Sidetracked Charley

I will be thrilled to see 2016 end. But then I do not see a lot of hope that 2017 will be better for the world. And on a very personal level 2016 has not been horrid. Just not good. I lost two great pets; Wee Willow and Mardi Gras. And the vast majority of my idols from my youth crossed the bridge. I am very empathetic and many of my dear friends have been going through some very tough times. Would be nice if I could just disconnect but that is who I am. Seems I am just past one round of tears and another begins.  On the world stage this year saw the death by self-emulation of the Democratic party. As soon as the last primary was over I re-registered as unaffiliated. And watched as the United States created slow suicide by the election of a false idol. Like so many of my friends I suffer still from STSD (Severe Trump Stress Disorder.) The one spark of hope is the complacency of my generation is beginning to fracture. And light can be seen on the other side. Time to get active a

As, no doubt, the whole world is aware we just had presidential election in this country. In some ways it reminded me of my first windowpane LSD trip. The trip was awesome but the side effects lingered and colored my whole world. Prior to the birthday acid I thought I was happy. Afterwards I realized I wasn't and radically changed my whole life in a matter of weeks. After this presidential acid trip I knew I was severely depressed. And the signs had been building since the Democratic primary in New Mexico. First result is I changed my registration to unaffiliated after being a Democrat for most of my life. For a while I was rather too self-involved to realize that most of my friends were crying more, more withdrawn, more afraid. And soon I began to suspect anyone who did not exhibit these signs. Did they get the placebo or just cheek it? Or, heaven forbid, did I have friends who voted for him? During the beginning of the cabinet picks I waited for them to become aware of thei

Chaos in the Studio Let me open this discussion by stating clearly I am not a hoarder but I am a collector. What artist isn't? And one of the big things I collect is art supplies. And I paint more than I sell in these trying economic times. In short I could never be Oprah. Decluttering is not an option by her standards. First I do not have a full time maid. But I also do not believe a chaotic life is caused by clutter. I think it is the reverse. If something isn't working well in your life your home reflects that in very big ways. I have been depressed. And my studio showed it in big time ways. I was not depressed because the studio was a mess. In fact I won't even notice the mess until I am less depressed. Mother used to tell me when I was down to put lipstick on and I would feel better. Let me say that is bullshit. At least to me. But then I just told a grieving friend I was glad she went in for a make over. Not because it would make her feel better but because i

No light switches to grey the ebony black Till the night beyond the windows begins to grey And the sun creates a delicate pink Against the blue howl of the wind Left behind by the lightless dark. My world reduced to circles of yellow cast by candles Begins to expand beyond my lantern But not to the global proportions of the internet. The cat traverses between flickering flames How does his tail not catch fire? He toys with his fresh caught mouse while I boil my eggs upon the wood stove My internal clock trying to guess the time While avoiding the question of how much longer with no power Will the water, wood, candles and batteries last. Will the sun break through the now clouds Its light war the studio interior Only shades of Whistler grey are promised I dare the windows to assure myself the winds have not blown the world away in the night. J. Binford-Bell December 16, 2016

The Path Through the Storm Or in fiction. Or at least the best of both. A Canadian friend of mine recommended the Louise Penny mystery books to me. I have begun my first, Still Life. And with every page am more and more glad she has written a lot of books about Chief Inspector Gamache's adventures. A well crafted mystery is always an escape from depressing times, and if it is cerebral, intelligent, and filled with compassion I will sign over my life to the world created in words. Reading such a mystery is not easy or fast because there are references I must look up, vocabulary I must acquaint myself to, and books I must note down for a further read. Or at least determine if they are real or just a part of the fiction. A very good mystery writer not only entangles you in the story but in the ideas put forth in its telling. One of the well crafted characters in Still Life puts forth a life concept from a book she enjoyed; Life is Loss. And she and Gamache have a discussion o

MacArthur Park is melting in the rain In my youth, the heady days of rock and roll, I was in love with the lonely poets of song; Richard Harris, Paul Simon, Don McLean, Carole King, Donovan, Neil Diamond, Joan Baez, John Denver . . . the list goes on. I only sing in the car with the windows rolled up but I know the words almost instantly and if the song struck a cord in my life I am doomed to never forget it. The songsters of my parents' generation were musical instruments singing the words of others. But the lonely poets wrote of their own lives and so often mine. Since it looks as if my dreams of my youth are melting away I seem to be haunted by all those lyrics. I have a MP3 player where I have uploaded a lot of my favorites from the past so I can tune out. If music is to calm the savage breast why is it end up in tears? My list of lonely poets has grown with Prince and Bowie and Queen and Adele. It isn't the rhythm or tune it is the words. The songs are my audible

Seems like all the idols of my generation died in 2016. I begin to see it as a hint it is time to depart myself. And I must not be the only one thinking along those lines because social media seems rampant with suicide hot line telephone numbers everyone is suppose to copy and post. I keep wondering why it is sharing isn't good enough. And why would I want to be talked out of it. What is the plus side of hanging around. I am not, in my opinion, suicidal but I have never been totally opposed to it. Maybe it is my theatrical experience. Know when to make an exit. Or my generations battle cry of live hard, die young and leave a beautiful corpse, but it is too late for that. Or maybe it is simply if I am to hang around for a while in the cosmic consciousness awaiting my next earth experience those who have passed on seem like a really good group to be part of. I do not think along the same lines of those left in charge of the world. Admittedly I felt like this in the days of Don

I and 599 other students sat in complete silence in the largest University of New Mexico lecture room the afternoon of November 22, 1963. We had just heard that President John F. Kennedy was dead. Shot in Dallas, Texas. Most of us had spent our lunch break watching the live news on TV's in the dorms or the Student Union Building. We had come to Sociology 101 not just because it was the next class on our schedule but because it was something to do besides watch the horrid images. And we figured if anyone could say something to make it all go away it would be Professor Varley. He walked up on to the stage into the silence and wrote with chalk on the black board, Class Dismissed. And he walked off. We sat. Without words. As we rose to leave a student behind me loudly said, "At least the man who should be president will be now." I slugged her. I would probably have faced a week long suspension except that all classes were suspended for all of us so that we could obser

My brother always told me I was dumb. Not daily but often enough I got that he considered it his mission in life to make me believe it. He was clearly in league with my mother, or she with him, who would say, "Men don't like smart women so being dumb is good." Those may not have been her exact words but there was a whole lexicon of of them she marched out. Her top priorities for me were dates, marriage and kids. I was a huge disappointment because in my first year of college I did not get my MRS degree. I constantly got lectures about not studying at the law library, majoring in Fine Arts because I wanted to curate a museum and not decorate the nursery, and not going to church to catch a man. I might have gotten her to drop that last one if I had not constantly broken into lectures about religion being the opiate of the masses and Zen was the way. It was my father who revealed to me the results of my IQ scores from routine school tests to talk me out of attempting

"Be careful what you ask for," my father used to caution. I was well read and very creative at a very young age and I could come up with curses to curl even the toes of goblins. Most were directed at my brother. We were never the best of friends even though I would protect him against the monsters down the street. He was a bit of wimp when it came to equals and grew up to become quite a beater of women. Dad never quite understood that I wanted all those things I asked for in my curses to come true. I haven't talked to my brother in thirty some years.  But I was reminded of him daily in this election cycle. Trump is like my brother in so many ways. My brother wasn't orange but he was a big mouth which always threw belittling put downs at me. Especially when he lost at a game but even when he won. I even stopped playing games with him to avoid losing or worse winning.  That is when I would come out with my hexes. Hexes to ward off the evil and protect myself. I th

In college my father proposed to buy me a car upon completing my junior year on the Dean's list. He would buy the car for me but I had to afford everything else it required. I wanted a VW Beetle in butter cream yellow. I thought it was such a unique color. But I suddenly saw them everywhere. As I also begun to see all the expenses of a gift horse (well, Beetle). I was putting myself through college at the time. No student loans then. I had part time jobs on campus and close to campus. I mostly walked everywhere I needed to go. Or took the bus. Albuquerque had a good bus system.  So as the spring semester inched on I saw more and more yellow Beetles and more and more flaws to my father's generous offer. But I also began to see just how expensive putting myself through college was. How much a toll on my life the jobs took. Not to mention the studying to keep up my grades. All my friends worried about me. I was no longer fun.   I kept up my grades.  I completed my junior ye

When life gets too complicated and overwhelming I often opt out. At least for a little while. This week has been like that. And increasingly more so. Yesterday I took radical action. I closed the my calendar, grabbed a camera and called to my loyal canine companion, and headed out to where I knew I would see nobody. I even left the cellphone in the truck. I live in New Mexico mountains because such stolen time is easy to arrange. I only had to drive a couple of miles. I did not realize until I was walking with Magique at my side how long it had been since my labradoodle and I had done this solo. Mardi Gras's passing in the last week of August had begun a round of walking with friends. I knew Magique was as lonely for our missing fur friend as I was, and I was constantly arranging play dates with friends with dogs and trails picked for the exercise and comradeship as opposed to solitude. Maybe I was over complicating my life so I would not have to face the

Through a glass darkly Another spindoctor word. My sister used it yesterday. She wants to simplify her life. But unlike declutter I don't know that we have any control over simplification. Unless we commit murder, plead guilty and upon entering an ultimate "long care facility" with bars do something to get us thrown into solitary confinement with no hope of release. Life generally is just messy. Let's take just passwords for those various techno machines designed to make our lives simpler. I once had this grand scheme for passwords. They came in two basic styles. I used the forbidden pet names for social media sites, and variations on a favorite author's name for ones demanding more security and then if I had to use other than letters substituted a letter with a number. Then suddenly I had to reset a password with one at least 8 characters long using upper and lower case letters and at least one number and a symbol (@#$&*or + but never (){} or []). At t

Samhain, or festival of the Dead, means Summer's end. It is a celebration of the end of the harvest and the start of the coldest half of the year. It is also the beginning of the spiritual new year. And perhaps the one marker of the year which resonates with me most. Time, as we mark it now, is an illusion upon which we agree for the sake of the smooth running of the cultural world as we know it. It was first needed in a formal state for navigation of ships. To determine longitude and latitude you needed a compass and time. Universal time. Greenwich Mean Time and time zones. And Daylight Savings Time proves it is a fairy tale. But agreement in that story told by idiots allows planes to take off and land continents away per a schedule. The Universe, however, goes by its own schedule, which we are told slips and slides some. Adjusting to those variances causes calendar adjustments now and then. Most recently to the Gregorian Calendar introduced by Pope Gregory XIII in 1582. I

I think I would get the firewood stacked faster if I did not examine every piece. Mother called it lolly gagging. Teachers said I did not pay attention. And Miss May, who lived next door, said it was woolgathering, but sooner or later I would have enough to knit a sweater. Or write a blog or create a painting. Seriously there are some interesting things in your woodshed. And stacking firewood is not dissimilar from the Zen revolution of Chop Wood Carry Water.  "Before enlightenment, chop wood, carry water. After enlightenment, chop wood, carry water" And maybe checking out all the unique pieces of wood isn't exactly what the Zen masters meant by chop wood, carry water. But I find piece in doing routine and repetitive tasks. Gandhi spun wool, literally. I stack firewood or drive the empty miles of the high plains or carry water to my studio plants. And sometimes I find enlightenment and sometimes a good photograph or a painting or great piece of wood

Yes, I live at 8725 feet above sea level, a hardiness zone of 3.5 to 4. And a statistic quoted on a ski resort site says we get 210 inches of snow a year. Note: it is wise to remember never at one time and oddly not accumulative. It snows and it melts and then it snows again and that melts. The most I can remember at any one time was 72 inches over three days beginning the year 2006 with a whimper. And that snow hung around for a long time. I perusal of blogs of that winter reveals a lot of references to the Alaska TV series Northern Exposure, the Little House on the Prairie books, and blizzards in general. But that was a very usual year. Old timers said the worst in 70 years. Mainly what I dread about the approach of winter, thankfully late this year, is the approaching dark. I would not have to look at the calendar to know winter is coming. Like birds, who know when to migrate, locals instinctively know when to build up stocks of firewood, etc. With me there is also a need to

Orchids in the sun in my studio I took a break yesterday from an extensive pantry clean out to chat with a friend on the phone. She was decluttering her life too she said. I do not like the term. As an artist I find a certain about of clutter to be inspirational. And obviously so did Miro. Though frankly he was the painter of the most uncluttered canvases I can name. Miro's studio So, no, I was not decluttering my pantry and kitchen yesterday. I was repurposing them. I do like that term better.  Since late December of last year I have taken a long look at my eating and cooking habits and slowly re-aligned my diet to my body and its health. This has meant finding space for new things both in the nutrient area and in the tools for preparation. Clearly the toaster oven (used once in last month) had to go to allow space for the new Ninja food processing tool. Cabinet space had to be freed up for the salad spinner, etc. And in trying to find storage area for the raw cas

Denial, a refrigerator magnet I own, states is a Goddess-given survival tool. And women have used that survival tool for centuries. It isn't easy to stay in denial about the verbal and physical abuse women have put up with to keep the peace or keep their jobs or stay in a relationship. But there is a cost to keeping the peace. It steals our confidence and our freedom and our aliveness. We stay married to avoid being single or we find living single works best because the men we pick are wrong. We learn to pal up with other women to do things men get to do alone like long walks in the woods.  Some of us quit our jobs we sacrificed so much to get and keep.  I could not live with the compromise of keeping my mouth shut to keep my job. Mother said I was stubborn and had not learned the lesson of keeping silent. I would be happier, she maintained, if I was not so prideful and intelligent. I even toyed with becoming a nun. My aunt told me I could become a boy if I could kiss my el

When I was very young I was told repeatedly I was shy. I was always at the edge of play and when given a choice would go to my room and draw or to the fork of the cottonwood in the backyard and read. In school I always got the "does not play well with others" in the notations on the back of the card. My sixth grade teacher, Mrs. Hill, was the first to comprehend I did better on my own. When we had school plays or concerts to prepare for I did the scenery or was sent to the office to redecorate all the bulletin boards in the lobby of the school. In high school I never went to dances or decorated for them. My participation in school electives was designing the cover for the literary magazine. In physical education I liked gymnastics or modern dance. As an adult I hike with a couple friends with our dogs but not the Trekkers. I liked skiing because I competed with myself. Photography was always there in my life because it was something I could do from the edge of a crowd

Dad taught me to play poker. And the rule book was Hoyle . We were a game playing family and we wore out several rule books. And with board games we constantly referred to the official rules which came with the game. They were generally printed on the inside of the top of the box. I learned quickly when playing any game at a friend's house to find out the house or table rules before agreeing to play because not everyone played according to Hoyle . And if the "dealer" (usually the house we played at or the owner of the game) was not willing to state the table rules and stick to them I didn't play. I have always been a stickler about the rules. As a citizen of the United States I consider the rules to be the Constitution with its amendments. Political parties should follow the rules. But they haven't this year. They haven't for a while. Watergate was a wake up call for me. Nixon calling out the National Guard to quell peaceful peace marches in Washingt

If given a choice on how we see things choose beauty over evil light  over dark. If given a choice on what we hear chose kindness over rudeness whispers over screams. If given a choice Speak of beauty Sing in tune Focus on the positive and give all the same choice. J. Binford-Bell September 2016

Down the rabbit hole or Up the sucker hole Or neither. Pills to make you large Ones  to make you small happy or high. Books to bring you low quotes to take you up drinks so you can ignore it all. News  to make you angry sermons to make you right politicians to insure you are wrong. Choices Left or right red or blue right or wrong None of the above. Like this share that Amen or not Say Goodnight, Gracie. Jacqui Binford-Bell September 2016

I wrote a poem this morning on Creative Journey about fall creeping into the valley. It seems early but I only have to look at my photo files and garden journal to know it is about time. The grass is not as gold as in the photo above but that may be because of the extended monsoon season. But there and there is a branch on an aspen which is already gold or a Virginia Creeper vine turning red. There are just so many images you can put in a poem unless it is the Iliad. But as one is writing it so many images spring to mind. And I found myself thinking long about the signs of fall. The hummingbird feeders are down to two which I fill only every other day. That is down from three filled three times a day. There are now more seed pods than bulbs on the holly hocks. I shall miss them. Under house heat does not go on until the end of October but I plugged in the heated door mat on the deck outside the studio. It was gift. I would never have bought myself one. But when it fails I w

The Binford-Bell Studio Deck When I first bought my home in Black Lake it was in many ways a compromise. It didn't have a deck or even a porch for sipping morning coffee. But then neither did the house I was moving from. The house my husband of the time refused to entertain any changes to. And my plans and dreams of the changes I would make to my new home were put on hold by the changes which had to be made because of the lies the seller and his agent made. First there was the new well, and then the new lift station for the septic system. Costly things. I contented myself with cosmetic changes to my living space. And necessary upgrades to the attached rental unit. I tried modifications to the back porches on both sides but they are on the north side. Coffee in a rocking chair I bought specifically for the purpose was a chancy and very seasonal thing. It suited only dashing out in coat and snow boots to capture a fleeting dawn; quickly, very quickly. I began to plan an