Friday, April 18, 2014


acrylic on canvas, 14 x 11", $450

Sunday, April 6, 2014

No Daughters (1981)

I'm glad I had no daughters, Mother.
No jealousies of kindred spirits
or fresh young faces, eager for life
to chafe my emotional weakness.

I won't be concerned that their beauty might rival mine
and lose sleepless nights to thoughts
of all I never did, had or wanted.
I'll still always smile when I see a beautiful face.

And as I age gracefully,
I'll never hope for age, weakness and illness
to strike that daughter, not my favorite.
I'll never have to wish her harm or injury.

That unborn daughter, Mother,
will be spared the cost of living a lie
to please my selfish aims and
I won't fear her foibles, that I, too, possess.

I'm glad I had no daughters, Mother,
to grow to hate me so.
I'll not miss their earthly presence
nor fear their existence to separate my soul.

Saturday, March 29, 2014

Monday, March 17, 2014

Dear Zenitram Cram:

I haven’t heard from you or seen you since you blew hockers on my Ford Bronco in the parking lot, when I was working (you never knew I hired a private eye to find out who was spitting).  I always wanted to ask you “why?”.

Now I am almost 67 and you are almost 51.  So many times I’ve thought about you/us. I never felt any hostility from you.  I just figured we’d continue to love each other in some form or another, having been lovers at one time.  But those hockers........on my car.....why?

I digress.  It’s been twenty-one years since I last saw you.  So much has happened.  I’ve wanted to tell you about so many things.

I would have told you about how I quit smoking on April 1, 1995.  You knew me when I chain-smoked.  I was a selfish smoker.  I didn’t care who was bothered by it.  I don’t know how you could have stood kissing me.  Thank you for your patience.

I would have mentioned how I gained twenty pounds right away, too.  I was on a roller coaster of a weight gain/loss for about two years.  My highest weight was 145.  I wasn’t happy in my relationship in the 90’s and you were somewhere in Minnesota at that time, maybe even married by then.

Did I mention menopause?  During that time I gained another twenty pounds and grew bosoms for the first time in my life.  My stomach was so bloated.  I found I couldn’t eat cheese any longer, either.    The hot flashes defined my life for nine years.   Misery.

I left Santa Fe as I’d known it after Ricky K. was murdered in India (I’d been awaiting his return to make final plans to leave).  I didn’t look back, moving to Albuquerque.  I finished school in nine months (I only had a year to go at that point), and moved right after graduation, to Texas, because a “friend” (not anymore) suggested it.  

Now it seems like a bad dream I had and thankfully awakened from.  Nine years of my life a blur, not happy years.  I finally returned to New Mexico.

I heard your mother died.  I was very sorry for you in that loss.  I know you loved her.

I let my fingernails grow.  Remember how I wanted to do that?

I still grow a garden each year.  Remember how I always planted potatoes?  

Did you ever have children?  I hope so!  Is your life a happy life?

I am happy, now.  I feel content and I feel blessed in so many ways.  I am forever thankful for all that I DO have.

I would ask you why you never contacted me again.  Was it your hockers?  I will always hope for a logical explanation for that.



Friday, March 14, 2014

"Brief Respite"

acrylic on watercolor paper, 18 x 24", $800

Sunday, March 2, 2014

"Open Door" (2014)

acrylic on canvasboard, 20 x 16", $500

Friday, February 28, 2014

A Practically New Vaporizer (1982)

One beer burp was all it took;
that proverbial last straw,
and that chair he fell over
that will never stand up again
as he cruised in the front door.

He turned the fan on, off, on, off
and couldn't decide on the lighting
in the room,
as I lay in the loft above,
pretending to sleep;
fists clenched, forehead wrinkled.

Then he belched and stepped heavily
on the best vaporizer I've ever owned.
Naked and furious, I tore downstairs,
and stared in horror at the pitiful waste.

I ripped the cord out of the socket
and hurled that damn vaporizer
into the middle of the corral.

We both stood still and considered
the needless death of a
practically new vaporizer.
Soon, I slept an angry sleep
listening to drunk snoring
and not my new vaporizer.

Monday, February 10, 2014

That Damn Bob (1983)

An absolute flow of words

burst off these fingers

to keep me from thinking

about the real issues trying

to invade my brain.

But I won't let them this time, again,

and I won't listen to those

echoes of last year, month, day.

Instead, I'll search his void,

still empty promises in my mind

and try to make some sense

of all the craziness around me.

Wait!!  The few sticky, good memories

are pushing forth and I am getting weaker.

That damn Bob is somewhere

riding his drunken motorcycle

and I'd better start pacing

to keep the fury down

until I figure out

what I am going to do to him

when he gets home!

Friday, February 7, 2014

" '57 Chevy in the Snow "

This painting was the focus for two of Roger Zelazny's science fiction novels.  He bought it off the wall in a gallery, wrote the books and I was notified by a friend.  Zelazny and I met.  He loved this painting.

Sunday, February 2, 2014

Short Affair (1984)

A sweet, dark place, forbidden.
Hiding, locked in an embrace
where discovery is only seconds away.

Friends in need, a common want.
Not to hurt, perhaps to heal.
To reignite the loins, gone soft, gone awry.

Lust, forgotten, not so painful now.
I stretch and wince at the memory.
Something done before like this, years ago.

His haunting eyes look so directly at me,
wanting to give beauty for hours and hours.
A dirty, lonesome room and seven minute grope, instead.

Standing, kneeling, sitting in a dusty chair
and footprints in the dirt
almost but not quite describing the immediate need.

Hushed whimpers of relief of sorts,
shame at the time of release,
both needing and wanting this moment of truth.

A soon forgotten day, no remembrances
of sun, clouds, intermittent snow and wind,
the urgency transcending beauty that never could have been.

Friday, December 27, 2013

"Summer Morning, 2013"

acrylic on canvas, 21 x 29"  $925

Friday, December 13, 2013

"Pecos River, November 2013"

acrylic on canvas, 16 x 16", $500

Friday, November 22, 2013


acrylic on masonite (not framed), 16 x 20", $400

(it is SO cold this morning)

Thursday, November 14, 2013

Friday, November 8, 2013

"A Road in Corrales, NM"

 acrylic on watercolor paper, 18 x 12", not framed $285

Friday, November 1, 2013


acrylic on masonite, $200 (not framed- easy to ship)

Friday, October 25, 2013

"Phil Adendron #1"

 pastel on paper (framed) 1986, $600

Friday, October 18, 2013

"Phil Adendron, 2013"

acrylic on canvasboard, 20 x 16"  $400

Friday, October 11, 2013

" '44 Packard"

pastel on paper, 21 1/2 x 29 1/2", framed $1,000
This is the LAST that I have available of a long series of 
classic automobiles (other than a lithograph of a VW).

Friday, October 4, 2013

"Red New Mexico Pickup"

This is "Red New Mexico Truck" a painting from the late 80's, oil on canvas, 36 x 50" and framed. It is the only pick-up truck painting I have left. $1800

Saturday, September 21, 2013


DT and I were buds in high school.  A lot of people thought I was nuts to put up with him but I liked his tenacity.  He ran for every office there was.  I think he was eventually voted Vice President for one of our years in school, by a narrow margin.

He was tall and thin, cute blondish hair cut short (the Beatles hadn’t arrived yet) and wore the obligatory madras button down shirts and khaki Levi’s with white socks and brown loafers, just like everyone else.  He had an older brother and a younger brother and they looked just like him.  Everyone in our town looked alike, for that matter, at least all the teenagers did.

Even though we were only friends, he asked me out once.  It really changed our demeanor, too, I thought.  When he picked me up in his car that had no front passenger door, I was disheartened.  My hair was so sprayed with AguaNette Hair Spray that nothing could move it, but it was worrisome anyway, driving down the street, fully exposed.  At any other time, if I hadn’t been his “date” I would have whooped and hollered and loved every minute of it.  But on our “date”, I thought it was inexcusable.   I had to busy myself with holding my skirt down, too, in all that wind. 

And, I did look a tad bit disheveled by the time we arrived.  Not to mention everyone else getting out of their parent’s Gran Prix’s and Lincoln Continentals.  At least all I had to do was just step out of the car and act as though I hadn’t just ridden in it.  But he was fun to be with and was always a gentleman and he behaved accordingly.

After we graduated, I lost track of DT for many years.  Occasionally I heard something about him; that he was alive and well and living in Austin, that he owned a bar somewhere, that he had put on weight (who hadn’t?).  I was in Austin several times through those years of my 30’s but I never found out where DT was.

In my 50’s I moved to Austin.  

I met a guy within the first six months of living there and we became lovers.  It was about that time that I got DT’s email address when his name came up at some party I attended with my boyfriend and I begged to get in touch with him.

He was so happy to hear from me.  He no longer owned a bar.  He wasn’t married.  He lived a little outside Austin in a house he built himself, along with his dog.  He sounded great.  He promised to buy me a good dinner and asked that I meet him at a specific restaurant.  I was worried I wouldn’t recognize him, after almost forty years!

When I entered the dimly lit restaurant I heard that old familiar voice scream out a “Hey gal!!”  I looked toward the table where the largest man I have ever seen sat in a booth with the table pushed very far out.  He weighed anywhere from 400 to 600 lbs.

“Hey, DT”, I said, weakly.  

He grabbed me in a bear hug when I leaned over to give him a small, “hello-after-all-these-years hug”.  He was hot and sweaty and very big.  I sat, tiny and small across from him.

His voice boomed and sprung off the walls in the restaurant that had no music or noise in it, even though at least ten people were dining there.  I tried to make small talk in a whispering voice but he wouldn’t hear of it.  He described me to the room in personal terms, “I remember how drunk you used to get and how you could belch louder than any male I ever knew”, things like that.  I got smaller and smaller in that booth.

I ate something that was Cajun and even though it was spicy I ate it quickly.  I wanted out of there!  DT talked the whole time, loudly, more about high school, etc., that stuff you talk about when you see someone for the first time in a long, long time.  And he drank a LOT of beer.  He was surrounded by plates of food, too.  I was so uncomfortable.  

As soon as there was an appropriate place in the conversation (and there weren’t many), I begged to leave, thanked him profusely for the meal and ran out of the cafe before he could say “no”.  Whew, that was just weird.

About a month later, DT called me and said he was cooking Bar-B-Q at home and would I please drive out to see his house (he was so proud of it).  I was curious to see the house and of course LOVE anything Bar-B-Q so we made a “date” (not really, you know what I mean).

I followed a circular driveway to a wonderful little house in the hill country with a screened-in porch on three sides.  It was very charming.  I was glad I came.  I could smell Bar-B-Q on the grill and I was handed an icy cold beer when I stepped onto the porch.  DT showed me around and I DID notice a VERY large bed in his bedroom, trying not to focus on that as I certainly had no intention of anything but dinner with this man.

After two beers since I’d arrived in a short amount of time. DT began to change.  He told me one or two dirty jokes and I asked him not to do that.  He then called me a “whiner” and I asked him not to do that.

He turned the steaks on the grill and asked about my love life.  I told him I had a boyfriend.  He  (angrily, it seemed) poked the steaks a lot, at that point, as I got together plates and utensils in the kitchen, staying out of his immediate vicinity.  Beer three consumed.

I barely remember dinner because I was so shaken up.  He began our dinner conversation with how he was “someday” going to write short stories because he’d lived this crazy life, etc. etc.  Beer four consumed.  Then he said things like, “nice rack” (and he wasn't talking Bar-B-Q!) and, “I wish you were sitting on my lap”.  Beer five consumed.

I considered dinner to be OVER at that point.......

“Hey Jackson”, he suddenly screamed at me as I was swallowing my last bite, “When am I going to get in your pants?”

Friday, September 13, 2013

Friday, September 6, 2013

"Blue Spruce"

acrylic on canvas, 48 x 30" $1500

Monday, August 26, 2013

"Abiquiu Reservoir, #2"

 acrylic on canvas, 20 x 24"  $725

Friday, August 23, 2013

Monday, August 19, 2013

"A Monster Sat Here"

oil on canvas, c. 1990 (sold years ago)

Sunday, August 11, 2013

The Chile Trip

Several years ago, I wanted to give walking history tours in Santa Fe.  I studied up on the history (I happen to LOVE history) of the area and applied for a job as a tour guide and they hired me (it didn’t hurt that I was wearing a very transparent, light fabric “Santa Fe skirt”, ankle length, and a “Senorita” blouse w/cleavage and a very nice concho belt).  I looked good!  I knew my stuff!

Fifteen years later and 20 pounds heavier, I applied again, as a tour guide (even though I hadn’t done that job for twelve years) in a different venue.  

Soon afterward, an unusual tour came up and I was asked to be the guide.  This particular tour took me out of north central New Mexico to south central New Mexico to the town of Hatch, home of the famed Hatch Green Chile.  I’d never been to that area, before.  I studied all the facts I could find out about Hatch, NM and about green chiles and I memorized the data just in time for the big day of The Hatch Green Chile Festival!

We started out with a nice little van that sat eight people and we were full!  After introductions and getting on the road, I started talking about our adventure!  I gave drought statistics, chile facts, how to roast green chiles, the origin of chiles and on and on, boring the heck out of the tourists and myself.  I underestimated the drive time (four hours) so I was done with my little speech in the first fifteen minutes, sigh.

Was it not for my supervisor, I would have been happily silent the remainder of the journey.  But, she had this look in her eyes and even though she was smiling and had the kindest-looking face, like she’d mother you if you let her, make you dinner if you were hungry, understand any excuse you might come up with for not being on time....that kind of stuff.  However, in reality, the more she smiled that sweet, kindly grandmother smile, the angrier she was.  She was in the row behind me and each time I looked back at her for reassurance, she was smiling, grinning, teeth showing, yipes.  I just ran out of things to say, too early!  Oh the GUILT!

After what seemed like days, but only two hours, we arrived at a large chile factory (not with the Hatch brand name).  We were shown conveyor belts with lots of people sorting chiles, boxes of chiles ready to be shipped, and little tractors bringing in the chile.  It was the usual non-interesting factory tour but it had your interest as you’d never seen it before.  I was beginning to get hungry!  I wanted to get back on the road.

Just as I thought the tour of the warehouse was finished and we could continue down the road to Hatch, a man introduced himself to us as a “scholar on green chiles”.  He had a masters degree in green chiles or maybe it was horticulture.  We were still standing indoors at this point.  I was still somewhat refreshed and cool, but hungry.

After his short introduction, he asked if there were any questions and since I was the tour guide, I asked if the chiles were organic or not.  He said there was no way to grow them organically because of too many pests and the crop was too costly to do that.  I argued with him and we bantered until I noticed a Cheshire grin on my supervisor’s face, in the back of the crowd of six people.  I backed down and let him take the reins.

One of his tics I noticed right away was his use of the word, “Okay?” after every single sentence.  I thought I’d go mad.  It was as if he dared anyone to interrupt him, negate him, question him.  I knew I needed to leave this guy alone, so he'd shut up and we could go eat.

We stood in the hot August sun, right outside the warehouse and listened to this Professor of Chile talk, and talk, and talk, and talk.  The others actually seemed interested in his nerdy lecture and they didn’t seem to be uncomfortably hot in the noonday atmosphere.  It was one of those times where I wanted to NOT be there more than anything in this world.  

I played a little game.  Every time he said “Okay?”, I shifted on one foot.  I wondered if anyone noticed as they were facing me and the chile motivator.  I hadn’t heard a word he’d said, other than the “okays”.  I became fascinated with how many times he was saying it!  Didn’t anyone else notice how peculiar it was?  I scanned their rapt supervisor with her sweetness, a little old woman who wrote novelettes, a man who was overly skinny, almost anorexic who never said a word, two hispanic sisters, who laughed at almost everything, joyous, happy people and a heavy woman who wore long clothing, lots of turquoise and silver and talked about shamans.  They were all so interested in the talk.

Finally, after fifteen minutes or so, we moved to the van.  I was so relieved; hot and sweaty!  I was so hungry! We would have food soon!

Several miles down the road I realized we were following the "Professor" in his orange pick-up truck.  I asked where we were going.  Everyone laughed incredulously (except my boss) because I didn’t know we were going to a green chile crop in the field!  I then reiterated my statistics once again so my supervisor would think I was doing something.  No one listened.  They looked out their windows and/or talked amongst themselves, including my supervisor.

It wasn’t long before we were hauled from the van to stand in the hot sun in a hot green chile field, listening to Mr. “Okay?”.  I shifted my weight, scratched, swung at flies, sighed loudly, and finally just got back in the van after about 20 minutes.  I could have had a heat stroke and I was wearing a hat!  Screw my supervisor.  I was HOT and HUNGRY! 

The little old lady writer had to have been in her 90’s and yet she stood in that sun, bareheaded and hung on his every word.  The skinny guy was clearly infatuated with everything about a “real, live chile plant”.  I just couldn’t believe it!  What about the Hatch Green Chile Festival??  Weren’t we going to the Hatch Green Chile Festival???

After another half hour (!) they boarded the van with my supervisor coming in last, grinning for all it was worth, right up close and personal into my face.  Uh-oh.

We drove another hour and a half to Hatch, in silence with Mr. “Okay?” joining us, squeezing some of us who had had our own place, before.......continuing to talk abut green chiles, non-stop.  I pouted.

When we finally got to the entrance to the road to the festival, it was lined with cars as far as the eye could see.  I thought it would take us another hour, but it moved along at a nice pace until we found parking a mile away and walked, hungry, tired and cooked in the sun to the tents, music, gifts made from fresh chiles, hoards of people, nowhere to sit and no food.

Apparently we’d gotten there a little late and the only food left was cotton candy and corn on the cob, cooked for hours and hours.  I could have wept.  I felt faint and had to sit behind a little trailer, in the tiny amount of shade it gave me, keeping my eye on my supervisor for the time to leave the god-forsaken place.

The swarm of flies was unreal, like a horror movie.  I had never seen so many flies in my life.  They were all over me and everywhere you looked, even the dirt.  I swatted and fidgeted and we stayed and stayed and stayed, though I had no idea why, as it took not more than five minutes for our little group to see the gifts in the tents.  I complained about the heat to the others.  I complained about the flies.  I complained about why the hell would anyone hold a festival in such a place, complained and complained and complained.  There was nothing more to see other than cranky, hot, dripping sweaty people!  Let's go!

After what seemed like a week and a half, my supervisor began the mile trek back to our van and we all followed dutifully.  Oh God, I was hot.  I wasn’t even hungry anymore, because I was in starvation mode.  I didn’t look at my supervisor the rest of the drive/day, but I could feel her breathing down the back of my neck.

I dozed in the cool van.  I tried not to, but I couldn’t help myself.  I was the only person who did.  The others talked about the trip and what they’d learned.  After four hours we arrived home.  We said our goodbyes (except to my supervisor) and I swore to myself that very day that I would never go to another chile festival again, anywhere, for any reason.......

I asked for my evaluations from the trip several times through email (I was SO curious about what people thought of my defection to the van and my complaining).  I never heard another word from my supervisor and so it should be.

The smell of roasting green chiles is beginning this mid-August in our wonderful state of New Mexico!  And every time, it reminds me of my “chile trip”.  

I need to make the trip by myself, soon!

Saturday, August 3, 2013

Thursday, July 4, 2013


"Pods", acrylic on paper, 8 x 8"


Thursday, March 14, 2013


I noticed him mostly because of the fancy shoes he wore.  Not that much of a looker, but svelte and always immaculately dressed, he had a nice presence about him.    He was in his seventies, a bit taller than I, had hair, a flat stomach (being a lap swimmer every day!), and a little Colonel Sanders goatee.  His Alabama accent was nice, too.

For the longest time I couldn’t figure out if he was gay or straight.  Just when I thought he was straight, he’d wear fabulous shoes and dressed too nicely to be just a “guy”.  However, I noticed every time I came into his shop, he’d check out my butt.  It was SO obvious that many times I found myself backing out of his establishment so he couldn’t ogle my backside.  He had that “come hither” smile, too.  Was he or wasn’t he?

So, one day I gathered up all the courage I had and told him, “I have SUCH a crush on you!”

He replied, “You dooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo......”  and then silence.

I became so flustered and literally ran out of his store with excuses that I had to “run” because I was late for some fictional meeting with friends.  I groaned as I walked to my car.....why did he linger so long on the word “do”?  Arrrrgh.  It wasn’t the response I’d hoped for.

However, he called two days later to chat.  I was completely floored.  I felt like I was a teenager in high school rather than a sixty-something lady.  We small-talked and  he asked when I was coming back to the store.  I told him I’d be there the next day.

Walking through the store, pretending to be interested in the things I’d seen 1,000 times before, I felt like an idiot when he never came out from behind the counter.  He  greeted me and then started talking on his cell phone.  WTF?  I left soon after and he yelled out a cheery “g’bye”.  Damn.

For over a month, I went to his establishment a few times.  He was always cordial and came out from behind the glass counter to say hello.  We would exchange gossip and then I’d leave.

The last time I visited him, he seemed so interested in my  presence.  He asked questions about me, my work, etc.  I became hopeful again.  I kept trying to leave but he engaged me in conversation, so I lingered.

I heard a noise behind me and turned just in time to barely glimpse a woman behind me. She thrust a small envelope over my shoulder toward him, he took it and she started out the door, saying only, “Stinkers!”, in a beloved nickname kind of way.

He looked at her leaving and said, “What”?

I replied, “She called you Stinkers....” and noticed how he grinned. 

I carefully but assertively backed out of the store.

Saturday, March 2, 2013

Summer of '60

I’m reminded of that “summer of breasts”.  It was that 60’s summer, when I was just beginning the puberty thing.

That summer I was boy-crazy.  I couldn’t wait to see the handsome lifeguards, once the pool opened.  I almost immediately fell for one lifeguard named Skip, whose tousled blonde hair and perfect teenage body made my legs shaky , my speech stutter, and my heart Skip a beat.  He was a few years older than I, too.

Skip flirted with me almost daily and I swam the days away of early summer, so happy.  Each day I returned to the pool.  I was determined to be noticed.  I was experimenting with make-up (my mother didn’t allow it) that would wash off in the pool, too.

I wasn’t the only one Skip flirted with.  The older girls sashayed by him all day long.  Meanwhile I was vying for attention by doing the biggest splash can-opener you ever saw.  I’d perfected it and I could point my lithe little body wherever I wanted and splash the hell out of them.  I did it over and over, hitting the girls who dared go after Skip. 

I learned to do a back dive off the high board, a flip off the low board and almost a perfect swan dive.  I did those dives over and over when Skip was sitting on the nearby Lifeguard stand.  Sometimes he even applauded!

I was twelve and looked ten years old.  I was not shapely any place on my body.  My feet were big and my skinny legs were hairy. My body was overly tanned and my hair was a light green color from chlorine bleach in the pool, and slightly wild and unruly.  I had to do something to improve my looks.

I talked my mother into showing me how to shave my legs.  That was an improvement.

Then we bought a slightly padded bra for me.  I was flat as a table but it gave me hope.  It did have a tendency to collapse and gave my breast an odd caved-in look, but I wore it anyway.

I yearned for a fancy bra; one that my own bosoms would fill.  I went to the Penney’s near our house and spent hours just looking at the bras.  But I had nothing to put in them.

...until I spied the falsies department.

I tried on various sizes of falsies.  I didn’t want to look as if I’d miraculously grown breasts overnight but something on the smallish side wouldn’t hurt.

When I finally decided on the perfect size falsies for myself, I rushed them home in a brown paper bag and hid in my bedroom to try them on under my bathing suit!  Skip would surely notice, and how!  Va Va VOOM!

I casually walked into the girl’s dressing room at the pool the next day with my falsies on under my own little padded bra.  I felt like a Queen!  My shoulders were thrown back, my head held high but no one noticed.  I figured Skip could see me better with my bathing suit on.

Inside the dressing room, I put the falsies over my teensy breasts and carefully arranged my bathing suit over them.  I looked for any tell tale signs of foam rubber in the mirror.  I convinced myself how terrific I looked.  I was going to WOW them!

I walked out to the pool like an actress taking a bow, slow and sexy, cat-like.  Skip turned to look.  I could feel his eyes appreciating my great beauty.  I lingered longer than usual so everyone in the vicinity could see my terrific figure.

And then, I did my best dive from the side of the pool right in front of the lifeguard stand.  I knew I was beautifully gliding through the water.  As I came up for air I could see Skip’s face looking down at me from above.  He was smiling.

As I did the spit thing and the wiping the water off my face thing, I noticed something off to the side, something light colored and floating.  Skip was looking at it, as well.  I swam toward it and realized it was my falsie and my other falsie was floating nearby.  In one swim stroke I grabbed a falsie in each hand and kept going to the other side of the pool and didn’t look back. 

I got out of the pool, near the trashcan and threw the falsies away.  I ate lunch sans boobs. 

I waited until Skip went to lunch before I went to retrieve my clothes, so chagrined was I.  I called my mother and begged her to come and get me.  I never wanted to swim again!

That lasted about a week and I went back to the pool, breastless.  Skip never said anything about it and I just acted like it never happened.

Thursday, February 21, 2013

"Rio Chama"

acrylic on canvas, 18 x 24" $700

Thursday, January 31, 2013

"Canyon Road Garden"

 pastel on paper, c. 1991 (SOLD)

(click on image to enlarge)

Tuesday, January 15, 2013

Abiquiu Storm

Because it is so brutally cold here in New Mexico, I wanted to post my new painting:

"Abiquiu Storm", acrylic on canvas, 30 x 40" 1200.00

(click on image to enlarge)

Friday, January 11, 2013

"Rio Grande"

acrylic on canvas, 24 x 48"

Tuesday, January 1, 2013


It's 2013!  Happy New Year!

I am so blessed to have so many wonderful friends and each of you mean the world to me!

It's time for me to put on my big girl panties, hold my head up high and with a big heart and an open mind, go out into this world and take advantage of this opportunity for transformation!

Watch out 2013!  Here I come!!!!!

Wednesday, December 26, 2012

What Christmas and the Holidays Mean to Me

In 1989, completely broke and needing to buy a Christmas gift for my two sons, I gave them very meager gifts so that I could give my sister, who was married to a wealthy man and who was going to visit from New York City, gifts that I cherished.  Those were the same gifts that friends had given to me that year.  I felt so inadequate.  One was a beautiful porcelain rocking horse Christmas ornament about 6” high that I loved and had just received as a gift from a friend and the other were gorgeous silver earrings made from very old silverware, that my dearest friend had given me.  I felt  that perhaps these would be appreciated by my sister.  I later learned she gave them to her maid when she returned to New York.

Another Christmas, while the more estranged sister was actually speaking to me (a very rare occurance, indeed), I knitted both sisters large berets (more like Rasta caps) out of very expensive yarn that I had saved and saved to buy.  I was putting my younger son through private school that he desperately needed, so I had no money again, but had planned ahead enough to buy the yarn.  Neither sister wore the caps and the sister in New York gave them to her maid, again.  I was so crushed.

Another Christmas, I traded a painting to a silversmith from Santa Fe who made beautiful silver earrings for me with beading, as well.  I was so proud to be able to give my sisters something special and beautiful.  My sister’s comments, both in New York for the festivities, were, “Oh, we almost didn’t see your gifts, so tiny were the packages, I almost threw them away".  They never wore them, gave them to her maid, AGAIN.  I would have loved to have had those earrings!  Anyone would have loved them!

One of the last Christmases I tried once again to please my sisters, I bought both of  them copies of my most cherished book.  There was a great line in the book about a circle of women who said to the newcomer, “We saved a place for you in our circle”.  Every time I read it, it made me cry because I had never been accepted into my family, not ever.  No one had ever “saved a place for me”.   I felt invited, but never, ever included in my “family”. I asked if my sisters liked the book and they actually said to me, “Oh, we threw those books away the minute we opened them.  Books for hippies”.  It broke my heart.

I fought against my sisters for years afterward.   I fought against their hate for me, their need to control everything and every one.  I know it wasn’t their fault as we had a totally dysfunctional “mother” that we all eventually despised (though it took years for my sisters to see her for what/who she was).

I lost.  They won.  Now they have to live with themselves for forever blaming ME for their dysfunction (IF they have ever even seen it).

My father died when I was eleven years old, on December 11.  He was my only friend and ally.  My “mother” turned against me and turned my grandmother, cousins, aunt and sisters against me Christmas, 1980, because she could not force me to be who she wanted me to be and even though my sisters and I spoke occasionally through the years, I  could feel their disdain for me and anything I did.  What a world!  I am now w/o any family at all, even my children refuse to see the truth.

I hate Christmas and the holidays.

Wednesday, October 10, 2012

Twice in One Week

I asked Richard over for dinner because he previously brought me a nice birthday present and because he had been a steady friend through the years.  At one time he had been my chiropractor in Santa Fe.  So, I’d known him for a long time.

He arrived on time and brought a nice bottle of wine for my fresh tomato/basil spaghetti dinner.  He wore his golf clothes and a baseball cap, his usual attire. His shaded eyeglasses always made me feel he was hiding something.  He wasn’t a tall man, perhaps a tad bit shorter than I and had the smallest hands I’ve ever seen on a man. He was physically fit because of the golf and hiking almost daily, but a small man, nevertheless.

We sat on my small patio and drank a glass of the wine, chatting about our lives and how they had changed over the years.

Richard asked to see my newest paintings and we went inside to my studio so I could show him.  As I was talking about my new project and leaning over one of the paintings, he leaned over as well and tried to kiss me.  I brushed by him and thought perhaps I’d just imagined it.  Surely he hadn’t done that!  We were buddies!  I wasn’t the least bit attracted to him in that way and I’d thought he’d always known that!

As I rounded the corner of my studio, he once again tried to kiss me and I ducked and missed his aim.  I hurriedly moved on to my kitchen, trying to focus on the meal, slightly shaken.  Chatting aimlessly, I filled our plates with the cold dish and showed him to the living room to eat.  We sat on the sofa, napkins on our lap, as I have no dining room table.  The small talk was overwhelming at that point.  I dodged every amorous remark wanting this old friend to eat his dinner and go home as quickly as possible.

He drank another glass of wine and began talking about his long drive home and how tired he was.  I assured him he was not going to be staying the night with me!

He inched down my sofa to almost where I was sitting and raised his hands up and tousled my hair, wildly.  I was completely taken aback. 

“You need to relax and let go,” he said.  I must have looked so hilarious with my hair in a mess and my shock written all over my face.

“And your frown mark” he laughed as he pushed his finger between my brows as if to iron the frown mark flat that I’ve had between my eyes for as long as I can remember. I was horrified and speechless with his finger in the middle of my face, hair awry and he inching ever so close.

“And your body language”, he practically screamed, “What is that about??”

I was literally in a fetal position sitting up; I couldn’t have been more cowered.

“I think it is telling you to GO HOME!” I screamed, startling him.  “What in the hell do you think you are doing?  I regained my composure and leapt to the front door, hurriedly opening the way out, pointing for him to leave!

He murmured something about not meaning any disrespect and “see ya later” type of thing and backed out apologetically.

I walked back inside, triple bolted my front door, went to the bathroom mirror and saw a ridiculous old woman, shaken and silly with a spiked, messy hairdo and a red, indented spot between my eyebrows.  I thought to myself, “Never again”.

A few days later, an old friend Patrick called to take me to dinner for a very belated birthday dinner he had promised me (when he could get together some money for the feast).

We worked together in the 70’s and 80’s in Santa Fe.  I first met him in 1975.  He and his wife lived in the same compound in Santa Fe that I had just moved to, after my divorce.  He was a nice guy and I really liked his wife.

In the interim of 25 years, he and his wife divorced, he lost his daughter in a terrible accident, he lived with one insane woman after another and I continued to be his friend though many of our friends quit him and his crazy ways.  He got married again, had a child or two and disappeared.

I found him on FaceBook and I was thrilled to hook up with this old friend.  He came to my house about 6 months ago and was a different person; very quiet, very subdued and no longer the person I remembered.  He told me he’d lost everything in the recession, having then been a building contractor.  He had several spec houses that never sold and he lost it all.  He looked so tired and didn’t seem to have much fight left in him.  He was selling cars at that point and was miserable.  He no longer drank and was completely sober.

I asked him to my birthday party and he declined (and I figured he would) but promised a birthday dinner in the near future.

This particular evening he came to pick me up to take me for pizza for my late birthday dinner.  He popped out of his car in a flash wearing an insanely red silk shirt, his hair spiked and his arms covered in bracelets.  He reeked of cheap cologne and I told him I thought he had enough on to kill someone.  I knew when he hugged me I’d smell like him the rest of the evening and I did, immediately.

Right away he asked where my bathroom was which was peculiar because he’d just come from his home, not far away.  I waited for him to come out and I heard nothing inside the bathroom, except the running water in the sink.

He emerged talking a mile a minute and so damn frenetic I thought I would go crazy from his endless chatter.  He never heard one word I said, never looked at my house, just ushered me to the door to go to the pizza place, talking a mile a minute.

Within five seconds of fastening my seatbelt, his cell phone rang.  I groaned, already perceiving what was going to be, non-stop talking to anyone but me.  I was thankful that the pizza place was very close by because I thought maybe he’d put the cell phone away once we got there.

When we entered the establishment, he immediately began asking the waiter and the dishwasher and those in line with us if they’d like to buy a car.  He went on and on until we’d ordered and his phone rang again.  I complained and he said, “It’s SALES baby, that what happens and you need to get used to it”.  I suggested that I “wasn’t born yesterday” and that he could at least turn off his damn phone long enough for us to eat a pizza! 

He gestured with a wide swoop, knocking over my new glass of wine (that I caught in flight and managed to save at least half of it.)  The wine spilled all over the table and traveled toward me as a fat little pimpled waitress with Clark Kent glasses came up to the table with our two plates, looking for a place that the wine hadn’t saturated (and the wine was traveling to the edge of the table by this time).  I jumped up from my seat and asked her to “PLEASE, clean up the spill and then put the damn plates down!”

Meanwhile Patrick said to her, “It’s okay, you da bomb, you da bomb!” and I looked helplessly at him, as if he’d lost his mind and kept an eye on the waitress who was glaring at me as if she intended to kill me right then and there.  She left his plate on the table and took my plate with her as she purposefully walked at a snail’s pace to the sink, set my plate down and glared even more at me as she wrung out a wet rag, taking her sweet-Jezus time. 

I never took my eyes off her, believing she would spit on my pizza if I did.  She ambled back to the table with a dripping wet rag that did not mop up anything.  I had to use my table napkin and Patrick’s as well as she stood there, stupid and angry, holding my plate.

I grabbed my plate out of her hand, and sat back down.  Patrick ordered me another glass of wine.  She reached down and took my ½ glass of wine and started walking off.  I stood up, grabbed my glass of wine and said, “where are you going with that?”

“You’re getting another glass of wine, aren’t you?’ she stupidly blurted out.

I was shocked out of my mind and Patrick’s phone was ringing and the people next to us were huddled, leaning forward to the center of their table, talking about us and the ugly waitress was staring at me.

I turned completely sideways in my chair and started eating my pizza after I chugged my ½ glass of wine, before the second glass arrived.  Patrick noticed I was facing away from him and put his phone up and said, “So, are you dating these days?”

I kept eating and after a minute or so said, “Patrick, I want you to leave and I will walk home.”

“Fine, if that’s what you want!  I don’t know why you are acting like this”, he said, and promptly left.

I drank my second glass of wine in silence, so very thankful to be alone, under the hateful gaze of my waitress.

I hobbled home the 7 blocks to my house in sandals not meant for walking anywhere except into a nice restaurant, which I did not encounter that evening.  I dared anyone to come up to me and accost me.  I would have killed them.

Tuesday, July 17, 2012


acrylic on canvas, 16 x 16"

Friday, July 6, 2012


For a late lunch today, as tired as I was from unpacking after moving, I wanted to go to the nearest Schlotsky's (its my favorite fast-food restaurant and the ONLY fast-food restaurant I go to).  It was closed down!!!  So, I went across the street to the first sandwich shop I could see (subs).

I noticed a board of the "Specials" for each day of the week, when I was reading the overhead menu.  What really caught my eye was "Pakalolo" (Hawaiian for "marijuana").  I asked the kid at the ordering counter if he knew what that translated to and he said, "Oh yes, the whole restaurant is based around that” and pointed to the walls.
Sure enough, I looked up (what I’d previously glanced toward and dismissed as surfer stuff photos and/or the likes) and saw posters of Bob Marley smokin' a spleef, and a poster advertising the old movie, “Reefer Madness”.  Monday’s Special was “Humboldt”, Tuesday's special was "Kush", Wednesday's Special was "White Widow", Thursday’s Special was “Skunk”,  todays was “Pakalolo”, Saturdays was “East Coastern” and Sunday's Special was "Afghani".  Ahem.

I ordered "Da Kine" sandwich (turkey and mushroom) but wanted the Panama Red (chicken marinara).  "Magic Mushroom" is a portabella, of course.   It was filled with bell pepper, pineapple and pepper jack cheese, grilled.

I'll have to go back.  Maybe take some conservative friends (IF I have any), to see if they notice.

I wondered if that greenish mayo had any herb in it.  Sure was tasty.

Wednesday, June 6, 2012

On the Move

Today I was house-hunting a place to lease.  It was dismal.  It was hot.  It gave fodder to a description of what being a senior, getting on in years, without what you would call “a job”, lighting my St. Jude candles, a now praying-out-loud woman has to go through to move to a new location.  The reason WHY I would like to relocate?  I’ll get to that, later.

I called about an ad in our newspaper for a 2 bedroom quadplex in the area I was hoping to relocate.  To my delight, the elderly woman gave me details about the “darling unit being secluded, very quiet, new stove, and new kitchen floor, oh AND it was actually a 3 bedroom”.  It just sounded too good to be true.  But she sounded so, well, old and all-knowing about the property (so that made her honest)!

She gave me directions to the “unit” sounding like a speed freak, fast and choppy, while also speaking simultaneously with someone in the office.  I tried to write as fast as I could, her “down a road, then an alley and a longggggg walkway...peek inside the curtains, go around back and peek in” and actual street directions.  It was VERY confusing.

 And the money total that would be due upon signing the papers and lease “today” was quickly and professionally whizzed through, making me catch my breath!  Something about the actual rent, damage deposit, cleaning deposit, pet deposit for the dog and more for each cat.  I surmised she was talking’ $1500 up front.  Oh yeah, sure.

I met with another elderly woman who opened the house for me.  She arrived in an ancient orange pickup with the oldest man I have ever seen, driving.  Before he could stop the car, she flew out from the drivers seat.  I walked over to introduce myself.  I could see fear in her eyes.

She said, “Lordy, that was the worst drive in the dirtiest pick-up with a deaf, old man!  We were hauling butt to get here on time.  My heart is racing!”

The driver was the ancient handy-man who had driven to a nearby town to give her a ride into the city after her car had broken down.  Unfortunately for her, he was chauffeuring her for the afternoon.  He was a creep, too.  He only mumbled or should I say, growled.  Miserable, mean, old curmudgeon. It was sure a turn-off if that was the guy I would have to let into my home for any repairs I might have!  One red flag.

The actual front door to the unit faced the alley.  It had bars on every window.  The driveway was cement, the unit was cinderblock.  The wall was cinderblock.  The backyard was cement with 3 very high cinderblock walls bordering it.  It had a tiny patch of dirt, enough to plant one tomato plant.  Nothing else. A bunch of red flags.

Onward and inward the horrors continued.  The carpet was orange textured, with some sort of swirly design and intermittent yellowish threads, padded, too pouffie for my taste.  I asked if it would be cleaned before move-in and was told they’d had it “professionally cleaned” already.  Uh-oh.  Thank god it was textured and bi-colored so I couldn’t see at first how really filthy it was.  Walking on it was, disgusting. 

But the new kitchen floor, a tiny 5’ x3’ space between the stove on one side and the refrigerator, DID have brand new tile.  And it WAS pretty!

The woman was talking the whole time as I peered into each closet, opened doors, and checked the place out.  She told me to take my time and kept talking. I told her I was trying to think about it, but she never got the hint.  I knew it was awful.  I was trying to convince myself I could make it work, there for awhile.

The three bedrooms with the same orange, dingy carpet gave me claustrophobia.  Each had only a north-facing window with bars.  I couldn’t breathe.  Red flag.

The Master bedroom was a tiny bit larger.  It had a brick firewall (the woman pointed out how “unique” that was).  In the middle of the wall looked like a large, roundish, crimson spot, about the size of the top of someone’s head and red drips all the way to the orange carpet below.  It truly looked as though someone had been murdered on that firewall.  I asked her what it was.  She said, “Oh probably just some red paint, you know how those cleaning crews are”.  Uh, no, I don’t.  It made my spine shiver.  That and the claustrophobia drove me out of the bedroom area, in a hurry. MORE than just a red flag!

The woman spoke about the money and how the $1500 “had to be CASH, today, to secure a hold on the place”.   Double red flag.

Even through my horror, I was adding it up in my head to make sure I could come up with enough if I scraped all my resources together.  I didn’t have it.  

And then, we rounded the corner into the dark, carpeted living room,  and as if to remind me I had just been through a surreal experience walking through the unit, a gnat attacked my right eye.  It would NOT let me alone.  I shushed it and waved my hand to make it leave.  It wouldn’t.  I took it as a sign.

I walked to the door to get rid of the gnat and at the same time told the woman “something just wasn’t right about the place, for ME” and I wished her luck.  The old codger stood behind her with a scowl and grumbled and I walked outside to freedom and light!  Gawd, I am so depressed!

Friday, May 25, 2012


acrylic on masonite (not framed), 20 x 16"