1. donleyjan:







    I (we) do not always want to post my (our) work on Mix. Most of the time I (we) only want to post on Tumblr or Facebook. So please fiftythreenyc gif us the choice…

    Please share…



  2. I added a few boats

  3. At Half Mast for the COL

  4. Made With Paper

  5. Made With Paper

    Waiting Out a Squall. When I showed this painting to my husband, he said, “Wow. I’m not a psychiatrist, but I wonder why you chose to paint that, a boat, all rigged and ready to go, sails on, on the trailer, in a storm. I can sure read what you’re up against into that.” We both paused, took sips of coffee and watched as a man expertly parallel parked a few feet in front of us. “It really is beautiful, but a boat on a trailer? Don’t you think it is metaphorical, for your state now.” The man squeezed behind his car to pass in front of us as I pondered, and yes, my husband was right, the scene was metaphorically like me, gloomily stuck ashore whirling in the storm of a serious injury. “Did you intend that? If not, I’d say subconsciously you hit the nail on the head. Don’t you think?”

    “I didn’t mean for it to be about me. But it is interesting. I just wanted to render rain.” I thought of the other subject I considered, my own boat sitting on the trailer, but without the rain. “But you do have a point. It is reflective, isn’t it. I’m stuck not being able to do what is normal for me.” 

    Looking at the painting on his phone I recalled the deep feeling of longing when I finished it, remembering how it was cathartic to add the streaks of rain. “You’ll be off that trailer soon baby.”

    “Yes, let’s hope so. Soon.”

    We stood and walked home. I walked without a crutch, thinking, ‘Yep, soon.’

  6. Made With Paper

    This is a throwback to my What’s Below paintings. I have not done one in several years but I’m still very interested in what is going on under my boat. Maybe hearing about a shark attack on Lake Pontchartrain and a good sized gator spotted cruising the harbor brought the subject back to mind. Looking up through the murky lake, if I were brave enough to swim in it, I’m certain you could not see much so I conjured up memories of my most recent experience in the Bahamas. There I could look up and see the boat, floating seemingly in the sky. I thought it was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. A six foot barracuda cruised by and I realized how splendid it was to be a part of his world and how I needed to be mindful I did not belong. I turned to see a group of huge jackfish, I think tunas. A thrill, I only saw them by chance. The thought of such wild, powerful creatures so close by without my knowledge made my heart pound. I was looking forward to swimming around my boat, being able to dive down, look up and see the sun filtered overhead once again. I got hurt instead. Maybe next year. So for the past few days I’ve conjured up some of what I remember to share with my Tumblr followers. Thank you for following me and for looking deep.


  7. Impatient problem

    How many times have I been warned by friends to take it easy? I couldn’t count. Compared to my normal pace, for five weeks I had the illusion I was on a physical hiatus of epic proportions. Doing the BIG EASY. I did not run. I did not swim. I did not sail. And I did not climb on my bike and ride the levee. Being busted up is not easy. So I did physical therapy with great vigor.

    Week six, when my bone could be mended and certain I, being in such good shape prior to my crash, was healed, I gleefully added activities. I swam. Dipped into the pool with a davit it was liberating to the point of bringing me to tears. The neutral buoyancy freed me from pain of a terrestrial existence with a broken pelvis. While my body floated, my spirit rose. I went swimming three times in three days, taking care not to push off the wall with my sore leg. No big deal. It felt great. Wheee!

    Able to bear weight as tolerated I walked using my crutch. First around the neighborhood, a few easy blocks. Then I got a lift to Audubon Park. I walked a bit too far enjoying my triumphant return. My body rebelled as I climbed in the passenger seat for the ride home. I didn’t pay it much mind. I walked again, farther the next day. I pushed for distance.

    Then sitting on my porch at the end of the week, contemplating my overgrown, ratty garden, I made the poor decision to pull a few weeds. In the cool of the next morning I started. Taking my time I brought out a seat to rest on as I cleared the overgrowth. I worked up a slight lather to my body, sweating for the first time since I laid on the hot concrete six weeks ago waiting for the paramedics to lift me on a backboard. I though of how much I had progressed and felt — great.

    Unlike most folks, I like to perspire. Dewiness is a fact of life in New Orleans and I am good with it. Natives are astounded when I declare I enjoy the summer days with 80 percent humidity and 90 temperatures. The saltiness dripping from my brow developed when my garden was about a third cleared. I continued, enjoying myself and feeling satisfied with progress towards my fall garden. One fully stuffed lawn-sized bag later I stopped and sat on the porch with sweat beaded on my legs and arms. Bits of vegetation clung to my calves. There was still a splatter of stubborn weeds that could be hoed and a swath where the ground was surely somewhere down there but invisible under a thick green tangle. No vegetation of machete density remained. As I surveyed the small unfinished plot I felt my quadriceps tighten. Then my abductors twinge. Then my side tug. Then my back pull.

    I should quit. Take it easy.

    A neighbor, called to me as she unloaded her car after (as food shopping is called here) making groceries. “How ya doin’?”

    "I’m great. I weeded my garden."

    "Ohhhh my. It looks real goooood but you should be takin it eeeasy."

    "I felt so good and I got most of it done. I may need to call you tomorrow though to lift me out of bed." I joked already knowing it may be closer to the truth than I wanted.

    "Oh let’s hope not. But sure honey, I kin do that." She smiled broadly waving goodbye while lugging a bag with celery jutting out the top inside.

    Maybe I’ll plant celery.

    I didn’t have to call her to hoist me out of the sack in the morning, but it was close. For four days I’ve languidly sat to recover. Read. Sat. Painted. Hobbled to the fridge to grab an ice pack. Laid sprawled across the bed with a heat compress. Felt sorry and stupid.

    How can I live in the Big Easy but so not get it?

  8. rirobla:

    Una ventana al mar.(desde mis ventanas).
    A window to the sea (from my windows).


    Bravo Ricardo Rocio Blanco.
  9. Made With Paper

    These were the last of my summer Creole tomatoes, grown curbside where pedestrians stopped to consider plucking them. Most folks bent down and looked closely then continued on their way. Children often reached and were rebuffed by parents before they could pick. Once I had my eye on a blushing beauty when I came back from a morning run but decided to wait for dinnertime then eat it right off the bush. Too late. I hope the taker was hungry and enjoyed the organic burst of flavor. After that, I picked what I wanted before they were fully ripe, then let them sit for a day on my window sill. If there was fruit on the vines I could not eat I let the kids from upstairs take them for snacks.

    Although the plants are flowering again, I’ve been told not to expect much in the way of fall fruit.

    Since I’m still on crutches, I’ll let the tomato plants stand instead of removing them to make room for lettuce, kale and arugula. I need to weed first. The tomato plants need to be tied up to the fence or staked though as they have flopped over with their own weight because I ignored them.

  10. Made With Paper