Anecdotes, Reminiscences, and the Unexpected Artistic Finds That Stir My Loins
Under the stage name "Evanion", Henry Evans enjoyed a long and successful career as a conjurer, ventriloquist, illusionist, juggler, and a humorist, all of which were enhanced by his keen wit and sense...
I was usually way too well-behaved, dutiful, and respectful as a child. My parents often wondered when the cruel door of reality would finally open. I was mannered, tidy, and focused. And a thoroughly nauseating nine year old! Naturally, Hal & Margy thought it was just a matter of time when I'd at last get my voice and cry out in rebellion. Then again, sometimes the road is winding and arduously-navigated. One night (when I was a fifth grader new to school as my family was new to Greensboro), I came home...
Today is Jon's birthday, a celebration that kicked in at six this morning. Jon had gotten up for no apparent reason. I consequently followed suit, vowed to go ahead and greet the day. I fixed a "venti...
During the years of the Weimar Republic, German art enthusiasts encountered an explosion of poster art, most frequently in the form of advertisement. Ever since I was indeed able to dream, to ponder...
"For my part I know nothing with any certainty, but the sight of the stars makes me dream." (Vincent Van Gogh) Yikes! Ever since I was indeed able to dream, to ponder the prompt of such a dream...
Adults can certainly appreciate those teenage twists that accentuate puberty ... even when two such “seniors” are an overly-driven mother and an uncle who is always at stand-by to offer a morsel...
It's quite still here at Marklewood tonight. The pusses, both inside and outside clowders, are settled into slumber. Jon is winding down, watching one of those "forensic detective" shows ... although...
Today I have fallen again from my swing. As that empty seat rocked "to and fro" amid the warbles and creaks, I cautiously sat up and did what I did best: deconstruct the unexplainable. Before I exhausted...
Austrian designer Joseph Urban is, today, most likely to be remembered for the buildings he designed and that still stand proudly in subtle tribute. However, his many successful and diverse projects...
"My tears are like the quiet drift of petals from some magic rose; And all my grief flows from the rift of unremembered skies and snows. I think, that if I touched the earth, it would crumble; It is so sad and beautiful, so tremulously like a dream." ("Clown in the Moon" by Dylan Thomas.) Sleep soundly, my friends, and may such a poet whisper sweet prose into your ears. Let the moon exhale softly and quickly warm any chill of tomorrow. The memories of today are but a pillow for tonight, at once plucked by dawn...
Women always seem less bashful and squeamish than their male friends whenever a conversation shifts topic to that of bodily functions. We men blush, roll our eyes, and rifle through a litany of inhibitions whenever there's a mention of: "play by play" flu-like symptoms, comparative irregularities, or a review of some profound diaper changing scenario. The same, it seems, is true with pusses, at least here in the hinterlands of Marklewood. The female cats, Hermione and Claudja, are by all accounts well-adjusted...
There was little exception today, at least as far as a new week might either suggest or anticipate. It was a bleak, soggy Monday. Each time I went outside for a brief smoke, I pondered the prerequisite...
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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