Art, Crankypantsing, Pets, Photography

Miscellanea

1. Harriet’s feet seem to be well on the mend. She’s not trying to sneak off and chew them, and the hair is growing back where it was worn away. Her ears are still sore, though. I don’t know if they’re just going to take longer to heal, or if I’m going to have to go back to the vet for drops. I was dubious about using wipes on her ears in the first place, because they only reach the upper parts, and the real infection is much farther down the ear canal. I’ve got six more days of wipes, so I guess we’ll have to re-evaluate at the end of the week.

2. And about those feet! They are snowy white for the first time in literally years. Very exciting. For all the stupid crap she’s had to deal with the past few months, it seems as if at least the allergy problem has been solved. And since that was, to me, the most difficult one to narrow down, well, I’m doing the happy dance.

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See the shiny white hair between her pads? A couple of months ago, that was stained red, from saliva.

3. WTHIWWP?!: If you’re going to belittle another person’s artistic abilities, you might want to first make sure that yours aren’t laughable. I read a huge screed on another blog about how X, Y, and Z are amateurish dingbats, and then I went and looked at the ranter’s own artwork. My, but that’s a very low bar! Not to mention the weirdness of being that obsessed with other people’s artwork and whether or not they are doing it “right.”

Altered Books, Art, Artist Books, Bookarts, Collage, Found Poems, Poetry

The Story

I finished the poem and painting part of this months ago, but didn’t like where the collage was going, so I got stuck. It’s been sitting on my coffee table since, um, January. Oops!

The Story
collage (leaf, yearbook photo, ribbon, coin, buttons, map legend, and raffle ticket) with watersoluble crayon and found poem in altered book
9 3/8 x 11 3/4 inches

The Story
(a found poem)

The story was a riddle
pointing to a shimmering surface
to hidden depths
to inner experience.

The story
neither sought nor found
like a melody continually improvised
full of blasphemy
for many generations venerated
should not be read simply.

The story
found in the garden
between the infinite and finite
above the abyss that separates
the failed and perfection
depends upon the divine
hidden deep within
as well as outside.