Dailies

From The Wood Nymph Monologues

2011-02-26T14:42:00.008-05:00

It had been some time since she'd visited the forests. Despite the cold of early spring, Helen decided to wade into the stream. She saw that which startled her beyond her ability to remain aloof. She tittered and froze, mid-step. Below, in the shallows, a monstrous trout, perhaps a steelhead, a large rainbow of the migratory variety, lay waiting for anything that might present an acceptable repast when a minnow exited its covert to wend its way farther upstream where, perhaps in the course of the afternoon, it might encounter others of its ilk and being as social as most schoolies, communicate in a fish-like manner. Flumoxed by the flash of silver knifing through the waters, Helen lost her focus and her balance and, endeavoring to steady herself and stay a fall—something that could have proved terribly painful—disabled the minnow, crushing it between the ball of her foot and a granite boulder, rounded and smoothed by the flow of waters. The limp fish floated to the surface like a leaf defying gravity. Up shot the steelhead and gulped the freshly slain minnow before Helen could scoop it from the purling waters and try to resuscitate the fry.

An excerpt from Trilogy for a Monkey and a Manikin

2010-01-17T16:14:00.006-05:00

Did you mention the other thing while you were talking about the stuff we'd gone over before you told me you knew the stuff wouldn't matter to her or any of the others with whom she might be acquainted who could be of assistance, possibly, in facilitating an understanding, either between you and her or, even better, me and you and her....

Is It Spring It Is

2010-01-17T15:57:00.005-05:00

Goodness me, I was driving through Washington County and had forgotten to put the top down on the convertible I'd rented for such a purpose when I spied something tucked in behind a pear tree bordering the road and providing a resting place for passerines that might have seen enough of the cold NE winter and had taken flight to visit old roosts in Florida or maybe Alabama.

She turned.

2009-01-25T09:22:00.005-05:00

Salt. Sand. Sunny times. Dreaming of the beach will get you through February.

What now?

2008-03-16T10:51:00.005-04:00

THIS! Searching through volumes of drawings and this popped up. Archives are a good thing.

Tomorrow

2007-02-07T07:46:00.000-05:00

And when I awake tomorrow, the wind will have abated. I'll no longer shudder at the sound of it tearing at the shakes. Until then, I'll stay where I am—in a state of utter disarray, despite my colorful outlook.

Summer's passed

2006-11-05T09:56:00.000-05:00

watercolor, 22" x 30", Vermont.

Sorry to see the warm weather leave but autumn is beautiful.

from Limping Frogs
The lower farm on the south side of the road represented the bulk of the acreage. A sugaring shack, ensconced in a stand of maples, belched steam in March when Will boiled down the sap to a rich, amber syrup for pancakes. An oak lot heated his house through the winter months and several of the trees now stood as a desk and bookcases in the den. The cedars that topped the rise near the stream supplied fence posts; some were milled for sale as siding and decking. Tessellated with verdant pastures and feed fields, the balance of the land fed the productive herd, once renowned for their sweet, delicious milk.

Thoughts of Maine

2006-04-10T08:50:00.000-04:00

I'm remembering sunny days on East Pond, sitting in a boat, sketching with watercolor.

A new . . .

2006-03-17T05:48:00.000-05:00

Harbor View, Acylic/ canvas/ 22" x 18"

Bereft of technology.

Patterns

2006-03-06T08:02:00.000-05:00

An Unknown City from Above, acrylic/canvas/ 2005, 36" x 60"

Interesting patterns.

Organic growth

2005-09-22T15:16:00.000-04:00

As yet untitled acrylic canvas 22" x 28"

Movement interests me. Color is intriguing. I like organic growth; it keeps me in the painting.

Again

2005-08-21T08:08:00.000-04:00

Untitled View, acrylic/canvas/ 22 x 28 2005

I don't always have an answer. No sophisticated theory—the why of what I do. Sometimes it's just instinct placing colors, adding lines or shapes. No esoteric concept. Just a love of painting.

Carnival Nights

2005-08-03T14:41:00.000-04:00

Carnival Acrylic/ canvas 22" x 28"

It rolls into town every summer. Ferris wheel and merry-go-round are still there but they've added Twisted Torture Death Ride and the behemoth Try-Not-To-Puke-Your-Guts-Out. Good for the cotton candy and hot dog concessionaires. Load up, empty, then reload. A night at the carnnival. Ya gotta love it!

From the past

2005-07-31T18:33:00.000-04:00

West of Middlebury Toward Lake Champlain, acrylic/ canvas 36"x60"

An emotional attachment to the landscape of Vermont near Lake Champlain. Dairy farmland rolling toward the lake. Abruptly the Adirondacks rise beyond. Crisp, sharp, undaunted.

Stories

2005-07-31T12:23:00.000-04:00

To revisit an image and reconstruct it with the language of words reinforces experience. Reading invigorates the imagination. I can't imagine a life without reading. And writing is, like painting, a struggle to organize and clarify.

I enjoy wiritng that presents new images—redefines and affords room for exploration.

Another hot night in the city

2005-07-22T08:35:00.000-04:00

Red Nights, Acrylic on canvas 40 x 30

I'm sitting here enjoying a cool seabreeze remembering the hot and humid nights in the city. Sweaty, lustful nights. Maybe not all that bad.

Hot and humid

2005-07-21T18:41:00.000-04:00

MINGUS - acrylic on canvas, 30" x 40"

From whence this came I know not but I've been remembering nights in Manhattan listening to good jazz and sponging energy. Been storing it for a while, I guess. Writers inspire me to paint. So, too, jazz musicians. I call this painting MINGUS.

What color is your day?

2005-07-13T08:22:00.000-04:00

This red landscape says winter to me. Read "Synesthesia" by Kay Sexton, a UK writer with a brilliant aspect. "Synesthesia" was published in Lit Pot.

Another day

2005-07-12T07:55:00.000-04:00

Gorgeous morning. Temperature has dropped twenty degrees. The humidity level is bearable and all of the dogs seem content.
The sun has breeched the horizon and billowing clouds out over the Atlantic are less ominous. Offshore winds drive them away.

Fresh coffee and a behemoth of a yacht, a helicopter secure on the stern landing pad, cruises offshore. Succulent seems appropriate for such a morning. The day will get busier. The drone of compressors cooling the freezers will mix with the racket of boats plying the harbor. Screeching tires will pierce the air. Maybe an ear-battering jack hammer will tear up another street. But for now it's just the chirping of songbirds. That's enough.

Dogtown Painting

2005-07-11T10:25:00.000-04:00

An expressionist look at Gloucester's Dogtown. (Subtitled Tom Saunders in honor of a great writer.)