McGEE, ME AND A TREE

             When I arose very early in the morning, to take McGee, our little puppy out for his constitutional, the stars, glittering like diamonds, appeared to be strewn across the black velvet sky by a careless jewel thief. As I stood in the crisp air, the pup sniffing around the snow covered yard to deposit his little treasure in just the right place, I heard the trees in the nearby forest whispering; a language only they can understand. A slight breeze stealthily crept up my legs, which felt like the cold hands of death on the prowl and I shivered in anticipation; not afraid, but worrisome just the same. McGee had no sooner finished his business, when the sharp yip of a coyote in the distance froze him in his tracks, and then, we both hurried to the house, each of us looking over our shoulders for different reasons.
           The next time McGee went outside so he could relieve himself, dawn was breaking. The ridge of naked trees glowing pink against the clear azure sky looked beautiful. However, as I stood, my back against the cold breeze blowing out of the northwest, I realized that just beyond the hilltop, a short distance away, enormous patches of clear-cut forests abounded and it brought a silent tear to my eye. I find it strange that so many people comment on how much they love Nature and yet as the trees disappear around them, the rivers, streams and lakes poisoned, not to mention all the wild creatures dying, very few take a stand. Only when Mr. Ugly turns up on their doorstep do they cry out, protest, but not for the right reasons, it's mainly because the values of their properties drop. 
         I admit it, I have hugged trees and whether or not they enjoyed it, I have no idea. But to think that trees don't have any intelligence is a shortcoming on our part because if you look closely at a group of trees growing very close to one another, you'll often notice that the trunks and limbs twist and bend so they seldom touch their neighbours as they reach towards the light. One winter, when I was a young man, I was a logger of sorts. Because of my small stature and slight weight, I worked on the landing chopping off any remaining limbs and measured the trees for the guy who bucked them into designated lengths, which were then loaded onto a logging truck and driven away. As I look back to that early time in my life, unlike now, when that patch of allotted land had been logged, it may no longer have been pristine, but you barely noticed the missing trees.
       But hey, besides hugging a few trees, I've also held a sign and protested because trees to me have more meaning than the dollar signs that are attached to their trunks. But don't get me wrong, I don't have a quarrel concerning logging, I wouldn't be here without trees. They've kept me clothed, and being an artist, supplied me with paper and their heat has not only warmed my body but my heart as well. However, nowadays, because of technology, there are more sustainable methods available to produce our needs but because of greed, deliberate ignorance and stupidity, lands the world over are being stripped bare. My heart goes out to the courageous caretakers of the Earth, who unarmed, put their bodies on the line of fire. Yeah, trees are important to me and to McGee as well, because soon he'll be able to lift his leg and pee on them...cheers, eh!        

WHAT GOES AROUND COMES AROUND

8"x10" Acrylic Painting

              I haven't been doing very much in the way of artwork lately but a friend of mine named Gary dropped in about a week ago and asked if I was up to lettering signs and painting. Since it's not physically exhausting, I told him I'd be happy to letter a couple of signs and paint a picture for him. I'm a person, having worked in television, freelanced for ad agencies and then ran my own business when I was younger, I actually enjoy working under a deadline. When he said, "No hurry. Whenever you get it done is fine," I replied, "I've already got one painting to do without a rush and if you leave it up to me, you won't get it until you want it the next day, so you better give me a deadline." Of course he said tomorrow, which was impossible, and we had a good laugh.  

              Since I'm unable to lift anything very heavy and tire easily, Gary moved a lot of lumber for me and then set up a 4'x8' sign board on saw-horses so I could cut it to size and then coat it out for the signs. But what was so amazing this autumn, was when I ordered 4 cords of firewood for the winter and had it dumped in the yard - he drove in one day and stacked it all in the woodshed for me - now how great was that - and he's not a young man either.

            While the two 32"x48" sign boards were drying, I painted a picture of his cabin in the woods, which he had built several years ago. We had agreed on a price but while I was painting his picture, I remembered all the things he had done for me. I also recalled painting my sailboat Dreamer II, while she lay at anchor in Desolation Sound and realizing that one day, that's all I would have, a painting. So, when Gary came to pick up his painting this afternoon, I told him it was a gift. He insisted on paying but I said, "No. You've done a lot for me and besides, it's a cabin-warming-gift - a little late but a gift just the same." The smile on his face and how much he liked the painting was worth more than the money. 

            I have a very good friend, Winston Bushnell, who gave me something useful on our move to Fosterville, NB from Nanaimo, BC and I told him I wouldn't be able to give it back. He told me that's OK and that someone had given it to him. Just give it to someone else who can use it. I believe just because you can make some money off of something, it's often better to give it away - what goes around, comes around. That's my philosophy and it's always worked well for me. 

           I've painted a shit load of signs over the years and I remember this fellow coming into my shop that wanted a dark green van lettered all around, including the back doors. When I told him it would cost about 5-700 bucks, he told me that he couldn't afford it, the mental health organization he donated much of his time to, didn't have that kind of money and then he asked what I could do for a couple of hundred bucks. So, knowing lettering the van would take a couple of days, if I did it myself, I told him to bring the van over on Saturday and two cases of beer, one for me and one for my helper. Besides his smile that lit up my whole shop and the great time me and my friend had lettering the van was all worth it - let's face it - on a hot summer day and cold beers, life just doesn't get much better than that...cheers, eh!

DID I MENTION DEMENTIA?

Charlie and His Wife

          When I woke up early this morning, while rubbing the sleep from my wrinkly old eyes, I felt that I'd forgotten something but I couldn't imagine what? As soon as I was completely dressed, had combed all the knots out of my long grey hair, had squeezed my denture plate into place so it wasn't clacking, I was on a mission. It wasn't until I arrived in the middle of the living room and was gazing at the family photos hanging on the wall that it finally came to me - I'd somehow misplaced my mind. I was confused. I knew where I was but didn't know where I was going that seemed to be so mega-important when I set out. Confusion and dementia often go together like vodka and orange juice and depending on how many shots you put down, the symptoms can be identical. However, being confused and forgetful seems to be happening a wee bit more lately. I put it down to chemo-brain and then again, if I really put things into perspective, it's never been that unusual for me to get a thought in my head, which I'm really concentrating on, and then tend to get sidetracked, go off in another direction. At least that's my story, I may be forgetful and confused at times but I don't have dementia and I'm sticking to that story!

          At age 78, there are quite a few things wrong with me physically but as far as I know, dementia hasn't set in. And although I may not be really ancient, something not everyone knows, is that you don't have to be old to have dementia come knocking at your door. For instance, around 55 years of age, I used to volunteer at a place for the elderly and mentally unstable. In the morning, when I first arrived, I used to spoon-feed a man his porridge who was quite a bit younger than me. He was a gentle giant who stood about 6'4" and unlike me, his hair hadn't even turned grey. I don't know if any of his family came to visit him and if they didn't it wouldn't have mattered since his last remaining memory was his name, which oddly enough, I can't remember.

           Also, I remember a woman, only 50 years of age, who had a smile that would light up a room. She was a kindly gentle soul and had been an elementary teacher. Can you imagine driving a car to pick someone up and then forgetting how to drive - well, that's what happened to her and she was in traffic going down a hill. (Luckily, the accident wasn't severe and no one was injured.) But not everyone who comes down with dementia is gentle and has a warm disposition. I recall a man around age 65. He was a retired lawyer and a miserable bastard. He actually attacked one of the residents with a razor and sliced his head up. And another patient had been a housewife, who at first was very kind and social but then turned into some sort of demon - even her voice changed - the raging language spoken sounding more than just foreign.

          I don't think it's unusual to have a favourite person to look after and I would have to say mine was an 85 year old man who's name was Charlie. He was admitted shortly after his wife had died. Since he and his wife had been swimmers, Scotch-taped to the door of his room was a huge photo of him and his wife in their younger years. They were wearing bathing suits and he was holding her arms-length above his head. I took him swimming once a week and one day as we were doing laps, I looked behind me and much to my surprise he'd disappeared. When I saw him almost at the bottom at the deep end of the pool, I dove down and pulled him to the surface. When I asked him why he was under the water, he told me he didn't know. Before resuming our swim, I asked him if he was alright and was still able to continue. When he replied everything was fine, we started swimming again. After a few strokes, I looked behind me and there was Charlie sitting down at the bottom of the pool and looking up at me. That was the last time we went swimming because his mind had deteriorated to the point where he had forgotten how to swim.

           Of course not all the people at the facility weren't losing their minds. One girl, only 18, had been in a terrible auto accident and although her mind was fine, she couldn't do anything for herself. Another woman around 60 had been a scientist and she had some sort of degenerating bone disease. I remember while hugging her, feeling and hearing her bones crackling - it was very weird.

          So, you don't have to be old to have dementia sneak up on you with real soft paws to wind up in such a facility. The only thing I really know about being old is that I may not come down with dementia, sooner or later something is going to do me in - no one gets out of here alive...cheers, eh!     

THOUGHT I WAS HAVING A C-SECTION!

          I wanted to write and post this blog yesterday but due to a rectal biopsy two days ago, it's taken longer than I thought to recover from the enema, anesthetic and the operation. As I was stretching out for most of yesterday, wondering why I was in so much pain, it all came back to me. Just after my hospital bed rolled down the hallway and then stopped outside the operating room, a sign on the door said, C-SECTIONS. Thinking this was sort of odd, I said to the pretty nurse who was in charge of me, "I don't know if I'm up to having a C-Section and I really don't want any more kids, especially at this age."

          She laughed and then said, "But you would make history and the Guinness Book of Records. You'd be the first man to give birth!"

          We were both laughing when she pushed me into the OR. However, after I'd skooched over onto the operating table, laid on my back in the appropriate spot, I began to get a little nervous after she strapped down my arms and especially when she said, "Now, lift up your legs so I can get them in the stirrups." 

          The last time I climbed into stirrups, it was to sit astride a magnificent steed, not lying on my back with my legs parted so the doc could get a good look up my hairy orifice. I noticed he was wearing a light on his head, which didn't surprise me because I expect it's pretty dark up there where the sun never shines. As I watched the anesthesiologist injecting the anesthetic into me she said, "Time for your afternoon cocktail."

           To which I replied, "Nothing like good drugs," and then I started counting to see how long it would take before I was out, "One...Two...Thr..."

          Apparently they had difficulty waking me after the surgery and I figure they either had to give me a shot of something else or hoisted up my bare ass and gave me a spanking - I have to admit, it was stinging a little bit.

           By the time I left the hospital, I felt great, so my wife and I went to a restaurant for lunch. I was ravenous since I hadn't had anything to eat since supper the day before. And as I was pounding back the bacon and eggs, I was thinking about cleaning the snow and ice off the roofs the next day but when I woke up the next morning, I was so stiff and sore, I could barely walk. The nurse told me that the operation would only take about 15 minutes but I have a feeling I was stretched out in the stirrups longer than that. 

          I'm still walking rather stiffly today but at least there isn't too much pain (actually don't know what it's like to go without a little pain each day). Life has certainly gone sideways for me ever since cancer invaded my A-hole but in comparison to a year ago, I've come a long way. Having been a physically active person all my life, I may push myself a little harder than necessary and the amount of pain that I may suffer feels good - makes me realize that I'm still alive...cheers, eh! 

Don't know if you read the last blog and although it might look serious, it's anything but - should put a smile on your face...cheers, eh!

CHECK OUT NEW OLYMPICS EVENT!

          Have you heard the news? The Olympic Commission is considering a new sport, which is open to everyone the world over, whether they be old and decrepit, young and still in diapers, teens and pimple-ridden, middle-age and in crisis, filthy rich and poverty-stricken, drug users and drug abusers, drunks and non-drinkers, either gender or not sure of their gender and the list goes on and on. Like all the other Olympian contestants, the winners of this event will win a gold, silver or bronze medallion. Olympic scouts are now scouring the world over, in search of athletes and non-athletes to participate in this first-time ever event, which will be held this year in Tokyo, Japan. 

          Like all Olympian participants, there is no money to be had, so contestants will either have to find a sponsor or pay all their own bills - transportation, hotel and living expenses are not cheap. So, with that in mind, if you're seriously considering entering this event, you should take the cost factor into account. Obviously, this event will most likely be out of a reach for a beggar in Calcutta, unless they hitch a ride on a magic carpet or a drug addict in Victoria unless they climb to the top of the Empress Hotel, spread their arms and fly and since flying is almost the only way possible to get to Japan - here's a hint to the poor - buy, borrow or steal a roll of Scotch tape and use it to attach 105 seagulls to your body.

          The best way of entering this sure to be a favourite world event is to click on the Olympic website and then click on Thumb-Twiddler for all the details. Actually, while filling out your name and so on, it's best if you use your cell phone because like a javelin, bobsleigh, skis, etc. that's the equipment needed for this event. Also, the amount of time it takes to fill out all the questions by using your cell phone may automatically enter you in the event, as an automatic timer is used by the Olympic Commission. I know this sounds like a foolish event but a recent poll showed that the average person uses their cell phone 14.5 hours a day, which I find incredibly astonishing. I can't believe people are putting their lives out there 24/7 and it's one of the reasons, besides hardly anyone wants to talk to me, I don't own a cell phone...cheers, eh!  

THE ART OF FARTING

          Years ago, I painted this picture and at the time, I'd been displaying some of my art in a craft store, where I was a member. Because I put in a day each week, my fee to the store was quite a bit less than if I'd only put my stuff on display. Everything had to be approved and knowing how conservative some of the members were, I sneaked the painting in and hung it while I was on duty. Well wouldn't you know it, I'd barely hung that masterful piece of art on a wall, when a woman walked in, laughed and then said, "I just have to have it!" Over the years, I sold many cards and magnets (photo) of this pretty lady letting one go. I've painted quite a lot of comical stuff but I think this image has received the most giggles and oh-mys.

          Since yesterday's blog was mainly about farting, I thought I'd continue with that smelly, stinky, odorous and putrefying topic. I mean let's face it, if the people who have most of the money and power, when they first crawled out of bed in the morning, after letting a monstrous ripper go that split their satin pajamas up the seam of the ass, tip-toed into the bathroom, filled the toilet bowl with a smelly 16-coiler and then bent over and took a huge whiff, it would put them in touch not only with their mortality but their humanity and the world would be a much better place. When you see some of the expressions on the political leader's faces, you can tell that they are suppressing a fart. After all, they're supposed to be dignified, the upper elite, some believe chosen by God and something as a simple fart really puts them in their proper place. 

          I don't know how many of you that read this blog have tried containing a fart while in a business meeting, sitting in the middle of two people while on a plane, a dinner date with people you don't know, or a first date with the person you're positive you'll marry one day. At first, when the nauseating gas is building and begins advancing towards it's hairy orifice exit, one tends to smile and shift around in their seat while clenching the cheeks of their ass tightly. At this point you'd like to politely excuse yourself but you know that if you stand up, your ass is level to the person that's sitting next to you and if you should happen to let go, the blast from your dainty derriere could actually be lethal. No, standing doesn't seem the best solution. So what do you do next? Personally, having found myself in that sort of position at various times throughout my life, I've attempted to sneak it out and this takes talent. For instance, I sort of lean a bit to the side, slightly lift one of my cheeks off the chair and try to let the fragrant flatulence slowly ease out. If someone should notice, being very polite, they might lean forward in their chairs, place their elbows on the table and stuff a knuckle up each nostril while holding their breath, of course smiling all the time. It's when you're pinching your ass so tight, the fart is so high pitched that only a dog in the room runs off because the high pitched sound is hurting its ears that you might smile and think you're getting away with it. And for a while you are but when it begins emitting a high whistle that could drown out an orchestra, you know the jig is up. However, at this point, all is not lost, you can still get away with this long extended fart if you're quick enough. Because that's when you look at the woman sitting next to you and say so that everyone can hear, "Be a lady!" 

            And speaking of rippers, since my wife and I often giggle when we let one go, it's time for my morning constitution, which will be shortly followed by my afternoon constitution, plus my 4 o'clock and evening constitutions - because of my condition whole forests are threatened by my constant charging up to the toilet (can you imagine the amount of paper I use just to wipe my ass) - the doc told me since I no longer have a functioning rectum (thanks to cancer), I just have a drain pipe, so taking a crap has become an integral part of my daily routine...cheers, eh!

TO FLATUATE OR INFATUATE - THAT IS THE QUESTION?

            

          I awoke this morning to semi-darkness, actually slept in until 7am. When I went outside with McGee for his wake-up poopoo-peepee walk, snow was and had been falling for quite sometime - about 3" deeper than yesterday. While McGee buried his nose in the snow, looking for the exact spot to deposit his little golden nuggets, a quietness and stillness abounded everywhere except for the excitement building in my heart; I could hear it as clearly as waves crashing on a shore. And why, you may ask? A part of me that's been missing for almost three weeks, my Sarah (Daisy) will be home this afternoon. Although the puppy has been great company while she was away, our conversations have been lacking due to me not understanding hardly an arf or a woof of shih tzu. 

          Since more snow is expected, I shoveled the walkway and cleared most of it off two roofs. Although I worked up a sweat and now have a few aches and pains, anyone who has gone through what I have the last couple of years will understand how good it feels to be able to do such a thing. I can't be certain but I think my swollen pot gut has gone down a little or maybe it was the gigantic fart I let rip (damn near tore a hole in my pants) just before I stepped inside the house. And speaking of escaping gas, it reminds me of a Kurt Vonnegut poem I read and for some reason has never left me, which goes something like this: 

          

          Cindy in the garden

          Sifting cinders

          Lifted up her leg

          And farted like a man

          

          The bursting of her bloomers

          Broke sixteen winders

          And the cheeks of her ass

          Went clap, clap, clap!

          

          Now that's a visual I've never been able to forget, which always puts a smile on my face.  Kurt Vonnegut was one of my favourite authors and one of his books, Slaughterhouse 5, was made into a movie - great stuff by a brilliant mind - a satirist extraordinaire. 

          Well...I better post this blog finished now as I still have some household chores to do before my wife arrives - like damp-mop the upstairs, wash a few dishes and just a general tidy-up. Also, that wee McGee will be waking up soon and demanding to go outside - just like me after a nap - it's time to do the crap and piddle (good name for a pub - hahaha)...cheers, eh! 

BEER AND WILD WOMEN - HAHAHA

Wearing Nothing but a T-shirt!

             I don't know how many old geezers out there have a problem sleeping at night. When I was young, I could stay up late, knock back countless beers, dance the light fandango with wild women, party on like there was no tomorrow, the night would never end and it was a hell of a good time. Now I drink near-beer (the last time I had only one real beer, I went blind for 20 minutes - not good) and I wouldn't know what to do with a wild woman and the only party I'm interested in now is the Green party - the rest of the parties are leading us down the garden path to oblivion in my estimation. I used to go on Facebook and check out some of my real friends and some of my fake friends as well, to see what they were up to, and now, I go on to see if that moronic president south of the border and his brainless followers have started WWIII. Of course we're all to blame for the tragic state of the world because let's face it, the 99% of us far outnumber the 1% filthy rich and we are allowing them to get away with their demands and why - because almost everyone of us embraces capitalism and would like to be rich like them - our dooming legacy to the Earth.

          But let's forget about our fragile Earth and all the assholes that are hell-bent in destroying it for a lousy buck.  Let's get back to being an old geezer and like a lot of other people my age, I don't kid myself by saying, "I'm getting old". Man! I am fucking old! Old as dirt and fart dust - that's if I'm lucky; sometimes it's gooey and wet - ewww! 
          My wife (Sarah or Daisy, depending whether or not we're in our alter ego stages) is still in Nanaimo but will be home on Wednesday. Although I've really missed her, I haven't be totally alone, talked to a few people the past almost three weeks and had several visits from Starr Peterson (kinda keeps an eye on me). She's brought me delicious home-cooked meals, home-made brown bread and has done my laundry among other things. No,! Not that!  Whatever are you thinking? As I said earlier, "I wouldn't know what to do with a wild woman". I've kept myself pretty busy, doing dishes, cooking and other household chores, which believe it or not is quite fulfilling, considering about this time last year, I was laying on an operating table while the surgeon, Dr. Singh-Ranger detached a colostomy bag, rearranged and reattached my guts. Man - in comparison to this time last year, I feel real fortunate - not to mention being still above ground. Also, if I want to be real busy, I've recently acquired two commissioned paintings and two signs to letter but I think I'll wait until Sarah arrives home before I get started on those jobs.   

          As some of you readers may know, we have a new puppy (Bobby) McGee. The thing about McGee is, trying to train him to go outside for a poopoo-peepee is not easy. Usually he will whimper a wee bit to go outdoors but he does that too if he's ignored and wants to play. And wouldn't you know it, last night around 2am he whimpered, which isn't totally unusual - puppies poop and pee a lot - just like this old geezer. So, there I was dressed in nothing but a T-shirt as I crawled out of bed listening to my joints creaking and cracking with every movement. As I rubbed my eyes, I could hear the howling wind slapping the freezing-rain against the window - the last place I wanted to go was outside. And wouldn't you know it...when I groggily turned on the kitchen light to put on my heavy winter coat and gum boots, there was McGee all curled up with one of his soft cuddly toys and sound asleep. For weeks now, I'd been concentrating so hard listening to the puppy's whimpers because I didn't want him doing his smelly business in the house, I wound up dreaming about him. On the positive side, at least I didn't have to take McGee outside and the timing was right on because I had to head upstairs, pinch off a loaf and take a leak...cheers, eh!       

COYOTES, WOLVES AND PUPPY DOGS

COYWOLF

          It was early in the morning when I began writing this blog; dawn had yet to break. McGee, unaware of time, had to go outside at 5am. Nothing like standing in the darkness, clouds so thick, neither shiny stars or a luminous moon were visible. There's an eeriness that accompanies darkness on a warm summer eve that is emphasized even more in the icy quietness of a winter's night. Although highly unlikely, it sometimes feels as if many eyes are peering through the bare shadowy trees and whatever terrifying beasts that may be lurking in the murky darkness are creeping closer, ever closer. Take for instance the other night, I stood with the puppy as he stopped mid-stream, cocked his head, the silence broken by the howling and yipping of coyotes down by the lake. I'd also heard their mournful cries, intermingled with shriek yips, about two weeks ago, and from what I understand, these are the sounds they make when they have just made a kill, most likely a deer. The cries are ominous and scary because a pack of coyotes, especially hungry coyotes on the prowl are very dangerous predators. However, perhaps they are not true coyotes, they be coywolves, which are a hybrid found mostly in eastern North America. I wonder if the changing climate has something to do with the interbreeding because it seems polar bears have been mating with other types of bears as well.

          McGee is very playful; if only I could be that way again. I play with him in an old man fashion, mostly sit and throw things for him to fetch, which luckily for me, he thinks this is great fun. I can remember the first puppy I ever had. Although my mother didn't care for dogs or any animals very much, my dad must have twisted her arm because on Christmas day when I was around age 13, they gave me a reddish-coloured cocker spaniel. Because he was so bouncy like most puppies, I named him Skippy. Of course there were strict rules that I would have to house train him or I wouldn't be allowed to keep him. One afternoon, and I remember the day well, it was January 22, when I came home from school and no one was home. After I had gone to the bathroom, I noticed the little dog had pooped on the kitchen floor, which made me angry. While scolding Skippy, I quickly cleaned it up before anyone had a chance to see it. Then, at first I thought he was playing, until he started walking funny, fell on his side and within seconds he was dead. We had rats in our house and my parents had laid a small dish of poison on the bathroom floor against the wall under the big claw-foot tub, which he must have eaten. I remember feeling so sad, tears streaming down my face as I sat on the floor holding my little Skippy in my arms, wishing with all my heart that he would take a breath and come back to life. How long I held him I don't remember but probably for a long time because while I could still feel his warm body, he just seemed to be asleep. I never would have thought that after so many years ago, tears would be flowing down my cheeks as I remember that wonderful little puppy.

          I don't think I can write anymore; feeling too sad...cheers, eh!       

McGEE, ME AND GRAFFITI

          It's a wee bit lonely here on my own, but luckily, I have McGee for company. He thinks he's a tough little guy and loves to get outside and play in the snow. I could easily just sit, watch TV, play on the computer, especially since I have hardly any energy. The snow is deeper than he is tall but since there is a slight crust, he's able to dash about, whereas me hanging onto the leash right behind him, it's somewhat of a trudge. We go out three or four times a day - it's his poopoo-peepee and play time for him. When we first brought him home, I was worried that he wouldn't like to go outside because it was so cold and snowy, but he's a real going concern - nothing holding him back - I'm usually ready before he is to go back inside.

          There's a big 30"x40" canvas sitting near my bed, which I've been staring at for a long time. A painting of a nearby lake was commissioned by some friends but they don't need it until April. I've always been used to fast deadlines, so I'm not sure when I'll get at it. When I freelanced in my younger years for a couple of national ad agencies, I would have to produce an ad, cartoon, illustration or some other type of artwork by usually the next day, which I actually liked, gave me more of a challenge. I've roughly sketched the scene on the canvas but it doesn't hardly look like anything. Thought the ready to paint canvas would give me some incentive to start painting - hmm - hope I don't let it go to the last minute before I pick up a brush and let the paint fly.

18"x2' multi-media painting on canvas

         

      I've painted a lot of different stuff over the years, even graffiti on a garage door in Toronto. I was in Toronto recently and was happy to see, unlike some of the other artwork in the immediate area, the taggers have left mine alone. I don't know why, but I never took a photo of it, so I can't post it here on the blog. This painting is sort of graffiti on canvas, which I had fun creating. I was going to paint a sign painter standing on a ladder to give the illusion how large the letters are but never got around to it. Can anyone tell me the title? Leave a comment if you think you know.

          Looks like wee McGee has woken up from his nap, so I guess I'd better take him outside, let him do his thing and run around too. Time for me to stretch as well, have to keep myself as active as I can...cheers, eh!        

WINTER'S REALITY AND SUMMER'S DREAM

My Studio and the Well - Wish it was a Wishing-Well

          Snow gently fell during last evening and it is still snowing - flakes the size of tiny polka dots swirl with gusts of wind across the yard and through the bare trees - Nature's winter wonderland dance. I took McGee (puppy) for a walk but because I'd just finished soaking in a hot tub of water, the claw feet almost turning red from the heat and my hair still wet, we didn't stay outside very long - the last thing I need is a cold. I'ts very quiet outside; winter's white shroud thickening, each footstep soon covered up as quickly as a wave erasing our existence while meandering along on a sandy beach. 

          I'm most definitely in the winter of my years, bones creaking and cracking like frozen trees shivering against each other. Aches and pains in every joint with each bend or stretch; I should have been kinder to this body. But then, who knows, life might not have been so much fun when I was younger; I think carefree is a myth. I can't say the future looks bleak because there doesn't seem to be any real future, only day to day living; staying alive a constant thought. Being physically active has always been important and still is. Creaky bones and achy joints have certainly slowed me down and as I run down the road to tire out McGee, I find it's me after the Sherman-speedy-shuffle, out of breath and wanting to sit down for a rest, the big-eyed puppy looking up as if to say, "Is that all you've got old man."

          My art studio is patiently waiting but it's not too likely that I will ever use it again - the sign hanging under the window says, "FOR SALE". It was merely a shell, used mainly for storage when I bought it and had it skidded down the road about this time of year. I built a loft and installed a window, so while I was working on something and my mind began to drift, I would often look out through the sumac trees, where often delightful pretty songsters would flit and a pesky squirrel would sometimes sit - its big soft eyes looking back at me.

           Many things I'll never do again, like hike the West Coast Trail, sail the Northwest Passage or hug a tree jutting out over the North Pacific at Haida Guaii. However, as the snow drifts and swirls outside, I dream of summer, when my Daisy and I once again take to the road in our Hippie Hangout and cross this fabulous country. Perhaps hugging that same tree on Haida Guaii will become a possibility...cheers, eh!         

BLUE FUTURE

BLUE FUTURE - 12"x43" Acrylic on .25" Board (Too bad it's so dark because a lot of detail and colours are lost.)

          I created this painting over 50 years ago, and sadly, the direction I envisioned human beings headed then is probably more true today. This painting has never been for sale and very few people have ever set eyes on it - it's hardly the sort of painting someone would hang on a wall. When I painted this morbid, depressing, dark and ominous painting, which seems odd because I was living in Vancouver, BC during the hippie era; love, peace, flowers and beads, which were at the forefront. I was also clear-headed - no drugs or alcohol stimulants were necessary when I did this painting, although I may have had a couple of beers at the time - I really don't remember. Needless to say the 60's and the 70's were a psychedelic blast for me - stretched out on a floor in bell-bottom jeans with friends and sharing a bong was not unusual.

          I was living a somewhat out of control existence then, so a lot of things I painted, drew and wrote about simply faded away. Man! It was a great era! Bra-less chicks, free-love and mind-blowing music - in my estimation, a renaissance-extraordinaire! I'd like to think I've always been pretty much a free-spirited person and actually as I recall, it was only when I began taking more interest in making money, and lots of money, that I lost touch with myself and my life so to speak went sideways. It's hard to believe that I was once basically a millionaire, a time when it wasn't a quiz-show prize and the best thing that happened to me was when I blew it all; every fucking penny. I felt guilty for taking a year off afterwards, having gone from working 12-16 hours a day pretty much 7 days a week and then working only 2 days a week (weekends). Later on I gave my motorcycle to a friend and bought a bicycle, it was 5 miles, mostly up hill to where I worked. The last job I did professionally took me a month but I earned 17 Grand, enough for a down payment on a beautiful sailboat (had to put it in my girlfriend's name - too many creditors after me). Unlike Trump, like Mark Twain, when he went tits up, I eventually paid off everyone; I refused to go bankrupt. I owed money and figured I had to pay it. Of course my credit was shot but I didn't give a shit - business and me parted company forever. Incidentally, I was 42 when I went bust. 

           I haven't painted anything that ugly since then and think perhaps I should start again, at least it seems more meaningful than a landscape or a seascape. The problem with beautiful natural settings is that they camouflage the clear cuts, the poisons, the plastic choked lakes, rivers, and oceans - the utter pollution destroying our planet. Don't get me wrong though, I enjoy painting those sorts of things because they're easy to do and I sell them - still have to earn a living, even at age 78. No money set aside or retirement fund here! Fortunately, I was born in a country that gives away money for simply reaching a certain age, so I get by alright - certainly not going to complain - people the world over are in far worse shape...cheers, eh!      

ME AND BOBBY McGEE

Pen and ink sketch of my wife and McGee

          It's been quite awhile since I've written anything in my blog, so, with little or nothing on my mind, let's see where this goes. It's like sitting in front of an easel with a big blank canvas while the brushes and paints wait impatiently. As I check out the texture of the canvas, squeeze some colours onto a palette, then lift a brush, visions like dreams begin to formulate within the imaginative corners of my thoughts.  

          I'm alone, only a puppy for company, which is lying curled up asleep in the kitchen. His name is Bobby McGee but we just call him McGee. We share the same room, eat and sleep together; he in his bed and me in mine. Although he's great company, the quietness that abounds is absorbed like a sponge and emphasizes the ringing in my ears - not what one would call a perk for becoming old - seems like everything is going south and it's a very slippery slope. Because of the life I led during my younger years, especially my racetrack years which were similar to a carny, some of my friends actually taking bets on how long it would take before being killed on my motorcycle, plus hanging with dangerous people, I'm somewhat surprised that I'm sitting here. One summer, during my early 20's, 5 friends were killed; one of them my best friend. Luckily for me, not the young girl working at Burger King he'd picked up, he missed a turn, most likely in a drunken haze, crashed his car and was decapitated; the girl remaining in a veggie state for the remainder of her life. Could easily have been me because we spent a lot of nights drinking, carousing and carrying on idiotically, bottles of beer our best friends. It's amazing how fragile our lives really are and how much we take for granted strutting around like silver-back gorillas pounding our chests as if we're so tough and indestructible. I imagine like a lot of men, we all had our close calls and they like me, wonder how they survived and got old. 

          My wife is away for 2 weeks and the first two days felt that way but I'm becoming used to being on my own. The way I am now, if I were able, I'd get away from me. I used to be a fun guy, physically active even (wink, wink) until cancer struck. This time last year, just before the second operation, I was hobbling about on a cane concentrating on not falling down and now, even though I'm still about a quarter of the man I used to be, I can actually run if you can call it that - I imagine I look pretty funny, but hey, I've come a long way. 

        The problem with being this age, the future is short and becoming shorter, certainly a lot less time than the past. I find it's easy to start feeling sorry for myself and depression is like a peeping-tom trying to find its way in through any available crack. When it begins to impulsively and tenaciously shove its toe in the doorway, I quickly turn my thoughts in some other direction, actually any direction than down - who needs a downer? A sense of humour helps but not always - I may be laughing on the outside but my eyes can't disguise my true feelings. The mind may be clever at hiding its emotions but the soul has a way of reaching out, escaping its bounds.

          The puppy woke up and I can see by the way that he's looking at me, it's time for his evening poopoo-peepee walk and playtime out in the snow. Time to go...cheers, eh!