i ran into an artist today
i never met before
he passed away
some years back
but left a little video,
an old man at work
en plein air
in the rice fields
a steel bucket of water
at his side

in my room
i watch the artist
on his video
he washes the paint
from his hands
the sunlight from the rice field
flickers on my screen
the artist speaks
i look at the steel bucket
by my closet door

Although I lived in Texas, the first time I heard Jimmie Dale Gilmore's voice and sweet Texas guitar was riding among friends after a hike near Mount Baker in the state of Washington. 'You gotta hear this' we were told as we bounced around the vehicle and here was this distinctive, pure and sweet whining voice that seemed to fit right in the beauty of the vistas of the Cascade Mountains. There he was, singing 'My Mind's Got a Mind of Its Own'. What was this? It was new, and it was very old, taking us back to early Texas music. We got home, and had to get some of our own - a cassette tape whose title was the same as his name. It got played over and over and over.

We managed to hear him perform a couple of times, once at the University of Texas Cactus Cafe, and once at Deep Eddy, an Austin spring-fed swimming pool just off the Colorado River, shaded by great cottonwood trees. Here was a musician characterized by a deep-rooted calm; he seemed no more egotistical than the trees.

the needle pierces the fabric
and slides through
bearing thread of gold
or black
blue or rust
be it embroidery
for a queen's stole
or darning a hole
in the surplice of a priest -
a meditative pleasure
the tiny knot of stitches
the little rose

Nearly a year ago, I picked up my dad, who was 87 at the time, and brought him home to Louisiana where he had lived all his life before he moved to a 'retirement home' in another state four years previously. It was possible for me, a divorcee with grown children, to move from Texas to do this. He and I now live together in a rental home. He can have his gumbo and boudin when he wishes, and has final say over the options in his life.

I haven't written about this because it is just him and I here (and a stream of invaluable caregivers). Blogging about the one person who is sharing your home life can be risky for a relationship! But though there are some concerns about our living situation, I have no regrets about the decision to be with Dad at this time. The evening mealtime we share daily now is something I hold dear. Sometimes we step out of the usual flow of our lives to partake in an opportunity to live in the slow lane, to see and experience what we flew by in the past, to learn the stuff life is made of, to know the full cycle of love.

surfing

I've been surfing the web in the wee hours of the morning, hoping for something to go, aha! here's a word, thought, experience that will trigger a bit of writing for the blog.

I started by researching the term Newsweek. The first magazine I ever subscribed to once I was living away from my childhood home was Newsweek. Coming from a family that subscribed to US News and World Report, Newsweek was a visual and visceral delight. For a while in the 1970s, I saved many of the issues in my little grad school dorm room until I realized how impractical it was weight-wise for someone who had yet to settle down to try moving boxes of Newsweeks around with me. Today, it occurred to me I haven't read a Newsweek in awhile, and that I'm curious about things like what's coming up on Broadway, which I used to like to read about even though I've never been within a stone's throw of Broadway.

After reading on Wiki about Newsweek's peculiar last years as a print magazine, I looked up rooster, but came first across a video of Haystack Rock on the Pacific coast with the tide going out. After I watched the video of a beach without waves, I read up on roosters. That lead to a search regarding Easter chicks - as the only rooster I ever owned had his start in life as a tiny fluffy gift from the Easter Bunny. Were all Easter chicks male, with farmers keeping the females who had an egg-laying future? After finding links to confections and movies with the word 'Chicks' in it, I've come to realize life has become way too surreal to confidently and comfortably read, much less write, about anything tonight.

Today I saw a long-ago image of a very small boy playing a carved flute who looked to be suffering some true misery. This bothered me, and I looked at it several times, even though, as I said, whatever was going on happened long ago, so long ago that it's unlikely he's still among the living. Finally, in my mind I leaned toward him, and whispered some words, and offered him drink, and gently swabbed his face with a warm damp cloth.

The dog across the street - he turns his back to me when I come out the door, and freezes. He doesn't bark. That's how he acknowledges my presence. Sweetie knows it's me. He doesn't care if my hair is combed, or my shoes are worn. He barks at passersby, but not at my abrupt appearance. In the past, friendly neighbor dogs used to run up to greet me, lick my hand, sniff my shoes to see where I'd been, and what other dogs had come my way. Sometimes they'd jump and let their forepaws rest against my legs or waist. But Sweetie just turns as though to say, I trust you. I don't have to watch where you're going or sniff where you been. You're cool. I can feel his inner salute.

Last year, I went to the Juneteenth Parade in Austin, Texas. There were lots of people and activity, folks sitting on chairs, fanning themselves in the heat, kids running up to the floats to catch a handful of candy and bubble gum. But the person I remember most was standing completely still. She wasn't even close or looking my way, but she caught my attention. She was small, crinkled with the years, and dressed like the Statue of Liberty, and I tell you what - she was vibrating with a kind of fury and strength, holding her cardboard torch high.