with hair-pulling" type of tantrum over dishes, kids. My animation friend couldn't handle the all-day wait for "The Cable Guy" while living in his nice, new, and very white Brooklyn Heights apartment (all expenses paid) that his parents gave him back then. They also wouldn't have been able to live or survive in NYC if it wasn't for me, but did they ever tell me that? Uh, no: http://mariedoucette.blogspot.com/2014/12/times-square.html.

And that was part of the challenge: surviving the little "psyche-out" head games and petty insecurities of the kids around you who fell down hard and didn't get back up. It wasn't just the students either. Wildly, obviously inept, mad teachers had open love affairs with their underage students, maybe even in violation of the state's minority sex laws, in clear view of the administration. It was somehow worse than my SUNY school as a violation of trust, because I paid for my education through my blood, sweat, and tears, and a diploma from this prestigious school could seal my fate among the elite for all times.

They knew that, and I got blacklisted with some other working class friends of mine for wanting a basic computer class as a primer for the real world, where I knew I had to work to survive and pay off my debt. Like, right away. There was much more at stake for me, because I had (and have) no safety net in my life but me, and so I risked much more by speaking out than my cowardly classmates.

It's what me and my childhood friends talked about (Hi, Donnel!), on all those night and afternoons when our parents were simply gone from our lives: how to go out into the world to make a difference, permanently. It's what my friends since Felix V. Festa Junior High remembered about me, as did all my friends from elementary school through to high school: leave no man, woman, or child behind. 

And so I give my service in honor of you today, and every day after, because I said I would. Our suffering hasn't been in vain.

http://becauseisaidiwould.com/

Wild Things

My original "Friends of Animals" poster from the 70s.

A few years back, I went on a guided trip to Yellowstone called "Wolves, Bears, and Wild Things". Our intention as a group was to spot animals in the wild, but I didn't have quite the same touristy type of attitude. I don't see wildlife existing purely for my photographic pleasure, even though one of my greatest influences is nature. Surprisingly, I don't treat the world as if it exists to show itself for me only, and so I knew that our summer trip would not yield any wolf sightings because wolves do not hunt during the high heat of a summer's day, and only an idiot who knows nothing about animal behavior would expect that.

But I did see many beautiful things, and I came away with the lasting (and true) impression that the entire area can blow up at any time, because the park itself is one hugely active volcanic site: http://mariedoucette.blogspot.com/2010/07/yellowstone-national-park.html. As such, it really isn't fit for humans to live there, but there are many animals that exist free from the confinement of zoo life and our exclusive use. Bison roam freely like the moose do, and bears stick mostly to hills except during the park's busiest times, when people leave their trash everywhere. Oh, it doesn't matter that there are signs and trash can covers throughout the park: one bad person can temporarily collapse an entire ecosystem. 

Luckily for me, I'm a former Scout and the best hiker in my clan. I always pack in only what I can carry out myself, and that's something you can take to the bank. You'd certainly want me in the back country with you on any given day, because I can visually memorize any trail, especially the ones around Bear Mountain I grew up hiking, like the times when Dad was supposed to be carrying the maps, but forgot to do so. Trust me when I saw that me and my bros are happy he has the "Midas Touch" with money, which is much more of a sure thing.

The New York area has recently seen a great resurgence in the return of its' native wildlife, a place that includes rural settings, suburban green-ways, and urban jungles alike. It was noted with much amusement this spring, to the delight of every newscaster looking for a family-friendly story during the dinner hour. Who doesn't like bear cubs? Not me! But in every story lies a serious message; as soon as our animals return is as quickly they can disappear, if we don't make them welcome. That means you, happy camper! Garbage cans must have secure lids so that raccoons and little bears don't get into them, because not only is our food very bad for them to eat, little ones cannot climb out, and they will die in there without our help: http://www.dec.ny.gov/press/89917.html.

http://www.lohud.com/story/news/local/2015/05/20/bear-sightings-new-york-westchester-rockaway-yonkers-mountainkeeper/27682767/

Same thing goes for feral animals that have escaped from human homes. Cats must be caught, taken to rescue services and fixed against breeding, because domesticated animals do not breed well without our intervention. This past weekend, I caught up with our local Animal Control officer (Hi, Rich!), a great guy who voluntarily works part time for the county when he isn't working for us at Con Ed. We have laws on the books about dogs that get loose but not cats, which has led to their rampant, unchecked inbreeding. It's the cause of many unsuccessful litters that bear dead kittens. I found one on the lawn last year, and it totally freaked me out. R.I.P. beautiful orange and white kitty :( I named the spot "Kitty Korner" in memory of the kitten, and I place my recycle bins there every week in his (or her) honor.

I remember seeing a small calico kitten with her dark grey mate roaming around the neighborhood last year, too. They weren't fully grown last year when they bred for the first time, and this spring they are still breeding badly. One morning last week, I walked out onto the porch to find my neighbor holding a small dark grey kitten with one eye sealed completely shut, or perhaps she was born blind. The Calico mom I saw last year crept out from the bushes, when the kitten was put on the grass for her to grab, but she does not birth healthy litters. Cats are tame because we made them that way, and so it is our responsibility to care for them. Now that I know this pair breeds under a certain big old yellow house in the Hudson Valley, I'm totally on it, and you should be, too. 

We must take care of our animals. It's up to you to keep this biosphere healthy and functioning, because this is G-d's inheritance to us, as the gift of life for all time. You are actively living in this "Garden of Eden". Treat the life here with love and care.  

For New York City residents:

http://www.nycferalcat.org/

http://www.neighborhoodcats.org/

http://www.nyc.gov/html/doh/html/environmental/animals-tnr.shtml

http://feralcatfocus.org/

http://www.nycacc.org/CommFeralCats.htm, http://www.nytimes.com/2014/04/16/nyregion/a-no-kill-approach-to-feral-cat-control.html?_r=0


For Rockland County residents:

http://www.alleycat.org/page.aspx?pid=712&gclid=COa37MLw5MUCFcITHwodDB8Ahg

http://www.everycatcounts.info/?gclid=COmM7dfw5MUCFdgPgQodnh8AjA 

http://www.hvhumane.org/pets-for-adoption/ 

http://www.hitor.org/ 

http://valleycottageanimalhospital.com/links-2/animal-shelters/ 

http://www.guardianangelcatrescue.com/feral_cats.php 

http://hudsonvalleynewsnetwork.com/2015/01/30/free-spayneuter-feral-cats-february-dcspca/ 

Wholesomeness

http://grimm.wikia.com/wiki/Hexenbiest

It's been remarked to me more than once than I have an air of fresh, good clean health about me, and that's mostly true. Oh, I do have the occasional smoke or alcohol overindulgence when I'm in the mood for party time excellence, but nowadays it's rarer and rarer, because I'd rather produce work in service to you. I am, however, an actual native New York kid, so there ain't much I don't know about, or have not done in the past, or know someone who does it, whether it's illicit or not. 

How do I stay "phresh"**?! I eat real food, a$$hole!

But my healthy appearance does sometimes trick the rather foolish, naive, and unsophisticated suburbanite or out-of-towner (and they are legion in this area) into believing they somehow have the upper hand, because I'm not some triflin' petty piece of sh#t who sweats over what people may "feel" about me (or anyone and anything else), which always amuses me: it's like a truck-sized hole in their persona that this city-traffic driver navigates like she was born to it, because I am. You read that one of my grandparents was a Medallion-owning cabbie, right? Yeah, so like that, kid.

This is called "healthy". It's a box of USDA organic cereal. Hard to do!!

Anyway, I'm also not "all hagged out"; a phrase my Scottish/British ex whose family emigrated to Colorado back in the day coined out of sheer necessity, so that he could accurately describe the low-minded office bitches who prey on union guys like him for ca$h, like some desperate throwback to "Mad Man" days in the city that required the master/servant, boss/secretary dynamic to earn a high salary. 
That is also not me. 

More "weird" stuff like grass-fed milk that's also organic. So strange...

He also called them "Office Cows", for their near-constant bitching about food in the common kitchen area that they graze on throughout the day, because your homemade cookies make them "fat", like it's everyone else's fucking problem that some Long Island yenta* blows her also near-constant diet (greatly assisted by tanning salons, hair extensions, and Boca Ration vacations) to properly maintain said upper hand. You know exactly what I mean because you've been there, and that's New York, too.

More "weirdo" stuff, like ancient Asian foods with ginger to sooth tummies.

So, there I was as an Art Director thrown into the mix, with no makeup on, no weirdo diet, nor overly expensive clothes (Pay retail? In Manhattan? Are you insane?! What turnip truck did you fall off of? This girl goes to "Sample Sales" with her size 6 ass, yo.), or having a total "raging bitch off her meds" attitude, which makes me seem like the glowing healthy town AND country kid I am. I am healthy, it does show, and I'm asked about it so often, I wrote the book on it for you to read. 

Just do what I friggin' tell you to do: SPF applied almost every day (and yes, you do need some sunlight for vitamins. Some, hexen-hag), no anorexia, or "tanorexia", or "drunkorexic" behavior in an office environment, take your prescribed meds, dress appropriately, groom yourself well, eat a decent, well-balanced diet of fresh food that's readily available, get regular exercise, be a decent human being to other humans (in AND out of human form, hexen), and failing all of that? Get the fuck out of my city, town, and/or state. Better yet, get the fuck out of my country, you insane asshole. There, now. Doesn't that feel better?


*   http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yenta
** http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=Phresh

Midget Ponies and Pet Therapy Dogs

My last pony sighting was way back in 2011, and here was my caption of said pony on Facebook: "Midget Pony!!! Should have been front and center. (March 23, 2011)." Notice the tiara, though, because she's a special, magical pony. That's the right attitude to have when showcasing the pony as therapy.

You all know by now about my fondness for the "wee pony", because I actively stump for their return to our town parade every year (see more about my annual complaints here: http://mariedoucette.blogspot.com/2015/02/old-houses-in-snow.html), and each time I have been denied my request. Why? Where have all the ponies gone?! 

As it turns out, they've been quite busy as a stable indeed. I sat up straight from my futon the other evening, when the local news flashed a story across the screen about "Magic" (I know, I know!), the magical pony that travels around, making wheelchair-bound Grandma's and hospital-sick kids alike happy with his fancy brand of happiness.

And it is very fancy: just like Pet Therapy dogs, the grooming requirements for healthcare visits are quite strict, as is the behavior for animals that visit the sick and infirm. We can't have any bad episodes! The select few animals trained and groomed to visit our sick have to be better than everyone around them, including the humans they tend to.

How do I know? Can't you guess by now, kids? I seriously thought about training my very own "Ted" as a therapy dog, after he successfully completed his first obedience course with my dog trainer friend in Brooklyn. Of course, I didn't have the time to floss Ted's teeth, or the money too pay someone else to do that for me, but he had the perfect temperament for therapy work, because more than a few humans told me he was exactly like me. Ted was me as a dog!! 

And so it is that I also find other famously healing animals with wonderful human parents, like Sir Harvard Dangerfield of Boston (a wildly famous Samoyed, just like my little girl "Snowflake" was!), Odin the Underfoot Mal (sensitive, highly emotive, and always lurking beneath Mommy's feet for food scraps, just like TeddyBear did), Lil' Bub the Cat, and so many others that are too many to mention here. You definitely need to be on social media more! There's a lot of good, fun stuff going on. Here's an introductory primer course in "coolness":

http://www.horse-therapy.org/

http://www.harvarddangerfield.com/ 

http://lilbub.com/

http://www.buzzfeed.com/alix/the-most-popular-dog-on-instagram#.mel1a2jJyK

Go forth and heal, my friends, knowing that I support you fully and completely, for all time. Happy Memorial Day weekend!

For all the ladies and the girls...

http://www.natracare.com/Default.aspx?CultureId=en-GB

A couple of days ago, Dr. Joseph Mercola published an article through his Twitter feed about toxic healthcare products for women and girls. As I scrolled through my feed before yoga class (the Dalai Lama tweeted right before class began, which I found to be a most excellent synergy, since our instructor is Buddhist), I was inspired to ask some of my older retiree friends if they knew about this valuable piece of information: http://articles.mercola.com/sites/articles/archive/2013/05/22/feminine-hygiene-products.aspx.

I had good reason to. Rockland County moves at a slower country pace than our fair Gotham. I noticed the local shops around town do not have a wide selection of healthy, organic female products, which reflects an attitude that lags behind our larger and more sophisticated urban areas.

Neither ladies I spoke with in class knew about the availability of organic feminine products, and one of my friends urged me to publish this piece about it (Done! This is for you, Irish Marys!), as I encouraged them to buy healthy organic products for the women and girls in their families. The plastic linings and toxic chemicals in the most popular and commercially available feminine products are one of the direct causes of those nasty smells that are fobbed off as a typically foul female odor.

Women who sleep with men regularly (like me and my friends), are exposed to semen. When sperm dies, it often emits a fishy odor we can smell. As a couple, it's part of our sex life. That's why we practice good hygiene after sex with our men: it's part of staying healthy and balanced for us. Of course, diet and health are great barometers for strong odors, too. If you smell bad, tell your doctor. You may have an infection that needs tending: http://www.mommyedition.com/how-to-get-rid-of-unpleasant-vaginal-odor.

So, I went on to tell my lady friends before class that I immediately noticed NO ODOR after using organic cotton products. Like, none whatsoever, but truth be told, I've been told by my lovers that my natural scent is very erotic to them, so I never really thought about it until I moved back here; to a county where healthcare sometimes stops cold or goes dead completely, because we're still close enough to the best doctors on the planet in New York City that local needs often go unaddressed.

Have a congenital hole in your heart? Well, so does the Nurse Practitioner at our local public library, a nice lady who stops by every month to take our blood pressure for free. She had open heart surgery performed by our brilliant (and handsome!) New York surgeon, Dr. Oz. To us, he's not just some "talking head" appearing on your t.v. set. He's the man who saved the life of a beloved Irish grandmother when she took gravely ill and then completely recovered under his patient care. 

And so it is with me, too. I want the best for you that's possible, and that includes freedom from cancers that affect women through the continued poisonous exposure to products that hurt us, at the times when we are most vulnerable. Shame on you. Shame on all of you. How dare you do that to women and girls during my time?!

Blessed to you who are meek as I am strong, on this fair May Day in 2015, a month made for mothers and daughters, in loving honor of those who love us the most. Good health to you all.

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/dr-mercola/feminine-hygiene-products_b_3359581.html

Asparagus

Welcome to "The Garden State!"

Local eaters like me eagerly await each new season that brings us back to the foods we love the most. It's kind of like getting a gift every single day, except we shop at our grocery store to feel wonder at our easy access to freshly grown food.

Most folks around the world don't know that every New Jersey license plate reads "The Garden State" underneath the vehicle's registered numbers, because much like New York, they have a lot of bad press to contend with. Ever see "The Sopranos" or "Jersey Shore"? 'Nuff said.

Trees, produce, and family horse farms are a big part of Jersey, too!

For "tri-staters" like me (an urban/suburban/rural area that includes the parts of New York, New Jersey, and Connecticut closest to "The City" that needs no other introduction), we also know it as the state the grows most of our most prized and delicious fruits and veggies. 

The list of famous Jersey produce is like a "Who's Who" of the best American crops: sweet corn so good it needs no butter; rich, juicy tomatoes every Italian-American sweats over ("It's the sauce, boss!"), perfectly ripe, juicy peaches that melt in your mouth as the pit falls away from your hand when it's eaten at its' peak...it goes on and on.

Dressed with lemon, Parmesan, and sunflower seeds, pan-seared in butter.

The borderline between New York and New Jersey is less than five minutes away from Rockland County, so my grocery store naturally stocks the best produce that's available. My handy little iPhone app tells me about each month's new growth, and that's backed up by the stock for sale on the shelves, or at the farmer's market. 

Omelet with asparagus, toasted sunflower seeds, and sharp cheddar cheese, with a squeeze of lemon on top.

This week, me and my other media pals reflect the same great taste: http://newyork.cbslocal.com/category/cooking/recipes/ and http://www.producepete.com/shows/asparagus.html.   

Here's to you, "Asparagus".  I hope we did you proud!

The proper way to store it: in the fridge and in water, like fresh cut flowers. Fresh asparagus only has a 2-3 day shelf life.

Figures

Reality, no airbrushing required.

My daily bathroom reading almost always includes excerpts from a bi-annual magazine called RISD XYZ (http://issuu.com/risd/docs/risdxyz_fall-winter_2014-15?e=0/10291099), produced, written, illustrated, and designed by my alma mater. It was no surprise to me when I saw a brief bit in the Spring/Summer issue about our commonly held attitudes toward the human body, which are analogous to those of a medical doctor. In fact, many RISD scholars also work in major scientific fields, or take coursework as students at Brown that strengthens their understanding of their core major, or serving as an important counterpoint to it. 

What's key to every artist's/scientist's path is the formation of bridges between the disciplines. It's what every person, place, and thing on the planet depends on us to do: rigorous scholarship that expands to fit the spaces and gaps between the average person's understanding. "Seeing connections", as well call it in our verbal form that is Design Intelligence. It means that we are so far ahead of the curve, we often don't reflect the current dynamic in society, and why would we? 

Studying the human form in every direction, light, and body type.

The crew of the USS Enterprise boldly goes where no man (or woman) has gone before, and that's a bumpy, rocky road indeed. We go it alone, usually without support, or kinship, even within our degree departments, because we are not there to seek approval. We are there to learn and observe and do, in an environment so strict, I called it "Art Boot Camp", sometimes bordering on the abusive, like the music students' instructor depicted in the recent movie "Whiplash". It's really intense, and for some minds it is not survivable, because of the intensity and maturity required to create great art.

Bodies as they are: not by Hollywood, or television, or magazine ads.

And so it is with our relationship to the human body. Our professors do not care what our "feelings" are regarding anatomy, but merely our ability to render it in whatever form we need to, so that we may accurately solve a problem. We drew bodies in space and motion that make the typical art school student have permanent night sweats: this large man has a hernia that has expanded his body in a unique way, requiring him to wear white compression tights while modeling (use your imagination); this woman had dreads, tattoos, and almost no body fat; this beautiful woman of 90 dozed as she sat half-naked in the slanting light of a tall studio window, while we struggled to capture just a bit of what made her "Pearl" in oils, an infamous painter's model who will live forever in our works. 

Serving up reality in each and every century.

Not bodies that would be considered by the warped weirdos of Hollywood as "perfect", or magazine-quality airbrushed photos, or body parts mangled and mutilated by multiple plastic surgeries, nor faked in any way, shape, or form. Here was a man "out of shape" due to an incurable and ongoing genetic condition, there a still-beautiful woman with limbs pulled down by the enduring weight of gravity: in short, I saw real bodies without interference or prejudice, for purely academic purposes, in a studio space that has nothing to do with sexuality or titillation, and everything to do with study. The human body is extremely complex and hard to draw, even more so when it is aged or infirm, which is exactly how our professors designed it to be.

Nudity in every medium and shade.

One RISD-oid focuses on eyes to become an Oculist for wounded vets, another dissects flowers regularly at the nature lab to produce textbooks on Botany. This one designs swimwear for women who have recently undergone mastectomies, as this shoe designer works in service to people with orthopedic foot problems. In short, how you think you look is irrelevant to us, which flies directly in the face of most popular media today.

It is a public space rife with anorexia, eating disorders, and seriously untreated madness. Every day and/or night of the week, I can turn on the t.v. to see women so fundamentally sick, they have formed an unnatural human shape made for media called "The Bobblehead" (a.k.a The Lollipop, or The Q-tip): a woman with a very round, large head who has dieted to excess and illness, to create grotesquely thin stick arms and legs. It's disgusting and abnormal, but so is "Reality T.V."; a format specifically designed to exploit the drunk and deluded, and the mentally ill or alcoholic alike. Why would I ever count on such a population group to guide and/or inform me about the human form?!

Capturing kinetic energy in each brushstroke  for "Gesture Drawing".

I never would, because I'm half afraid that my old college mentor would ring my doorbell or knock on my front door someday in the future, to take away my hand-drawn calligraphic diploma from the most difficult school on Earth. I would never disrespect their faith in me, nor the hours we spent as a community honing our skills to lead each and every major conversation that exists in society, in whatever language we want to, or whatever format we choose, a thousand times all around the world (thanks to Lao Shir Cindy Ming for that opening phrase in her form of Tai Chi). 

That's what a true master is about, and that's what you will always see from me; the work and the truth that I began in earnest as a teenager, with a foundation that existed way before my time. You can see the truth about who we are as a species here, because that's part of my eternal promise to you. Live on, humans.

Dark and light and "happy accidents" are part of the art-making process.

Bodies of flesh, blood, and bone not owned by some t.v. exec.

Who are you, really?

Men and women scrutinized under the gaze of our study for hours.

Bodies in motion, active and alive, moving through 3-dimensional space.

As individuals, and in groups.

Bodies that were both near and far, up close and also impersonal.

Please note: All images shown here are from my portfolio and are original works of art. You do not have permission to reproduce any or all of them, in any portion. Thank you, Marie.

Eye of a Needle

Lately there's been a lot of headlines on t.v. news and entertainment media about ongoing struggles with the definitions of certain words that relate to human reproduction, which is odd to me, because we've sent men to the moon and back successfully, therefore demonstrating that as a society, we've mastered complex technological feats like astrophysics and space travel. 

Apparently the womb of a woman is still too difficult for some folks to understand? Please allow me to clear up any big, grave misconceptions you may have about words like "life" and "kill", because here's what an actual human embryo in the eye of a needle (that we cannot see with the naked eye) looks like: 

This is called "microscopic imaging". It's been around for awhile.

I know it seems weird to some people that I can have such mature conversations about microbiology, which is also somewhat strange to me, because my mother is a retired Microbiologist and Roman Catholic, and as such, we have no gaping divides between the arts of religion, science, technology, and the well-known (and very well-documented) aspects of mammalian reproduction. 

Of course, we are also an exceptionally well-educated clan, and I do understand that. But fears can grow in the darkest of places, sometimes attaching itself to a woman's body in utero*, in a process called "gestation" that we cannot see happening, because it happens inside our bodies without us seeing it (or being able to mentally control it), because we lack inhuman superpowers like see-through X-ray vision and telekinesis. Well, at least for now. Maybe we'll evolve into that some day! Wouldn't that be cool?!

An embryo sitting on the tip of a needle.

Anyway, that may sound kind of disturbing for a mom to do, but think of it this way: natural bodily processes occur every single day right here on Planet Earth, in every single carbon-based life-form on the planet, be they male, female, asexual, or not. Be not afraid of it!

In fact, cell division also happens each and every day, whether we want it or not, and again, whether or not we can visibly see it happening, regardless of gender and/or sex. 

Here's a series of pictures of embryonic cell division, also captured photographically under the view of something called an Electron Microscope** (thanks to "Dr. Diane" for the science lessons;) Don't be alarmed if you don't understand the caption beneath the image below. We do, and we live to serve.

Mesenchymal stem cells facilitate the derivation of human embryonic stem cells from cryopreserved poor-quality embryos. For more on this technology and others (like ultra-sounds), please click here: http://rsfs.royalsocietypublishing.org/content/1/4/576.

23 And Jesus, looking around, said to His disciples, “How hard it will be for those who are wealthy to enter the kingdom of God!” 24 The disciples were amazed at His words. But Jesus answered again and said to them, “Children, how hard it is to enter the kingdom of God! 25 “It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God.” 26 They were even more astonished and said to Him, “Then who can be saved?” 27 Looking at them, Jesus said, “With people it is impossible, but not with God; for all things are possible with God.”

*    http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/In_utero
**  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Electron_microscope

For more on the concept of "viability" and its' linguistic roots, please see additional definitions by clicking here: https://www.google.com/?gws_rd=ssl#q=viable.
 

Immigrant

http://teacher.scholastic.com/activities/immigration/tour/

Each new generation thinks they have the roughest immigrant story ever. Mass murder? Pshaw! That's nothing! My Chinese Mom caught AIDS and died from your hospitals' bad blood transfusions! That's an actual true story by the way: a Asian bookkeeper I worked with years ago didn't want to believe that my family had any difficulties at all, because I'm "white". She kept repeating how I had a "rent controlled" apartment as an example of my so-called "white privilege", which wasn't actually true at all. I found the listing on Craigslist out of sheer economic need, and it was rent-stabilized when I lived there, which is entirely different than inheriting some fixed rate kind of deal. 

My people don't get those kinds of breaks handed to them, ever. But, true to her ignorance, she shut down when I tried to talk her through a tiny (and easily accessible) fraction of my actual family roots. I gave her a brief bit about my maternal New York story; a simple-to-follow story about Italian and Irish immigrants that's easily looked up online or at Ellis Island's interactive computer. Just type in "M-E-R-C-A-D-A-N-T-E" liked I did in five seconds, for my great-grandmother's passage to America. She sputtered and stumbled over that, but's typical for a generic office environment filled with strangers. I may be Ivy, but she sure as fuck isn't, except she doesn't know how many levels my people passed on the way up to get there, because she thinks she's had it tough, and she has. We all have. That's how you become an American. 

If she couldn't handle poor Italian farmers and the Irish potato famine, she sure as fuck can't handle the Acadian genocide, or the innate racism behind the hunting and mass destruction of Metis folk, which is anyone of European and Native American ancestry (GASP! "Mixed" races getting along peacefully!!), which pretty much covers my father's early American Dutch, English, and French Canadian ancestry. I felt bad for her, but not so bad that I didn't remember that my grandmother told me she cried every day for years walking home from school, because people shouted "Guinea!" in her face as a little girl, or that people spit at my grandfather for being a lowly "Mick", as every door in the city slammed itself shut in their faces, when they had to quit school as children of "The Depression" to work in factories to support their entire family.

http://cahiersdufootball.net/blogs/teenage-kicks/tag/no-irish-no-blacks-no-dogs/

It was so bad for my grandmother, that she changed her name from "Angelina" to "Ann", pretended to forget all of her native Bari tongue (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bari_dialect), and removed her kiddie earrings that marked her a "dago"; my mother never got over the stigma behind baby Italian girls with earrings. And so, she has never pierced her ears. I had to go with my friend's British step-mom to the mall at 15, and get it done myself. Or the fact that my great-grandfather never found work again, after refrigeration closed down his job as an Iceman in the city (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ice_trade), forcing my brilliant grandmother to quit elementary school, which she also cried over for many years, because all she ever wanted was to be a teacher or nurse. That's how much she loved to learn. She also helped him to collect his route's fares by riding up and the dumbwaiters for their fares, as a little girl. But it worked out. She became the MANAGER at her factory job by 20, or something extraordinary like that. I know, because I've seen the old black and white photo of her all dressed up and standing over one of her employees, who sat in a chair beneath her for their work portrait. I'm not even getting to my grandfather's long ConEd experience, or his tours on Vaudeville to earn a buck or for his Brooklyn family, or my Dad's small-time hustles as a shoe shine boy and pool hall player.

I hope you fucking choke on one more true life story from me this weekend, Cindy, as you read these real words about my researched and verified American Immigrant background. It's not some fucking  joke I made up to make you feel bad about yourself, you fucking idiot. You worked against me every single day in that bullshit office, while I worked my ass off overtime (and without pay) to cover all of your fucking asses, because I was the only Designer/Production Artist/Art Director in that fucking company with any real skills to earn us money, so that your fucking family, and your teenage kid's illegitimate kid, could fucking eat, because you're a fucking tourist to me, shithead. Choke on it, and if you don't like our hard times here, or our real life coming-up tales of woe, go the fuck back to Communist China. I'm sure they'll work you hard to kill you off in some forced labor camp, because you're one in a billion to them, and as such, easily expendable. Go fucking choke on it, bitch. That's my fucking Lady Liberty in the harbor.

And a "Happy Mother's Day" to you, as well. Bitch.

http://obsidianwings.blogs.com/obsidian_wings/2011/06/the-distance-to-the-past.html

for Ann

https://www.libertyellisfoundation.org/passenger

Monumental

Saving history from destruction, one piece of work at a time.

I decided to continue building on yesterday's themes about service and stewardship by writing to you today about a real-life situation from the past, and it is this: saving our greatest artworks from oppression and evil. Hitler and his regime didn't have one sole purpose in war, that of killing an entire religious ethnicity to create some wacky "master race". No, they wanted to wipe out any traces of our cultural past by stealing and secretly destroying the best of art, design, and statuary. 

It's a powerful story that's been largely untold until now. A handful of priests, nuns, clergy, and other lay people united with a small group of self-appointed warriors (who were also artists, writers, scholars, professors, and curators), and the few military men they could requisition, to rescue some of the greatest works of art that we have as a species; works that were to be burned forever (as so many were, or gifted to the German elite who stole them), so as to wipe out our past as a people, on NO BUDGET, with almost no support, and no additional resources granted to them of any kind from any ruling government, relying instead on their own ingenuity, bravery, and heroics, on the worst killing fields of Europe during the close of WWII.

Chew on that the next time you feel like you can't do something in life. I often live with less to get through tough economic times, so I know firsthand that you can do it, too. What are you waiting for? Permission? OK. Permission granted! Do it now!  I think she was worth it. What do you think?

http://www.monumentsmen.com/

No Budget

I'm often greeted with amazement about my prodigious prowess, along with fear, awe, hatred, ignorance, and trepidation. "Is it magic?!"
Sure, let me wave my friggin' fairy wand. The truth is: it is, and it isn't. It's in my nature, and when great people do great things through their good works, together we can move mountains. I work with a zero budget to produce this service free of charge to you, and I pledge to you today that it is my strong desire to continue to keep this an open resource for all, with no prejudices against you, because I believe in the power to change more than any other force.

The other simple truth is that I am far from alone, although at times it may seem that way to someone who does not live independently like a healthy, mature adult does, but the other reality is this: I see other strong people of faith working their "miracles" almost daily, far from the sight of the afflicted among us. Case in point: Master Educator, Healer, and Builder Michael Konstalid, who collects old materials to create special needs furniture for our beautiful children of New York on NO BUDGET. That's rights, folks: zero money down.
 
 

Michael Konstalid: educator, healer, builder, thinker, and doer.

Today is about you, Michael. I thank you for your great service, without the media's cameras, or an industry's gold statue, or even a nod of the head kindly in your direction on some days (far from it, truth be told), as so often happens for those of us who love more than we despise, because we are an actively living faith.  I see you.

http://nyti.ms/1b1xFU6

Stop, Anellotech.

http://www.freshair.org/

Today as I sit at the local library on a public-access computer, the front doors are open to catch some of the cool afternoon breezes, to the sounds of schoolchildren having an outdoor playday with teacher-supervised games and sports, right across the street in the town park. 

I want to keep it that way, and I can't do that if we allow a highly-toxic petrochemical refining plant to take up residence on what was formerly Lederle's site, and then Pfizer's, pharmaceutical companies both: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/American_Cyanamid and http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pfizer. 

They'd been having secret town meetings and court appearances in Rockland. We have a "Master Chemist" and a "Master Litigator" on the case, but I want more. Concerned moms are also appreciated.

I want it gone forever, and so I ask you to willingly join me in this. Afterwards, we can collectively heave a huge sigh of relief, breathing in the fresh clean air for a battle well-fought and hard won that is the refuge for the righteous and the just.

Freedom from corruption...that's what we want. Join us. https://www.facebook.com/groups/1595952577299501/

Update: http://www.lohud.com/story/news/local/rockland/orangetown/2016/01/14/anellotech-cancels-controversial-pearl-river-vent-pipe/78787388/