Anecdotes, Reminiscences, and the Unexpected Artistic Finds That Stir My Loins
At Marklewood, we believe in fairies and other spirits of the pine forest. The outdoor pusses see to that: they occasionally spar with a sprite and leave it, wing gently wounded, on our mossy front step. I usually recoil in worry and fear loss of the Universe's grace. Then I remember what Tartuffe once shared with me: "Magic is supposed to be interactive!" Of course, that marmalade puss, in whose memory this blog is named, has now been gone for two full years. I maintain hope that the fairies and sprites are...
Sunday, as I was just minutes into my commute and on the very cusp of plugging my iPod (Leopold) into its dashboard cradle, I stopped and did something I have never before done. True, I had indeed considered...
Experience taught me, many years ago, to neither envy nor dream of such grandeur. Otherwise, one might pervert and skew both reality and reason, store them in a precious keepsake box, and mark such...
Savor. Observe. Respect. Those are all parts of the process by which we should indeed interact with nature, and sadly rarely do. Rather, we neglect, abuse, and turn away ... as we continue to strip...
I rarely eat eggs these days unless a recipe calls for them. Yet, I feel as though I dedicate about five percent of my waking moments creating new and appealing daily preparations and, then, plating them artistically, carrying them upstairs to Jon, and humbly offering them as breakfast. Regardless of his response, I always soon return to the comfort and nostalgia of my childhood favorite: my mother's decadently basted eggs. Though not an inventive cook, Margy indeed had her specialties ... lasagna, spaghetti...
American painter Preston Dickinson is best known for his Precisionist style, expressive coloration, industrial renderings, and his tragic and untimely death. He experimented often with avant garde techniques...
Perhaps I turned away once too often last year, overwhelmed in a moment's complexity. Maybe my ability to notice was indeed lost in a swell of tears. Or it might've been the power of a pinched nerve that screamed like a child yet hurt like the devil. For whatever reason, the captivating and provocative morality tale of Mr Morris Lessmore passed me by on its first and rapid "go round". Nonetheless, how reassuring it is that such a charming and clever concept can be successfully realized with neither dialogue...
Watching election returns unfold across a television screen have always been a thrilling, often charged, and dramatic pastime in the Sieber household. As a child, it was the only night that I was permitted...
For the most part, I have always resisted if not detested change of any significant degree. I learned, as a young boy, however, that to bite my tongue, acquiesce, and politely nod usually went further toward realizing my own goals and gaining acceptance. Such behavior often made me quite the poster boy for co-dependency and enabled what seemed like everyone else in setting boundaries. My issue with change, though, never reflected a laziness, a lack of vision, or a fear of the unknown. I was simply a consummate nester...
New Orleans has a rich tradition and history of grand and inventive carnivals, parades, and pageants. In its "golden era", artists such as Charles Briton, Jennie Wilde, and Bror Anders Wikstrom prepared...
May Day at Marklewood brought with it yet further cause to celebrate: the Lady Eve presented her new litter of perky and almost angelic infant pusses. (I shy from the word "kitten" since an unfortunate childhood "Father Knows Best" incident.) Naturally, there was little surprise since Jon and I had noticed both her prenatal weight gain and that "glow" of expectancy. Sometime after I departed for work Tuesday, Eve nudged, dragged, and carried the pair to our front stoop. By noon, Jon had texted me with the choice...
Grieving the loss of internet friends is neither new nor unusual. We are awkward, hesitant, and "unprepared" to effectively deal with the death of a friend or loved one, at least in the United States. That process, however, is further complicated with friends and confidantes that we only know and communicate with on-line. By now most of us have experienced such a loss, although we have little inkling how to express our sympathy and manage our sorrow. We even flounder when trying to justify our sadness: "How can I...
The sandbox is always open, my friends, for those that want to share eclectic musings, surrealist images, and aural delights.
I detect the melody of the written word and can visualize the beat in the song. That's perhaps why I think in ringtones and post in sound-bites.
But, most of all, I celebrate the moments and the small splendors that enrich our soul.
The sandbox here at Marklewood is flanked in the corners by large bronze urns of yellow peonies & azure-blue lobelia. Behind it is a meandering creek lined with ancient willows.
And if we run scarce of provisions, there is always the bait shop down the dirt road.
My spirit navigates freely from that of Pied Piper to bookworm to Lord Fauntleroy to that of a Bohemian crusader. You best pour a healthy cup of coffee or glass of pinot noir.
I am a disengaged designer, scribe, and recidivist currently living in the hinterlands of Raleigh, North Carolina. I strive to be kind and I seek out those moments of hope that indeed refuel my soul. Often, the most potent of inspiration is found in random human connections, unexpected art finds, and the magic that cloaks our world.
And, yes, we have pets here at Marklewood: a dozen at most recent census. I refer to them fondly as the Twelve Noble & Apostolic Pusses, but they are much more than any label or moniker would suggest. All are indeed rescues or their progeny, with five having been elevated to "indoor" status. The other seven serve sentry here in the stillness of an ancient pine woods.
Alas, poor Tartuffe has been missing since May of '10. Legend has it that he has embarked on some grand theatrical adventure, perhaps in New York. But I like to think that his spirit hovers over head.
"I have stretched ropes from steeple to steeple; garlands from window to window; golden chains from star to star, and I dance.” -- Arthur Rimbaud
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