BACK TO THE BRUSHES - My Old Friends

Train Sketch for Painting 

           I've been kind of  artsy-busy the last while, of course it doesn't take much for me to be busy these days. I'm actually working on a fairly large (2'x4') painting for a friend. Since my eyesight is impaired and my hands tremble a touch (no, I haven't been hitting the sauce, can't remember the last time I had a drink) drawing all the intricate details of a train can be very difficult and the logos have to be accurate as well. Automobiles, trains, planes,B ships, buildings and anything else that has a lot of straight lines has never been high on my list to paint. However, over the years, I've had to draw or paint a lot of those man-made objects. People, animals, seascapes and landscapes are more to my liking; I tend to lean towards Nature  and nudes too, just something adorable about how a woman is put together. The thing about man-made objects, they have to be more precise but in Nature, if I add more leaves to a tree or take out a lake or a mountain in the background, no one will be the wiser. However, if I'm drawing or painting a particular person or pet, if the end result doesn't look like them, then the painting is most likely a failure and I won't get paid. And speaking of portraits, one of the first ones I was commissioned to paint was an old rabbi who had a long white beard. Apparently the old rabbi's son was now old and both his sons wanted the painting when he died, so he was hoping I could reproduce it. It was quite a challenge mixing the same colours and then trying to match the brush strokes as close as possible. As it turned out, when I had finished the painting, I put them side by side on a shelf and enjoyed his complement. He said, "I can't tell which one is the original." 

          Physically, there are a lot of things wrong with me, and wouldn't you know it, my back went out while I was drawing the train. I didn't think it was possible to throw one's back out while sitting down but I'm living proof it can be done. Nothing like having 5 compressed discs and they're arthritic too, so the added pain could put a whole new meaning to this painting. What with the poor eyesight, trembling hands and a screwed up back, this realistic painting could easily become an abstract. Ah, the life of an artist! I've read quite a few biographies concerning well-known artists and discovered, if they lived long enough, many of the maladies that I have, they also experienced. The one thing about life, no matter how long we live, get ancient, wrinkles on the wrinkles, lines so deep they could have been used as trenches during WWI,  nobody gets out of here alive do they?

          I find it odd to be this incredibly weak after being so physically active, not supposed to lift anything over 5 lbs. So as I toddle about the yard or through the house I see a lot of things I'd like to do, especially fix or mend. I also wouldn't mind getting some more little cluckers, nothing like fresh eggs in the morning. Now, some people I know would love to simply lie around and watch Netflix or a TV program, but I have a difficult time with that sort of lifestyle. Fortunately, since I'm an artistic sort of guy, I'm still able to keep myself somewhat busy, even while in a prone position. My idea of the horizontal position is...no...better not go there - chuckle, chuckle. 

Our Hippie Hangout 

          Sarah and I are off to Fredericton this weekend to try and sell some of our artistic hippie-type art and although I'm excited about the event and spending time in our hippie-trailer, I'm a little worried concerning my health. Like one of my blogs mentioned, going for a crap can be a little unnerving, nothing like a warm turd sliding down one's leg if I can't get to a washroom in a real hurry. Also, my energy level is somewhere well below sea level, you know, the place where the strangest looking creatures dwell and sunlight can't reach. In the not too distant past, a simple trip to town usually set me back two or three days - besides some extra pain, I just seem to fade away. Hopefully all will be well, and if not, at least if I get worn out, I can go for a lie down in the trailer. And how about this for an extra bonus! A woman who has been following Trip 'n' Daisy on Facebook wants to see our trailer and has offered a place to park it - now, how great is that? And hey, if anyone is heading to Fredericton or is already there, do drop into our booth, check it out, spend a little cash or at least say hi - cheers, eh! 

COLOURFUL MEMORIES

Sample of Haiku poetry page

          Quite a few people had quite the giggle from my last post; all about poop. I had quite the chuckle too as I wrote it. Not sure what I should write about now but as long as the fingers are on the keyboard, something usually comes to mind.

          I've been busy putting a small poetry book together, which I mainly wrote while lying on my back. Still recovering from the cancer treatments - don't seem to know where all that energy I used to have has taken off to - greener pastures I expect. There are 18 haiku poems, which I have illustrated and they are  based mainly on the hippie era. The booklet (5x4.25") is small enough to fit in an envelope and mail to a friend or to an old hippie who hasn't faded away yet.  The price is $7.50, about the same price as a Hallmark card. I've also enlarged each poem (8.5x11") so they can be easily coloured and the price is $7.50 plus postage. I haven't finished the cover yet but the title is Trippin' With Trip (alter ego) Haiku for You. The booklet will be in full-colour and I'll be using pencil crayons for the illustrations, which should be fun. Besides the booklet, Sarah and I are both busy crafting hippie-stuff such as jewelry, macrame, rugs, etc. We are hoping our joint efforts will help pay a bit towards our upcoming road-trip.

          Now that I've made my sales pitch, it might be interesting to know that the pencil crayons I'm using, many of them stubs, were given to me by my dad almost 65 years ago.  And that my friends, is the reason I haven't thrown away the stubs, which aren't even usable now - call me a sentimentalist - but every time I use them, I think about my dad and the day he gave them to me.

            It's a hot Vancouver-day in August and it's summer vacation - a great time for a boy - no school! I'm pedaling like hell down hill through a park with my friend sitting in front of me on the bar. We're on our way to knock off a penny-gum-ball machine (it seems whoever owned it left the key to the cash box in the lock) and I've had that very key in my pocket for about two weeks, which let me tell you, had been burning a hole in it. We're laughing and giggling about the upcoming heist and that's the last I remember of that bicycle ride.

          By the condition of the bent and twisted front wheel and spokes, the best I could come up with, is that my friend accidentally put his front foot through the wheel and the bike came to a serious halt. I must have flown over his head, landed head-first on the pavement and was knocked unconscious, which might help explain some of the weird things I've done over the years. Luckily, a nurse, who must have seen the accident, came to my rescue. When I came to, I bawled like a baby; the right side of my face and ear were really battered and I was bleeding like a stuck pig.  I was rushed to the hospital and I was there until evening when my folks returned from Sidney, Vancouver Island. The worried expression on their faces told me that they really cared for me; I was not a pretty sight. 

          Needless to say, since I had a slight concussion, two big black-eyes and had to lay in bed for a couple of days, this was not my idea of a fun summer vacation. And that's when my dad gave me a book How to Draw and a full set of Pismacolor pencils, which would have cost a lot of money in those days.  So, here I am at age 77, lying in bed fairly often, except for a different reason and I'm using the pencil crayons again, like I have so many times over the years.  Like the bicycle accident, I'm still thankful to be alive, able to draw, paint and write stories and poetry. However, it's still a challenge since I've gone half blind in my right eye and the other one isn't far behind. (Waiting for the cataract operation, which should clear things up, or at least that's what the doc said.)

          Actually, when I think back, those pencil crayons have earned me quite a bit of dough professionally and it was good to know that my dad was still alive when I went to work as an animator and background artist and then on to be an art director for a TV studio. Because up until then, I'd been a wee bit on the wild side and had been hanging with a seedier bunch of so called friends. I'm thankful I didn't go down that road too far and who knows, maybe those pencil crayons had a lot to do with it - cheers, eh!

WHAT THE POOP?????

        My wife and I are planning to trip on over to Nanaimo, Vancouver Island this summer, via our truck and "hippie-hangout" trailer - don't have a confirmed date at this time. I'm still in the healing process - some days I feel good and sometimes, to be honest, I feel like shit. And speaking of shit, not a particular topic that I care to think about, much less write about, but my friend Sherrie and I had a belly full of laughs today regarding that disgusting word.

          I was telling her about my rectal problems and that when I have to hit the toilet, for a shuffling old man, I have to shuffle a whole lot faster because if I don't, I'm liable to fill my pants with that wondrous movement (not Beethoven's last movement) but my own stinky discard. To be honest, I'm not sure that I'm up to a long road trip. Of course, we could fly but I have some serious doubts regarding that way of transportation too. 

          Imagine this scenario: I'm sitting on the jet, preferably on the aisle seat across from the shitter, when suddenly I have to make a dash for it. My wife says I could wear a diaper, which are apparently 'designer' apparel and I have to say, for a 77 year old man, I look hot in a snugly-fitting diaper, well...actually they make my private parts sweat - ewww! 

          Can you imagine yourself sitting next to me, or for that matter, on the same flight and I don't make it to the 'little boy's room'? The thing about a diaper, besides I don't care for the idea of sitting in my marvelous brown creation; it may contain my poop but not the delightful odor. Besides people gasping for breath, quite possibly asking for a parachute to disembark, if it reaches the pilot's cabin; what then? 

          I can just hear the captain announcing, "We appear to be under a terrorist attack. But don't worry, our door is locked and we're wearing gas masks. We don't think the gas is too dangerous but for those of you in distress please press the big red button above your seat and an oxygen mask will magically appear. Oh, and before I forget, the crew and I welcome you aboard." Did I forget to mention that I crapped my drawers while the plane was taking off and everyone has to be seated and wearing their seat belts? 

          As much as I may not be physically up to the road trip, I'm finding it more appealing than flying. At least we'll have our own washroom and if I can't make it that far...well... there's always the side of the road. Hmm...that wouldn't be very good for a passing motorist if they get a bird's eye view of my magnificent bare rear end; may cause a serious accident - have to think about that one.

          For those of you who have read this far, haven't been put off by the subject matter - excrement al a mode - perhaps you could leave a comment, letting me know which would be the best form of transportation or better yet, if you have similar bodily problems and have traveled via trailer or jet (keep in mind I have to switch planes either in Toronto, Montreal or Ottawa) that would be even better. Oops, I was going to write more, but nature calls - time to shuffle off - cheers, eh!       

AN APPLE A DAY AND STINKY SKUNK

       
           Lately, it's been quite a battle health-wise. Many doctors and nurses armed with long pointy needles, catheters and miles of plastic tubes have probed, poked and pricked this old guy - perhaps I can join a circus as a real live human pincushion. I wouldn't really have to do anything, except sit on a comfy cushion and allow people to insert needles into my body like an acupuncturist. I've had cameras inserted up my rectum and penis and it surprises me how they get a digital 35mm camera with a telescopic lens up those tiny, tight orifices without getting them stuck. 
          A few days ago, I had an appointment with an eye-doctor and he didn't do any of the things above, just pried my stubborn eyelids open and then squeezed some drops into my eyes, which stung for a short while. He didn't have to tell me I'm half blind, I already knew that - I've got bruises on my shins from bumping into things and there is a definite wobble to this old man's shuffling footsteps as I hold my hands out in front of me to keep from walking into walls, stairs or closed doors. Apparently, after he squeezed a small bottle of eye-drops into my eyes to cause my pupils to expand and the stinging sensation had stopped, I was informed that I have cataracts on both eyes and since the right one is the worst, he'll be operating on it first. He says there's a 99% chance that the operation will be a success but because one of the medications I'm on could be a problem, it might be a bit dodgy. Without taking the necessary precautions - using a sharp blade or a laser to peel off the cataracts, it would not be a good time to blink.
            There's a stinky skunk hanging around the place, well actually, he thought this was the Hotel Hilton because he was residing under the house all winter until my wife was able to stuff up the hole with chunks of firewood.  Unfortunately, since a family of raccoons and a pesky porcupine thought it would make a suitable abode for them, he'd fend them off with his special perfume - it's enough to make your eyes water when he's primed and fires - whew! Stinky Skunk has moved under one of the other buildings and it's amazing how unafraid he is - just turns his back and lifts his tail as soon as we get near him. 
           And while I'm on the subject of skunks, thought you might get a chuckle about a poem I once wrote. It was titled Spunky the Skunk, the words escape me now, but I wrote it for a TV kid's show when I was the art director. The lady who hosted the show, which was live, had no idea what the poem was all about and it wasn't until she started reading it and showing the kids some illustrations I'd drawn that I suddenly felt a wee bit scared and thought I might lose my job. Although the poem sounded all cute like a nursery rhyme, it was really about a skunk and other forest animals getting stoned on pot.
          Well...that's enough information regarding my bodily orifices, eyes and nose, although I could mention...hmm...better not - time to hit the toilet - cheers, eh!

BEING OLD IS A GOOD THING

Photo of me at 75 - don't look a day over 90 - right

          Here it is; April already and spring hasn't even arrived yet. In my earlier years, just a boy actually, I can remember swimming near the end of March (in Vancouver, BC at Trout Lake - why they called it that I'll never know because there were no trout, only catfish). However, here, living near the base of Green Mountain, the nearby lake, which is about a ten minute leisurely walk in the summer is now a slog, up to your thighs in snow, tripping and sliding on some bare ice, and, if you forgot the ice auger to cut yourself a hole, good luck diving in and going for a swim - jumping up and down like a kid throwing a temper-tantrum or butting your head against the ice, won't so much as crack it, most likely split your head wide open, so I advise you not to try that. Even a polar bear would have difficulty getting through the ice in search of seals. Oh yeah, almost forgot, there are no seals in the lake this time of year, they don't arrive until the summer and then they're wearing fluorescent bikinis to disguise their wobbly bits. Not being able to swim, if you're a high-diver training for the Olympics, all you have to do here is climb a tall tree and then dive off, do a triple flip, maybe spread your cheeks a wee bit to slow down your descent  and then, plow head first into the deep snow - even an out of control belly-flop wouldn't hurt a 450 lb. man the snow is so deep. 
         I used to enjoy swimming when I was around 45, could easily swim up to a mile or two. However, today, even wading in shallow water is a problem even if there is still a little ice left on the lake. Walking is slow two, if you could call it walking - I actually call it the old-man-shuffle. But hey, I can do one hell of a jig as long as I don't lift my feet - just sway, nod my head to the beat of the music and have a lot of arm action - of course I still have to be careful I don't totter and then tumble face down on the dance floor. 

           I have no idea concerning the average age of the people who read this blog but for those of you who think they're just getting old, are old or are ancient and decrepit, don't you just love this age. Imagine, some bullshit guy, most likely an overpaid advertising exec came up with the slogan, "the 70's are now the new 50's" (what a crock)! Have you noticed all the old people with dyed hair, - the only part that looks young is their hair - the rest of their wrinkly, saggy body is heading south faster than a Mexican getting chased by a Texan armed with a 12 gauge shot gun. And the reason many of us old people are hunched over, it's not because we have bad backs, we've got 3 lbs, of makeup on our faces to fill in the wrinkles - that's a lot of weight for an old turkey-neck to hold up. I was once walking along a street and I saw this woman coming towards me, her long blonde hair blowing in the breeze. I was beginning to get a little excited until she was almost in front of me, her body looked as if it had been pried into a girdle and her face looked as if she had tried using it to open a 45 gallon can of oil. But who knows, in the dark, in bed, she may have seemed like Marilyn Monroe if she had lived to be 105 old.

          Now, some of us have been told they look younger than we are. Me, for instance, have been told that I look ten years younger. That's funny because I'm 77 and if I look 67, I still look freaking old. Now kids, if we're over 30, they tell us we look old, which is probably more the truth because when I hit the age of 40, I wouldn't have been able to keep up to myself when I was 20. But hey, being old is a good thing, we can wear our wrinkles like medals -we're not yet looking up at the daisies - still survivors...cheers, eh!  

          

THE CAPTAIN, MATE AND SIREN OF THE SEA

Dreamer II anchored in Desolation Sound

          Although my life seems adrift at the moment, like a castaway floating on the sea of life, not sure that I'll ever see land again, it doesn't hurt to keep on paddling. It would be great to have a distant mountain top poke its head above the horizon and give me direction or a sea bird dip its wing and point the way. However, even the waves are flat and soundless; the silence at times unbearable. 

          Shortly before I married Sarah, I lived on a sailboat for almost 25 years. Her name was Dreamer II, and I loved that name right from the start because I've always been a 'dreamer too'. Living either on the sea or by the sea for most of my life, to be honest, it still seems a bit strange anchored to 50 acres of semi-wilderness land. Although the wind can almost be as fierce (actually not that long ago, I was blown over by a gust); the land does not ebb and flow, nor does it gently move up and down. 

            I'm not sure that anyone loses their affinity for the sea, especially when they have sailed; no loud annoying engine noise, only the sound of the wind filling the sails and the bow cutting through the waves. And, when the land dips out of sight, only sky and water in view, the feel of the Earth's heartbeat as the rollers rise and fall with every breath is a very humbling experience. Realizing this living planet, our only home, could suddenly rear up like a mangy dog and shake all us fleas off as easily as the spray from a gigantic wave crashing against the rocks, we shouldn't be taking Mother Nature for granted.  

          While living on my sailboat, I painted seascapes and wrote about the sea. Although I really enjoy writing stories, I've also written a shit-load of poetry. The poem you're about to read if you've read this far was inspired by a sailor's yarn: 
         About to set sail across the vast Pacific Ocean and searching for a crew member, a friend he knew volunteered. At first, everything was working out fine but then things started getting a little weird. His friend told him that he was going to marry a mermaid. At first he thought it was funny, until one day, when he went outside to take his turn at the helm, his friend had vanished. Since the wind was mild and the sea wasn't rough, it wasn't likely he had fallen overboard, so the question is, did he marry a mermaid and live happyily ever after in the ocean or did he dive in and try to swim back home? 

The Captain, Mate and Siren of the Sea

C'me 'ere me matey, set a spell,
'Cause this old salty dog o' the sea
Has a yarn to spin, a tale to tell
That'll keep you in awe and ecstasy.

'Twas a clear night such as this
A sliver of a moon in the sky,
The sea as flat as a plate of piss;
That I heard a maiden's melancholy cry.

At first I thought it a trick,
A light breeze through the riggin' and sails;
So I gives meself a good hard kick,
But I 'ears it again, 'er mournful wails.

It sounds as if she's cryin'
Alone, adrift on the endless sea;
A castaway on a raft dyin'
'Til I hears 'er voice call clear to me.

I squinted through the darkness
Across the star reflected sea;
I'll be blow'd!  For off in the blarkness
Stood an isle and its maid o' mystery!

Voice as soft as an angel's,
She hallooed out to me by name.
Agin me logic, agin me will,
I steered the boat closer to test 'er game.

I could scarce believe me e'e!
She sat stark naked on a rock;
Smilin', 'er long arms outstretched to me
Beckonin', "Come ashore an' 'ave a wee talk."

Tell me.  Do I look like a fool?
On second thought, don't answer that;
Not 'til on the tale I've thrown more fuel,
Don't make y'ur final rule on this chat.

I ached for those slender arms,
Her coquettish smile of desire;
To be enveloped within her charms;
Set my body, my very soul afire!

She promised love ever more;
Days of laughter, nights of pleasure;
Even marriage by the seashore,
One I could trust an' forever more treasure.

As the vessel neared the shore
Close to imminent disaster,
A silent voice deep within my core
Said, "Wait!  What's the rush?  Y'ur still the master!"

Turnin' 'er hard back on course
I yelled, "One day, I will return!"
Instantly overcome with remorse,
I never chanced a look back o'er the stern.

In the darkness of the night
I heered 'er melancholy plea.
"Oh sailor, sailor, why take flight?
I'll always love you.  Please come back to me."

Those words, "I'll always love you."
Have haunted me o'er the years;
"Please come back to me."  Tis sad but true,
I gave up love in search of other spheres.

The mate thought the captain mad,
Quite completely out of his realm
As he stood strangely clad,
One hand on his hip, t' other at the helm.

He was dressed in tux an' tails,
A silken scarf about his throat,
His starched shirt gleamin' white as the sails
Flapped loosely in the breeze below his coat.

For awhile he was silent,
And then, almost in a whisper,
"Mate!  Do you hear that soulful lament?
There!  There!  Now it sounds a little crisper.

Listen!  She's callin' me name.
Step lively mate!  Take holt this spoke!"
No sooner did I grab hold the same,
He was over the side doin' the stroke.

As he swam away he said,
"If you want the longytude,
It's under the pillow on me bed
Written side b' side with the lattytude."

"Hah!  As if I'd come back here.
This place is a source of madness.
But wait!  What's that sound, that lilt I hear?
Can it be my name, sung with such sadness?"

          Well...not only are my fingers tired from tapping away on the keyboard and I haven't been sleeping too well lately, the rest of me feels the same too. So...I think I'll call it a night and post this blog tomorrow...cheers, eh!

     

SHORT STORY BOOK FINISHED AND JOYFUL RAINY DAYS

          I finally finished editing and completed a few illustrations for my short story book, so it's now ready for self-publishing. A brief description of each story is on the back cover. Probably like a lot of writers, I draw from my own life memories and experiences and such is the case in three of the stories - of course I write a lot of bullshit too, but hey, that's one of the perks and joys of creating characters and messing with their lives - having them fall in love, kill people and have all sorts of schemes and twists. While I was writing A SURE THING, I occasionally had tears in my eyes because it was at the racetrack that I really got to know my dad - a true gambler and honest and loyal to the enth degree. The front cover shows me holding Rough Road and my dad standing beside me. (I am interested in getting some pre-orders for this current book $15 plus shipping if required $5 within Canada - I am accepting e Transfers and you will get it HOT off the press! Please email this link!)

           Although it's snowing at the moment, the weather appears to be getting warmer and instead of  rain has been falling more frequently. I know some people get depressed when it's cloudy and rains but I've mostly derived enjoyment from being in the rain, perhaps not so much when I drove a motorcycle because visually it can be a problem. Since my wife and I live on 50 acres out in the boonies where the bear and deer roam, we don't get too many visitors especially on rainy days. And boy can it pour, one would think we were living in a tropical jungle at times. And thunder and lightning! How exciting is that?

          One hot summer day, a few years ago when I was still able to leap a bar stool in a single bound, the thunder rolled in and lightening lit up the whole place with a deafening crack. The rain was pouring down so hard, almost stung my naked body as I ran out and stood under the end of the eave trough - good time to take a shower I thought. And like I said, the odds of someone visiting during a storm is like betting on a 30-1 long shot at the horse races. But, wouldn't you know it, two old ladies drove in asking for directions and there I was standing with my ding-dong hanging out! I don't think they saw much, maybe my old wrinkly saggy ass as I fled around the corner. I've gone skinny-dipping many times with some hot looking women in my day so I'm not too shy about dropping my duds but on that day, it was time to high-tail it.

              I haven't been swimming in the nearby lake since I've haven't been feeling very well the past two summers. There's a probable chance I'll never swim again, but I'd sure like to dip my toes in the Pacific Ocean at least one more time - it's on my bucket-list - as well as visiting Haida Gwaii (Queen Charlotte Islands). There's a tree that grows close to the shore near Tow Hill, where I camped for a couple weeks and I'd like to give it one last hug...cheers, eh!