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Friday, August 19, 2011

AFTER VUILLARD


vuillard



Skeeter and the Skidmarks played at Woodlawn tonight, but I stayed home. I didn't feel like spending $15 for gas. I don't mind the length of the ride, and hour each way, because the music at the other end is worth the drive. This most recent surge of inflation following the lead of the oil corporations has stripped me bare. I hear people from all around me talking about this surge taking them under. This is where the trouble starts. What our republican representatives don't seem to get is putting people into poverty creates crime. Of course, they don't mind, because prison construction stocks continue to rise. All the more justification for police state, which the republicans step-by-step have taken us into, with intent. Police state isn't because of terrorism. Terrorism was the justification, not the reason.



I stayed home this Friday night for free, though talked on long-distance phone for probably what it would have cost to drive to Woodlawn. Earlier, I painted khaki long-sleeved shirt and khaki pants on Cleve Andrews playing a fiddle. Maybe about half way into the khaki part. Khaki is a very odd color. Mine is not exactly khaki, but khaki comes in about 30 shades, at least, so I made one of those shades, maybe. Doesn't matter. It looks like khaki and that's all I care about. I'm thinking of this painting as my Vuillard. The background color suggests Vuillard to me, makes me want to make a wall paper with a repeating pattern like Vuillard and use his approach to the clothes. I like Vuillard's painting an awful lot. They're easy to overlook, but they reward a good look. Working on Cleve's shirt and pants, something about the way I was making folds felt like Vuillard.



Here comes Caterpillar. When I'm sitting still watching a movie or talking on the phone, she is off in her sleeping place. When I sit at the computer, here she comes, wants to be on my lap, wants both hands on her, one on her head, one on the back of her neck. She likes me to hold her face in the palm of my hand with my fingers over her head like holding a baseball with ears. She only likes it for a certain amount of time. Beyond a certain moment it goes from comfort to threat. The first slight move indicating she's ready for me to let go is when I take my hand away. If I continue to hold, she'll get anxious. Here she is now, tugging at the leg of my pants with one claw, the doorbell. Let me in. She's appealing to me with big eyes, "hold me," and I appeal to her to let me be, both hands are busy. She tugs again. I reach down and rub the top of her head with 2 fingers for a moment. She has become jealous of my time at the computer. I can watch a movie all day and she'll never offer to get on my lap. Sit at the computer and here she comes. I pick her up. She doesn't ask a lot.



Earlier in the day, I was sitting watching a movie and a big jet, sounded like F15 or F16, flew over so close to the ridges that if I'd been outside I could have seen the pilot. It was loud like a clap of thunder close by. Caterpillar was on my lap, her head jerked up and eyes got big. She has known the sound all her life, but we don't usually hear them this close to the ground, so loud. I'll never forget the time at the Circle L having lunch with Jim Winfield. A jet flew over, I said, "The sound of freedom." He barked fast as a knee jerk, "No it's not!" I confess I love it when a jet like that flies over. It's thrilling. A thing that can fly that fast I can't help but be in awe of. And the pilot I'm in awe of. The people designing it, the people that made the parts, the people that put the parts together. These jets are awe-inspiring machines. I'm glad I don't have to jump into a hole in the ground when I hear one.



Consistently, I'm meeting people at Selma's I like. A couple days ago I enjoyed getting to know Edita of Gdansk, Poland. She's been in this country long enough to know her way around, raise some kids, know the language well. We talked at length about the comfortable air in Selma's coffee shop, agreeing it was Selma, herself, who generated the atmosphere that filled the place such that I feel it walking through the doorway. It's like outside the door I'm in the world of hard edges. When I go through the door into Selma's, I'm passing into a world of soft edges. The people on the inside are friendly, which is not necessarily the case outside the door. The air inside is welcoming. Anyone who wants to come in is welcome. I'm seeing a variety of people gather there. One thing I see that runs through about all the ones I know that go there, a certain degree of mindfulness, people largely self-aware. I'm not saying everyone is any one thing or way of being. Each one is uniquely who that individual is. The atmosphere in the place allows expression of who you really are. They all strike me as good people. We of the county are fortunate to have Selma among us.



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