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 For a while I was rather too self-involved to realize that most of my friends were crying more, more withdrawn, more afraid.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