Inner Life and Monsters

Not all the monsters that live in our minds are the bad kind. Some of the monsters stand guard watching over the small, innocent bits of our psyche. Some have just only barely begun to form and therefore lack completion.

(There are fables in which the artist draws wonders and the wonders leap from the page including the dragons which consume the entire kingdom. My monsters are safely tucked away in the realm beyond the veil of white paper as I have left bits of them undone...on purpose.)

Some of my monsters and musings that were (usually) born during the time between paintings of trees are on view from July 26 to August 23 at Guacho's Portland Maine location. Guacho's is a very sleek Brazilian steak house that serves both a lunch and dinner. It is reasonably priced. However, please don't let the venue of restaurant turn you away from viewing the work. You can let the hostess know that you'd like to look at the art work. The staff at Guacho's is quite lovely and your request will be granted.

Also all the artwork is for sale. The prices on the walls are not fixed, merely suggestions...

(Funny thing about artists who sell their work...often they just want it sold because storing is an issue. Indeed, most artists often make horrible sales people. Perhaps if art is the children that come out of our heads like a strange Jupiter, the idea of selling them is odd. We just want our babies to live in good homes. ah, bah...)

Works will be placed on my etsy site after the show comes down if that makes purchasing easier for you. Or contact me...I barter, trade and otherwise negotiate.

the fix

My car is broken.  It won't start.  I remove what I feel to be the offending piece and carry it to the nearest store.  This store is the last one around for miles.  It is run down and shanty.  It is the abode and shop of the local magician/doctor/used car salesman/ mayor.  This is the only game in town.

Limping with my offensive car husk, I enter the shop.  I show the trade jack that the car won't start.  It has not yet occurred to me that the car cannot start if it is in pieces.  I try still to start the car and to express to the people in the store that the car is broken and that I need it to be fixed.

The local waif is the only one to speak up.  He tells me what no one else dares: The car must be reassembled in order for it to start.  Only after it is put back together can the problem be assessed.  I see the wisdom in his hungry face but I am too tired to reconfigure the whole of what I have destroyed.  I decide to abandon the car.  Walking in a wasteland seems preferable to not knowing when the next problem with a temperamental vehicle will arise.   I want to opt for easy solutions that require only simple calculations and procedures.  The car offers none of those things to me. 

Before I leave I am invited to dinner with the Shop Owner and his entourage.  Dinner is magic tricks and politics and roasted seagulls.  I wander out of the room feeling that reassembling my broken car would have been an easier feat.  I do learn, however that the waif is indeed the shop owner's son.  The pear tree produced an apple.

The waif invites me to go swimming in the converted drainage ditches.  As I enter the water night falls completely and I hear my abandoned car starting in the distance.  As the engine turns over, strings of lights glow on filling the post-historic compound with something other than the night.

Teaching her to...

We are slacker parents in theory only... We make our child do chores but she does not have an assigned bedtime only consequences for the morning.

Put your coat on so that we can be on our way...


We do not dictate what she can and cannot think...we only ask that she be respectful. Disagreeing with another's opinions is permitted and free thought is encouraged...She will not watch the evening news as it gives her nightmares because of the brutality. She understands the difference between the real world and fantasy...

Do you have the things you need from upstairs? Come on. We have to go.


When she was three, we got in an argument about the color of her rainboots. She wanted the pink ones. I disagreed and wanted her to get the black ones so that she would not have to be genderized. She held her ground and said that black ones were fine but she really liked the pink ones. Her opinion matters and is well thought out. I can't remember the logic track that she took at the time, but I do remember thinking that the avenues upon which she was debating were cogent and well beyond what I would have done as a child of 13, let alone 3. I think there might have been mentions by her of Hello Kitty and super-punk rock. Either way, she got the pink boots.

Shoes. Get your shoes on.


She knows that the consequences for lying are often worse than what was lied about. She tested this theory out several times as a very young child. This honesty is measured with very keen observation skills as well as the lucidity to report her findings.

Did you remember your sunglasses?



I don't know if other parents will admit to liking or not liking their children. For myself, I honestly like my child. Yes, I love her because I am biologically predisposed to love and care for my offspring as a way to perpetuate my genes. But beyond that. Beyond the maternal, hormonal mumbo-jumbo...I like the person my child is. I like the way her mind works. I like talking with her. She makes me laugh.

Hold on a minute. I need to my coffee.

I am glad she is in the world.

Okay, let's go.

dream segment

I am leaving again. I roll out into the dark summer night with the truck loaded, unsure of exactly why I am leaving. But everything is in the truck and what could not fit as been mailed ahead. If I want that stuff back I will have to go and retrieve it. So, there it is.

My legs stick to the truck seat as soon as I sit down in it to drive. Sweat pools at the perpendicular junction of my ass and my back. I am more or less glued to the seat now.

As I drive on the days become hotter. I am alone. I am in a blur.

Forward, forward, always forward...

Secret Tree

Secret Tree
Watercolor on Panel