DAWN TO DARK AND SUNDAY TO MONDAY

 

January 20 2013

links LARGE typed

5AM

Sent my birthday Blog Post to a dear friend
saying:
Oh, tra-la-de-da,
I wake imagining seventy, levity, longevity,
lolling stars like bumper cars, careening
round the bend of be here now.

Folk Music
from Jackie Morris Artist post

I told her she made my day, and tuned in to
Mike Harding’s Radio Show

Listened to the podcast while I made the bed, watered the newly bloomed Narcissus, ground coffee beans, and poached an egg to lay on a bed of raw spinach.

 

Judy's Journal
Exquisite cloth work accompanied by this:
The Martyr Poets did not tell
But wrought their pang in syllable 
That when their mortal name be numb
Their mortal fate encourage some 
The Martyr Painters never spoke 
Bequeathing rather to their Work
That, when their conscious fingers cease
Some seek in Art the Art of Peace
- Emily Dickinson -
 

Answered Art In Red Wagons question

I'm surrounded by colorful things, from embroidery, to Tibetan prayer flag, and no matter what the fickle weather throws, there's color in my mind's eye, color in my memories.

I wear red, stay in bed imagining the vistas of this wide, wide world, listen to colorful music, eat apples, beets and carrots, fling colorful words and strokes in pencil, pen, or brush across a ragged page, and so abide, content within my days.

Constant Never

Cally's waves rolling and crashing, cresting and falling endlessly.

 then on to

101 Cookbooks 

plus pretty colors at

Bee Creative

 11AM
Face Book News
I read that a man I knew is gone from the world.
He was one of the great "Only-One" beings.
About Shyamdas 

 

‎

12PM
Signed out and shut down, retreated to my comforter, remembering the dream I had when, while wrestling with painful failures, mystics, mantra-chanters, gurus and wise ones interceded. Time's insistent forward thrust seemed to still as a kind of trance descended to hold me, until myself recovered.  Sleep drifted over these thoughts, shrouding them in mist.

I sailed away awhile.

4PM

Death, which can sometimes arrive without warning or invitation, was present as I went about getting ready to meet with friends and celebrate passing another marker.  Because more voices from the past had surfaced, youth was on my mind as well, those delightfully deluded years of innocent passions, and bitter tears.
Try To Remember
 

6PM

We were seven around the long table:
Laurie Edmonds, artist, from my School of Visual Arts days, with Fred Fassberger, also an artist, and the very generous fellow who gave me this Mac computer, Wendy Daly from the yoga community we share in common, Margarita Aguilar, graphic artist, from when I worked for New York University, and was a union member, Anna Cline, photographer and wonderful writer, from my ongoing writing group, and Adriana Scopino, a favorite poet from that circle of NYC friends.  A sampler quilt from various segments of my life!

Card by Laurie and Fred
'...and then the YOGI popped out of the cake'--'Safe to assume that the cake is vegan'--'Om, my lord..'--Bare feet and baked goods don't mix...think I'll pass.'
--'A Marilyn would've been the popular choice.' 

 Jolly Conversation and laughter stirred effortlessly into the mix of Indian spiced dishes and wine.  When the carrot cake was consumed, the bill paid, and ourselves outside again, we recruited a kind passer-by to take a picture, not minding a bit that his focus was soft, nor that he cut off some of our heads.

10PM
My sweet neighbor brought chocolate and flowers!
We kept congenial company another hour or two.

1AM
Downloaded photographs, and went to bed

listening to Brazilian Jazz interpretations of Yuko Ito,

a CD gift from Wendy.

Thank you, Thank you to everyone for absolutely everything

Sunday through Monday 

MLK and BHO