What's Next? No really.....What's Next?

That is a question I have been asking myself lately. What is next?
I have been enjoying using the internet for it's intended purpose and really getting out and looking at all forms of visual art and it makes me wonder. What is next for me? What is it that make a piece of work move from the "That's nice" and walk away stage (which is quiet frankly where I feel that a majority of my work falls into.) and go to the Wow that makes me.....think, feel, desire, enjoy, despise, what I am looking at. How does any artist make that jump? There needs to be a depth of emotion in the work as well as a desire to show something in a way that it hasn't been seen before even in the most mundane of subject matter. Can an artist feel deeply for what they are working on without it being all consuming? I have no idea.
I do know this...I will keep looking and when I feel that passion about a subject... you my dear reader will be the first to know.

Today would be a good day for......

Sleeping, and yet here I am. I was told that if I didn't update my blog I would be booted out of the funny people club and post haste so I figure I better do as told
Today would also be a good day to do laundry and catch up on housework, but I think that tomorrow really is the better day for that. I consulted my inner child and they told me that playing hooky was what I really needed to do. I tend to listen to my inner child they get sulky if I don't. Then I will have to ply the little snot with Chocolate and that isn't good for anyone involved.
Today would have been a great day to clean out the gutters.....Wait I did that.
Today....Yeah I think I am going to stick with door number one, Nap. Funny can wait another day.
Night all.

Sand in my suit.

I never understood why swim attire was called a suit. You wear much less than a jacket, tie, vest, button up shirt and slacks. If I were a different type of girl my suit would be small and held together by floss but, seeing as I have always been a full coverage gal my suit is like myself sturdy and with hidden panels for extra coverage. The best advice I ever got about going to the beach......Was from my friend Kim she said "My body is what it is. I like to go swimming. If people don't want to see cellulite they don't have to look". It made perfect sense and the veil of trying to hide my imperfections fell away. Armed with sun screen, sarong and shorts to cover my flab we headed to the beach. Wow is is bright there and hot and crowded and sand gets everywhere but, and this is a big butt.....If you love the feeling of throwing yourself against a wave and having it carry you toward the shore then you are willing to deal with SAND IN THE SUIT. In July my family went to Virgina beach for a few days of sun and fun. It is not an exaggeration to say that I am still finding sand in the modesty panel of my suit. Leaving the beach at the end of our day I had enough sand in the lining of my suit to give the illusion of having swum in a diaper or that I had not completed My gender reassignment surgery. That night I beat my suit against our porch railing doing nothing but spreading the sand around rather than dispersing it. But, hey I did get another souvenir. Two months later, I have gotten the bulk of the sand out but still it still haunts me like toilet paper flecks. I decided to go for one last labor day swim and later in the shower there was still grit swirling down the drain. Summer goes so fast when your having fun.

Sweat and Raspberries

On a wild bit of land near our house, my brother and I would trek up a steep incline to go blueberry picking. The hard little berries were more nut like than the berries you see in the store and my mother always gamely tried to make something out of them but the results would leave me less than thrilled. The berry to sweat ratio was not even and to add insult to injury I didn't like blueberries very much. Now Raspberries are a whole different story...Let's jump ten years into the future. I am living in my first apartment and the bush that marks off where I should park my car is a pricker bush that I almost crushed the first time I backed in my car. My usually sweet tempered landlady left a nasty note on my door telling me to be careful with her berry bush....You know the kind of note, black ink and underlining words like idiot and new growth. I laughed it off. Hello it was a bush right. Right? WRONG. Summer came and showed me what a error I had made. The bush survived my winter back up and grew into a leggy pricker. My landlady tied back each runner and kept them off the ground then as if by magic the berries started to appear. Huge ruby red and full of the most amazing, sticky, bits of summer. My landlady collected all she could (except for the few that ended up in my tummy) and then the cooking started, the smell in our shared hallway was enough to send me downstairs with a slice of bread and a hang dog look on my face. She explained she was making jam and it is not an exaggeration to say that I never got more than a spoonful for that one slice of bread. That was until the year she went away for the summer. One night when the berries were ripe I got the largest bowl in my house and picked berries until I could find no more. Sweaty and with fingers that looked like I had just killed with my bare hands, I snuck upstairs to my third floor apartment and learned to can. The perfume created from all that berry boiling lingered in the hall for days. I was sure that if she decided to come home early it would be the smell in the hall that would give away my thievery and not the lack of fruit on the bushes outside. Now for those of you who haven't tried canning it really is very easy. Crushed fruit is mixed with vast amounts of sugar. Then boiled until the sugar is dissolved. Pectin is added at the end to make sure that the jam jells and then the hot jam is ladled into hot jars, covered with lids and stuck in a pan filled with boiling water for 10 minutes. Magically delicious.
Which all leads me to today. My son who is 6 is carefully carrying a plastic Hanna Montana bowl filled to the brim with sweet ruby red berries. There is a slight swagger in the way he climbs the stairs to our kitchen. He has been picking berries for our jelly and I know that when he hands them to me to make into something good, the sweat to berry ratio is just right.

Music VS Fine Art....the fight for the girl

Ah "Music".......Now that was my first crush, I remember the day we met. I had been hanging out with this box of watercolors I won in art class when our eyes met across a crowded auditorium. It was all shine and loud noises, A crazy hormone filled time. We were happy together, yes we were.....for years. "Art" would call but I was always so busy with "Music". "Music" and I would see each other every day for hours and my parents didn't mind. My mom would say that "Music" was so much nicer than "Art" so much less mess. "Music" never left marks on my clothing or finger prints on the walls. "Music" was fun and new. "We tried new songs and instruments just learning and creating something special. Sure, I still saw "Art". I had to at school. High school hit and marching band started. It was fun. There was new compositions and cool uniforms but I began to see that there were others who loved "music" too. "Music" was popular. I tried not to be jealous but, cracks had begun to form between us. "Music" began to get into all sorts of things that made me feel a little uncomfortable, bands and big hair, people watching you perform on stage. It didn't like when I would have trouble with timing or difficulty learning new instruments. "Music" wanted the spot light and all the pressure that that requires. Then came the day when "Music" said it was time for us to cement our love in a more lasting way........yes, a bassoon solo. I thought it was too soon. I was 14 for goodness sake. We were too young to even talk like this. I refused. I wanted to save myself for senior year. "Music" pleaded with me, told me I was acting weak and said "If you really love me you would do this" I tried, I really did, but when it came right down to it. I just couldn't perform. "Music" seemed to understand. A week later I saw it talking to a cute trombone player with the same range I had. I knew the score and had seen the notes. I left my band uniform and "In The Mood" sheet music and ran. I never looked back. Music kept the band and I got the records. The next semester I had "Art" in a class I was taking called printmaking. There was something about the way "Art" smelled and looked. "Art had a maturity that was missing before when it was all about the crayons. What can I say. I saw how passionate "Art" was/is and fell deeply in love.
"Music" I hear has been playing with the DAVE MATTHEWS BAND for the past several years I can see that it is happy. I am so glad. We both know we always worked best as friends. "Art" and I have been together ever since and we are happy like that. My husband loves "Music" as much as I love "Art" so we still see each other socially, but it isn't the same.
Post Script........A year ago "Music" sent me a bassoon with a note saying no hard feelings, and my heart felt that old pull again. I talked to "Art" and we decided to take some beautiful photos and perhaps hang them up.

The care and feeding of my basement.

Recently as in yesterday, I was doing something that took me back to the good old days........Get your mind out of the gutter yet again perv. I was sucking water out of our basement. It reminded me of a time about 5 years ago when we brought home our last little sweet smelling bundle of joy who needed to be fed and changed every two hours. Now what pray tell could a flooded basement have to do with a baby. Not much really other than the two hour care and chaining the responsible adult to the house but, Lets look at this a little closer and maybe it will make sense to you too. The babies were not unexpected and the basement was. I would never flood the basement, no matter how much my family might joke about wanting an indoor pool. Indoor pools and raised ranches don't talk at the same water coolers. (get it water.....ah anyway) Babies once you took care of them would sleep for two hours not seep. A small bath towel and Johnson's baby wash and any baby mess no matter how brown would be cleaned up and sweet smelling at least for a short time. A basement well other tools are needed, a High powered Sucks all and every bath towel or unused blanket in the house. Need to take a shower with a baby....leave the bouncy seat in the room with you. Flood in the basement, Leave a kid down there to yell if it starts toward the furnace. (just kidding I wouldn't use kids like that).....but they do come in handy for other things like answering phones and making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches while Mommy and Daddy are busy. When stuff so vile that you vomit in your mouth comes out of a baby you can look at it and think "Wow, My kid is healthy" Your basement that is not healthy and it isn't your vomit you have in your mouth but your wallet clenched between your teeth because there is someone some where with their hands in your pockets with ways to "fix" this mess before it goes to mold. Now lastly, I don't know one kid or one basement that once the sun comes out and the windows are thrown wide doesn't start to perk up and have a much sunnier disposition.

The Veiw from 40

I have had the same conversation with many people lately. How to rectify the differences between what you envisioned for your life and what your life really is. Perhaps it is because I was 40 first? (lucky me) or maybe it was just that I had to come to terms years ago that I was never going to be what people expected of me. It is a bitter pill to look around and realize that world domination was not an option, my poor wasted Napoleon complex. It was cool to dream but, living it was a different matter. The Ah-ha moment was back in my 30's. I had only been married for a few years when I found that an acquaintance was teaching at an art college(my then dream job) and she had just been promoted to dean of one of the departments. She was someone I felt at least equal to (at least). I then stopped creating for the fun of it and set off to work to be the "Artist" I was supposed to be with my "talent". It felt like wearing a suit that just wasn't mine the pants were too short and the shirt never buttoned right. I could wear it but sooner or later the pants were going to fall down and everyone would see my undies. I was a fake and the work that I did from that time was fake as well. Which leads me to the JOY of being 40. (Feeling a little like a snake oil salesman) Yes my friends Joy! and I am here to tell you how to get it....for only 39.99.
By the time I reached 39 two things happened 1. my children were finally old enough that I could see beyond being a Mommy 24-7. (thank you sweetheart for putting up with me during that time) and 2. I stopped caring what people thought of me. A friend explained it like this. She said " I am old enough that I have my friends already, Those who like me like me. Those who don't I have no time for."(thank you Kim!) Wow, what a concept. I was just given permission to be me. Those who like me like me those who don't, oh well. 40 wow.
So, this all leads back to the conversations of friends who are now slogging through the - what the hell happened to my life moment. The big thing about 40 is there is still time. My head didn't explode on the stoke of 12:00. The carriage was still waiting and I could still get the dress on. What's more my idea of what is success changed to include my family, who run through me like grain in wood. The young rather more selfish me always thought that success should be global (with bwahahaha laughed in the background) Success with a capital S, yeah baby, but when the the real work, sacrifice and passion was needed to achieve that came knocking on my door I didn't answer. I put all that energy towards other things, and the liberty of 40 is, that I am not going to tell people that I didn't answer because I didn't hear it or I was changing diapers or my dog ate the painting that was going to get that door open. There is no shame in viewing success as I see fit and not allowing others to force me into a suit I didn't cut for myself. Success is not an off the rack item. 40 means I can say without reservation that I opened the door and kept just a little piece and that was all I needed.

Lube and Adjustment (thats what they call it these days)

Ah ha.....I know what your thinking......yes I do.....well OK maybe I don't but if I had just read the title of my blog I would have been thinking things that were not PG or even PG 13. Dirty minds are a terrible thing to waste. The problem with where my mind usually is, is it doesn't correspond with actual circumstances. Too bad huh, but on a good note I can tell you with no reservation that should you need any sort of body work done for you car I have found a place you can go. Yes it is true. I felt comfortable and it didn't cost me all the winnings I just collected from my jaunt at the casino. (That is an inside joke, I don't gamble too stingy). We (the Ramthun Clan)were having an issue with our minivans automatic doors closing. I am not partial to losing children on the interstate during hairpin turns so I felt it might be wise to have it checked out. The "Dealer" suggested I make an appointment for Friday to have them diagnose the issue. It should take about an hour and a half, and they could order parts if needed, "It would be best to leave the car for the day" they said. I could then stick my neck in the door track as they closed it neatly lopping off my head guillotine style in order to pay for all the work that would be needed. (no arm and legs that is small time) The fee before parts was $98.00 an hour flat rate fee to diagnose. So dear friends not having 98.00 to start never mind after diagnosis I, in desperation called the first body shop I can remember ever hearing about.
Drum Roll Please.................Don Mallon Chevrolet * Cadillac............Yes....I love them. (And I don't love easily) I called and a car angel answered, laughed at my very feeble jokes and told me to come right down. "Don't worry" Shelly said "We will fix you right up" I love having someone else do the mothering so I did what I was told. Shelly Brockett is the Body Shop Manager. She had explained to the gentleman working in the shop what I had called about and there was someone waiting for me when I drove up. Half an hour later the car was ready and the bill was less than $30.00. I was impressed enough to write this. If you happen to be driving by Don Mallon's on rte 32 in Norwich on your way to here or there please stop in and say "Hi" to Shelly in the body shop for me. You'll know her by her leopard print vans. It takes a cool chick to carry those off and she does it with flair.

Counting the Ceiling Tiles

Rushing home to shave my legs and clean all the important bits, I realized that one way or the other I would end up counting ceiling tiles today, desire for the task was not an option. I had actually considered myself lucky that I had not needed to do this for almost a year, not ideal granted, but there were certain things that needed taking care of and I wouldn't let fear stop me. No tooth paste on the clothes, check. Clean underwear, check although, that didn't really matter I probably wouldn't have them on long. Dread......yep dread. I think there is a pimple on my butt...can't do anything about it and I wasn't the first person in history to have that. Should I get a coffee a drink?....Nope (coffee and I need to drive after) I didn't even eat first my scale doesn't lie. How will I explain the bruises on my knees will it matter. Should I worry about grooming everywhere? Now that I am over 40 there are so many more hoops to jump through but thankfully this isn't something I have to pay for. I consider for a moment how hard it would be to have to pay "for services rendered". Damn, I am sitting waiting sweating slightly....I have heard so many horror stories and I realize that although I shaved my armpits I forgot to put on deodorant. I am grateful the heat is on and that I didn't have to wait outside. Why is this so difficult? The nurse walks in and we begin. In 10 (Girl Scouts honor)minutes I put my clothes on and I go home with paperwork for the next inconvenience designed to keep me healthy. The whole ride home I kicked myself for allowing negative thoughts and insecurities to creep into my thinking.......Every woman needs to make sure she doesn't have a silent time bomb ticking away in her. My doctor was wonderful and even comforting when she explained that now that I was 40 they were going to have to check all my "parts" and that no I would not need to turn and COUGH. (It wasn't that bad.......No really......)
It was a drop ceiling and there were no stains. 12 tiles and one poster of a horse and pony.
And no those aren't my arms and legs....

Passion

Basking in the glow of Valentines day.....I did one of my favorite forms of multi-tasking, drinking a cup of coffee,in PJ's while eating chocolates that are thrown to me from across the room by my honey, like a seal and trainer. I had bought the chocolates for him but,you know how that goes. It's a hard job but, someone has to do it. After a few minutes contemplating belly lint and other various things my sweetheart asked the rhetorical question, "What makes something interesting adding "Not that this isn't interesting" but......"well more interesting".....He suggested that it was the extreme edge of our societal margin that makes a art form noticed by our consumer driven lifestyle.....music, art, movies. The things we as a society seem to value are the shocking (the car wrecks of art etc.) The biggest budget the smallest......whatever, the grotesque or sexually shocking are what get people talking. I found it hard to argue, Channel surfing or web surfing shows me very little but extremes set up to tease a person into stopping and watching. (just stop on MTV for 5 minutes and you will feel like the oldster complaining about walking 5 miles to school, eating dirt, while still being happy.) To have any point on which to stand on, I had to think hard about what people really value. Having no people but myself to poll about this I came to the conclusion that I value passion. Passion to spend years honing a craft. Passion for what you love or do can be shared. It draws people in and holds our attention....I admit it, I have stopped to watch someone get slapped in the gentiles or tattooed on the inside of their mouths. Nothing says I love you like your sweethearts name on your lips but I thought that was supposed to be the whispered word. These people have taken it literally. On their wedding day.......No, It really happened. No REALLY.... but just like those two crazy love birds my interested lasted slightly less time that their two week marriage. (I was done in 10 minutes I only wanted to know how they kept the mouth open.) What I am saying is that we are losing the ability to look beyond the shock factor. The value is no longer placed on anything but the ability to be shocking. Ultimately jading our sensibilities and killing the passion that is created by the love of a job well done. (not to sound too much more like Andy Rooney but....) The extreme might get a person recognition but it is effort, creativity and universal truths that keeps people interested for anything longer than the span between commercial breaks, that and the occasional half naked person.

C is for Coffee

My son asked as I poured the cup that I am drinking..."how can you drink that? It stinks......" Gulg glug glug.... Easily but, I can remember a young me thinking....yuck that reeks like mud pies. Creamy dirt was how my daughter described it or Burnt cupcakes said my other food critic. I started because I wanted to be more adult (I didn't go the cigarette route I was a bit of a chicken and wanted to live if my parents found out.) Now I am just addicted. Hi, my name is Deb and it has been 3 hours since my last cup of Dixie Donuts coffee. One professional with whom I had sought advice, told me it was my drug of choice. She also told me that for at least nine months I would have to do without if I wanted decaf offspring. Visions of trembling uncoordinated fetus's kicking for the next cup of joe was more than I can bear. It was a long dry....gestation period.
I work nights. All night, 4 nights a week, all dark, all the time. I know my coffee. I can drink any sludge that comes my way. Truck stop coffee at 3:00 am? Yes, please. So when I come across something sublime It should be shouted about. This isn't a "runs on" coffee or the chain that is selling lifestyles and blues music. Don't get me wrong I like those other coffees but......I am voting with my dollars. I go to Dixie Donuts. I had heard from a friend (thanks Dawn) that I should try Dixie for their donuts. Dawn is knowledgeable in all things tasty and if she says try it I do. (I should add a disclaimer.....I only buy coffee occasionally because I am saving my pennies for a rainy day.) The first time I stopped at Dixie Donuts I didn't understand. I had no concept of how they could stay in business with so much competition and keep the hours they do. They are not open on Sundays so plan accordingly. Those Dixie people are crafty. They keep several containers of doughnut hole samples right next to the register. I thought that was evil of them until I took one. They are just trying to help me. Yeah liberate my thinking towards doughnut stereotypes. But I digress, we are talking of coffee. Go to Dixie's try the coffee you wont be disappointed. If you dont like your coffee unflavored try the pumpkin spice cappuccino. Although, my brother teases me that I dont need flavoring in my coffee because it is well....coffee flavored. Then when you see how wonderful they are tell your friends. Join the facebook fan site. But mostly spend your pennies there because they deserve it.

http://www.facebook.com/pages/Norwich-CT/Dixie-Donuts-LLC/207925767852?ref=ts

The Heeling

It is funny how winter clothing covers a variety of sins that in the summer I would never allow to happen to my body. Not to sound like a skin lotion commercial but I realized last week while laughing with friends that the skin on my heels was roughly the consistency of a cheese greater and perhaps that was why there was a hole in the heal of my favorite pair of socks.......my tired and weary feet were in need of a coat of polish and a pedi-egg (also useful for grating parmigiana cheese) I confessed my shame to another friend (I am dry/and cracked and not just my humor)and she had a solution. She sold Mary Kay at one time and handed me a cute little purse with magic lotion in it. I didn't have a cow to exchange for these beans but i know magic when I see it. The only thing missing from the package exchange was the voice of the Big G vibrating around us saying "USE THIS AND YOU WILL BE HEALED.....In you HEELS......Oh ME! just start the car....she is a weirdo....No this was your idea I wanted to take a trip to the Red Sea"
I rushed home and locked the doors. This reeked of something clandestine and mildly well.....Ah Dirty........
Lobster Hot water (check)
portable DVD player and episodes of LOST (Check)
Lotions from at least 25 different hotels (check)
Girly Soap (check)
fruity shampoo (check)
loofah (check)
Heel scraper (check)
fluids to keep hydrated (check) hey this was major reconstruction work.
Razor (check)
finger nail clippers (check)
cotton gloves or old socks (check)
an hour with no interruptions (check)
A few restful minutes later I emerge scrubbed, shaved, squeaky pruned and caught up with Disk 3 season 5.
Now for the magic. This stuff is simply called MARY KAY EXTRA EMOLLIENT NIGHT CREAM put on your feet or hands at night or for me before my mid-afternoon sleep with a pair of cotton gloves and or cotton socks and the results is startling. I suddenly see what could be tantalizing about all those beauty serums. I am not saying I agree with the girl who uses botox to keep those little wrinkles at bay when she is 24. But Damn as a printmaker I can't remember the last time I didn't look like my hands were put through a meat grinder then rubbed with black grease. So thank you Big G and Mary Kay.

Music and "the way we are tied in"

My husband has been working on a Ipod for my daughter. It was at one point mine so we needed to dump all of the music we deemed inappropriate. A musical house cleaning starting with all the toilet lyrics and bathroom humor. To keep with the house analogy we were pondering to put in all new drapes when I started to really look at the titles and think about what the music really meant to me. How a title can evoke so much. I had carried the past with me in my pocket and now I was passing the Harry Potter (torch) and adding the much requested Taylor Swift. Somewhere in there The songs that were with me when I painted my best or cried when I was afraid. The Cure Disintegration, Music that will cause physical response with just thinking the first beat. Marc Cohen True Companion should have been played at my wedding but Elvis's Blue Hawaii was played instead and forever makes me laugh when I hear it. I have been wasted tired and cranked Dave Matthews 7 and got the job done. Listened to the city of Angels sound track and heard Paula Cole sing Feelin' Love and felt powerful and sexy......driven to fast to Foo Fighters One Down and Another One to Go, but not something I want to pass to my eight year old. Looking over at the discarded music I felt nostalgic and grateful that I am able to censer my own messy and rather "Adult" skewed music. My first born has plenty of time to grow her own life sound track without help from me and I am sure it will be as richly textured as she is. But, I think there should be a few classic's on there besides Yellow Submarine. Just a nudge I swear........

Why I LOVE New Years Day

Not including the 5 lbs. I gained during my holiday induced eating fest. I love sitting back on New Years Day and looking over the past week and even past years and thinking that today is the start of a fresh clean slate. The gifts have been opened and the chips have fell where they may. The feeling doesn't last long so I try to savor it like a good chocolate rolling it around in my brain and hoping that the ball created from all that rolling collects only the good things I want to keep with me for the next year. The mess that is left after last years mistakes and self induced stupidity can be swept up in little brain baggies and dropped by the side of the road. I am clean and the room of my brain is ready to start again. The year can then again unfold in front of me in endless possibilities. Flipped open with a swift, floomp like a table cloth, clean snow white and ready to form into whatever I want to create. Now if I could just get this feeling of power and creativity to last longer than the span of a cup of coffee I could bottle it and keep it with me when I need it. Coffee, That's the ticket.