Saturday, August 19, 2023

Home

Yep. Made it home on August 15. Having exhausted treatment and rehab options, am now taking the hospice at home route. I am basically bed bound, as I cannot sit, stand or walk without assistance and i am very weak overall. not in a lot of pain though so that's good. No appetite so i'm down to around 130lbs. In hospice care there are plenty of people on call and who come around to visit to see how you're doing and make sure you're comfortable. I wrote extensively about hospice at home during Ms.'s mother's final illness in 2009, so those posts are still searchable. The program was newish then and was working out a lot of bugs. it isn't much different now except it seems much smoother and more coordinated. I've met everyone on my care team but one (social worker) and it is a functioning  team including doctor, nurse, home health aide, chaplain and behind the scenes schedulers, coordinators, pharmacists and so forth.

Being home is a big relief. It's been two months in some kind of care/rehab facility so getting home at last is a major treat, Getting used to it is taking time too. The cats. Ms. All these caregivers. The quiet. Every kind of happiness.

There is still a question over what to do about my shoulder. May require surgery but will start with heavy-duty muscle relaxant. At least that blasted cast is off, Yay. 

I have wondered about prognosis. No one has an answer but my own sense, based on the rate of deterioration these last two months is about six weeks/end of September. Maybe a bit longer or shorter. I won't be having tests so symptoms are all that will be tracking my condition, and right now symptoms are pretty stable. We'll see. 

Glad to be home,

Wednesday, June 28, 2023

Hospital

 I've been back in the hospital since the 19th. Brought in with pneumonia. That seems to have cleared, but I still can't stand or walk without extensive help, and my blood pressure plummets when I sit or stand. So not going home yet. Instead, they're planning to send me to rehab for ten or twelve days to get stronger and regain bladder and bowel control and maybe deal with my broken arm. Oh that.

Let's face it. I'm a mess. Cancer has not been kind to me. But the decision is to stop chemo and go to hormone treatment that I bring from home to rehab. Cancer has spread throughout my spine and to leg and hip bones. But it could be worse.

Wednesday, June 14, 2023

Second Chemo

Went well enough even though I only had one usable arm and didn't  get labs done beforehand. It took some doing to prize results out of the lab but Nurse Mindy got it done.What bothered me is that I began to lose control of my bladder short way into the house after we got home  and promptly fell down. How many times is that now? 10? I don't know. Didn't break anything this time down; yay. I'm grateful to whatever powers that be are looking over me and chuckling at my continued arrogance. Had to get the neighbors over to help me up and get me to bed. They were very good about it, More gratitude. More cake.  

I'm not going to lie. This is frustrating, depressing and dangerous. How many more falls? How many more broken bones? How many more times do we have to call help to get me off the floor? I'm not liking this much. 

Hiccups have started, Home remedy hasn't worked  very well. Bladder control is limited. How do we fix this? Maybe we don't. Not prepared to give up; far from it. But the more things keep falling apart, the mote doubt creeps in like a little itch you can't quite scratch.

Try to sleep. This too shall pass.

Tuesday, June 6, 2023

Brokeshoulder

 Can't type very well so this will be short, I broke my upper arm last Saturday when I fell. I stepped on a cat's tail. Spent about 4 hours on the floor waiting for herself to come home from an event  in town then 8 hours in the ER and won't get the bone set until day after tomorrow. Had to put some other things on hold like physical therapy. Lessons learned. 






Saturday, June 3, 2023

Adding a little bit

 The after effects of the chemo treatment were worse than I anticipated. The first day was fine. Second through fifth not so much. Primarily because of ... wait for it .... hiccups. Began on the second day and would not stop -- despite all kinds of medications for nausea and vomiting and allergy and what not -- until I concocted a remedy of my own:

*Tums

*Prilosec

*Cold milk

Ta da! Done and dusted.

But for that period of hiccupping constantly, I was miserable. Still fatigued, sleep all the time and then some, and though I'm actually getting physically stronger, I feel weak as well as tired.

I still can't walk without a walker or someone holding on to a gait belt and that drives me nuts, but I don't want to fall again. I've lost weight, down to about 155. I eat, though, so I'm not sure why I'm still losing weight. Maybe the cancer just eats up everything. I'll continue to try to get my weight up to 165 or so. My hair is starting to fall out, so I think I'll cut what's left real short and see what happens. Other than that, I feel fine. No pain to speak of. What I do feel is easily controlled with prescribed opioids. I'm grateful for that. 

Ms. Ché is more and more overwhelmed, and I feel terrible about it. I wish there was more I could do and that the feelers I've put out to get her some help were being promptly answered. But you know, any little bit makes a difference.

If I'm on Death's Door, I sure don't feel like it. Nope. Apart from the aforementioned side effects of the chemo I don't feel any different at all. If someone hadn't told me, I wouldn't know I had cancer. On the other hand, I met with the infectious disease specialist the other day. He's the one who cleared the spinal infection last year. He felt terrible that I had such a diagnosis, and he said he went through my charts from last year, every thing he could find, and there was nothing that said or confirmed I had cancer, and direct tests (bone biopsy) were negative. I agreed. There was no solid confirmation of cancer last year, despite high PSA (43) and inconclusive evidence of bone lesions (spine and pelvis) and unidentified carcinoma in one of the biopsies. 

So it was a shock -- to the providers not to me so much -- when tests came back last month conclusively demonstrating advanced prostate cancer, so advanced that I think they're stumped at doing much of anything about it except making me as comfortable as possible. 

Next chemo on the 13th, then four more, then done. 

Tuesday, May 23, 2023

The Rest of the Story of the First Chemo Treatment

 There really isn't a lot more to say. It went very smoothly. Lots of really nice people doing really good work with not that many patients in an outpatient nursing setting. Saw the oncologist briefly first thing. We went over my labs -- looking good for the most part with a pretty significant drop in testosterone levels, trending downward from a much lower level meaning the cancer isn't spreading as fast (can't) and I may start seeing improvements.

The infusion of Docetaxel (Taxotere) and Leuprolide (Lupron) took about 1 1/2hrs -- much shorter than the Rituxin infusions I used to get for RA. They sometimes took five hours and I had to repeat two infusions two weeks apart every six months. I receive these new infusions once every three weeks for the Taxotere, and once every three months (I think) for the Lupron which is delivered through an injector I wear on my arm.* I was apparently doing so well before the infusions that the dosage was cut by 10% and we are to monitor whether that is enough or not. If so, we continue at this dosage or a smaller one. If not it will be increased to 100% or more. Nice it's relatively easily adjustable like that. At the moment, several hours after the infusion, I can't say one way or another. We'll see.

Lunch at a friend's house was lovely, a Middle Eastern feast, part of which we got to bring home with us because we couldn't eat it all at our friend's place. Got a bone density test and chatted a bit -- commiserated -- with the technician whose son had committed suicide five months before. She was a sweet lady who is clearly devastated by the loss of her only child. He was 40.

Then we came home and are resting. A lot. Got a ramp to get up and down that step at home, but we found it also works well and is long enough to get up and down the two steps at our friend's house. This is good. Very good. 

We have no more appointments in town or on video until Friday, when I do a physical therapy appointment in the morning and a telemedicine appointment with the dietician in the afternoon. I'm working on gaining a bit of weight. I've stopped losing at 162 lbs, and my goal is between 165 and 175, though the dietician says I should shoot for 180. Weight gain isn't easy because of my very modest appetite but I got up well over 200 for a while when I came back home last summer from the hospital. So we'll see.

The point of the treatments are palliative. Keep me as comfortable as possible to the end, whenever that might be. I've become used to it, and I do not fear the possibility of a near term "end." We were discussing it at lunch. Our bodies are not ::ourselves::. They are containers and they come and go. In a Buddhist sense, ::ourselves:: may continue on indefinitely through reincarnation or some other process/nonprocess in which the being ::doesn't exist:: or permanently "exists." If I die, I'm passing from one state of "being" to another. That's all. And if I'm reasonably comfortable through the process, so much the better.

At first I might have worried a little bit that I'm becoming an opioid addict, but then I said to myself, "So what?" What is to fear? That I might OD? Yes. But so far, the dosages are very low, and the chance is also very low. If dosages increase, then I'd worry more, but the infusions are supposed to prevent that by providing long term cancer treatment that includes pain treatment. This is only the first one, so I can't tell very much, but I'm optimistic.

I've received the bill for the hospitalization. A little over $1600 which I might be able to cut in half once I apply for financial assistance. And I've received another shit - ton of literature about other kinds of assistance from the state and local agencies on aging, disability and caregiving. There is a lot to go through. And I'll get to it. Really. I will!

So, that's where it stands right now. I'm really very optimistic and grateful. Yes, it should have been caught earlier, but the earlier symptoms were of a lethal infection that had to be treated and by removing troublesome teeth, made very unlikely to return. That has so far been the case. The cancer was no doubt there at the time -- at least I don't doubt it -- but it was more important and difficult to treat the infection successfully. Now to treat the cancer -- compassionately. I'm grateful for that. I just wish it were easier on Ms. Ché. She insists she's doing "fine" but I see her struggling so much and my heart breaks. We've been putting bugs in lots of people's ears that she needs help, and I'm confident she'll get it before too long, but bless her heart in the mean time!

The next update will come when there is "news." Right now, to rest....

---------------------

* Not exactly. The Lupron is infused with the Docetaxel. The injector I'm wearing is delivering Neulasta. I don't know what it is or what it is supposed to do, but the injection is supposed to start in about 10 minutes and last for 45 minutes, whereupon the injector can be removed and properly disposed of. Neat.

It helps prevent infection by enabling the bone marrow to make more white blood cells.

Chemo Starts Today

 I've been given preliminary medications that are supposed to lower my testosterone levels and otherwise start  controlling the cancer, but the real thing, the heavy duty infusions, start this morning. I've been given a shit-ton of literature to read to tell me about the drug that will be infused at the cancer center -- outpatient -- and I've skimmed it. I'll try to get into more complete detail after the treatment is over. 

I washed up yesterday, first water bath since this difficult period began over three weeks ago. I did a sponge bath in bed, not in the bathroom where I really haven't been in more than three weeks. No, just a couple of tubs of hot water, soap, wash cloths, Chux, and patience. I was doing it myself. Ms Ché prepared the tubs and got the towels and soap and stuff together, but I was feeling well enough to handle the washing process myself, and all went as planned until...

I got up for the fourth or fifth time, took a step to get some clean clothes, and whoops!, down I went. I was right by the bed so I thought I could get myself up. Nope. Wouldn't go. Each time I thought I was about to hoist myself off the floor by hanging onto the bed frame, my leg went out from under me and I was right back where I started from (the Shangri Las were playing on the laptop on the bed... they had some really good music on an album released after their famous period; it should be in a Broadway show, or be the spine of one... hmmm) .

I called out "Help!" and Ms. came in a jiffy. The trick was to get me up. Whoa. After much trial and error, we figured it out but... these falls were what convinced me to go to the ER in the first place, and while they aren't frequent, they're often enough, and I get banged up enough to make it not my favorite thing to do, and at least so far, there's no warning, and no sure way to prevent it. My neurologist said they happen because the cancer has damaged my spine, and in certain positions my spine pinches a nerve which affects the leg muscle, weakens it and I fall. I won't always know when it will happen.

Great.

So we transport me with careful use of walkers and a wheel chair. Got a ramp the other day to facilitate getting me up and down the one step at our house. Seems to work fine, though Ms. was dubious at first. I have two walkers. One was her mother's, the standard "frame." The other is my four wheel walker with a seat. Now I see them everywhere. We have two wheel chairs too, one with the big back wheel I can work myself and the other with small back wheels to facilitate transport. 

So we can get me to appointments and stuff, but I'm really worried about Ms. She has no help around the house with me, and the strain is really showing. I hope we can get someone skilled to help out soon. They say we should be able to, but it may take a while. Well, everything does. 

After the treatment this morning, I'll try to fill in more.


Saturday, May 13, 2023

PT

 Did the first of many or few physical therapy appointments. It's curious. I was hospitalized in part due to falls, and the falls were due to weakness in my legs which was in part due to the cancer. I was evaluated in the hospital by a physical therapist (or was it occupational?) and I thought therapy would begin, but it didn't. In fact, I never saw a therapist again in the hospital, and when I asked, the responses were... muddled to say the least. What was going on? Well, the recommendation was to put me in an acute care facility rather than doing or attempting rehab while I was in the hospital. Since I didn't want that, the answer, such as it was, was to do nothing. Let me find PT on my own. Or something.

This is one of the oddities I've encountered. I broke my big toe when I fell the first time. We finally got that sorted out at the hospital with X-rays and such, and The Foot Guy came by for a consult. He checked both feet, claimed he was going to order a post operative shoe for the broken toe, then went into a strange routine about how he'd always had a good life until last year when he was fired, and how difficult it's been for him to rebuild his life, and he went on for a while, then thanked me profusely for letting him tell me his story, and then he went away never to be seen again, nor did the post-operative shoe show up. When I mentioned it to staff, they checked my chart, didn't find an order for a shoe, and one at least seemed to hint there was no record of a Foot Guy coming by. Uh-oh. Anyway, the toe seems to be healing OK without the Shoe, so we go on.

The absence of PT bothered me, but they said that the provision of PT in the kind of situation I was in was rare. The PT staff pretty much just evaluated and made recommendations, and since I was going to have it close to home once released, there was no reason to start it in the hospital. Hmm.

The first appointment was mostly just evaluation, and I had lots of difficulties -- like keeping from throwing up -- but since returning home, I've also gotten much stronger and steadier on my feet, and I'm better able to get around, but for that first step up at the front stoop. It's a problem, but not insurmountable. We've got a wheelchair now, and two walkers, and we're researching getting a ramp. Should be OK soon. And we worked out an elaborate way to get me up and down the step without a ramp that works pretty well. It was a challenge, but we did it. 😃 

All of the different locations around Albuquerque where I'm having tests and treatments are another challenge, but we'll work it out. PT is the least of the challenges at the moment.



Thursday, May 11, 2023

Not Stable Yet

 I'm inundated with calls and tests and appointments and trying to figure out how to get from here to there, sometimes just around the house, what to do, what not to do, etc. etc. It's overwhelming at times. Other times I get to rest which is good. 

When I went to the hospital I was in a lot of pain, mostly lower back and hips. I'm taking a lot of prescription opioids now, and the pain is well-controlled, but I know it's there. When I left the hospital I was very weak, especially my legs, and this was after falling repeatedly before I was hospitalized. It came on without warning, very suddenly, and I couldn't make sense of it. Up to that point, I thought I was recovering well if slowly from the infection last year. 

Turns out this is not that. I saw the MRI comparisons between last year and this year, and they are quite different except for one thing: both show lesions on the spine and hips. This year's MRI shows many more lesions on the spine especially. This and the PSA number in the 400s and the biopsy results showing definite prostate carcinoma were the basis for a diagnosis of "advanced prostate cancer" (stage 4).

This is a death sentence. So is being born, so I'm not making too much of it. But I did ask how much longer I might have, and the optimistic prognosis was "4-5 years." Amazing if it turns out that way. But it could only be months, too. We never know.

Early therapy and medications have started slowing the spread of cancer, but it's not likely to reverse. I'm stronger, but I'm not stable yet; lots of ups and downs. Many challenges getting to and from the car, in and out for tests at various locations around Albuquerque -- so many, jeeze; so much travel. And then physical therapy here in my little village.

Ms. Ché has been amazing, incredible, both as caregiver and major cheerleader. She's very aware of the meaning of all the terms and efforts, and she's been right there all the time for whatever is needed. I can't thank her enough -- for being there. I'm not worthy. 

Every day is something new. But every day is a day of growth. Learning. Gratitude. Giving. Appreciation.

Now it's almost time for my night-time morphine. More as I learn more.

Tuesday, May 9, 2023

So. The Diagnosis Is In

 Advanced Stage 4 Prostate Cancer.

I probably had it when I was hospitalized last year in addition to a lumbar and disc infection, but nothing was done. It was barely mentioned as a Thing. I recall a biopsy was done to test for cancer cells in the bones of my hip. I recall that isolated cells were identified but none were specific for prostate cancer. Thus, the focus remained on clearing the infection -- ultimately successful -- and no action was deemed necessary to deal with cancer.

Now, apparently, it's too late. Oh, they can make me comfortable and that's good -- I guess. Well, the amounts of opioids I'm prescribed and taking are alarming. But on the other hand, I'm not opposed to going that route. There are treatments, but the more modest ones initially undertaken, basically just suppression of testosterone production, aren't doing it, so more radical chemotherapy is to start in two weeks, i think. If that doesn't work then radiation could begin soon after. I get confused about dates. There are so many things going on and moving parts. It's a whirlwind. MD Anderson.

I'm at home which I much prefer to hospital or acute care facilities. Depending on how things go, I'll stay here till the end. 

And that will be? Oh, "we don't know." Could be four or five years. Or more. Or less. But nope. One doesn't live forever.

How much of this do my handful of readers want to follow? Should I detail step-by-step what I'm going through or should I just let it go? There is a whole world out there and I am hardly the pivot around which the Universe revolves -- that's my cat Princess. 

It's a lot to process, and I've just barely started.



Monday, April 17, 2023

To See The Mountain


Taos Mountain from our room


We did an overnight in Taos. That's all we can ever really do these days, an overnight get away, because of the cat situation at home. Some are old, some are sick, some don't do well on their own. Ms. is entirely devoted to them, but she needs periodic get aways, especially since I've been ill and such a burden. We hit on going to Taos in April partly as a test to see if I could do it, how far I could drive and so on, and partly because the overnight would be scheduled the day after I (finally) got to see the neurosurgeon to see if there is something that can be done about my lameness. Sure there is! More tests!

So. I booked us a Room With a View at the Hacienda del Sol (recommended) but by mistake because I intended to book somewhere else. Well, Ms. says it wasn't a "mistake" at all. She loved it. Well, except for the addled boy thump-thump-thumping for hours upstairs above our room, apparently until he got his ritalin from his parental unit-care giver and wound down. Jeeze. You always hope that doesn't happen, but more often than not, there's a screaming toddler on your flight, a crazed boy or girl screaming and running around while you're trying to sleep or meditate -- or worse, work. Or like us, a somewhat disturbed boy and a hopeless parental unit-care giver thumping around for hours in the room above. Is it somehow inevitable? Seems so.

But you know what? We hardly minded. Why bother? If things like this are inevitable these days, there's little point, eh? Our neighbor in the next room was not so easy going, though. After about an hour of thumping above, he went out in the courtyard and yelled "Hey!" at the upstairs people. The thumping stopped for about five minutes then began again. We didn't see or hear what happened after that, but our impression was that the neighbor left not to return.

Sad. But hennyway...

This place was advertised with a view of Taos Mountain you wouldn't believe, and it didn't disappoint. We had a little patio with two chairs and a table to sit and view The Mountain, and there it was, big as life, bigger really, looming as mountains will do, apparently out on the edge of the plain, no city in view. It was magical.

We've stayed at Mabel's House (The Mabel Dodge Lujan House) in Taos before, and our room had a view of The Mountain, but not like this. It was nice, I have nothing negative to say about it (maybe narrow, steep stairs?) but otherwise, it was great. 

This place, Hacienda del Sol, was different and in some ways much nicer. Our room was on the ground floor, yay, had a (non-working) fireplace lit with electric tea lights, a little patio, and a great big bed. No TeeVee, refrigerator, microwave, or other modrun conveniences. Well, except for the Keurig I didn't know how to work. Finally got it to make hot water, tho, and then later after a failure, to make coffee. Noisy and rattle-y. Very odd. But there you go. We still use a copper-bottom percolator on the stove at home! Easy-peasy.

I wanted to take in a couple of exhibits. Buck Dunton paintings at the Harwood, and Gene Kloss's works at the Couse-Sharp Historic Site. I wasn't sure I could physically do it, but you don't know unless you try, right?

And so, that's what I did and not only got through both places in one day, but enjoyed it. Yep. Tired, though, and it was great to just flop down on the bed and look at The Mountain until it was time for dinner.

Dinner. Hm. We decided to try the Love Apple right down the driveway from the Hacienda del Sol, but I couldn't get through to make reservations, so we walked down there (for me a hike) and inquired at the desk. Very nice woman said there wasn't an opening before 8:30p, but if we wanted she would would check for cancellations after 6p and give us a call. I was about to say yes when I saw the sign on the desk "Cash or check only. Thank you!" Now wait. Who carries cash or a checkbook these days? I surely don't. And I may have had $20 or so with me but that was nowhere near enough for dinner. I expected the bill would be well over $100. Hm. I said, "No thanks, we'll look for somewhere else." And so we did.

Across the (very busy) street was the renown Guadalajara Grill. We went there. "Voted The Best Mexican Food in Taos every year since 2015."  Well. I can't say my Chiles Rellenos were the best. They were enormous, stuffed with calabacitas and cheese, but they were soggy with an oddly flavored green chile sauce, and as far as I could tell, the poblanos were raw, not roasted and skinned, and they were tough. 

The plate was a mess with wet refritos and dry and flavorless Spanish rice and a big glop of sour cream in the middle. But ultimately I ate it and was oddly satisfied. Not my favorite, far from the best, but edible and filling and in parts tasty.

She said her beef tacos were excellent, and her beans and rice were very good, too. In fact, the plates looked distinctly different and were pretty obviously prepared by different people. She not only ate all of hers, but ate some of mine! And the chips and salsa we had for starters were outstanding. Fresh, good, filling.

So, that was our dinner, and we got back to our room to look at The Mountain and fall asleep even before sunset. The boy and its care giver(s) didn't arrive to go thump-thump-thumping upstairs until after dark and we were sleeping. The thumping above woke us up. Oh my. And then it pretty much became part of the background like the rattling and groaning of the baseboard heating.

At some point, it just faded away altogether. 

In the morning, we went over to the kitchen/dining room for (included) breakfast. Well now. What a treat. Freshly prepared bagel with green chile, egg, and potato pancake, tamale, sausage, fresh orange juice (from a magical juicer machine) and excellent coffee from another magic machine I've never seen before that ground the beans fresh for each cup of very strong brew that I thinned down with hot water at the suggestion of the chef. We made new friends at breakfast, a retired couple who were staying in "Mabel's Salon" -- more about which later -- for four days away from Winter in Wisconsin. Oh where? About ten miles from Ms. Ché's Wisconsin friends whom she's visited a number of times. And turns out, these new friends had lived in Woodland, CA, for years before they retired to Wisconsin and so had been near neighbors (about 25 miles from us when we lived in Sacramento)! Well. Who'd a thunk?

We chatted and enjoyed breakfast together until it was time for them to get ready to go hiking with her sister who lived in the area. They were staying a few more days, so we suggested they go over to Mable's House and take a look around. Turns out where we were staying, Hacienda del Sol, was an expansion of Mabel's first house in Taos, and part of it, where the couple was staying in "Mabel's Salon" was the original house built of adobe in the early 1800's. My, my, my. I'd read she had rented a house in Taos when she first arrived in 1917(?). Then she met Tony at the Pueblo, and one thing led to another, and he suggested she buy acreage bordering Pueblo lands where there was a ramshackle three or four room house that he would fix up for her, soon enough for them, and so she did.

That house became Los Gallos, the present Mabel Dodge Luhan House, twenty some-odd rooms, most available for short or long term stays, the place often booked solid for workshops and conferences. Here's an interesting blog post by the High Road Artist that shows off some of the place.

It's wonderful in its own way, and always includes an excellent breakfast in your stay. Ms. has stayed there more than me, but I've enjoyed my time there, too. It's a special place, but Mabel's original house in Taos, now the Hacienda del Sol, is too. 

Ms. insists it was no "mistake" making our reservations there this time. In fact, she loved it and most likely will return whenever she has the chance.

Why Taos? Welp, it was one of the first places in New Mexico we stopped at and explored way back thirty-forty years ago. I don't remember the year. I do remember it was night, and I wanted to see the D. H. Lawrence "forbidden paintings" at the La Fonda de Taos, and so I pulled up there and went in to see what I could see. I think it cost five dollars to have the man pull the curtain on the Forbidden Paintings and let me look at them for ten minutes or something. It was quite a production. At any rate, at the time I was still smoking and the altitude, 7,000 plus feet, was really getting to me, and I don't think I spent all of five minutes looking at the Paintings before I had to leave. Truthfully, they weren't very good anyway.

And so we drove around Taos for a bit in the dark, making discoveries here and there, particularly arts related, and then headed back to Santa Fe for the night. 

And the urge was to go back to Taos in the daylight and explore some more.

Dennis Hopper was still occupying Mabel's House at the time, I think. Or maybe he'd sold it. As I say, I don't remember the year. It could have been '80s; it could have been '90s. But it was some time back.

Then I stopped smoking (c. 1994) and we could go back to Taos, and I could enjoy it. And have ever since.

I wanted to see the Buck Dunton exhibit at the Harwood this time, and I did, and I wasn't disappointed. I got to see some paintings of his that I'd never seen before, and I came to what may be a fuller understanding of who he was and how his painting technique evolved. Like Gerald Cassidy, Dunton was an illustrator and his works, even as he became more of a fine artist, showed his illustrationist roots. I was particularly taken by his painting titled "My Children," a rather cautionary study of his daughter Vivian on horseback, and his son Ivan looking bored into the foreground. The children are painted in nearly photographic detail while the horses and the sagebrush background/foreground and the children's sweaters are more sketched in his Van Goghish style of varied color parallel lines. 

W. Herbert "Buck" Dunton, "My Children," public domain via Wikimedia Commons


I'm almost certain the children were not posed outdoors in the morning sun in New Mexico to be painted en plein air by Dunton (contrary to Ivan's later assertion as stated in the catalog.) No, I suspect that the children were most likely posed indoors and photographed. They could have even been candid photos. The pictures may or may not have been taken in New Mexico. If Vivian was on a horse, it may have been in New Mexico, but she could just as easily have ridden a horse in New Jersey where she and Ivan lived most of the year with their mother. And given the level of detail in her face but not her clothing, she may not have been on a horse at all.

The poses are not what you would naturally see outdoors, in other words. In my view it is likely that if anyone posed for the painting, it was not his children. The faces are from photographs. The bodies are not -- in my view -- physically proportioned correctly. He may have simply drawn bodies to fit the faces. Or even pasted the faces on other bodies altogether.

Vivian's pose on the horse, twisted around with one hand behind her on the horse's back, is one of Dunton's signature poses that he used again and again for people on horseback. And we see it in many other realist western paintings by many artists. I have the feeling it would have been automatic for Dunton to use it for a portrait of his daughter on horseback -- even though she may never have posed in that position. 

Ivan's body is strangely tilted in a way that seems very unnatural, and he seems to be growing directly out of the sagebrush and tilted perhaps because he was blown by the wind. There is no lower body. He's truncated just below the waist. Poor thing. Again, I think this is a made-up pose from Dunton; there was no boy in the sagebrush painted en plein air at dawn such as Ivan suggested later. More likely, his position and pose were photographic artifacts, probably a candid shot, that cut the boy off at the bottom of the frame.

The background is very sketchy, showing a line of horses, rounded mesas and cliched New Mexico weather including the famous "walking rain" -- that's very real, but you may never encounter it. Brilliant blue highlights are scattered throughout. 

The foreground horses and sagebrush and the childrens' clothing are painted with varicolored parallel lines somewhat like Van Gogh's technique in some of his paintings. It gives an unexpected liveliness to the foreground images. Nevertheless, the images seem studio-bound rather than en plein air. They do represent Dunton's signature technique in his later paintings. His many illustrations for magazines and books, however, look completely different and utilize very different techniques. Dunton's later painting in New Mexico strongly resemble Ernest Blumenschein's New Mexico landscapes and portraits.

Where Dunton differs is with the faces of his children, faces that are almost porcelained in their smoothness. Nothing like the rest of the painting. These faces, I'm almost certain, are painted from photographs. 

The whole composition is somewhat off kilter and disturbing. What is really going on here? 

The story is that Dunton and his wife Nelly were divorced, in part because she didn't want to live in New Mexico where W. Herbert Dunton had become "Buck" and was thoroughly integrated into the local cowboy culture -- well, as much as an artist could be -- and he didn't want to leave. The children went with their mother to New Jersey, returning to New Mexico and Taos to spend summers with their father. Perhaps reluctantly. But I have some questions. The painting was supposedly completed in 1920, the same year as the divorce if I understand correctly. So the childrens' back and forth between New Jersey and New Mexico hadn't started yet... or had it? 

Also, summer in Taos can be quite warm, and these children are bundled up in nearly identical heavy wool sweaters, hardly appropriate wear for a Taos summer morning. More suited to late fall or early winter. 

The children look either bored or unhappy, but why? Could it be because their parents aren't getting along and will soon break up? Seems to make more sense to me than that they had already broken up. 

The painting was hanging at the Harwood, but I first saw it years ago at the New Mexico Museum of Art in Santa Fe, it's usual home. It was striking then. It is striking now. 

The Gene Kloss exhibit at the Couse-Sharp was striking too, and I'll try to get to it in another post. For now, we remember The Mountain.

Sunday, March 19, 2023

A Few Hours Respite

We spent the night at Los Poblanos in Albuquerque's North Valley the other day. Had dinner and breakfast at their restaurant Campo. I drove there and back, and walked around the grounds with a stick instead of my walker. I'm paying for it now with sore muscles and joints, but damn it was a treat. 

And snow. We've had a very light winter, hardly any snow but much rain. California style. But while we were at Los Poblanos, a storm was coming in, and sure enough, snow fell, big fat flakes, and it was magical. Well, for us. Others were a little annoyed. Maybe three inches or so fell in total, but the air was warm enough to melt most of it by noonish. 

We saw a magnificent peacock at breakfast and before that as we headed to dinner. And there was a fat orange farm cat that came in our room and asked for cream out of the refrigerator. Sadly, that didn't happen. No, kitty had to beg from others.

I feel like we were more than 24 hours away, but really it was only from the evening of the 16th to the morning of the 17th. For St. Patrick's Day we wore our greens and that led to much hoo and hah in the restaurant as most people either forgot or didn't want to wear green. I think we might have even made some new friends as Ms. Ché got to meet a would-be poetess, and promoted her upcoming publication of poetry and a workshop/retreat with Jimmy Santiago Baca coming up in June. And we learned about an Irish poet we'd never heard of before. 

I usually have to explain when I do or put on Irish stuff that I'm only a quarter Irish. My father was half, my mother was mostly Scottish I've realized recently. She thought she was English, French and whatnot, but the record and DNA evidence is that no, she was mostly Scottish on both sides of her ancestry.

So I guess that makes me pretty much Celtic by ancestry. My father was half German, but for some reason the German part of my ancestry didn't show up in my DNA profile at all. Yet my father's maternal grandparents were immigrants from Germany, had papers and everything, and one of them never learned English and spoke only German.  Then suddenly, my DNA profile acknowledged a 9% German contribution. My. my, my. The rest, Scottish, Irish, and English. Hm.

Anyway, I don't give much credence to it. Europeans are notoriously mixed,  and there is no way to sort them into easy genetic categories. The thing is, people travel, they go places, sometimes settling for a while before moving on. Anyone who says they have German or French or Belgian ancestry may know about it because they have German or French or Belgian immigrant ancestors, but their DNA may not reveal any of it, and if it does, it may be very attenuated. 

Well, we went for a brief stay-cation (only 50-60 miles away from home) and it was remarkably refreshing. Just what we needed. I may be a little sore now because of it, but as we say, this too will pass.

We're thinking of a little longer stay in Taos next month. There are a couple of exhibits I'd like to see: Buck Dunton at the Harwood, and Gene Kloss at the Couse-Sharp Historic Site. We're thinking we need to revisit Mabel's Place since we haven't been there for years. And there's a literary event that would be good for Ms. to attend as she's one of the area's favorite poets. 

Getting away from it all for a while really helps physical and mental health, doesn't it? 

 

Monday, March 13, 2023

Running From the Woke Mob in Drag

WTF? I mean WTAF? For weeks now, my news feeds have been filled with DeSantis and his Anti-Woke Movement and competing governors and legislators proposing and passing Anti-Drag/Anti-Trans laws to prohibit performances and even, apparently, appearances of cross dressers anywhere in public where children might see them. This is complete nonsense. Is this a slow news week or what?

Drag has never been so despised nor under such threat and attack. Certainly it's never been legislated out of existence, has it? I don't think so. Not when Uncle Milty was on the TeeVee in a dress and heavy make up during my childhood -- as were any number of other performers on TeeVee and in the movies ("Some Like it Hot" anyone?). The fact that men dressed as women -- sometimes credibly -- was simply not an issue except when they were "really" doing it. A performance in drag was one thing. Dressing as a woman to try to "pass" was something else, and don't even start with women dressing as men for "real."

It confused the world and was discouraged, sometimes actively prohibited. Police raids of gay bars, for example. Stonewall comes to mind, where the queens went ballistic on the cops and achieved a kind of liberation for queers that they'd never had. 

As for transsexuals, that was something hardly even whispered in the old days. Well, there was Christine Jorgensen, but her case was considered unique. Sex reassignment just didn't happen, or at least didn't happen often enough to matter. And always the few cases we heard about were men becoming women, usually by getting their dicks and balls cut off and taking estrogen to get their boobs to plump up.

 But it hardly ever happened. 

Since then, "trans" has become a cause celebre on the right and left, with competing demands to prohibit gender dysphoria treatment for minors or anyone under 21 or apparently to prohibit treatment for anyone at all vs. tolerance and freedom for transsexuals to be who they are and be medically treated appropriately as they and their doctors see fit.

I have a relative who is transsexual and an outspoken advocate for trans rights so I guess I have a dog in this fight, but it strikes me as an inorganic struggle between phantoms. Gender dysphoria is rare, and treatment is pretty standardized. Hormones and sometimes surgery. Psychological counseling. Lifestyle training. Because it affects relatively few people, it was not really an issue until the Movement Right made it one, first concentrating their wrath on "bathrooms" -- primarily focused on prohibiting "birth males" from using girls' bathrooms in public schools -- and then on sports, prohibiting "birth males" from competing against girls or being on girls teams in schools.

All of this was somehow about "parents' rights" but I don't see it. Somehow it's supposed to be about Protecting Our Daughters against something something "unfair." Perverted. Ugly.

Except Our Daughters will almost never encounter whatever it is they are supposed to be so afraid of and if somehow they do, they will mostly likely have the social skills to deal with it ... appropriately.

If there is an issue, it's one of social skills that limit fear of the unusual or unknown. 

But there really isn't an issue except for those negatively affected, those who are demonized and scapegoated. They have an issue, and I'm actually surprised there's been so little fight back. I know there's almost no political interest in countering the Anti-Trans Movement Rightists, because there really hasn't been any. If the right wants to legislate against trans people, the attitude seems to be 'let them.' And so they do.

On the other hand, the Anti-Woke Movement is facing a growing backlash and push back. It's taken quite a while, but what passes for the Left **ha-ha** in this country appears to be fed up with the whole Anti-Woke bullshit, and they're starting to call it out. Cautiously, of course. But polling seems to indicate that Anti-Wokeness is not considered either a Good Thing or Popular. That's never stopped rightist authoritarians before, but in this case, the whole thing is just stupid. Woke is not Evil. Nor, in fact, is it considered a threat to any but those in complete denial of US history and social/governmental practice.

"Woke" is an honorable term for understanding social (and often legal) injustice, primarily but not exclusively racial injustice. Gee, who'd a thunk it, right? This country is notorious for all kinds of political, legal, economic, and racial divides and injustices, and people who are "woke" see them and combat them.

So what's the beef with "woke?" Those who scream the loudest have no answer. They can't define "woke"-- they just know they hate it and are fighting it. What is it? Anything they disagree with or feel threatened by.

They don't even know why.

DeSantis and his ilk have decided that being "Anti-Woke" is a ticket to the White House. Because a few willing fools will always be available to follow demagogues. The trouble, of course, is that those few can too easily snowball into the many.

So we'll see where these Movement Rightists wind up. They have a large media machine backing them -- for now. It can change in a heartbeat. Right now, though, it's not looking good for those who believe in tolerance, minority rights and social justice. The "Anti" squads are growing and they have been able to exercise considerable power without effective opposition. So long as they can, they will.

Not until their "movement" is stopped cold will it stop. 

This is something I'm not sure US society is willing or able to do.


Saturday, March 11, 2023

Dentures

About a week ago I got a full set of dentures, uppers and lowers both. I'd had my teeth pulled -- what few remained -- in early  November and expected new dentures by January, but no such luck. The lab, they said, was backed up. Well, that's what they said.

My mother had dentures from the time of her stint in the Army during WWII when she was in her thirties. I never really understood what she was going through. Or that she was going through anything with regard to her missing teeth. The only time I was aware of her dentures giving her difficulty was when her upper denture broke in half and she had to wait over a week to get a new one made. She was pretty miserable.

My father had an upper denture, but his lower teeth were his own. 

I had bad teeth since I was just a tyke. I remember my first encounter with a dentist when I was in the second or third grade. I had crooked lower teeth and the dentist who'd come to the elementary school to check us out was filled with contempt and mockery at discovering that my teeth were not perfectly straight and white and beautiful. It was deeply disturbing to me, and I didn't want to see a dentist again. I didn't, in fact, see one until I was well into my fifties and my teeth were giving me lots of problems -- including a couple of bouts of pneumonia. No fun. I had a number of teeth pulled and then more out later. Some fell out on their own. By the time I had the rest of them pulled last November I think I had 23 left, six of which were pretty well gone from decay.

The dentist was very kind and gentle and expensive, and my dental insurance proved to be all but worthless for what needed to be done, but oh well. It was believed by my doctors and me that the spinal infection I suffered last summer and fall was due to a bad tooth that had allowed oral bacteria into the blood stream that settled in my spine and caused me pretty profound pain and disability and a long period of recovery and rehabilitation which still really hasn't ended. Rather than taking the risk of it or something worse happening again, I thought it would be better to replace those remaining, rotting teeth with dentures.

It's been a challenge. I became used to not having teeth at all. Gumming food is tricky but it can be done, and I got pretty good at it. Dentures require a whole nother set of mouth skills, ones I'm still developing.

I found, for example, that I cannot bite or chew with the dentures unless they are firmly stuck to the gums with Fixodent or some other glue. They stay in without the glue, but not if I try to bite or chew something. Then they come loose and sort of roll around with whatever I'm eating. Not a pretty sight or comfortable way to enjoy a sandwich or something.

They are the smallest teeth I could imagine. They are the size of teeth a child might have it seems to me, and it takes quite a bit of getting used to to feel comfortable with them. My dentist thinks they look great, and I suppose they do, but every time I smile in the mirror, I'm reminded of a "coon smile." This is something raccoons do as a threat display. Most people never see it, but I have seen it when a colony of raccoons moved into our garage in California. Oh, they were the sweetest things. We hand-fed some of them, petted them, laughed at their antics, but they were fierce in defense of their territory against other raccoons. So one day a raccoon confronted a stranger that was not part of the colony and they squared off against one another. Both showed the "coon smile." It looks just like a tiny human toothy grin. I've tried to find a picture of it, but the google is useless these days. On raccoons, it's not a grin. It's a "get the fuck out of here" smile, and when I saw it, both the raccoons were trying to get the other one to go away. The one that belonged to the colony won when he (I assume it was a he) followed up with the loudest roar I could think of from such a small creature. I swear it was as loud as a lion's roar. Which I heard many times in the circus.

In getting used to these dentures, I'm finding I can bite and chew though poorly. I can't really feel where the teeth are, and they only go about half-way back in my mouth. This absence of tooth feel is disorienting. It's getting better, but still it's frustrating. Hot coffee or soup or even mac and cheese loosen the dentures, and if there's any solid in the food, like ia chunk of meat in soup, they tend to want to fall out. Strategy will keep them in. But food can get stuck behind the denture line, and that's annoying. My gums tend to swell and sores have developed here and there. It only hurts when I chew or bite down on something. Otherwise the dentures are really quite comfortable.

I've taken naps with the dentures in my mouth, but I take them out overnight and don't put them back in until after I've had my morning coffee. Maybe 9:00 or 10:00. My mouth and gums are more uncomfortable without them these days.

As I say, when I was growing up, I never understood what having dentures did to my mother's disposition, but now I think I do, at least somewhat. You really never forget dentures are in your mouth and you're always thinking about how to keep them in and stable. You have to think about your food, how to eat this or that, what you have to do to make it edible in the first place -- how to cook it, how to cut it up, and whether you can eat it at all. 

You're also in pain or discomfort at least some of the time. Food gets stuck on your upper palate and behind the gum line. Owies are not uncommon. You try to do your best and mask your discomfort, but I know there are times you have to rush to the bathroom and take the damn things out and clean off whatever is causing pain or discomfort, then put them back without another application of Fixodent, knowing you can't bite on anything again, probably until the following day.

You can't eat an apple or an ear of corn on the cob. Nope. Nagannahappen. But puddings and pie, sure. Some things you can't gum, either, and even when I had my own teeth there were things I had to stay away from like hard candy.

Oh, it's just another factor of aging. There are so many things to take into account. Never thought I'd live this long in the first place, so I don't feel as old as I am. My chronological age and my mental/emotional age don't correspond. I'm physically frailer and frailer as the years go by. And yet I feel like I should be able to do much more than I physically can. So many things take so much longer to do -- or I can't do them at all. 

More later...




Wednesday, March 1, 2023

Meditations on Class Solidarity and "War of the Worlds" and Such Like

I have a movie playing on the TeeVee, an Australian picture called "Occupation" that is a variation on the perpetual theme of Alien Invasion which of course is the premise of H. G. Wells' "The War of the Worlds" of 1897-1898.

British imperialism was the subtext, particularly how Britain acquired and ruled its empire. It wasn't very nice, was it? In fact, it was bloody and cruel. From the point of view of those subject to the Empire, especially during the initial phases of conquest, the Brits and their mercenary "allies" were no different from, and perhaps in some ways worse than, the Martians so focused on destruction as they made their way across Britain and the globe. 

The question arose: what made them do this? Why? The theory after the fact was that Mars was a dying planet suffering from resource depletion and climate catastrophe, and perhaps overpopulation. 

The Martians saw the Earth as the ideal place for conquest and resettlement as the natives were so technologically backward, divided and unable to resist effectively -- if at all.

And indeed, the Earthlings were clearly losing the "war of the worlds," and in a sense weren't even fighting in part because they were unable to do so in any way that would protect and preserve their autonomy. This was an allegory for the progress of the British Empire in its global conquest of peoples and territories through force of superior arms, technology and a determination to simply and thoroughly exterminate and destroy anything and anyone who got in their way. Any survivors would be subject to enslavement and pillage.

Earthlings of course fight among themselves as much as or more than they resist the aliens. That's how it normally goes with these things. Yet ultimately, in every one of these Invasion pictures, the remnant humanity is victorious over the seemingly invulnerable alien hordes, and life, such as remains of it, returns to normal.

Or something.

The Earthlings fight among themselves, but sometimes as they do, they become aware of their common interest, solidarity against the invading All-Powerful Aliens, and despite themselves, they learn to work together against the common enemy. This process typically takes a long time, and sometimes it never comes. If they cannot become one another's allies, then the game is lost. The Martians win. Ah, but not forever, as the tiny Earthling remnant is always sufficient -- well, usually -- to overcome the power of the invaders. This story is so common as to be a trope. 

Another common trope is that the remnant humanity becomes allied with the invaders, and that's what happens at the end of "Occupation." Mankind and the Martians learn to live together on the Earth, so no more War of the Worlds. 

Is that a hint of socialism? Perhaps. 

Learning to live together is one of the prime directives of most socialist movements. There's a utopianism underlying the ideals of a socialist future, but at the same time, the community, the kind that already exists, is the model of the socialist ideal. Only larger. The joining of former enemies in common cause. The understanding that common effort can produce magnificent results that serve the common interests of the People rather than a small coterie of super-rich whose interest is not that of the Masses. That coterie is more likely than not to ally with the Martian Invaders, particularly if doing so will ensure their lasting benefit and survival.

This was one of the ways that British Imperialists acquired and maintained their Empire -- ally with a faction of the native rich and powerful and destroy any competition. It worked so well that other imperialists adopted the same tactic.

It's always hard to resist and counter this determination to conquer. 

And in "War of the Worlds" it took an Act of God -- in the form of a disease bacteria against which the Martians had no resistance -- to slay the dragon. 

In actual fact of course, spreading disease and famine and so forth to vanquish the natives was another of the many tactics employed by the British to obtain and hold their Empire.

What ended it was two world wars that saw the collapse of the Upper Classes through attrition and their inability to raise sufficient funds in their customary ways to maintain their grip on overseas territories. Empires are costly, no matter the loot extracted from the conquered peoples. Once India became more of a financial burden than not, the game was up.

Cleverly, though, the imperial strings are still being pulled through the advent of the Commonwealth. Which finally itself is dying a slow and tortuous death.

My Irish ancestors might be amused. I don't know. Ireland is now said to be one of the richest nations on earth, fiercely proud and European -- and surprisingly diverse and welcoming and functioning -- while Britain is in the process of domestic governing and societal collapse. Haw haw. 

Are we witness to end stage imperialism, finally? Hardly. The US has become the inheritor of the Anglo-Imperial mantle, and the US Empire, while apparently struggling, is actually expanding as American "interests" force their way into more and more overseas territories and endless wars are conducted to ensure US power is strengthened.

The internet has long maintained an Imperial Collapse Watch on the erroneous premise that US imperial overreach will cause its immanent collapse. Um, been waiting many decades. The collapse just never seems to come, does it?

Many errors, yes. But collapse? No.

Physical power is matched or exceeded by immense US financial clout. Sanctions against Russia though seem to have no effect and in fact may be backfiring. Hard to say. At any rate, the conflict over Ukraine, "proxy WWIII" as a correspondent puts it, appears to have no objective beyond depopulation and destruction of this borderland between Russia and Nato. Both sides are cooperating in that objective. Interesting. 

Class solidarity? So far only among the plutocrats and overclass.

Will it ever be revived among the Lower Orders? That remains to be seen, and I'm afraid I won't see it before I shuffle off this mortal coil.





Tuesday, February 28, 2023

1949

For some reason or no reason at all, the year 1949 popped into my consciousness the other day, and now it's like a brain worm and won't go away. I'll get to it, but first I have a thing or two to say about household matters that have been giving me grief.

Yay! The heat works again. I've been jiggering and poking the main heater in the living room for weeks after it stopped working just like that. Got a new thermostat ( thanks to Ms Ché who found one at the hardware store the next town over ) and installed it. It didn't seem to work at first, then about 24 hours later, ta da, the heat went on, and it seemed to be fine for a few days when it started acting up again and then stopped. I rejiggered the thermostat and the heater (a Williams console, 50,000 btu) started working again. Hm. Then a week or so later, boom, no heat. Why? Don't know. 

Doing some research, I discovered "You need to clean it out every few months, dude." Oh? OK, so I looked inside and behind it. It has never been cleaned out since it was installed in I believe 2005 or 2006. Lots of dust, lint, cat hair, yada yada in there. Hm. It's kind of like the blower with the burnt out bearings I found out long after the fact I was supposed to oil every two months or so. OK. I didn't get an owner's manual with the heater so none of this was known by me. I found one online though the other day, and I saw there was quite a maintenance checklist that I previously knew nothing about. OK.  

So I managed to get the top off the thing and put the vacuum hose down into the guts of it and got most of the visible dust and fur off the parts I could reach, got the top back on and set the thermostat at 72° and voila! Fired right up, and has been working just fine ever since. Of course the blower doesn't work. I could get a new one, but I couldn't install it to save my life. [It would require detaching the heater from the chimney, moving the whole unit into the room to allow access to the rear panel behind which the blower is installed, removing the old nonfunctioning blower and installing a new one, then reattaching the heater to the chimney and hoping for the best]. And I discovered the oil ports I was supposed to be using all those years were basically unreachable without turning the whole unit around -- ie, going through the same detach/spin around/reattach measures as required to replace the blower. Nope. Not gonna happen.

But thinking about it, we prolly should have a wood-stove instead. Most folks around here have one or more to heat their houses while we continue to rely on the main gas heater and several small electric ones for the bedrooms and bathroom. What I've thought of is replacing the main heater with a wood-stove and adding mini-split units (that heat and cool) to the bedrooms, kitchen and the living room. Well, that's a thought.

In the first part of 1949 I was living in Iowa in my father's ancient house, parts of which dated back to 1849. There was a coal furnace in the basement which heated the house through long pipes and registers. I think they called the coal furnace "the octopus" because of all the pipes coming off of it. 

I remember the smell. Coal burning has a very distinctive odor, much as gas does. It's sharp to my nose, and I don't like it. 

But I remember the house was warm. Maybe overheated. During a cold Iowa winter, temperatures can often be in the single digits or below zero outside. If you're out in it for any length of time, you kind of get used to it, though it might be uncomfortable. Moving from outside to inside, a normally heated house might be 72° but it will feel way warmer to you. Uncomfortably so.

My father's house was kept warm enough at least to my way of looking at it as an infant. Later I would develop a real anxiety and even anger about being cold, but it was due to... other things.

In May of 1949, my parents were divorced and I was bundled into the back of the 1942 Packard Clipper that my mother got in the divorce settlement from my father (along with $1000 and a bunch of other stuff) and we set off for California. 

My mother hated Iowa, hated my father's family -- who happily returned the favor -- and from time to time hated my father. Other times, they were the best of buddies. 

I really don't know how long it took to get to California. There were no Interstate freeways, after all. Just getting to Route 66 from my father's hometown must have been a challenge. I'm thinking it must have taken close to or more than a week for the whole trip. I remember rolling around in the back of the car, falling off the back seat more than once, and actually having a great time. I loved to ride in the car -- unless it was cold. And in May, it wasn't.

When we got to California -- to my mother's hometown near the Coast -- the struggle began to find a place to live. I remember a little house, Spanish style, tile roof on the porch, prolly from the '20s or early '30s. I think it only had one bedroom and my sister slept on the couch in the living room. I was in a crib in my mother's room. But where did the furniture come from? Mystery. It must have been bought with part of that $1000 my mother carried in her purse, right? I suppose. 

The furniture was mostly maple in Early American style. Very popular at the time. I still have some of that early stuff -- a bookcase and drop leaf table. The furniture was simple, inexpensive, and I suspect she bought it because it was in stock and could be delivered promptly. Maybe from Sears. Montgomery Ward?

I remember the lamps were glass kerosene ones that had been converted to electricity with a kind of bulb holder and cord on a cork that you shoved into the wick/fill hole of the lamp, and my mother -- or was it my sister? -- put frilly shades on them. Very authentic. 

My crib was white and I slept in it until I was five or six. I don't remember having a real bed before then. But I may not remember correctly. Given how often my memory cells misfire these days, I may not be remembering at all. Yet there's something there, something genuine. I remember a lot. I misremember some. And I don't remember many things at all.

1949, I shouldn't remember anything, but I do. Quite a lot, still. Even before I could walk.

And now that I have relearn walking, and I'm still as unsteady on my feet as an infant, maybe memories of 1949 are just right.

 




Monday, February 27, 2023

Obsessing on the Little Things

Since I was hospitalized -- actually before that -- and have been in continuing recovery, I've noticed how much I've tended to write and think about and act (when I can) on what most people would consider "the little things." 

Being able to walk, for example, or bend over if only a little bit. Being able to bathe and dress myself, make a sandwich if I'm hungry, go to the bathroom and not have to pee into a bottle. These are tiny victories, but they loom enormous for me given my once pathetic inability to even sit up on my own.

The ordeal with the washing machine(s) has tested my ability to do all sorts of things, figure out a wide range of movement, make repairs, deal with customer service (ha ha) and so on, even managing to move around a lot of stuff in the kitchen.

Having heat in the house and a washing machine that doesn't flood the room makes a big difference in living more or less well, doesn't it?

Oh there's more. I've been putting up reed and bamboo screening fencing in the back so that (maybe) our neighbor's dog (Shepherd) won't see Ms. Ché when she goes for her constitutional walk which she feels obligated to do because of her diabetes. A circuit around our property amounts to a quarter mile, so four times around is a mile, and she likes to do five circuits. If Shepherd is out though, he'll come running to the fence, barking and jumping lustily, and scaring the wits out of Ms., even though she knows he can't really get to her, and according to Mike, Shepherd's owner, he wouldn't hurt her. He just gets excited to see her!

I'm very slow putting up the screening. I'd hoped to do one roll length a day, but that went out the window when the wind came up a couple of days ago and we had to stay indoors or get blown to pieces. Even if I was well, I couldn't do the install outdoors in high wind. But it's partially up and seems to be holding. Seems to be working with Shepherd, too.

There's a lot of clean up to do around our place which I'm plotting out day by day, slowly, slowly, as the weather gets better. I hope to get some things going in the greenhouse, but I don't know. Maybe. Ordinarily, I'd be starting now, but not this year. Too many other things...

I'm just amazed and kind of delighted that I can do much of anything. I wish I could do more, much more, but the little things I can do are surprisingly satisfying, and so much of it is so simple, like an infant learning to walk or a child figuring out how to accomplish tasks. 

I even managed to replace a non-functioning clock hands, quartz mechanism, pendulum and electronic chime with a new outfit I ordered online and it's really a thrill that it works. Keeps relatively accurate time! And doesn't chime between 10:00pm and 6:00am! The chime, too, is modest and not overwhelming like the three mechanical clocks we have that chime so loudly they practically blow you out of your seat. Yay!

Yes, these are all "little things", but damn, being able to do them at all is amazing for me. And how little we notice and appreciate our abilities when we have them.


Monday, February 20, 2023

Washday Redux

So I received an Auertech twin-tub portable washing machine a couple of weeks ago and tried it out. Washed better than the full-sized Maytag in the laundry room by far, and I thought, "Wow, this is cool."

Problems developed pretty quickly, though. The drain seemed to stop draining. Unless the drain hose outlet was literally at floor level, nothing came out. And at floor level, you can imagine the flood. What a mess. I contacted customer service, and after some back and forth, they suggested a fix which I tried, and it seemed to work for a bit -- have the drain hose start discharging into a tub at floor level then raise to sink level -- but it was inconvenient and still messy. Then I found that the drain hose itself had numerous pinholes which were fountaining water whenever the drain was activated leaving puddles I hadn't noticed before. I reported this to customer service and after some back and forth over a partial refund and sending a new drain hose, they decided it would be best to send a new machine altogether. I could do whatever I wanted with the original one. 

The new one arrived in a few days, and I tried it out and the same thing happened: numerous pinholes in the drain hose, failure of the drain pump to empty the washer, puddles on the floor. I contacted customer service again, and this time their solution was for me to purchase a stronger drain hose, they would pay for it and they would also give me a fifteen dollar credit for my trouble. Maybe like a fool, I said OK. 

I found a drain hose online, ordered it, sent the info to customer service, and they credited my account slightly more for it, but no $15. The drain hose arrived in a few days, and I set to work replacing the old one. Not an easy task. But after a bit of struggle, I got the old hose out and the new one in and tightened down, and I was giving it a try.

Ta da. Drain worked. No leaks. Simple. Straightforward. Or so it seems.

The new drain hose is much sturdier. Whether it will last, I don't know.*[See Update below] It's also much longer, so it isn't such a struggle to get it to the sink where it drains. In fact, it's a piece of cake. So to speak.

I thought about my mother in law, Ms. Ché's mother, who had a twin tub Easy washing machine that she never used. In fact, she preferred to wash clothes by hand. Amazing. I never knew how the Easy washer worked until I saw a video on YouTube, a video I can't find now.

But what I recall is that using the Easy twin tub spinner washing machine was something of a challenge. It worked somewhat like a wringer washer without the wringer. The wash tub had to be filled from the laundry sink faucet, clothes and detergent put in the tub and the agitator activated by a lever. Washing could be timed up to fifteen minutes. After the wash cycle, you had the option of draining the wash water and refilling the tub with rinse water, or putting the wet, soapy laundry in the spinner and returning the wash water spun out of the laundry to the wash tub to use for another load of laundry. Interesting. The spinner could also be used to rinse the laundry by having rinse water flow over the laundry while it is spinning and then draining that water into the laundry sink. It was complicated, but it could be done. But I could see why my mother in law didn't want to use that machine. There were so many dials and knobs and levers and water inlet and outlet hoses and mechanisms, all of which involved complexity that seemed outrageous and over the top, that it was much easier just to wash laundry by hand. Easy! Well, that was the washing machine brand name. It wasn't so easy to do, however. This is a different video, but it's also more complete:



These new and very popular twin tub portable washing machines are similar, though not quite so complicated to use. There was a whole spate of similar machines made in the '50s and '60s and mostly sold abroad. Few of them made their way to the US after fully automatic washers became relatively standardized and priced so that average families could afford them.

We had a fully automatic washing machine (Kenmore) by 1954. Most households I knew of at the time did as well. Never looked back until washing machines were crapified both by regulation and by manufacturers' tinkering so they didn't wash very well and would break earlier -- after a few years' use rather than the decades washers once could be relied on -- and they be nearly impossible to fix. And doubled or tripled the price at the same time. Cool, eh? What could go wrong, right?

Buyers revolted. Looked for alternatives. And they found them.

Portable twin tub washing machines are one answer. There are many others. 

For a couple of hundred dollars and about an hour of fussing with the drain hose replacement, I now have two functioning twin tub portable washing machines. As well as a partially non-functioning full-sized Maytag. 

Wash day should be a cinch!

An UPDATE: Harrumph. Well, new drain hose worked the first time just fine. Second time? Not on your life. Pinholes, approximately the whole length of the drain hose. They only showed up when the drain pump struggled to get the water raised to the height of the sink. And I noticed, too, that a number of these pinholes were covered with transparent tape. Interesting, eh? I'm sure, then, that the seller or manufacturer knew of the problem and literally tried to cover it up. Not a good look. 

Because we have two twin tub washers, both with new drain hoses, I tried the other one with the same laundry. No leaks. No fountaining of drain water from pinholes. Don't know whether that will last. But it is... interesting.

[Now the microwave we got a year ago to replace one we used for almost 15 years has given out. Just like that. Appliances these days....!]








Friday, February 10, 2023

The Rigidity of the Rectangle

Since I don't/can't get around much these days and haven't been able to go much of anywhere or do much of anything outside the house and doctor/dentist visits, I've taken to vicarious rambles at art shows -- LA, NYC, Basel (Switzerland and Miami Beach) and various others presented on line, including Sotheby's and Christie's auctions. I can put them up on my teevee and have a grand time for hours and hours. 

I really miss some of the galleries in Santa Fe but oh well, that's how it goes. Enjoy it while you can.

Ms. Ché has been talking about going to Europe this fall. It would be her first and probably only trip to Europe, and she figures she better do it now while she can still get around -- bless her -- and has the verve and energy needed. She's got an itinerary that includes what can only be described as an "Art Tour," to Paris, Giverny, Amsterdam, London and possibly Ireland. She has friends in London who are eager to host her there. She thought about Florence, Venice and Rome and then considered the hordes of tourists even in November and crossed those cities off her list. Vicarious tours will have to do. 

She's very specific about where she wants to go and what she wants to see -- Van Gogh, Monet, Seurat, Renoir, Constable, Turner -- and where she wants to spend her "play time." She's been recruiting friends to go with her since I'm not in any shape to do it, sadly. I think she's got a couple who are more than interested.

At any rate, we'll see. She's working on it. And when she sets her mind to something, it happens. I would say "we can't afford it," but pffft. We can, and she knows it. Just means we can't spend money on something else, that's all.

While vicariously touring art shows on the teevee, I've been pondering the "vocabularies" -- the absolute rigidity of form and often content. And I've been looking for "signs of life."

So much of what we consider "art" is absolutely confined to the rigidity of the rectangle. Artists try to break out of it and for the most part can't. The galleries and museums will only show rectangles with paint daubs within the confines of the shape. Only. Exceptions might include circles or ovals in multiples arranged in -- rectangles.

The form is so absolute that anything that breaks it is jarring and feels unpleasant. 

Content is similarly constricted. It must be abstract, nothingness, shapes, decoration, or emptiness. Representational art is most often confined to expressive portraiture or passive eroticism -- which must feature the feminine form almost exclusively. Male eroticism is a category not typically shown even now.

I look for signs of life even within the rigid constraints on form and content, and it's there, now and then, but mostly what I've seen are relentless copies of one another, artistic plagiarism if you will, all in an effort to attract the same buyers, the same 20 or 200 buyers who want the same things.

This rigidity probably goes back to the Renaissance, no? The Medici and other Florentines demanded X from the artists and got it, over and over again, And they never changed or grew or demanded anything else, so they never got anything else, and now neither do we.

It's all the same, over and over and over again. Some better rendered than others, some more or less provocative, but mostly never deviating from what the artists are told (yes they are) the buyers "want."

Sigh.

Years ago -- how long, maybe close to fifty now -- I did a set design for a 1920s play. I consciously wanted to evoke the art of the time, so I made the background into hommages to Kandinsky, Klee and Miro. I had great fun painting the flats in back, airbrushing them into my interpretations of well-known paintings by these artists, not copies but renderings "in the style of..." I used a slide projector to project photos onto a large screen behind all this, some of them my own "in the style of" Man Ray for example, others lifted from contemporary magazines and books. Again, trying to evoke the art of the era.

The rest of the sets were artistic interpretations of the times. We even had a car made into a rolling art show. The whole thing was great fun to do and extraordinary to view. Much more interesting than the play -- at least to me and some of the audience.

I never did anything like it again. Once done, I didn't think it needed to be repeated, but in the art world, artists must repeat whatever "sells."

The market is confined, and the market wants "X" not "Y" or "Z" but "X" and only "X" and if you want to sell, that's what you do. Period. End of discussion. 

That's why you see so much the same, so much that appears to be someone else's work, so much that has no real "life" to it, but is done solely to please a "market" -- ie: galleries that sell to a select client list, not really to the public at all.

Artists have tried to find ways to break free of this constraint. Some are successful; most are not. It's struggle enough to create the work; selling or creating a market is best left to someone else, no? That's a whole other struggle that can be just as consuming if not more so. Leave it to someone who knows the business.

I won't go into the nature of that business here, but let's just say it's... special. Not for the faint of heart.

I think that has to do mostly with the nature of the clients who buy art. These people are after something in particular, not unlike Renaissance buyers, and have little or no patience for something outside that rigorous, rectangular box.

They want what they want, and that's it.

They usually get it, too. 

So many artists groups in the 20th Century tried to counter this demon of empty sameness with mixed success. Ultimately what they had to rely on was full time jobs teaching because their work didn't sell, or rather didn't sell enough for them to make a living.

That is a continuing problem.

If an artist is not able to sell his or her work, then what are they to do? Online opportunities have really expanded the market for art and democratized it to some extent. That's a good thing, I think. But it is still marginal. 

Part of the problem, I've long felt, is that for the most part, teachers don't teach technique, so artists are largely left to their own devices to figure out how to do something, how to accomplish their objectives with the materials at hand. Some are able to rely on one another for technical advice, how to do something. But often every artist they know is in the same boat trying to figure out technique on their own.

Why this is so -- still - is historical going back to the abstract expressionist movement that denied the necessity for and authority of technique and technical expertise. If you're working in that style, technical proficiency is probably not useful or desirable though the style itself requires its own technical proficiency, and if you're not working in that style, you are definitely left to flounder while you hope to figure out some way to do whatever it is you hope to.

I had to figure out how to airbrush on my own. No one who knew had the time or inclination to teach me, and there was no internet at the time to show me what to do. The few instructions available were... opaque. If you didn't already know airbrush technique, they made little sense. But gradually, I got the hang of it to do what I intended but not to do anything that airbrush artists were noted for then and now. There's no way I could accomplish that kind of subtlety and detail. But that was OK since I wasn't trying for it. But what of somebody who did want to know the ins and outs of airbrush technique?

I have purchased a number of soft pastel works -- portraits and dogs -- that are very delicately and realistically rendered. They might be considered "commercial" in that they are widely produced on commission for sale to interested clients, by artists who are technically proficient. I've done quite a few works in soft pastel, but I am not at all technically proficient. What I do is rather cartoonish, really. A portrait of Ms. got me more than one sideways glance as I rendered her hair orange and did not try for a realistic rendering. It is definitely "cartoonish" and is definitely a portrait. I rather like it and so does she, but some others who have seen it scratch their heads. Other pastel works include landscapes, abstractions, and one of my favorites: "Hommage à Mark Rothko (unfinished)" an orange oops, red square on an orange background, with a little flip on one corner of the orange red square on an orange background. "What?" There. That's it.

And so on.

I've taken to kind of studying my own works because I do them in a sort of frenzy, almost a trance, and it may be a long time before I can actually look at them critically. "Is this any good? Or have I wasted time and materials again?" Hard to say.

And I realize the vast bulk of my work is costume renderings and set designs, hundreds and hundreds of them, some of it rather nice to look at, but none of it intended to be "Art." 

Come to think of it, all these renderings are rectangular. Hm. The rigidity!

I'll close now...






Thursday, February 9, 2023

Um, "Royalty"

The other day, for no good reason, I was thinking about my visit to the King Tut exhibit at the De Young in San Francisco some time in the mid '70s. I went with "the wife" (Ms. Ché) and her mother, "Gramma." I was very excited to get tickets as it seemed to be sold out. We drove from the Central Valley, at least 2 hours, and parked, I think, on Fulton St. It was whatever the street was behind the museum. And we only had to walk a little way.

Almost as soon as we entered the exhibit, I began to experience an abdominal cramp. Ultimately, I only saw the famous gold funerary mask and a few of the pretty things left in the tomb before I was in such severe pain that I had to leave. I sat on a bench just outside the doors, then lay down on the lawn in front of the museum, groaning. Maybe an hour or so later, Ms. Ché and her mother emerged from the museum and found me outside. I was still in a lot of pain, but slowly managed to get up and hobble back to the car. Thank goodness it was close. We had planned a number of other stops in San Francisco to eat and to shop, but we decided it would be best to drive home instead. I don't remember whether I drove or she did, but more than likely Ms. Ché did while I groaned in the backseat.

I considered this little aborted adventure one of my few brushes with Royalty, in this case the long dead King Tut -- Tutankhamun. I had a book that was published about that time -- still have it somewhere I'm pretty sure -- that detailed the search for and discovery of the tomb and pictured nearly everything that was found in it most thoroughly and in many cases beautifully. I haven't seen anything like it published since. I wasn't able to enjoy or much appreciate the exhibit at the De Young, but the book filled in most of what I missed. The experience wasn't the same, however.

The abdominal pain was nearly gone by the time we got home, and I didn't have another pain like it for many years. I don't remember ever having a pain like it previously, either. So I still ascribe it to the Curse.

Later that year, or perhaps the year previously or the year after, but still in the mid seventies, I remember lining up on a blacktop driveway with about 20 others working where I was in a little town named Solvang in the Santa Ynez Valley awaiting the arrival of Queen Margrethe and Prince Henrik who were touring the area and were planning on spending a few minutes visiting and having lunch with local dignitaries. I don't know how long we waited, joking about tugging our forelocks and whatnot, being lectured on protocol, etc.

Shortly, the motorcade arrived, led by two motorcycle policemen. The Queen and her consort were being driven in what I recall was a white Cadillac 4 door sedan, but it may have been a Mercedes. What it wasn't was a limousine. There were flags of Denmark and the US on the fenders. The car pulled up to the driveway, and the Queen got out. She was wearing a camel colored coat over a blush pink silk dress, though it may have been sky blue. She had a wide brim camel colored hat on at a jaunty angle, wore white gloves, pearls, and simple beige pumps. She carried a matching purse. As she got out of the car, the small crowd cheered, and she waved. The Prince got out of the other side of the car and came around to meet her. He was dressed in a plain suit, gray I think, and he was very handsome in a Scandinavian sort of way. The Queen, for her part, appeared very young and pretty. She waved and waited a moment while a couple of functionaries appeared from somewhere to lead them to the reception line. 

The Queen said "How do you do?" to everyone as she passed by and shook hands with perhaps five or six of those in the line. I don't recall whether I was one of them, though I can recall the feel of a gloved hand on my own. More likely, she shook hands with the missus who was standing next to me. I think she might have attempted a curtsy, but if she did, it was more in jest than not. 

Prince Henrik for his part followed the Queen at several paces behind, said "How do you do" and shook hands with everyone, thanked people for coming, and seemed quite jolly. The Queen stopped and spoke with the half dozen or so dignitaries and then waved to the rest of us and went inside. We didn't see her again.

For an encounter with royalty, this one was very brief, somewhat surprising, and pleasant. I remember we went to have lunch and chatter about it, then went back to work. 

In October, 2021, I revisited that driveway in Solvang. It was cracked and worn and lined with porta-potties and construction materials. It seemed so much smaller, shorter and narrower than I remembered. Had the Danish royal family really walked this path? I guess they must have, as we stood there in a line, tugging our forelocks and being asked/not asked "How do you do?"

Maybe a decade later, Queen Elizabeth paid a call on George Deukmejian, then Governor of California, in Sacramento. I don't recall whether Prince Philip was with her or not. We'd invited her to visit our workplace a few blocks away from the Capitol, but the Palace politely declined. We walked over to the Capitol to see the Queen, and all I recall is a white gloved hand waving a Royal Wave in the backseat of a black Cadillac limousine as it sped by and then the sight of the same gloved hand waving from the balcony of the Capitol behind thick bullet-proof glass. We didn't actually see Herself at all or if we did, it was only the briefest of glimpses.

I think she was wearing a blue dress and hat.

There was a lesson about these monarchs and their manifestations that we could learn from. They present a very carefully, indeed artfully conceived and prepared facade, rather like the stunning gold mask of King Tut, and they may -- or may not -- be pleasant enough when in the presence of the peasantry, but they don't deal with us rabble at all. No, they have People for that. The ones they deal with more or less directly are the "Dignitaries," the Important People, Those In Charge. Or, contrariwise, those with obscene wealth.

No one else except their staff.

It's been this way for as long as there has been royalty, monarchs and such.We the Rabble sometimes get to look on as They pass by, even now and then see them greet the lowly, but they are not really dealing with us at an official or human level. We are at best useful props, but mostly we're not even there.

This sense of "notness" when dealing with the lower orders is commonplace among many categories of the Upper Crust. The rejection of any contact with People Who Don't Matter is not unheard of. But usually it's a matter of separating and isolating oneself as much as possible while being... um, "polite" when contact can't be avoided. Always maintaining one's distance, keeping the lowly at bay.

Though Tut's tomb was raided and looted by Carter and Carnarvon back in the day, there's a kind of democratization in the presentation of the loot to the public. Anyone who could get a ticket could see the exhibits that have traveled much of the world, and the Egyptian Museum in Cairo showed much of the tomb contents for many, many years. 

While he was alive and at his funeral, his person and tomb contents were not for the view of the People. They were a Mystery.

And that is ultimately what all of those who rule us wish to be. Monarchs must have a public presence, but it's a mask. They hide behind the gloved hands and the "How do you do's". What else can they do? What should or could we do about it?

After a while, we might begin to understand how much they loathe us.

Then what?

My mother liked to tell a tale that she was "a direct descendant of Marie Antoinette." I never knew where she got this notion, but when she said it, she adopted a very aristocratic bearing, head high, nose up, chin forward, and spoke in a nasal pitch that was her imitation of posh. No, she wasn't an aristocrat, far from it, though she tried to marry into what she thought were aristocratic families -- well, for America -- and largely failed. But she said her mother's mother was independently wealthy and her mother inherited a fair chunk of money when her mother died. My mother's stepfather, may he rot in hell, then spent it on hairbrained schemes: a motor court and filling station on the Redwood Highway in Willits and then on a very bogus gold mine in Nevada that went belly up when the two "partners" took off with the cash leaving her stepfather to hold the bag, and he just barely escaped going to jail for fraud --- even though he was the main one defrauded. So he lost all the money, his and his wife's inheritance, and moved back to California where he went to work at the Mare Island Naval Shipyard, while his wife, my mother's mother, wasted away from untreated stomach cancer -- they were Christian Scientists -- and died in agony a few months later. My mother never forgave her stepfather whom she blamed for her mother's death and for losing her inheritance.'

Much later through Ancestry.com, I learned what may have been part of the source of her claim of Royal descent. My mother's biological father was from a semi-prominent Indiana family that claimed descent from noble Huguenot refugees who settled in Scotland in the 17th century. That was their claim -- passed on to me through a cousin I never knew about who got it from a descendant of my mother's uncle still in Indiana.

I never found a shred of evidence that the story of descent from Huguenot refugees was true, but there was plenty of evidence of rebel Scottish blood coursing through the veins of that family.

Scots and English. Natural enemies united in the United States, raising six sons, maybe not so happily, but surviving and only losing one son to an accidental gunshot wound, and then, of course, losing their black-sheep son -- my mother's father -- to an accident (or maybe not an accident) that cut him in half in a St. Louis railyard when my mother was five years old. 

So it went. My mother was not raised in poverty by any means, but she never had the social status she believed she deserved. She didn't know poverty until she married for the first time. He was a gas station attendant working for her step father -- who always ensured she had "enough" and even gave her a new car in the middle of the Depression. Later her husband became an oil jobber -- selling petroleum products to stations up and down California -- and later still, he claimed to be a vice president for sales at Chevron oil. Was it true? I don't know. But it hardly mattered. He and my mother divorced in 1941, and she struggled for years until she got work at the air base and met my father, scion of what she thought was a rich family in Iowa. Well, that saga will have to wait. 

But this story is already too long. And I'm happy to say the only "royalty" I've found in my ancestry is the possibly bogus story of a Native American "Princess Snowflower" ancestress on my mother's side (she knew nothing of her) and deep in the past, complicated relationships with the Drake family in England. Sir Francis Drake's uncle Sir John was apparently an ancestor, and then there were threads through the British royals through him and his ancestors so deep in the mists of time, Camelot may just reappear in mystery and majesty. 

So it goes....



Sunday, February 5, 2023

The Wedding

Friends of ours are getting married -- after nine years together -- in Colorado in October. There is much excitement over it, and much family togetherness being developed during the interim. The bride and groom are both "half" -- one parent Hispanic, one Anglo -- but both were raised by the Hispanic parent. 

Both are artistic. She's a crack fiction writer, specializing in young adult-ish, fantasy, horror, and humor. She's a terrific storyteller. He's a visual artist focusing on graphics, illustration, and -- on his own -- contemporary fine art painting and portraiture.

They're working on a joint project, a fantasy screenplay they hope to sell to Disney. 

They're young... well, under thirty, barely. They figure they better get married now, cause they aren't getting any younger, and if they intend to have children, they better get to work on it. 

Both, interestingly, were only-children, so they didn't have brothers and sisters to contend and compete with. Both were spoiled rotten in my view, which wasn't necessarily a bad thing in their case. One of their parents in both cases worked for decades in public service and they are about to retire with fairly fat pensions. That's a blessing, one that is increasingly rare in the hardscrabble existence laid out for our collective future by Our Betters.

They live in Santa Fe, have lived their whole lives there, but are eager to move somewhere "better". They consider Santa Fe dull and insular and unable to provide them with the kind of creative lives they want to live. Where would they go? Denver. Los Angeles. San Francisco. Seattle. Somewhere "out of here."

Somewhere where people ("who matter") appreciate what young people have to offer and bring forth from their imaginations and creativity.

That's not, they say, Santa Fe.

I'm in no position to argue. While us old fogies see Santa Fe as a brilliant hotbed of arts and creativity, we don't live there, and likely wouldn't under nearly any circumstance. It is tight and insular and often backward looking. Instead, we live way out in the wilderness, where we don't have to conform to anyone's "idea" of happy retirement and we feel we have the freedom/liberty to do and be whatever moves us. In Santa Fe, we know there is a code of conformity to one's status, wealth (or lack thereof) and position in life that cannot move even a millimeter from where you've been, though you may have moved thousands of miles from wherever you lived before to settle in Santa Fe.

Out here in the wilderness, there is the liberty to do and be whatever you want and live in any fashion that appeals to you, limited only by the absence of an infrastructure to support certain objectives and ways of life. Well, if we didn't have an income to get by with as retired old fogies, our lives here would be rough, maybe impossible. If we didn't have decent health care insurance, one or the other of us, if not both, would have been dead long ago. If we weren't able to find and stay in a home of our own out here, it's hard to imagine we'd live as well in a rental -- if there were one. 

So in many ways, we're lucky and grateful.

Our young friends planning to get married in Colorado in the fall reject Santa Fe -- where they've lived all their lives -- as an appropriate long term home for them and their children (if they have any) because it's too hidebound and insular. It's very difficult for creative efforts to get out of Santa Fe.

From our perspective, that's true anywhere, but they have a far more intimate understanding of the difficulty than we ever could.

But then I think of Meow Wolf, which we've never quite figured out, that began in Santa Fe and has become a multi-million dollar arts/curiosity enterprise that has expanded to a number of other cities in the West and appears to be rock solid financially and artistically remarkable if not high-end brilliant. It doesn't represent High Art, but it is filled with New Art, experimental whatevers, and immersive arts experiences. I'm told, though I'm not quite sure, that it provides a handsome living to dozens of creatives throughout the West, something that is difficult to achieve anywhere. 

It's one way Santa Fe has tried to reinvent itself from a rather staid -- and let's face it, segregated -- traditional Art Market -- selling high end High Art by nationally and internationally "known" artists in expensive galleries along Canyon Road and scattered throughout the city, but creating not much at all and largely ignoring much of what is locally created -- to a potential hotbed of cutting/leading edge contemporary creativity.

Our friends could stay and be part of what's emerging, but they say they'd rather not. There's "something better" out there, and they'd rather join that. We don't necessarily agree, having had a good deal of experience in Los Angeles, San Francisco and Seattle (not Denver, though, only a superficial long-ago taste of what might be coming). 

The wedding is in Golden, Colorado, in October, and we've been told to "wear autumn colors." Forbidden is black on black which has been my "going to events" outfit for a while now -- not that I've been able to go to Events for quite some time. 

So now I have to think about and plan a whole new outfit. That'll be fun and a change of pace. I get some of my clothes direct from India. I think I'll start looking there. Heh.