.

casualty notification officer

2010-05-22T18:09:00.001-07:00

wallpaper postage accumulates; received smoke will stain
this upstairs room lined with stamps of letters optimistic
before our blood line was cut
our vessel’s pedigree erased
in the spill of kerosene; flames
lit to forget words read on paper in a safe house
blown out from afar
mountain halls always recur in a desert lens
within two palpitating hearts
growing gray

letters arrived each month to paper these walls
relaying the purpose of tasks; the games organized in off time
the borders so distinct on a map yet undefined
he wrote: it won’t be too long before returning home
perhaps model ships still last on a shelf
while our youthful dog can still walk, maybe i’ll take him out again
maybe working in the garden will be more desirable now
or the old school, still visible; it can be photographed

and a son was killed by a bomb
to fuel our hush; hear these months circle a lamp
feel the slow sword of loss
cutting down each banister rising to his old room
kept exactly as he left it
until we recoil anew at the delivered words
to let ourselves react, fall from a loft
without railings or banisters in our vision
to shatter like fine china
old bodies of blown glass
fragments growing
ever smaller
like precise
knocks on the door
chiming
as if trained
to deliver one last
spoken letter
in fog

http://www.westernpines.net/

fathernova

2010-05-22T18:04:00.001-07:00

a slow salt drifts through the air
when we stood at a garden gate absorbing reflections
that passed through our throats and fabrics
igniting embryos within each cell of our bodies
ricocheting to new cells, fence posts

and deep within veins we are filaments
of polaroid jungles, the scratch of dust skylights
overhang the melting iron of a child’s rocking horse
in a foundry of suns being born

i was driving on a bend in early morning
through evergreen where a father’s image was suspended
his memories like a nautilus to ear
where a past life could be heard, echoing forward; memory once
imprinted inside a camera, inside bone
now with us like tides in a black expanse
for cratered dusk of harmonics, brittle sheathings
poured in light only now arriving

in a morning charged with dust my arms feel the prick
of winds reaching wooden structures
windows that are still liquid, sagging; the aged
flicker of candles that look like faces
inside attic windows near the arteries of a silversmith, unwound

a past friend would dive for leather sacks in a bomb crater
filled with water we swam into under jungle sunlight
our skin dissolves to imprint’s new grasslands
and mixes with others in the afterglow of a past sound
a percussion rising from thunder reaching us
like a tornado for wooden structures, a landing craft’s
waiting line; men spoke languages not understood today
and they were swept ashen, lifting up their collars
cut by the distant spin of stars dying

and i sensed clouds form in worlds within my veins
each cell turning steam; each memory aflame on paper
dying out in greased fingers, tools set down
when each of us was struck by the memory of a figure
hung in a moss covered tree, limbs separated
from a larger body in time; a lake’s river
a sky’s solar blood
a father when he was a child on a swing

http://www.westernpines.net/

message balloons

2010-05-22T18:02:00.000-07:00

you felt the outcome
diagonal along your breast, the burst
of a weather balloon
the stop of time within your pulse

we will lose balloons at times, raw fingers
unable to grasp a thread; some will find them deflated
with paper attached to strings in a front yard
after rupturing above a suburban cul de sac
decayed to scraps of cursive requiems

have you walked the cemetery in mid-march?
have you counted the number of times the name
Plymouth
is etched in granite? deposited at the far length
of a grounds keeper’s red wire; a rock, weathered granite
outlives a body in damp poise
to persist an attraction for compass needle

i found a box holding the laws of numbers
dropped from a solar enclave by balloon; life supports dot the sky
and here, a tenth of mass remains for a time capsule
and here will lay new drifters in an equinox
painted over by twilight’s rich saliva
for a plate, a gown laid beneath the nearest kill

proximity is dialect
moisture a fuse; hunger, a fuse; cravings, a magnet
an ocean unbalanced will become tides
for coral brittle in transient supper dens
underwater like cups immersed, a high rise window
with fixtures of potted plants on balconies
touched by high tide

and time can leave a child’s dreadnought capsized
in rhododendrons when plucking weeds from saline soil
the tears of lashes clipped in a driveway
unfenced, with wooden ramps and toolboxes
laid out to repair red wagons

slow was the red of a body pulled from a pickup truck
this outdoor garage rearranged as if to extract an organ
the sky transferred to us from a deflated balloon

and to search the body’s coat for a pinned letter
sent from a youth parking lot
asking the sky, will you come for me?
will this time forge a fire escape or an anchor
in each suburban plot?

i once clutched amber butterflies by their wings in a driveway
where they felt safe upon goldenrod; to be caught in a motion
my fingertips dusted by their pollen wings when each was taken
to rest motionless until released; and i walked into the bushes
where a metal detector found a dreadnought’s anchor
and pulled it from the yard’s depths

at one time a bathroom sink cradled a child’s ship

open pathways, cheeks blushed in territorial equinox
i transferred to linen the memory of a pipe sketched
in the second grade, exiting a roof across the street
and pushing a loose tooth; the thought of pliers
could tug it free

a child’s tooth can be positioned in a window planter box
like a headstone in loose soil

time nears Plymouth Rock and its etchings
seeds disperse in a vacant lot where foundations once laid
and grass fanned in twilight summer breath
among the carcasses of balloons with letters fastened to string
we came on bicycles to observe what no longer exists
what no longer drifts from lukewarm seance

eyedropper, mercury droplets
touch a screen from my hand to log the temperature
for old vacation tapestries and sidewalks
chalk stained, magic; batteries touched to tongue,
transient possessions

http://www.westernpines.net/

family picnic

2010-05-22T18:00:00.000-07:00

pumice lake of timestone did flood
a body floated above the foundations of a town discarded
with chimney bricks submerged when the valley was flooded
to create a reservoir
i adjusted my collar before diving from a dock
into waters of what must be the blood
of sidewalk sketchings abandoned

there are tackle boxes and fish hooks
arranged on library shelves; i found a car
that no longer can escape flood, never did
and these shores are for picnics now; valley bottoms
forget their railroad
like the blewett pass will forget its old highway
as we glide through curves pointing out old bridges
spotting remnants of asphalt crumbling from the hillsides
each shard smaller than the last until it disappears
at a sunlit bend of fire trees, controlled burns
where ghosts close shutters to block the heat of forest ash

http://www.westernpines.net/

Signs of Spring: 2010 Edition (4)

2010-05-10T21:12:00.000-07:00

Rhododendron "Vibrant Violet"
and Dillodaffs

Rhododendron "Unique"

(above and below)

Signs of Spring: 2010 Edition (3)

2010-04-25T15:09:00.000-07:00

Rhododendron "Gletschernacht (Glacier Night)"

Rhododendron "davidsonianium (Ruth Lyons form)"
(species from China, with Love )

"Dudes With No Name"

2010-04-24T01:57:00.000-07:00

Like all of my paintings, I didn’t do any preliminary drawings or prepare much in any way before I sketched this onto the canvas and painted it. Like most of my work, I’m not quite sure what it means, and won’t know until some time in the near future.

But here are 17 anonymous guys, clothed this time, piled up in support of one another.

“Dudes With No Name”
24” x 36”
Silverleaf and Acrylic on Canvas

A Dude With A Name,
TONY

"Beach Boys"

2010-04-24T01:01:00.000-07:00

After living in the heart of Savannah for more than two years, last week I realized there is another lifestyle here I was totally oblivious to. For the first time in my life, I went riding on a friend’s boat on a river, and suddenly realized there are thousands of people here living on the banks of the many rivers, all with docks and boats, and all tied to the water and the tides.

I’ve been on boats in the ocean many times, but never experienced anything quite like this with the constantly changing scenery, the different islands, the beautiful homes, the winding rivers and tributaries, and dolphins swimming up to the small boat.

Of course I didn’t see any lost tribe of naked orange boys waiting for us on the shoreline, but that’s what I drew and started painting as soon as I got home.

“Beach Boys”
24” x 36”
Acrylic on Canvas

Tribally,
TONY

"Home"

2010-04-23T17:52:00.000-07:00

This is a skewed birds-eye view of my home in Savannah, my yard and garage. I live on a corner, so you see one street on the far left, and the other street is unseen, below the house, where the two walkways lead. I didn't really notice it until it was finished, but I laughed when I saw I had put my dog Junior, smack-dab in the middle, larger than life. That's the place he holds in my heart, I suppose. And he knows it.

Happily, TONY

Signs of Spring: 2010 Edition (2)

2010-04-23T16:03:00.000-07:00

Rhododendron Grace Seabrook

Rhododendron Gletschernacht (Glacier Night)

Temple Blessing Dream Number Two

2010-04-23T09:57:00.000-07:00

"People in the Crowd"

2010-04-11T15:04:00.001-07:00

I didn't know it before I moved here, but the city of Savannah sure does love festivals. There are 175 festivals and celebrations here each year, a new one starting every other day and overlapping with others.

There is a film festival, a book fesitval, and a pirate festival. A Greek fesival, a Latin festival, an Asian festival, and an Irish festival. A gay and lesbian festival, a sidewalk arts festival and a Black Heritage festival. A Savannah music festival, a jazz festival and a Blues & BBQ festival.

I unknowingly stumbled into most of them while walking my dogs around town. Isidro and I went to the largest park here with my dogs and stumbled upon yet another festival. A festival for dogs, called "Mutt Strutt". Apparently we were the only that hadn't heard about it because there seemed to be 10,000 dogs there.

From across the street, Isidro took one look at the crowd with their dogs and said "Every damn dog in the entire world is here!".But this painting is about the crowds of people I've seen at the various festivals, most of whom seem to be students of the Savannah College of Art and Design.

"People In The Crowd"
24" x 30"
Acrylic on Canvas

Festivally Yours,TONY

"Anthuriums In An Earthquake"

2010-04-08T20:06:00.001-07:00

Amid the news coverage of the earthquakes in Haiti, Chile, and now Southern California, I envisioned my next still life as not so still, but quivering and shaking during an earthquake. It was hard, but I forced myself not to use any black in this painting.

“Anthuriums In An Earthquake”
20” x 30”
Acrylic on Canvas

Quiveringly,
Tony

Saturday Night Soup for the Soul (41)

2010-04-08T11:11:00.000-07:00

“The Case of the of Mixed Semaphores”.

Well, the piece I wrote for this week will no longer be used. Something personally upsetting (offset by something very nice from an old high school friend) occurred this afternoon. Once again, mixed semaphores, and poorly executed lies take a toll on me.

Begin off topic rambling

I am an “open” person, but have been told that I am notoriously difficult to get to really know. A lot of layers and paradoxes (but isn’t this true of all human beings?). Someone emailed me this week and wants to interview me for some arts journalism project. I agreed to do this, as long as I can publish an edited bit of her interview as an “All about me” page on the blog.

This should be a interesting experience, having tons of questions posed to me for the sole purpose of revealing who I am – or who the inner me is – or ??? I am a bit worried abgout the question marks, although she and I share mutual acquaintances. So, stay tuned for this one.

End off topic rambling

So, since I refuse to discuss what upset me today, let us therefore spin the tunes that I hear coming from the Soup kitchen. As usual, the music says it all, for those who know how to listen.

1. Red, Red Robin and 2. My Buddy and 3. Who's Sorry Now? - All three of these songs both come from the Grammy and Emmy award winning chanteuse Eydie Gormé ‘s 1958 LP Eydie Gormé Vamps the Roaring 20's.

I have a passion for a VAST spectrum of music from styles, cultures and times across the centuries and across the peoples of the earth. The great mystery of music is that it is comprised of vibrations – sound waves traveling through the air, that when received by the human ear and processed by one’s brain can trigger every emotion, and memory and thought know to human kind. Being purely abstract (one cannot hold in one’s hand) it is the highest of all art forms.

I did not have a good father (do not be sad for me: I had a golden soul of a mother). But the best thing my father did influence in me, is a great love for music. As a child, our house was filled with Ellington, Basie, Fitzgerald, Mildred Bailey, Goodman, Dorsey, Sinatra, Armstrong, Clooney, Cole, Peggy Lee, so forth and so on. And having a sister 10 years my senior, there was a dual track of Doo Wop, and all the 50’s rock and roll greats being projected into my childhood memory.

At the heart of music is melody, which when condensed becomes “the perfect song”. And my childhood was a kaleidoscope of songs from the turn of the century “The Sidewalks of New York” to Armstrong's “Hello Dolly”. Every American decade has had its great American songs (though the art seems to have mostly died out). A great song, can be reinterpreted an endless number of times by musicians and singers alike, and made fresh once again.

I have a distinct memory of my father ‘forcing’ me to listing to Eydie’s wonderful rendition of Red, Red Robin , for the “trick” of the first verse being recorded in a wonderful 1920’s style and simulated technology, before switching into the late 1950's contemporary style. That recording is sealed as a permanent memory. Why it was suddenly triggered this week I do not know. I have been very off and on melancholic the past several weeks (see last week’s Soup here).

So, I searched for, found, and bought a CD copy of Eydie’s original 1958 LP “Vamping the Roaring Twenties” CD. Ohmygod. After listening, I realized that so many of the songs on this LP are buried in my memory – the memory of the song is HER rendition. My Buddy (hearing a short bit of Eydie singing this brought out the tears). Button Up you Overcoat. Chicago. I Want to be Loved By You.

These all seeped into my memory. So here we go. Fifty two years later, her recording of songs written long before I, or even she was born, are still moving hearts and souls. What more can an artist ask for? And THAT my dear friends, is immortality.

I was stunned to discover that our Eydie is of Sephardi (Spanish) Jewish descendant via Turkey. Talk about adding a million miles of depth, color, and deep interest to her biography. She also has a whole series of Grammy award winning Spanish LP’s that are beautiful and enchanting. This will make it as a topic for a future Soup.

So, enjot these lovely renditions of these GREAT 1920's masterpieces of song. Go HERE to their web site to buy.

You can get your 16.4 Mb bowl of Saturday Night Soup for the Soul by clicking the jukebox.

wounded eyes

2010-04-07T21:21:00.000-07:00

when you took me into this bedroom
your vanity mirror was milk glass
its frame tarnished before a sleeping doe
on the rug; a typewriter with keys removed
at the bedside

rain splashed from a downspout outside
i strained to find a window but only the sound was heard
the bed was veiled in chandelier ash
sight turns more internal now

on a table beneath your mirror
three ribbons tied matching coal lockets
where they laid for each estranged season, a clip
of cord from telephone; clipped hair into a jar
this hair is maintained by others now

and you told me i was let into this room
because the yard was filled by black widows
and we would be safe here in age
tying ourselves in fabrics before a sleeping doe

night will polish a memory of revolvers
several hours until morning
several hours until sunset

we should have been born inside diving bells
descending through these yards flooded
by recollection; estuaries ripped their banks
synapses spill like lemonade in a breakfast nook
the teanaway will surround these foundations
rising from wilderness
a box holding my medals floats away

downstairs where heat rises from
one son leaves for a war
and the second returns wrapped in bed sheets
to be lifted up the stairs
into this very bedroom where he is laid
and his eyes are licked by a small doe
before a mirror, unreflective as milk glass
he is unable to see his own wounds

and i am unable to see my own wounds
bandages cover eyelashes, the mirror milk
hung in a hospice tended to by does

http://www.westernpines.net/

El Capitan and his two Lieutenants

2010-04-06T23:37:00.000-07:00

"Story Being Written"

2010-03-31T18:56:00.000-07:00

Click Isidro

to read the story of

Tony's

"Story Being Written"

"Something Happened There"

2010-03-29T21:48:00.000-07:00

This painting is open to your own interpretation.

“Something Happened There”
24” x 36”
Acrylic on Canvas

Also Open,
Tony

"Gardenias"

2010-03-28T22:07:00.000-07:00

This will be last painting in my “Florals” series for awhile. I’ll add to the series again sometime next year. These are Gardenias, my favorite flower, and from my 6’ tree that sits right outside my bedroom window.

The flowers are huge, and dozens and dozens of them weigh the tree down right now, and fill up my entire house and yard with their fragrance. This is my first painting of this flower for this series.

“Gardenias”
24” x 30”
Acrylic on Canvas

Fragrantly,
Tony

"Easy Ways to Make Sexy Table Settings"

2010-03-28T17:38:00.000-07:00

"He Did the Right Thing"

2010-03-28T16:05:00.000-07:00

"Through a Window, Gothically"

2010-03-28T15:21:00.000-07:00

"Collected Koi"

2010-03-28T00:48:00.001-07:00

Brainiac,
the sinister
green landlord
commands you to read the story of Tony's
"Collected Koi"
painting.

(Click the creepy green man)

"Butterfly Kidnapping"

2010-03-27T23:11:00.000-07:00

I'm not sure what these paintings of guys being flown away signify, but I accept that I don't know yet, keep painting them, and assume I'll realize what they mean sometime in the near future. Whether or not I like the answer.

Flutteringly yours, TONY

T-Bird: This one published nicely. The woman below is Ava Gardner who seems like some sort of butterfly goddess, or galaxy class benevolent spiritual being. Perhaps she is the Queen of the Butterflies, not to be confused with the great character actress Butterfly McQueen ("Prissy" in "Gone With the Wind").

UPDATE: I bought this painting today.

"Lumina"

2010-03-25T21:02:00.000-07:00

In memory of my late sister, Judith Rae. She died, the victim of the American Health Care System, on March 25th, 2005.

"Cannas"

2010-03-21T22:08:00.000-07:00

This is another in my ongoing Floral series. I try not to paint the same flower more than once (but have). Some of the past paintings have been Anthuriums, Sunflowers, Orchids, Day Lilies, Camellias, Daffodils, Calla Lilies, Cymbidiums and Hibiscus. This one (from mon jardan) is.

“Cannas”24” x 30”
Acrylic on Canvas

Florally, Tony

"Park Encounter"

2010-03-21T20:10:00.001-07:00

This is based on the park I walk my dogs through every other day, with a simplified version of Savannah’s most famous landmark in the background, the fountain. I’m not really sure what I’ve portrayed these people doing, or why there’s a fish in a bowl on the ground….but there they are. Just like most of the people I see in that park, I’m not sure why they’re there or what they’re doing, but there they are.

“Park Encounter”
24” x 30”
Acrylic on Canvas

Close Encounters of the Park Kind,
TONY

spring dialect

2010-03-21T16:19:00.000-07:00

a desert folds as fabric
the bomb of our sun, elastic and compressing
a terror explodes in a public place
beneath a parasol; you ran, ran fast
clutching a binding of plasticine
stained the cheek with pillar collisions
bled to collar

and brows wept to the edge of a shelf to spill
a vertebrae pierced, a lung shattered
where our homing pigeons roost in a nest of nails
plucking their dust from a lampshade
plucking sweet gray gills

mortar can shift and dine from tracer glass
a breaker spaced by cotton
cutting our lips on each prism of light
tourniquets of flavors denied
morning rises over strands of hair in a tide pool

and fire spreads viscous for a wire moving
parasol delimiters, an image's collateral
tempest of acid seeping warm to skin
blondeing the napes of caress
clock longitude, tongues will be touched
by motion corralled in the arbors of neck bone
splintered by spark, divining rods

is there water here now? or symphonies
breaking as beads of sweat from a magnet
in our grasp, our concentration
a moving river pregnant with meteorites
dotting cataracts and lead

i take two eyes from a skull, remember them
view the face that shined so bright before
the dust settled to skin
parlor ash collected on a brow
and hair is blurred in requiem, blood
strands grown porous in lymph sunset
within us and along our chests, such a blue sky
such a solid ground

http://www.westernpines.net/

You Belong With Me

2010-03-21T12:48:00.000-07:00

Saturday Night Soup (40)

2010-03-20T23:59:00.000-07:00

The Return of the King

G'evening to you all. Letters are something that is rapidly dying. You have no idea how it used to be. Once upon a time, everything connected with the postal system: pens, paper, stamps, writing (the verb), desks, mailmen (and now women), post offices, post marks, envelopes, stationary, and the art of the mail box: all things were highly iconic and therefore fair game (and a rich source at that) as topics to include in all the arts (visual, written, and audio).

I see people, going day after day to their mailbox, hoping to find a letter from their true love, or word from a beloved one who was far away, or heartbreaking news, all such things and more contained in a letter box. Every letter was special. Now? We have cheap and instantly disposable email. It arrives and vanishes without leaving a trace (well, let us not get into the NSA), like empty, nutritionless calories.

Unreal City,
Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,
A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,
I had not thought that death had undone so many.
Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,
And each man fixed his eyes before his feet.
Flowed up hill and down King William Street,
To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours
With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine.

(From "The Waste Land" (1922)

What shall future generations read when they want to know something of the past, and of those who lived it? Letters are the richest source of material for biographers seeking to understand the life and times of those who came before today. Tomorrow, there will be nothing for them, or for anyone to read. Today the mail box is reduced to being a box for bills and junk circulars. I have 1000’s of memories of everything related to this topic going back to earliest childhood. The anticipation and the excitement, the heartbreak and the tears. Cards from Grandparents, an older sister, from a favorite Aunt, and from my mother when I got older and moved out onto my own.

If the masses of people of today actually had to make the effort to compose, ponder, write, review, revise and rewrite. And then print, put into an envelope, select a stamp (ohmygod: selecting a stamp is a topic in itself) and waddle to the nearest mail box and mail it, 99.9999% of messages would not be sent.

Take my surviving family as an example. Not a one of them who are younger than I have ever mailed me a card: birthday, Christmas, Easter, Halloween. Not a one. They are all too fat, too lazy; too uncaring of anything that is not fast food for the soul. Human lard bucketresses (they are all lazy females) who cannot compose a few simple sentences, put them to paper, seal it into an envelope, address the envelope, put a stamp on it, and walk to a mail box. Those older than I, and those departed all knew the fine art of letter writing. I am the surviving person in my family to retain this capacity. Those who are younger than I, are all marooned permanently on the living room sofa of death, watching TV.

I shed tears for those generations not yet born, for in their perceived richness of 24/7 digital distractions, there shall be concealed a deafening silence, and an abject and terrible poverty. I know (well, I do not “know”, I can only assume and believe, rightly or wrongly that I “know”) that some of you understand this topic. After all, you are still old school, and send real cards, complete with hand chosen stickers and appliqués, and hand made touches. I keep one such three dimensional “smiley face candy” envelope jewel from one of you on my monitor. If you are reading this, know that I treasure it.

People have remarked to me that I leave “content rich” messages on other people’s blogs. I do try earnestly to practice what I preach, and to put my heart and soul into my words and actions, in all things. It is this very trait that renders Facebook an exercise in futility for me. Facebook is all quick and easy cheap ass candy sprinkles (sugar and chemical dye). It is also a devious scam for your entire life to be monitored, tallied, and then sold to corporate and political crap sacks. and to like-minded sleazy diseased c*nts. Ann Coulter, for example (though rumor has it she is a twisted self hating Tranny). Facebook is not conducive to people such as me. By the reality of FB, I need to die and to go away. This I shall do someday.

And when I am gone (by “I”, I do not literally mean me, I am speaking of my generation, the last people who remember how life was once lived on earth) you (ditto, not “you” who is reading this, but instead all people who have never experienced anything analog and real, that you can hold in your hand, or make from scratch) will find yourself unexpectedly missing me terribly. You shall find yourselves experiencing an awful and crippling disconnectedness one day.

Now let us trot back to the topic of the analog postal system. I have seen photographic essays on mailboxes - both B&W and colour. Such studies in image go back many decades (some even predating my latest half century incarnation here).

Last night as I was walking I saw a scene that my mind captured as a photographic essay. Picture this:

A brightly coloured shopping center

People milling about

A “Nordstrom’s Rack” (it is an outlet mall)

A “Justice for Girls” shop

And some hideous shop that only carried pink junk for girls and their mothers, who want to wallow 24/7 in a world grotesquely over-populated by saccharine fairy princesses, and unicorns with cheesy ass ribbons.

And there, in the middle of this scene, sat three extremely hot teenage boys. Very handsome and varied in hair color and skin complexion. Sort of looking like three Abercrombie & F. models.

And the three friends were each glued to their phones starring into them, not talking to one another, or reacting to anything around them. I took a mental photograph, wishing instead that I had had a camera. I would have had no problem asking them their permission to shoot a pic, telling them to just keep doing what they were doing. I like finding the truth in all things. And therein was truth on display. The truth about the age in which we live.

On my next two laps around the mall (it is a .6 mile circular ring) the three remained unchanged – still glued to the phones, in silence. Finally on lap three they were walking, two still glued to their phones. The third one was looking at me, noticing that I was looking at them. He had the oddest, almost sad expression. He was the blond one, with blue eyes. And his slightly detached sadness was haunting to me. Again, I wish I had the moment forever captured on film.

1. Symphony No. 4 in F minor, Op. 36 (Movement two) Melancholic inclinations. Obviously there is a strong current of melancholia in this soup. I therefore have chosen one of my favorite melancholic pieces of music. Russian, by dear Tchaikovsky, and is the second movement of the only official "Homosexual" symphony (his fourth symphony). His coded letters refer to "it", and the secret cypher discovered after he died tell us what "it" is. I featured the first movement in a different soup that you can find HERE.

I am off to take a bath. Thank you all who read this, for your being you. For those who do not read this, I offer Matthew 7:6. Me.

You can get your bowl of Saturday Night Soul for the Soul by clicking the jukebox.

Species Narcissist Americanus and "09-09-09"

2010-03-20T00:11:00.000-07:00

Nothing much to report, or to be more accurate, not much that I am going to report from the wide open road. That said, here is another de Carlo painting that I passed in between Burma Shave signs on I-95.

I finished this painting yesterday, and wanted to use my once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to give it the title of yesterday’s date. That’s my backyard and my garage in the background. I was considering adopting one or two more white Chihuahuas someone here is trying to give away, and this image helped convince me it probably wasn’t a good idea.

“09.09.09”
24” x 36”
Acrylic on Canvas

At least I didn’t hijack a plane because of the date, like that nut in Mexico did, TONY

fire work

2010-03-16T20:49:00.000-07:00

girl scouts idle beneath the store eaves
selling sunglasses from trays, gazing
towards nuclear twilight
paper bills from each sale slide
into the drawer

and evening air grows warm as
a recent static cadaver; spinning in a centrifuge
a brick exploded
the red of walls remember a skull
a hand remembers its trigger finger
aloft in forest attic
these rooms remember a heat, wavering
from combustion

were you with me at the moment pumice hardened?
were you there when plucked grapes
were swallowed by our nesting foal?
threads of frost cycle through these eaves
warming in spots, melting
pushing and forking as vines elsewhere

and a hand knocks at the door, what is this name
what wood fell to build this palace for a burning mane
high on a ridge, sheer, hands feeling soft mud
fingers push under to pluck a kite string
from decay

time withholds much in its cupboards
with spiders and march, deciduous hair of the wig
bought for a doll then laid aside
flammable gazing eyes, torrent with
rapture in kitchen curtains, books of lead
spoons of wood
forming new weights for fishing lines

i bought many things to bring to this twilight
i brought a stoic mantle for hung stockings
only metals could fill
and metals hang in the clockwork of stitching
above a flaming glow, warming us through
until they are reddened as a child’s blush
to be cast as meteorites through a sitting room window
into the very core of our creations
where our hearts beat in a neighborhood
a galaxy colliding

http://www.westernpines.net/

Signs of Spring: 2010 Edition (1)

2010-03-16T12:33:00.000-07:00

Rhododendron "Lucy Lou"

Rhododendron "April Rose"
(It should have been named "March Violet" )

Rhododendron "April Rose" with fill flash

"The Three Graces"

2010-03-16T00:05:00.001-07:00

truss

2010-03-14T22:48:00.000-07:00

carbon machines thunder on the frontier
over the horizon; a pulmonary sky cast down
like pacific nebulae

my hand moves as i lay, not of my will
and reaches for a sword; a phantom limb
reaches for a glass in which a sparrow floats
reaches for the telephone

machine thunder cracks loud, closer
my house beams shift under high wind
in ashen light; the roof trusses still hold
a ceiling of rome suspended high above
cracking in age like arecibo signals

and blue streaks entwine with indigo
in atmosphere
cut through by white contrails

i’ve travelled outside to touch plantation gates
carve my inscription in the wood
a dirt road continues beyond
bordered by stone walls
and i forgot if this was earth or mars
what language should i use to inscribe?

earth or mars, missiles would pierce
the chest of a round bird
and it would fall to me
i put a bird in a glass for rainwater
i placed a feather or two
under a thumbtack on the gate wood
just beneath a date

and i never dared to stray far through the gate
i would never leave the sight of my house
but as air grows dimmer i want to find
new eyes, a new table setting

i leave the sight of my house and turn
beyond a ridge; in the sky men descended
with parachutes, dead; a sky’s stillbirth
they wore uniforms of many decades
of many nations; too many to count
parachute ropes creaked before each body landed
to shuffle along the ground and stop
covered by fabrics

each had a rifle from a different decade
i picked one up and saw valleys fan out
in the distance; each valley was flooded by water
and submerged reflections of skyscraper skylines
patterned and reproduced in depth
a smooth lake surface lit by sunlight

i walked down to a surface; the shore was dotted
by overturned boats, wooden, half decayed
i took one upon the water and floated out
over liquid museums of skylines, a lake
concentrated with image and memory
and it felt me above; the skyline moved
and changed decades below

i can see america, i can find seawalls
i can see the equipment on roofs of skyscrapers
before they bent
i see cars moving on streets beneath towers
a helicopter, a bird
smoke eagles thread through depths, waft
across billboards

and i can’t see my reflection on the water
but i can move by touch without paddle

i knew this was the place roman fathers
lost their sons, forgot they were born
i knew the wingtips of fighter jets were blunted
and swung against bordering hills by wind
i saw a ravine for unexploded bombs

and i laid back in my boat, floating
on metropolis lake; this fluid of centuries
america submerged and shifting beneath
civil engineering entwined and reduced

on earth or mars, poised to evaporate
and leave shores vacant
the trusses in a roof remain
holding against atmosphere’s weight
and rain, snow

men with parachutes continue to settle
upon the roof; bones under its skin warm, taught
receiving their ions and dreams
their stillness

http://www.westernpines.net/

"San Felipe Neri, Albuquerque"

2010-03-14T19:54:00.000-07:00

The most famous church in Albuquerque, this is San Felipe Neri in Old Town. Completed in 1793, it replaced the 1706 church that was destroyed by floods and the Comanches.

Like all of my landscapes, it's completely out of scale, off color. and the wrong proportions. Just the way I like it!

"San Felipe Neri, Albuquerque"

24" x 30"

Acrylic on Canvas

Freezing here, TONY

Saturday Night Soup (39)

2010-03-12T01:11:00.000-08:00

When your mother sends back all your invitations
And your father to your sister he explains
That you’re tired of yourself and all of your creations
Won’t you come see me, Queen Jane?
Won’t you come see me, Queen Jane?

Now when all of the flower ladies want back
what they have lent you
And the smell of their roses does not remain
And all of your children start to resent you
Won’t you come see me, Queen Jane?
Won’t you come see me, Queen Jane?.
(Queen Jane Approximately)

or those of you who have managed large projects (I have), these few words will ring true.

There are many phases to a project. From inception, you have scope definition and cost/benefit analysis. If the project gets launch authorization, you must define the succinct phases of the project and deliverables of each phase, timelines, staffing, determine what the metrics shall be to measure progress, so forth and so on. Then cometh the execution of the plan, with all the unanticipated pot holes, tears, breakdowns, screaming matches, personality incompatibilities, intrigues, and hopefully despite all this, success.

“The lamps are going out all over Earth; we shall not see them lit again in our lifetime.” From an email I received this week.

The above description of the process of maanaging a project is all a gross simplification of course. But it is superficially accurate.

Now when all the clowns that you have commissioned
Have died in battle or in vain
And you’re sick of all this repetition
Won’t you come see me, Queen Jane?
Won’t you come see me, Queen Jane?

When all of your advisers heave their plastic
At your feet to convince you of your pain
Trying to prove that your conclusions should be more drastic
Won’t you come see me, Queen Jane?
Won’t you come see me, Queen Jane?
(Queen Jane Approximately)

There is one often overlooked phase of a project that should conclude a project (but is often overlooked): the project post mortem. This is where you dissect the past: what worked and did not work; what went to plan and ran off the tracks becoming a major train wreck, so forth and so on. Why do you do this? It should be self evident.

There is a proper way to conduct the project autopsy. Never, ever let the process descend into organizational name calling, finger pointing, and playing out the “He did this” and “She did this” blame game. That is never productive, and fractures inter departmental relationships, ensuring that the organization will never be successful in executing future large scope projects.

One of the ways I have found that you can prevent such rear view mirror chaotic bickering is to stand up in front of everyone and become the face of whatever failures occurred in the past. Do this at the beginning of the post mortem. Do this with humor. Own the projects failures. You will find that once you set such an atmosphere, the players will feel safe with being objective and open about the things they did wrong in the concluded project. This then allows the all important objective of this process to occur: determine what changes could have been made to the past to prevent the failures. And of course, this helps you to better plan the next project, and to avoid making the same mistakes.

Now when all the bandits
that you turned your other cheek to
All lay down their bandanas and complain
And you want somebody you don’t have to speak to
Won’t you come see me, Queen Jane?
Won’t you come see me, Queen Jane?
(Queen Jane Approximately)

As a work collogue reminds me “We won’t repeat the same mistakes; we will make new ones!”.

I have written about the “professional career” compartment of one’s life. This same concept equally applies to ones private life.

I’m leavin’ today
,I’ll be on my way
Of this I can’t say very much.
But if you want me to,
I can be just like you
An’ pretend that we never have touched.
An’ if anybody asks me,
“Is it easy to forget?”
I’ll say, “It’s easily done,
You just pick anyone,
An’ pretend that you never have met!”

(I Don't Believe You)

I have spent much of the past year and a half, up to and including the week just passed, in a state of reflective post mortem. Yesterday I dug up and disposed of several corpses buried on this blog (i.e. deleted some posts). I buried a couple of fresh corpses in blog where they are unlikely to be found (one was found within 14 hours by a bizarre Google search – I had bet someone that it would take three weeks for this to occur – I lose).

And I dug up one particular tombstone topped corpse, clamped on the jumper cables to the bolts protruding from the sides of the corpse’s neck, and set the timer to “fully resurrect”. I have yet to test the result of this process for success (or lack of).

If all of this sounds dodgy and intentionally illusive, that was my intention. Here is my last bowl of soup for a while. Have all you want. There is enough for all of you, and for all of your friends. As usual, there is a subtext to the music that those of you who are perceptive will understand. There is always much, much, much more to the soup than meets the ears. Such is life. The recipe includes:

1. I Don't Believe You Bobby Dylan, introducing this song at his Halloween, 1964 show at New York's Philharmonic Hall (this bit begins this week’s soup) said, "This is about all the people that say they've never seen you...”. He then says “Hi” to someone in the audience, and tells the audience “and I never saw him”.

The song comes from Dylan’s pivotal 1964 LP Another Side of Bob Dylan. Having been placed onto the chrome plated pedestal of fame, been anointed as the poster child of American folk music, protest music, and declared to be the voice of the social consciousness of America, Dylan did what any other self respecting artist would do: find a way to escape at any price. During this period of his life, the four headed monster otherwise known as The Beatles invaded Dylan’s New York, and from this beachhead stormed America’s culture with their unique high electrified musical shock and awe. Furthermore, he took the wonder-drug LSD.

Dylan’s music changed – radically – though few at the time really understood what was afoot. Gone were the signature movement anthems which had initially made him famous. Replacing them were songs of a deeply personal nature, nuanced, absurd and bizarre at times, dark and passionate at other times, and always intense in their simplicity. And ideas and change were now exploding out of his subconscious at an accelerating brake neck pace.

The self-described over-inflated windbags of the folk movement denounced Dylan for straying from the orthodoxy of folk with this LP. The Halloween performance, of which I have included but a snippet of dialog catches him as a blur in rapid transition, sounding stoned, and introducing one yet unrecorded new song after another to an audience that was unable to grasp what they were witnessing before them. After this LP, Dylan would go electric and record three LP’s that rank among the greatest achievements of popular music in the entire 20th century. .

2. Queen Jane Approximately comes from Dylan’s fantastic full tilt Highway 61 Revisited LP. Released in August 1965, it remains one of the greatest LP’s of all time. For the recording sessions, he assembled a high caliber group of electric blues musicians. What they created was unlike anything ever record and to this day sounds amazingly fresh and unique.

Well, he is prophesying to one specific person about things to come in his/her life using incredible and surrealistic allusions to predicted future events. And he appears to be telling him/her (Dylan once said that Queen Jane was a man) that they will one day reach that do or die point of desperation in their life, that he (Dylan) will be there waiting to hear from them, and be receptive to them.

Below: The historical Queen Jane

All of this makes it's way into this week's soup. You can get your bowl of Saturday Night Soul for the Soul by clicking the jukebox.

carbon expeditionary

2010-03-11T21:47:00.000-08:00

each body has a captain
every path a vein in sea or space
we were sent from these lands long ago

our landing steel grows caked in sulphur
shifting through space to tarawa atoll
beyond the engines of tranquility base
gravity lower, earth in the distance
an ornament behind trajectory fossils
indigo air breathed into my helmet

and tarawa’s craters, red 1 through 3
amongst the chain of gilbert craters
abaiang crater, maiana crater
here in gray ash
spits dust in the approach towards a cabin

in the rupture of spacesuits
exposed flesh freezes instantly

i recall the curvature of a moon, i recorded
a wave of ships land near rims of craters
i felt my heart beating inside a spacesuit
i saw a log cabin in the distance
absent of moss, light; sagging in phases
the yard a museum of tarawa’s dead
their implements scattered across boundaries
tourniquets long since untied

is there an older uniform within this soul?
is there a heart within a mirror?

i viewed a blue sky on my screen
i felt wet surf move inside my gloved hand
my suit flooding but i could not open
my helmet

i wanted to relay back a repetition
of each populace’s amnesia, a blue bird
who could not find its nest in a crater
a swan that flew through a fire
a braille burning before blind hands
too hot to touch

there will not be enough rope to tow these dead
back to earth
pistols sparked blue with no atmosphere
pistols in gloved hands drop away
as a white suit explodes like dandelion flame
and drifts up, back

towards a sunrise over a black surface
a screen’s black image of wheat charring
leaning back, returned to a bicycle
years before
a playing card clicking in spokes

and the dust is so gray, blood settles
slow in droplets not immediately absorbed

i looked back at the ornament of earth
when sound did not travel fast here
and the blue is memory
we made it to the crater’s cabin, half lost
climbed across strewn meteorites
breathing heavy, our heartbeats loud in suits

and our flag had no wind so we gave it a dowel frame
cpr was not possible here
white suits were shot through for us to drown in

when i reached the cabin
i sat at an oak desk and looked across at your face
your body sitting in a gown of curtains
your lips smiling, your fingernails freshly polished
not moving a vein

i felt your spider move inside my spacesuit

and i wiped dust away with my glove
paged through parchment declarations on the desk
to read the next; sepia and our gold

and taking up each sheet, i read
the curvature of pains here to describe amnesia
of decades enclosed; this cabin will be leveled
the edges of this crater rounded off
the craters filled with cement

i found a pistol in the desk drawer
never rusting after a hundred years
i laid it before you
but you simply vanished

trash gathers in these craters now
and when an xray is taken of a skull
can you not see the shapes of butterflies?
can you not find the memory in its hull?

the underbelly of a sparrow before burial
our hearts beating in earth’s remembered wind
looking out through a helmet towards ornament earth
gloved hands brushing aside dandelions of spacesuits rupturing
a burial prairie, lunar

http://www.westernpines.net/

"Waiting"

2010-03-11T15:26:00.000-08:00

Run through the

Red Stop Light

to read the story of

Tony's

"Waiting"

painting.

(Click the Stop Light)

Cherry Red, Severed Head
And one you don't remember,
You said.

"05-05-05"

2010-03-11T15:01:00.000-08:00

Run the

Yellow Caution Light

to read the story of

Tony's "05-05-05"

painting

(Click the traffic light)

"Transit of Venus"

2010-03-09T11:11:00.000-08:00

“Shadow Dancer”

I thought I understood you,
I thought I knew you well.
Where this strange road leads to,
only time will tell.

If I could read the secret signs,
perhaps then I would find
that hidden sanctuary
buried deep inside your mind;
behind a fence of thorns and vines,
where no love can grow,
a garden without a song, a voice or echo.

I thought there was a shooting star,
some celestial plan,
maybe a chart that forecast how far
a bridge we both must span.

If I could watch a sacred flame,
perhaps then I would see
that dream with no name
dancing deep inside of me;
beyond the sorrow and the blame,
where a love can grow,
in a garden with a song that only angels know.

The only thing that matters now
is the face I see at night,
of a dancer who made no vow
and shadows in the moonlight.

pompeii nyc

2010-03-08T21:17:00.000-08:00

can you taste the grease in a harbor
and feel midday sunlight spark from chop
lapping against fingertips, cheekbones?
looking back to shore; a beach of towers
the mix of ash with undertow
be still

can you catalog frames of your own memory?
on a small boat navigating a harbor
viewing a skyline changing above pompeii
dual pillars of nursery, dual scepters
a dust’s incendiary womb boiling with dream
heating currents in a harbor

there are three thousand energies
immediately suspended now in towers
i saw a flash, a smoke, a delayed sound
two times
on mezzanines our shards can be filmed falling
through windows; the facade buckling

and shards fall to be layered by new ash
in a skull i found tricycles
a love note written upon a lunch sack
a sprinkler’s mist yard
bread still baking in an oven
a colored paper’s ink, sepia crossings
a nursery ribbon, a dinner
a beach landing and the building of a cabin
a gun that shot rubber bands
the fear of choking on hard candy
a snow day, a tooth falling out
a fire drill in the afternoon
photographed presents opened
a shattered blossom in easter tinsel
a silent child in the tattoos of tree rings
a boxcar, a synapse, a moon
a sewing needle

sidewalk chalk forms a thread
the drawings now latched to needle and tears
a hand pushes chalk as a kite
from explosives

and ashen lips speak
to a microphone on school floor numbers
placed within an atmosphere’s telegraph
a lightning rod’s connector to soil, plummeting

office fabrics burn after replacing supplies
in these towers, a canal for three thousand

and paper will ignite
a bike moves beneath me in a neighborhood
a small dog i would give fear to as i chase
to convey power, power over
a mistake

and alleys intersect for icicles delivered
looking back on collected dust can ignite
a book with dates, a cell phone call
from a plane and answered down this alley
a cell phone call from collision’s snapshot

there is a summer lawn and sprinkler
that always returns when falling
from a high place, a burning place
terrestrial flight
metropolitan pompeii ignites on a shore

we were to meet at pompeii’s airport
but here i find sleeves ripped in altitude
salted shoes of landing years
and when memory ignites in new harbor prairies
i see a falling briefcase
i see the heat of fire, too much
clinging to an outward tower ledge
before it grew too hot to grasp

and the fabrics of neighborhood summers return
to us in dilation, draped faces obscured
a fire hydrant opened to cool, a skeletal block
of fire escapes adorning a skyline
selling lemonade to chalk souls on the sidewalk
back home now while falling, while hanging
before heat touches asphalt

i am in that altitude but also upon a ferry
can you see ascension when you fall? the lap of
saltwater, the lap of smoke currents
through boulevards of ashen taxis

i see energy becoming ash, plummeting
where grave markers could rest, now atmosphere
absorbs each cremation
and today i remember the past in chalk
along the side of a painted house
and find duties in clipping flowers, removing
spent seeds

i see us in the harbor still, in neckties
still in nurseries locked in seawalls
a nursery beneath a target pillar, hot
worth burns away in new energy peeled from fuselage
we duck from and remember, forget

"Where the Goys Are (The Gospel of T. Charles)"

2010-03-06T14:57:00.001-08:00

The ever impish Uncle Arthur apparently used a bit of his warlock faire dust to whip up two hunk boys for this wonderful T. Charles fall portrait of a placid pocket sized lake, and place them smack dab in the center of attention. Or perhaps Uncle Arthur whipped them up for himself. Only Endora knows for sure.

"Baby Bird Boy"

2010-03-06T10:55:00.000-08:00

Spring is almost here, finally. And with it, I see a lot more birds. I hung a birdfeeder outside the window I face while I’m painting, and watch the dozens of finches, cardinals, sparrows, doves and pigeons eat. I’m not sure what kind of bird this is that I painted, I guess it’s a mixture of all the ones I see. I don’t see the birds, in this painting, as props for the guy, but I see him as the prop for the birds, as the tree trunk they can sit on and make homes in.

“Baby Bird Boy”
20” x 20”
Acrylic on Canvas

Chirpingly,
Tony

T-Bird PS: I bought this painting

western pines on lunar hillsides

2010-03-05T23:44:00.000-08:00

All my life I felt that emotion was something easily controlled. I found it a tool that could be used to harness negative emotions in a way they could be converted to energy of new creations. Or use positive emotions in applications outside of purely artistic creativity to innovate in work environments.

There is a naivety in youth in which you view your 20's as expendable to a larger creative purpose without thought to the next 70 years of your life. At least, looking back, I think it is accurate for me.

Since I was 13 I felt sadness in the happiness of ancient childhood photographs. It has always been an odd reaction I've noticed; I lived a sheltered existence as a child without worries, hardships or pain. So why does looking back on old photographs or memories create sadness?

It is simple. They evoke a longing to revisit those times again, but you are never able to, directly. As a parent, you have the opportunity to relive those years again through your child's eyes. As they are fostered and develop, witness them and recreate similar memories for them and yourself in ways applicable to this time and space.

But it often goes askew to me. Stress can form odd effects in what used to be assumed to be a completely controllable medium (emotion). I had an anxiety attack for the first time in my life recently. It was snuffed out like a candle and hasn't returned, and I believe I've identified the root cause, but it is shocking to have your assumptions tested and violated.

This is old hat to some; old news of something fairly simple and obvious. It has recurred endless times in others.

I used to think I simply felt things deeper than others. In my youth, I think it was a given from the types of crowds roaming the halls in my schools. In older age, not so unique as horizons and connections expand.

Today I felt those emotions from age 13 return for nearly half a day. I was overpowered by images of childhood summer. Overpowered by images of my parents, my home, the yard, various scenes I wish I could touch again exactly as they were. Overcome by sensing the future deaths of my parents, overcome by my recent work successes leaving more life to be desired and too burdened by current responsibilities to enact useful change.

The sadness was from knowing I could never return to those prior times of cocoon when I wanted so badly to. Stress at work is elevated now. This is a root cause.

So I continue to continue; a few projects more, a few projects less. I began writing again to form an outlet to attempt my original theme of harnessing emotion to convert it to creativity no matter the form. As intricacies dilate and multiply, it becomes like riding a bull. I'm writing the best poetry of my life, per my intentions.

But all is well, all will be well. Emotion still is not a random, erratic facet without root cause. Life and these times grow more complex; we adapt, we grow and remember where we came from and where our ancestors felt dreams and sorrow and destruction. It is a work in progress.

I used to publish my poetry on a web site from 1997 - 2005. It dropped off due to technical requirements of work overshadowing creativity. I've found rebirth and am writing again at http://www.westernpines.net/ and have self-published my first book of poetry. The background of my writing centers on these themes and expands into other realms. It may be dark to some, but I find beauty in painting emotion to the canvas in slightly abstract form.

"All Eyes On Him"

2010-03-05T22:52:00.000-08:00

I had a vision of a man covered in tattooed eyes, fading into a tattooed background of the same pattern. My painting shows a lot more contrast between the man and the background than my original vision. But here it is……

“All Eyes On Him”
30” x 40”
Acrylic on Canvas

Tattooless,Tony

"Island Girl"

2010-03-04T13:53:00.000-08:00

Last week, out of the blue, a 90 year old lady I knew when I lived in Hawaii, sent me an unexpected package filled with all sorts of gifts from Hawaii. An aloha shirt, short sleeve and long sleeve T-shirts, macademia nuts, a 2009 calendar of Hawaiian flowers, Kona coffee and guava jam. It made me a little homesick for Hawaii, and undoubtly inspired me to start work on this painting. I know I wouldn't have painted it had I not received that package. This is how I envision that little old lady as having looked, many years ago.

"Island Girl"
24" x 24"
Acrylic on Birch Wood

Aloha, TONY

Road Trip Diary: A Journey of a Million Miles Starts with Milepost One

2010-03-03T23:11:00.000-08:00

Tooth brush, tooth paste, floss, shaving cream, razors, the cats, the cat box, dishes, cups, pans, my espresso maker, vitamins, stationary, stamps, pens, paper, addresses, WiFi maps, laptop, cd’s, dvds, check book, credit cards, go over every “what if” contingency again with the house sitters, digital Camcorder, TV, radio, cell phone, winter, spring and summer clothes, some formal wear, roadmaps, check the oil and tires, credit cards (again), duct tape, paper clips, linens, towels, and so forth.

Yup, you guessed ‘er Chester!. I am taking an extended sabbatical leave of absence from work, packing up my belongings, and hitting the open road for an extended road trip (a/k/a running away from home). I know not the route I will take or where I will pass thru. But the destination, I do know. I am heading for the place called Tomorrow. I will leave in a couple of days as soon as I wrap up some loose ends.

I will be blogging from the road about what must be considered my final journey, discussing the people and events, the places and the changes I encounter along the way. I shall see you all on the great open highway and hopefully, after we cross the border together, on the other side. I will see you Tomorrow.

"Pile of Dicks"

2010-03-03T12:06:00.000-08:00

This is kind of a silly painting, but you might want to delete it if you're easily offended. It was my original intention to fill this silverleaf-covered canvas with painted outlines of 1,000 dicks. But after days of dizzying work, I painted 1,000 before the canvas was filled, so a pile is what this was meant to be.

"Pile of Dicks"
24" x 30"
Silverleaf, Acrylic on Canvas

Best wishes, TONY

T-Bird: Ok, I have to jump in here with a few more solo Dicks, and a Dick with a Lucy.

For the last three images: I am not sure if their names are Dick, Dickie or Richie; Richard, Ricardo, Cardo,or even Rick. But at least one of them absolutely has a big dick. And as for the latter two, with all these dicks, you have to have some places to park them all.

"Patron Saint of the Flying Dogs"

2010-03-02T21:44:00.000-08:00

Another in my series of made-up $aints and Santos. This is:

"Patron Saint of the Flying Dogs"
15.5" x 24"
Copperleaf and Acrylic on Wood

$till Flying Along, TONY

"Three Men In A Room"

2010-03-02T21:43:00.000-08:00

The room is based on my bedroom, but the rest of this painting is pure fantasyland.

“Three Men In A Room”
24” x 36”
Acrylic on Canvas

Living in Fantasy,
Tony

Saturday Night Soup (38)

2010-02-27T13:55:00.000-08:00

The best place to hide something is to place it in plain sight

Years ago someone told me that I was a Buddhist, but did not yet know it. They said this because of a very specific dream that I told them of, that I had back in November 1999. The dream basically encompassed the whole of space and of time. And yes, it was a dark and stormy November night when I had the dream.

In this dream, I was standing in a void in outer space, with the presence of an all knowing sentient intelligence beside me - the only way to describe it in conventional terms is that this was God - God had no conventional body - well, he did, and he didn't. There was a duality to his form. Sort of a fuzzy glow of being and presence. Hard to explain (you would have had to have been there).

He was showing me all that ever was, all that is, and ever will be, until the very end of time itself. In the infinite distances of the void there was a soft fuzzy white glow a trillion times a trillion light years away. In that glow, all that ever was, is, and will be existed all at once in a singularity. And me, my tiny life, all I ever did from birth to death, was in that glow, and was so infinitely small a part of it as to be smaller that one atom is to the entire universe.

I awoke horrified in the middle of the night. It scared me and seemed to have been a nightmare.

The next morning as I awoke, I recalled the dream. A great comfort overtook me as I lay in bed. In my infinite smallness, there was also the clear sense that I am also an absolutely unique point of singularity in the whole of creation. No other point of intelligence is me. And at that realization, I was no longer a Christian -- as the label is understood by the increasingly cult Christianity minded people who dominate the American religious establishment. That is , I went to bed as one person and awoke the next morning transformed into quite a different person.

I have a sense that Religion is a great thing, as it can bring you closer to truth. But there comes a time when it begins to restrain you from further progression on this path, much like a dog tethered to a rope of a certain length. Now days, I am forever trying to escape each and every rope that is bound to me, so that I might progress as far as I can in this life. And that includes those ropes that I myself fashioned and attached to myself. We all know that our own ropes can be the most difficult ones of all to discover, and to remove.

And like all wise people, the more I learn, the more I realize that I have yet to know. The appears to be infinite opportunities for learning!

This blog post would threaten some of my cultishly brittle and fragile friends, and bore most of the others to tears. See Luke 4:24 for what I am alluding to.

1. Big Barn Bed - In Soup # 34, I featured the musical section which closes this important 1973 career restoring LP by ex-Beatle Paul McCartney. This time, I feature the opening track from the Wings LP Red Rose Speedway. As I said before, this is the moment where Paul got his mojo back, following the deep depression he sank into following the demise of the Beatles.

This is a kick ass soaring track, great drums (Denny Seiwell), bass (Paul, of course), a surprising acoustic guitar (Denny Laine) which adds an air of lightness, and the most delicious, tasty guitar work by Henry McCullough. And of course there are those soaring vocals which build and build until the end, where Paul tops it off with an electronic piano force de frappe. This is my favorite of all Wings line ups.

Coinciding with this release, Paul released a tasty (and at times, delightfully strange) one-hour television show titled James Paul McCartney. The opening of the show featured a live performance of Big Barn Bed which you can watch below.

music says it all, making words unnecessary.

2. Creepin - to be continued

3. Dr. Jimmy - to be continued

4. The Rock - to be continued

5. Love, Reign O're Me - to be continued

You can get your big ass bowl of
Saturday Night Soup for the Soul
by clicking the jukebox icon.

Good Nooze - Pain or no pain, I push, I push, and I push myself.  About 5 nights a week.  Always on an incredible unearthly high after each time.    I am down about 23 lbs.   No end in sight to this process.  I cannot think of the last time I had such titanium resolve and  determination.                                                                                              This is all part of the fulfillment of my destiny and purpose connected to this life.  Most people live and die a life never pondering why they were here.  Others come to this world for its big screen TV’s, tricked out toys and vehicles, and endless opportunities for kicking back and watching entertainment.  Finally, there are the rare individuals who are hand chosen from the beginning for an intangible and abstract calling.  I know why I am here.  Do you reading this know why you are here?                                                                                                       So I go to my closet tonight where I had some pants that were close to fitting.  Four pairs are already too large, so from the closet to the discard pile they went.  The person, who owned and wore them, has died.  I have assumed ownership of own his house, his relationships, his career, his body, and his entire life now.  I am rapidly making the most of it.                                                                                                          Anything I do not like - will be changed.  Anything I do not want or need - will be discarded.  Anything I need that I find I do not have - will be earned and secured through hard work.                                                                                                       Negative or crazy people – go elsewhere.  Friends/Family suffering the negativity wallows (like a hippo stuck in a voluminous mud hole), or the crazies (and remember, “crazy” includes all forms of irrationality and suspension of reality) go into the freezer for later thawing.                                                                                                    Continuing in the closet that I now own, I found a pair of khaki pants that I liked, but they do not quite fit.  No problem.  Will check them again in 3 or 4 weeks.  I found a pair that almost fit, but need a button sewed on, so started that pile.  I found a faded chocolate pair that fit like a glove now.  I will wear tomorrow to work for my infamous high energy Thursday Morning Meeting (I do the equivalent stand-up comedy some weeks).  It now has 18 people in it.                                                                                                         I tried on a faded blue pull over that I have not worn in four years that fits perfectly now.  I will wear that tomorrow, too.  I have tons of clothes to explore this year.  Some I have never worn (did not fit when I bought them).  Despite the fact that I gave away a TON of great stuff (some w/tags) last December, I am happy as I know someone is happy somewhere.                                                                                                  So I decided that I may be going to San Antonio this April.  Work related.  Not fully reimbursed, but the out of pocket (could be 2 grand) will be tax deductable as a 100% work related expense.  Hot and dry in April sounds GREAT to me.  Will buy a new camera for that.  Need to find someone to feed my cats for a few days.  But the big budget in the sky my preclude my doing this.                                                                                                       Well, must start cranking down and think about sleeping soon.  You all take care and "Hang on to yourself" - Me.

"Isidro in the Backyard, New Mexico"

2010-02-21T20:17:00.000-08:00

I've accepted the criticisms from some friends that my emails from New Mexico have come off as "snobbish" or "whining" or from a "crabby attitude", so rather than poke fun at some of the things that are here, I'll give thanks to some of things that AREN'T here for me to deal with any longer.

-No more liquor stores run by rude people with guns on every corner, with half a dozen drunken fools harassing anyone that enters.

-No more one hour drives just to reach the other side of town.

-No more gray, hazy, colorless skies that last for days.

-No more long lines that inch along at every single place you go into.

-No more plastic cosmetic surgery centers, Botox parties or doctors specializing in penile implants.

-No impatient Beverly Hills types blaring their car horn at you the second the traffic light turns green.

-No roving packs of dogs that have been abandoned and dumped onto the streets...

-No more ever-present graffiti that people come to just take for granted.

-No more homeless people or entire communities wiped out by drugs or alcohol living in boxes on the street that people eventually accept as just a part of life.

-No more drive by shootings, helicopters circling overhead day and night, or rude ass LAPD cops to deal with.

-No more stinky stench of Tommy Hamburgers that made the entire neighborhood I lived in reek of rancid chili meat.

-No more store owners hovering behind you in their store, convinced you're going to steal everything you see.

-No more old ladies who see you crossing the street towards them and immediately lock all their car doors.

-No more blaring car alarms going off at all hours. If people here have them, I have yet to hear a single one.

-No experiences, not yet anyway, of having my car broken into, my windshield smashed just for fun, my home repeatedly broken into, or people stealing plants and furniture from my yard and anything else that wasn't chained down.

-No more Denver Boots, taped off crime scenes, cops you fear will plant drugs on you, and no fake-ass gap-toothed gassy actor posing as a governor.

-No more riots, demonstrations, earthquakes, smog or freeways turned into parking lots on a daily basis.

-No more barbed wire around homes, barred windows or cars parked on lawns.

I'll count my blessings for not only what I have, but what I don't have to deal with in New Mexico. Without these things, just about all I have left is this, the subject of my first painting from my new home

"Isidro In The Backyard, New Mexico"
"36"x48"
Acrylic on Canvas

Still in love with L.A.,

TONY with L.A.,TONY

"The Bodhisattva of Great Compassion"

2010-02-21T18:30:00.001-08:00

My Special GIft For You: I had this in mind for you for quite a while. I've been working on it for more than two weeks and I finally pulled an all-nighter so I could finish it. I hope you will enjoy it. In a perfect world, this would be a large-format print that I would send to you as a gift for the hols (as they call them in the UK).

"The Bodhisattva of Great Compassion", Avalokiteshvara (aka Chenrezig in Tibet).

Saturday Night Soup (37)

2010-02-20T10:10:00.000-08:00

This week’s soup carries a sub-title of “To whom it may concern”.

This past week I received a nice email from an apparent "Wunderkind" who is a university mathematics major. He is working on a paper whose subject ( I would roughly call it "Chaos Theory meets the I Ch’ing") is only tangentially related to what I am about to divulge .

He told me that he enjoyed this blog, especially the signature “Saturday Night Soup” entries. He then asked me a question that I had not anticipated receiving (perhaps I believe myself to be too clever by half?) . He cut to the chase, wanting to know if I had encoded “secret messages” in the posts of that series.

I know what those of you reading are likely thinking. I had the same two thoughts, either

“oh oh – this person does what the voices in his head tell him to do”

"Uh, this person may have watched a few too many episodes of Blue's Clues"

So I asked him to “Please explain how you found my encoded secret messages”. He laid out his cryptographically derived evidence for one of the posts in the series - Saturday Night Soup for the Soul (8).

The methodology he has employed to “crack the code” was complex, based both upon the text where font size and colour sets it off for emphasis, and upon the music selections.

As with the text where selected musical fragments are mixed together (as is prevalent in this particular Soup he chose as his example), he applied the same exact algorithm to the bits of lyrics and titles related to the fragments. The resulting message: uncannily accurate to the moment in time related to the post.

So, returning back to his original question: “Have you encoded secret messages into the Saturday Night Soup blog entries?”. That is an EXCELLENT question. He goes to the head of the class.

1./2. John, I'm Only Dancing - David Bowie’s 1972 single is his homo-epic sung to his insecure and apparently jealous fictionalized boyfriend “John”, telling him to not worry about a girl he is hanging out with because they are “only dancing”. It was not released by the idiots running RCA because they felt it was a tad too something (could it be… homoerotic?). I have long fancied this song. Despite being 38 years old, it stands the test of time well. That, to me, is what great art is. Art that represents the best of its genre and time/place. Very little of popular culture stands that test of time.

David recut the song in 1973 for the "Aladdin Sane" (a lad insane) LP. This version has more punch and drive than the original

Joey comes on strong,
Bet your life he's putting us on
Oh lordy, oh lordy, you know I need some loving
Oh move me, touch me.
JOHN, I'M ONLY DANCING

3. John, Im Only Dancing (Again) - to be continued

4. Facination - to be continued

5. Hot Soup Jamming Fools - to be continued

You can get your37.3 Mb bowl of Saturday Night Soup for the Soul by clicking the jukebox.

You asked what I am planning for my birthday om March 1st: Well - besides singing in the nude (do that all the time) I will probably walk across the street to Ricky’s and Andrew’s house.  Andrew is his little boy whose b-day is the same day as mine.  I will let myself have a 1.5 x 2 inch square piece of cake.  No ice cream (may buy some Greek yogurt – or Geek yogurt - and call it ice cream).   I will have a Dr. Appt on March 8th and do not want to eat a bunch of food and gain weight.                                                                                                     Funniest damn thing – in December I gave away a TON of clothes - some with the tags still attached – that I thought I would never be able to wear again = to St. Vincent de Paul: Some truly beautiful stuff.  And now, a month later, suddenly here I am.  Somewhere in that action (giving away to the poor) and the reaction (something that seemed hopelessly impossible becomes easy) there is some cosmic or karmic hand at work.  And I am just going with the flow while the river is full.                                                                                                       Someday I am going to burn you a set of all the soup POD casts.  You may find a piece of music hidden here at that that captures your heart and soul.  I was wearing fricking 48's.  Now they hang on me though still wearing 2 pairs that were cut smaller.  But they are getting much too large.                                                                                                      T'wuz 264 today at the dr.s office.  I had him switch prescriptions from what he gave me last Thursday - these little round hard shell things I was supposed to cut in half.  At one point one popped away as I tried to cut it with a knife on the bread board.  I made a lunging grab for it and the entire open pill container went flying sending them all over the kitchen.  That was Friday morning and I was not a happy camper for the rest of the day (frustrated).                                                                                               So I am now back to caps that are scored in the middle so they snap cleanly in half when you apply pressure.   I think he is being investigated as being a pill pusher with vicodin (what he gave to me) so he is suddenly very reluctant to write a prescription which also horrified me as I am finally on the road and events appeared to want ot derail me (it’s a communist plot).                                                                                                      About four years ago something terrible happened to a leg nerve during or after exercizing at the gym one night that was EXTREMELY painful when the nerve would suddenly sharply throb. I would almost fall over in pain (I fell into a desk credenza at work and nearly tipped the entire thing over).  That was while my mom or sister was dying.  Mourning their deaths, I did not exercise for a year, and then sat for two more years working 24/7 overtime on a major enterprise-wide software implementation.  So now my leg and knee are really eff'ed up.  It is probably the fifth lumbar of my spine.                                                                                                      That is one of the MAJOR reason for doing this.  Greatly reduce the amount of weight I carry.  I will be disappointed in myself if I do not drop 80 pounds.  That would put me at 200. I fricking look and feel great at 200.  But I have it in my head to hit 179 which I LAST weighed in Junior High.                                                                                                       Rick has four years of hideous pictures of me - all that I hate.  These can be my "phatt and miserable" before set.  I have not kept one of them.  I hate them (but he has them all).  I will take some intermediate ones when I lose about 20 more lbs (all my business suits will fit again).                                                                                                     Luckily I have very good facial skin.  Very smooth and clear.  I drink a lot of H2O and use sun screen w/ hats as well.  Sun ages one tremendously, as do bad foods, drugs, smoking, alcoholism, those insane and criminal tanning booths, excessive sexual indulgence, and having a generally bad and hateful soul.                                                                                                       They always say that one ends up with the face one deserves - i.e. earned - meaning ugly souls end up ugly and beautiful and kind souls look wonderful even at 100.  I truly have seen that in action.                                                                                                     My mother looked so good up until the last 6 months.  She had a golden soul.  You would have loved her, had you visited.  She would have been interested in you, your family, etc etc etc.  She loved to laugh and loved people and just glowed.  I hope I have inherited some of that from her, as it was a most attractive trait to my tastes in humanity.                                                                                                   Thanks for dancing with me the past several weeks.  Call on me any time you feel the urge.   xoxx wr

"Seven Arrows"

2010-02-15T22:20:00.001-08:00

I’ve been painting Saint Sebastian for 15 years now and this is one of the latest in my series. It is one of three paintings of him I created this month.

He was known as the Patron Protector against the Plague, and I’m not sure if that’s why he is now unofficially the Saint of gays, who adopted him as their Protector against AIDS. I suspect though it’s because since the Renaissance artists have been painting him younger and younger, cuter and cuter, and more and more nude. I’m sure all of this infuriates the Catholic church, which makes me even more inspired to paint him.

“Seven Arrows”
16” x 20”
Copperleaf, Acrylic on Canvas

An Ex-Catholic,
TONY

PS: I (T-Bird) just bought this painting for my new office. With Tony's permission, I am making an unspoiled large format JPG available for you to use as a desktop wallpaper. Click Sebastian to open a new window revealing the large format image.

"Century City and Hollywood"

2010-02-14T15:27:00.000-08:00

Click the

City of Angels

painting below to see its

dazzling lyrical beauty

in BIG BOY detail

Flip the coin: Heads you

CLICK THE COIN

to read the story of Tony's

"Century City and Hollywood" painting.

Judy Garland - The Man That Got Away

2010-02-14T00:01:00.001-08:00

Happy Valentines Day, Judy!

Young, Latin, and Gay on Cinco de Mayo

2010-02-12T19:01:00.000-08:00

TBird, I just had to do an image for you to play with for Cinco de Mayo. My character concept is a young Latin man who comes out of the closet on Cinco (freedom!). I wanted to send it to you early enough that you don't have to rush. The chihuahua is in honor of Tony and my Mexican Grandmother's sassy little dog, Pepper.

By the way, my real life inspiration for the project came from my memories of a young Cubano I used to know(take the time machine back to the early 80's). He was the porter for an apartment community in a New Orleans subdivision where I used to work. He immigrated to our country after he somehow got out of the horrible Castro prison camp for gays. God only knows what (or who) he had to do to get out, but he was so genuinely happy to be in America.

I just loved how he wore these bad ass butch hiking boots, short sleeve shirts (with his deck of ciggies rolled up in a sleeve James Dean style), short shorts, and dyed blond hair (as blond as latino hair can get). There wasn't a closet or prison built that could hold him. Remembering a freedom fighter and revolutionary, Cat

Gay Day May Day Gardener

2010-02-12T15:41:00.000-08:00

"Latina Test Character"

2010-02-10T21:43:00.000-08:00

Dear T-Bird,

I have seen very few Latina characters done in 3D computer art, so I thought I'd try doing a realistic one. This is the first time I'm using my new lighting utility in an image. I think the utility gives the artist an opportunity to get a photo-realistic result, and I am properly impressed.

Thank you for being someone I truly admire. You inspire me to reach towards my best self in art and in life.

Peace and love,

Your Sister Cat

"Umbrella Head"

2010-02-10T21:34:00.001-08:00

This is a slightly larger than life cut out on Birch wood. It's hurricane season here, and it rains a lot. So, out come the umbrellas.

"Umbrella Head"
24" x 24"
Acrylic on Wood

Peace,Tony

Arod and his Hot Homo lover Mark Teixeira

2010-02-07T20:35:00.000-08:00

Arod is tits up in love for his new Yankee boyfriend and brother Yankee Mark Teixeira.

Here they can be seen immediately after Mark confessed to Arod “I love you - marry me” during the 2009 AL playoffs. Alex is all a flutter these days planning for a gala 2010 wedding at home plate.

Oh how former boyfriend papi Derek Jeter may come to miss those rump pounding sleep-overs with his big baby butt boy Alex.

Saturday Night Soup for the Soul (36)

2010-02-06T23:49:00.000-08:00

'm a disco dancer
But I've got no place to go.

I have spent the past year brooding (and believe me, us Teutonic Aryans know how to brood), not knowing what to do with the rest of my life – if anything – or even if I wanted to live the rest of my life. I just did not know what to do.

I am unsure where the answer came from, how it came, or even when it came. But one morning about three or four weeks ago (a bit after New Year’s) I decided that the meaning of life was “to live” – no more and no less – and that by that alone everything else would fall into place as it was meant to be.

'm a disco dancer, baby! And my feet won't touch the floor

Either a fool’s errand, or an act of 100 percent faith.

I've been looking for a dance to do
I've been looking for some answers, too
Now I'm back to change your mind
Now I'm moving right in time
In a world that's turned unkind
I see what's going on behind my back

his past week has brought the end of a friendship. I let things build up, allowing things to go unanswered. And then came a straw that broke this camels back. And thus, the friend has gone off to seal themselves into the cult of the closed mind and smug soul.

Gracias por todo.

Adiós.

I'm a disco dancer
And I keep dancin' on and on
(I'm a disco boy I'm a disco boy)
Whoa no!

I'm a disco dancer, baby
But I think there's something's wrong!

(I'm a disco boy I'm a disco boy)

Oh no!

I've been sleeping twenty years or more
I remember a long time ago

Now I'm back to change your mind

Now I'm moving right in time

In a world that's turned unkind

I see what's going on behind my back

I am hungry; I hope you are too. Soup’s ready, so let us break bread together, and eat.

1. Sea Breezes A short intro by German Techno pioneers Kraftwerk introduces the first song, Sea Breezes by Bryan Ferry and Roxy Music. Roxy Music helped set the stage for the 1980’s rock scene with their pioneering use of synthesizers and contrarian suave and glamorous image, long before it became the norm.

Physically, he resembled Anthony Perkins (yes, Psycho's Tony Perkins, pictured below) cum lounge singer. Bryan Ferry had an incredible and unique voice; he was sort of a wailing crooner. His voice is powerful and delicately nuanced all at once (yes, an oxymoron) perhaps a bit in the style of Anthony Newley. David Bowie was certainly influenced by Bryan Ferry in his Young Americans persona, not to mention the plague of limp pretty boy “haircut” bands that made the Reagan 1980’s so musically wonderful (or unbearable as it was to my tastes).

Sea Breezes is an interesting song, almost being two separate songs. The main song contains a lilting melody tinged with sadness. It surrounds the middle song, whose lyrics bluntly describe a post break-up situation the the lyrics of the first song toy with. I had not thought of this song in years, and this past week it drifted into my mind seemingly out of nowhere.

2. Going, Going, Gone This track is by America’s vagabond poet Bobby Dylan, and is found on his 1974 Planet Waves (which was to originally be titled “Ceremonies of the Horsemen”) LP. The song has been described by some writers as a tale of “Suicide Averted”. His performance, backed by the Band, is powerful, and to the point, casting a most pointed and piercing mood that matches the lyrics.

He and the Band went out
on an astounding tour to promote the LP. The tour was the musical event of the entire year 1974 (I was there). This was the time when the incredibly corrupt Richard Milhous Nixon and his gang of henchmen were fighting to avoid having to answer for their crimes committed during Nixon’s Imperial Republican Presidency.

Dylan became the symbol of the people’s will during that tour. This tour is where the custom of lighting matches or Bic lighters just before the artist hits the stage originated. These shows were truly tribal gatherings of the counter culture, who went on to force Nixon from office six months later (and later to become fat, bloated and gassy, intolerant and greedy, Country Club cult christians by the 1990's – but that story will have to wait for a later sermon) .

3. I'm Free
4. Tour de France

5. Disco Dancer

6. Sea Brezes

All of this makes it's way into this week's soup. You can get your 42 Mb bowl of Saturday Night Soup by clicking the jukebox.

"The Patron Saint of Schizophrenics"

2010-02-05T13:16:00.000-08:00

This is the latest in my "Made Up Saints" series. Others have included:-The Patron Saint of Chain Smokers-The Patron Saint of Ants-The Patron Saint of Chihuahuas-The Patron Saint of Gardenias-The Patron Saint of Painters-The Patron Saint of AIDS Prevention-The Patron Saint of Parrots-The Patron Saint of Bamboo-The Patron Saint of Dogs And this is:

"The Patron Saint of Schizophrenics"
24" x 24"
Copperleaf and Acrylic on Birch Wood

Wishing you good mental health, TONY

"Baptism in the Swamp"

2010-02-04T21:28:00.000-08:00

I sketched this painting out on canvas, before I started painting it, in the midst of a torrential downpour. I've never lived in a place that rained so much, even in Hawaii. Even when it's not raining, water seems to just bubble up from the ground everywhere. Properties advertised as "Water Front" usually mean "Swamp Front".

The ground sort of oozes up water as you slosh through it. Being from Southern California it seems odd to me that I never see anyone watering their lawn or plants, and I have seen a single sprinkler since I've been here.

Swamps, pools, rivers and lakes seem to surround Savannah (all of them with alligators living in them), but people value them knowing they're the main line of defense against hurricanes and flooding. So the word "swamp" has become part of my everyday vocabulary, life, and experience.

"Baptism In The Swamp"
24"x 30"
Acrylic on Canvas

Swampily, TONY

"Saint Sebastian, Tacked"

2010-02-02T14:32:00.000-08:00

This is another in my long series of Saint Sebastian. Instead of the typical arrows, I used tacks to pierce him, and put him in contemporary clothing. The vining plant behind him is a nasty plant I never knew of until I moved to Savannah. Briarwood, a vine with stickers that will quickly and completely engulf any plant and tree if left unchecked.

“Saint Sebastian Tacked”
24” x 30”
Copperleaf and Acrylic on Canvas

Seeing the world as a more boring place without Michael Jackson in it, TONY

I Found Saint Sebastian in Room Number Nine

2010-02-02T13:00:00.000-08:00

As I wandered the desert, I came upon an abandoned dwelling. In it, I found Saint Sebastian in Room Number Nine.

"Thirteen Chihuahuas"

2010-02-02T12:12:00.000-08:00

Another painting and another expression of love for my two Chihuahuas. Luckily I had Rosie fixed so my reality doesn’t resemble this painting.

“Thirteen Chihuahuas”
12” x 36”
Copperleaf and Acrylic on Canvas

Woof,
Tony

Editors note: When asked to comment on the prospect of having Thirteen Chihuahuas running around her home, Misha hissed.