Red Tree, Yellow Tree

Autumn, 2014 (Pearl River, NY)

Sting Ray!

Sting Ray in the sun.

If this car doesn't conjure up "Mad Men" type associations, like excellent James Bond movie getaways and hip, swingin' jazz tunes, you ain't alive. Feelin' it, and feeling groovy about it: that's diggin' classic cars in a hugely serious way, kids. 

P.S. - The paint set on this ride is so iridescent, it's like there's small, glowing points of starlight mixed into blue finish: a real tight job that only shows it's true colors up close and personal, master craftsman-like. Yeah, baby!

Cloud Bank Rolls In

A week or so ago, I watched a bank of quick-moving clouds creep over the hills, heading east. It was a powerful force of nature, not without it's ominous moments; first blowing in on a swift wind, then darkening the sky completely with a thick, grey blanket. Snow (and winter) is well on it's way. Here's looking forward to the first snow.

Cold front moves in from the west (Hudson Valley, 2014).

Fame and Fortune (Football and Farming)

When I was growing up, my dad used to say "if you have to choose between fame and fortune, you should choose fortune". Of course, he said this as a tentative, new businessman sensitive to humble origins, during a time when having our last name meant near-constant hazing and bullying on the mean streets of New York, especially on a rough, working class block in BedStuy (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bedford%E2%80%93Stuyvesant,_Brooklyn), where standing out doesn't help you out at all. It hurts, sometimes a lot. Such is the fate of being just one among many; they (the people in our surroundings) have a lot more common ground than us, and we had our fair share of bullying and beatings during childhood, too.

Me and my brothers fared no better than my father did in the 'burbs or the country, and widening out our territory only drew more attention my way. My dad has chosen to be, as he puts it, a "big fish in a very small pond", tucked safely away in a extremely rural corner of the globe, where he retreats when life and family obligations become too demanding for him, but I have chosen to stop running away from the fates, which find me no matter where I go. I know. I've tried.

So when I see a story that centers around the good things that attention can do, my interest is piqued. When it uses fame and fortune as a leverage for the best things in life, like charity, farming G-d's green earth, and giving back, I'm sold. Farm, faith, and family? Never goes out of style. See for yourself. (Thanks, to Jason Brown).

The Rust Bus

Wow! That is one brown truck, from head to toe.

The owner of a certain big old yellow house (where a certain artist, writer, and publisher also lives), also owns and operates a very successful, busy garage next door. They work on old junkers, classic American sports cars, and every other type of vehicle on the planet. 
I often look out the windows in the kitchen of my studio apartment to see the trucks go by, while I drink coffee in the morning. It's like a grownup version of Tonka trucks, except this game has tight deadlines that run on lots of grease and manpower.

Wait a sec...that's wood grain! He painted faux wood grain! Why?!

The other day, this little school bus was parked in the lot next to the garage that's reserved for longer jobs, and it immediately drew my attention. When I opened the curtain all the way for a better look, I knew I was going to snoop around for a closer eyeballing on my way to the market one afternoon, and so I did, but not without speculating on the type of character who would drive such a stand out vehicle. My first guess was immediately "Woodstock Hippie", because the thing looks like it's being held together by rust, but up close it revealed an entire different (and surprising) story.

Wow! I mean, it's nuts, but it is painted really well. Weird...

Someone actually took the time to paint the entire bus a brown color that's supposed to simulate wood grain, because the whole bus is delicately painted with a second darker brown color that mimics the grain running through wood. What the eff?! Why do that?! Why do all that painstaking custom work on a mini bus that looks rusty from afar? It's so weird.

But, closer inspection revealed a few more clues, like the "Wounded Warrior" sticker prominently posted in the interior (the hinged door of the bus was open for the day). Ah. Say no more: it's a restoration project as therapy for PTSD. Yep, this would definitely qualify as that. It's crazy, and it makes no sense, but it does take a lot of time and effort that's task-oriented. I have a family member through marriage who is similarly constructed. Whenever someone brings up a hobby, like say, gardening, she immediately spits out, "Oh yeah! Great therapy!". Uh, actually, I really like gardening, and I have a good green thumb, but if plants help keep you together, for the love of G-d, please go for it. She always comes off like she's gonna explode in this tense, over-caffeinated, jacked up way.

Jeez, even the headlights are done up. Whatever. Enjoy, my brother!

Same principle here. I wouldn't want to actually meet the individual who painted this entire thing badly with great skill and a type of devotion that makes absolutely no sense, but I am glad that whoever he or she may be, they are back on U.S. soil safely. It may be insane, it may not even register as a paint job to most onlookers, but if your special magic bus brings you some degree of calm and peace, go for it brother. You earned it as the price you paid for our freedoms.  
Long may your freak flag fly.

http://www.woundedwarriorproject.org/ 

Autumn, 2014

Golden light, slanting shadows, translucent leaves.

Early Morning Fog

6:30 a.m. - The Hudson River valley.

The Dragonfly

Hungry is the lone hunter; here sits "Brother Dragonfly".

I've always loved dragonflies. My middle brother hated them when we were kids because they're big and scary, but he's also highly allergic to bee stings, so pretty much all bugs are on his "no" list. But, I love them: their gossamer wings, their iridescent and sleekly bejeweled bodies, their swooping, precise aerobatics... I think they are so beautiful and strong. Many other cultures feel that way, too. 

The Dragonfly, up close: a study in beauty and aerodynamics.

Years ago, I was inspired to draft and draw a children's story about a dragonfly (http://mariedoucette.blogspot.com/2012/09/the-isle-of-dragonfly-on-pubslush.html), using the noble, high-flying hunter as a symbol and metaphor that would also speak to an adults' poetic sensibilities. I usually see them flying and dipping high above my head, but the other afternoon, I was privileged (and very surprised) to see a young beauty perched on an old yellow house that sits high on a hill in the lower Hudson Valley. I consider it a very good sign on this year's last, warm 68° day in New York.  

So close! I hold my breath, and take another picture.

http://www.dragonfly-site.com/meaning-symbolize.html

The Burning Bush

Red-leaved bush.

Two Trees

Autumn in the Hudson Valley, 2014.

The Grasshopper

Grasshopper at dawn.

When I was growing up, my parents repeated a handful of fables to us as moral lessons routinely, but my father more than most. He loves slogans, sayings, homilies, quotes, and clichés, so much so, he puts his favorite ones on mugs, plaques, t-shirts, whatever.

But no matter how many times he repeated the story of the grasshopper and the ant, the moral of the story was always the same: be like the ant, not the grasshopper. It became so well-worn with time, that now all he has to do is repeat the shorthand version of it, as we say it back to him with our eyes rolling: "Be the ant, not the grasshopper." That's training for you!

And, of course, I took to children's literature like a future publisher takes to books, which means I absorbed it like it was my second skin, so tightly woven with my own personal history, that it has become intertwined with the fabric of who I am through the daily practice of it.

Grasshopper in morning light.

Now, as it grows colder and darker, the fruits of our labor take on even greater importance. Those of us from northern climates know that particularly, down to our very DNA: work hard, because winter is coming. Our animals fatten up every August and September, because that's exactly what every snow dog I've ever had does instinctively.

It was just one of the many things I thought about this morning when I first saw this lingering grasshopper in the dark light of dawn, because I was already up at 6:30 a.m., (before the alarm I set the night prior goes off, because I've trained myself to do that, so as not to disturb the rest of the household), placing our county receptacles by the curb for recycling pick up. Work, work, work, and then work some more, and always give back. That's what real communities do to make it through the tough times. À bientôt!
   

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Ant_and_the_Grasshopper

 

Musicals

I fucking hate musicals, especially the typically overblown, histrionic, tourist fare that's on Broadway. When my stepmother asked me to see one of her choosing during a recent trip to New York, I declined. In fact, I was horrified. What was once a huge bestseller in book publishing (my trade of choice), is now set by some idiot into a series of inane and jarring karoake-style songs. You know the kind: just when you start to get into the story, someone starts warbling their head off, completely interrupting the action. Why? WHY? WHY?! It's so insane. There's flashing lights, weirdo smoke machines, lots of rainbows and glitter and shiny moving parts everywhere you look (and I love big gay shows), so the tourists don't get pissed off at the $60 price tag.

Yeah, right. I don't trust the opinion of anyone who comes to see a Broadway show in an ill-fitting skort, wearing an "Asian lady who hates sunlight" hat (nod to "Family Guy" for that line, often set brilliantly to song), which further obscures any decent view you might have had when you first sat down in your seat. It's a horrid slap in the face to any of the native element in the crowd, like some poor slob wearing ratty jeans and a baseball cap to a fancy restaurant. Take off your fucking hat, douche! Show some respect for masters of the arts. Jeezus.

As far as I'm concerned, the only musicals I've ever truly enjoyed are South Park: The Movie and Team America: World Police, and both had the added bonus of lampooning major American actors and our sometimes dubious foreign policies. I'm sure I'd love their actual Broadway musical, The Book of Mormon, but when I requested seeing that as a show for what was supposed to be part of "my" 40th birthday gift, it was vetoed by my family for not being mainstream and/or cheesy enough, but more about my rotten birthdays later on, in December, when it finally comes around close to Christmas, a time when I also get gypped out of any real, legitimate gift that may cater to any one of my one hundred million interests. Uh, thanks.  
Stay tuned, folks. I'm just getting warmed up.