Drinking in Grace

When we used to meet for breakfast at a diner in Frankford (Philadelphia), he'd turn his head and offer me his cheek to kiss in greeting, with the excuse that he had a cold. It didn't take me long to realize it wasn't germs he was trying to protect me from, but the odor of scotch on his breath. Once the silver-plated flask appeared from under the Formica table-top, the secret was out. But who was I to judge? There was a time in my life when I preferred a swig of chilled Stoly before I got out of bed.

I didn't catch his cold twenty years ago at the Red Robin as we made small talk over the eggs over light and home fried potatoes, but I think his memory loss has been contagious. A good example why came tonight. After I had dressed him in flannel PJ's and tucked him into his rented hospital bed, he reached for me, and planted a kiss on my lips that came from the depths of his soul. As I searched my data base trying to recall a similar incident, I came up blank--and then he gave an encore! The gesture on his part--so rarely initiated by him, has burned a tatoo-like image in my mind-- immune to my mid-life inability to recall names, dates, or where I left my driver's license.

When Peter came to live with us 7 years ago, I was in turmoil over what to do with him. The shock took its toll, and my reaction to the newness of the arrangement left me numb. As luck would have it, friends like Shirley and Sue rescued me with simple solutions to problems learned in their years of nursing and working in patient care. My forehead was bruised from repeated self-inflicted whacks, as I punished myself for not having arrived at their "WELL, DUH!" answers to incidental issues like incontinence and risks for falling. The story, as I like to relay it, was that my father-in-law's move in with my family was expected to last six months. He was on a waiting list for an assisted living arrangement--not his idea, but a necessary shift for him. One day, he was asked about going into the nursing facility, and his response was--matter-of-fact--"What home? I have a home. I live here!" My husband Fran and I looked at each other, and knew his decision was made. And our lives were changed in ways we'd never imagined.

No one would have identified us as an ordinary household before he joined our family of eight home-educated kids (and another eight foreign exchange students--one at a time-- over the course of 17 years.) And to think-- I had just celebrated my graduation from diapers as my youngest ended a streak that included approximately 30,000 changes, and menopause was waiting in the wings. But, why complain? It's just part of life. Dziadzia ("Grandpop" in Polish) was here to stay. In 2003, I was convinced that his death was just around the corner, but his determination to live to be 100 has trumped my notions.

Anyone who has taken on the responsibility of caring for an elderly parent, ailing spouse, or disabled child knows that it tests our love in many ways, and challenges us to put aside our own needs and plans for the sake of someone who relies on us for more than we can muster on our own strength. Along this journey, we have had the benefit of supportive family, faith-filled friends, experienced professionals and strangers with hearts of gold. More than anything, we have weathered the stress of caregiving with a sense of humor, perseverance in prayer, and attention to the needs of each other for respite.

My dad died 21 years ago, just two months after the birth of my third child. His passing at age 59 changed my world forever, since we had developed a close relationship. Because we had moved 100 miles away from our parents, we didn't get to spend much time together as he concluded his battle with cancer. Having Peter with us now as he faces the approach of his century mark (March 25, 2011--if he makes it) is filling a gap that has lingered for two decades. As the twilight faded in the converted den this evening, Peter's face transformed into a resemblance of my father's. Before he succumbed to his three year battle which started with a tumor in the roof of his mouth, my dad appeared frail and elderly. So maybe what I saw was my mind playing tricks on me; more likely, it was the eyes of my heart which perceived the likeness of the two men.

With all the activity of my daily life, I don't get much one-on-one time with any member of my family. Each one of them has my love and devotion, but as my friends have learned, there's only so much of me to go around. I'm stretched pretty thin these days, and plans I make with anyone have a 50/50 chance of falling through. And solo time--like now as I write this--is at a premium. But there is an urgency now to treasure the remaining time Peter has with us.

Last week, a door was opened and prayers for help answered when Hospice of Central PA took us on as clients. For at least a year, I've had friends who work in the home health care and hospice field suggest the option of what hospice has to offer.
Peter's health and capabilities have declined to a point where he's losing his will to live. He can't stand without two people lifting him out of his chair or bed, his mobility has diminished, his appetite has declined, his speech is often incoherent, and there's less and less of him with each day. With the burdens lightened by the visits and calls from hospice staff, I'm still in the phone booth, changing into my lycra suit and cape, but I know I'll be flying over rooftops any minute now.

So, tonight, after I got Peter ready for bed, (instead of rushing off to do dishes, paperwork, laundry, artwork, Irish dance class, kayaking, walking the dog, and chipping away at the impossible to-do list) I sat by his side in the wheelchair, holding his hand, feeling his pulse, counting his breaths, watching his eyes fight to stay open, and simply being there with him. He cried for his mother, and I think my presence reminds him of her. He spoke to me about her, and his late brother Joe. He said that he hopes that there is a Heaven, and that if there is, he would see me again. I watched him fade in and out of dozing, and wiped his tears.

He expressed his gratitude for all I have done for him, and told me that I had no idea how much he loves me. (Of course, he was wrong.) He wished for me a long life with good health. He means well, but I'm not interested in living to be 100--he's done a pretty good job of illustrating why reaching a century mark isn't worth all the hype.

Before we shared a nightcap: a shot of Dewar's White Label with a chaser of water, he reached for me, and pulled me in close for a kiss on the lips, the kiss that was diverted to the sides of our faces at the diner long ago. I trust my readers won't misconstrue the expression of affection on his part. He mumbled something about "just two more days," but also said he knew his time was near. How profound to sit with this man--who is no more a saint than I am (and no less)--and learn from him the lesson of how humble we are in the face of death. I am so grateful for the opportunity to be living this drama with eyes and heart open wide. I pray I will be so lucky as to have someone hold my hand, and kiss me tenderly, as my daylight fades into eternity.

(The photo with this post was taken today on our front lawn after his nap. Peter snacked on summer sausage and crackers, and sipped a Coors Light while I did a crayon drawing of our neighbor's front yard.)

One benefit of having a herd of kids is their ability to keep each other company when Mom or Dad are busy with the demands of life. The majority of our children are comfortable in their own skin, and happily accept

Bag Ladies

Another favorite image of Rita and author.

Beyond Lingering

Beyond Lingering

(I promised to publish this if it did not get accepted for Wild Onions Magazine 2010. Better late than never. I am including a copy of the original poem that was published in Wild Onions 2009. I own the copyright--please request permission to use it. Thanks)

Lingering
by Susan Oscilowski ©

I shiver from the gloom
This winter day has cast.
Yet just in time the sun
Has fiercely pierced the pall
With hues of gentle gold.
The icy crystals dance
Painting brushstrokes
Of hope in vivid pastels
As they chaperone the dusk
And usher nightfall.
Whose hollow eyes are those
Who in the mirror mock me?
"I look like a cancer patient"
‐‐the thief who dwarfed my days
into December’s darkness.
This burden of pain and sorrow
With gravity’s pull bind me to earth.
"I am light as a feather:"
My spirit glides toward the dawn
That quietly awaits my arrival.

Enveloped in visions of forsythia
As twilight gathers
“I feel like I am not here”
My vision fades...
I disappear like daylight.
I squint to see the first star
Rising above the crescent moon
And hear its healing whisper

In sweetest rapture
I long to reply.

Beyond Lingering

There's no better incentive for a writer than to find approval for words carefully crafted.

With several of my works previously published in Wild Onions, I gained confidence that success could be repeated. Despite my efforts, the rejections outnumber bylines. The “thank you for submitting, but...” letters came when poems were written specifically for the magazine. I cringe that the inspiration for those poems was to see my name in print.

Last year's submission was different. A former Critical Care Nurse from Penn State Hershey Medical Center commissioned me to compose a literary piece based on her experience as a massage therapist for a cancer patient. Shirley and I have been neighbors and friends for years; more than once she has asked me to share my writing gifts. We both rely on the inspiration of my muse to assist in these endeavors.

I trust the creative spirit to move my fingers on the keyboard. I collect observations of life around me each day, and hold those images in my mind. It delights me to incorporate these into my art and writings. One night in early winter, I awoke with a clear vision of what I'd write for Shirley. She told me her client had made a few profound statements in therapy on the massage table, and she sent me those phrases in a note card. I took a deep breath, and a poem flowed, wrapping itself around the words of a woman who knew her death was imminent. For four decades, I have acknowledged my gift for written expression, yet there are times when the words I put on paper have a transcendence to them that demonstrates the deep spiritual connection with which I have been entrusted.

I spent many hours that evening crafting the poem I entitled Lingering. With conviction, I knew I was not working alone. Maturity and discipline have taught me that a first draft may possess raw emotion, but to work the words like stiff clay into a pliable sculpture takes dedicated time and effort. The end result was overpowering. I sent off an e-mail copy to Shirley before I went to sleep; a second recipient was my dear friend, Rita.

Rita and I met at a writers' group in 1989 in Palmyra. She was one of those souls with whom we know in the first encounter that we were put in the same place at the same time for a reason much larger than ourselves. I offered to write a feature article about her for a local daily newspaper, and our relationship grew from there. Rita was a writer and an actress, among other things. Though old enough to be my mother, the generation gap was never an issue. She became my mentor in writing, encouraged me to take a shot at scriptwriting and acting, and was a constant source of encouragement.

Rita's cancer had been diagnosed a year or so before I wrote Lingering. She was in remission, and full of zest and vigor. Any time we were together, I was assured of a fair dose of laughter, faith, inspiration, and surprise. We had talked about my taking over a character she created: Mary Agnes, the Best Bag Lady in Pennsylvania, as she said she was planning to retire the one-woman variety show. Mary Agnes entertained more than 1,000 audiences, illuminating homelessness while raising money for local shelters. Her reply to my poem's acceptance was like a mother whose kid just won the Spelling Bee: “Fantastic!!!!”

I asked Shirley if she minded my submitting the poem to Wild Onions. It was finished long before the deadline, unlike every other year. She also was enthusiastic about the poem's outcome, and was moved by the feelings the work evoked.

When I found out Lingering would appear in the 2009 edition of the literary magazine, my first calls were to Shirley and Rita, who were both ecstatic for me. I kept May 14 open, because I looked forward to being at the opening reception, and reading my poem for the crowd gathered to celebrate.

On my way to my work in the Simulation Center on May 14, I received a call from Rita's daughter, Michelle. “Mom has taken a turn for the worse; you'd better get here soon,” she told me. She invited me to meet her at the hospital where her mother was awaiting her passing. I requested a copy of the just-published Wild Onions magazine to take with me to share with Rita and her family. I had every intention to visit for an hour or two, and get back in time for the reception.

I entered the room, amidst a parade of visitors who had been pouring in all week to bid her farewell. Wearing a silly hat from Goodwill with dangling ribbons, I sang, “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine...,” a tune she included in all her Bag Lady shows. Her family knew it too well; she meant it sincerely each time she crooned it on any occasion when she had a stage or an audience. The silly hat was in response to her insistence that audience members don one from her collection at each show. My costume headpiece was intended for her use as the remains of her hair---roots severed from chemo treatments--- fell out on her pillow.

“I know you! You're Suzy O!” Rita said, giving me a strained smile when I tossed a copy of the publication on her bed. Although she was too medicated to read my poem, the family members present were clearly moved by the message of my writing, and its uncanny timing. I'm pretty sure that when Rita initially read it mid-winter, she had no idea that she, like the subject of “Lingering,” was facing her last spring on earth. The healing power of the words was meant more for her loved ones than for her. I didn't leave her side until nearly midnight that evening. What I missed in affirmation at the reception here given by the Humanities Department was more than compensated for, as she gave my poem renewed meaning.

Lingering, is about awaiting death, taking note of our last few glimpses of the world we are leaving behind. I had collected imagery for the poem during many months of driving as a courier. That winter, I delivered nuclear medicine to Hershey Medical Center and other hospitals. I felt comfort knowing that the work I did was making a difference in the lives of patients. I saw Rita the week before the reception on a pre-dawn delivery. She was putting on make-up with the aid of a nurse, and bragging about my accomplishments like I was one of her beloved grandchildren.

My copy of Wild Onions—not just my poem---was my ticket to participate in the final week of Rita's life here. She wore my silly hat like a tiara, holding court as she entertained us, just as she had done so magnificently in life. The day after I missed the Wild Onions reception, I had to call Shirley to tell her of the events surrounding Lingering. “Suzy,” Shirley spoke in a gentle voice, “Joann—the woman you wrote the poem for—died last night. I was wondering if I could read it at her memorial service.” The timing of Joann's passing, on the night of the missed reception for her poem, was among an amazing collection of coincidences surrounding my time with Rita.

Rita deserves credit for my current positions at the College of Medicine. As I delivered one of my literary submissions to the Department of Humanities Office many years ago, I noticed an ad on a bulletin board seeking actors to work in medical simulation exercises.

I had confidence to try it out because, like Rita, I found my place on stage in community theater in my mid-forties. She and I faithfully attended each other's plays, provided they weren't run simultaneously. The last show of mine she attended was “Dearly Departed.” Knowing Rita was in the audience prompted me to put on my best performance. My character was a not-so-grieving widow in the comedy about a family's response to funeral plans, and humorous situations surrounding what should be a somber event. Rita's funeral, though hampered by heavy downpours, was filled with hope, joy, laughter, singing, and liquor-laden toasts common at Irish burials.

Rita-- my mentor in spiritual matters, writing, theater, parenting, and life—advised me early on to write what I knew best. The first poem of mine that appeared in Wild Onions was about Labor and Delivery, a subject in which I am well acquainted, having given birth to eight children. My first script was written at her urging, and I based one of the main characters on a blend of her life and mine. Since her death, I have written more frequently, and with greater passion than I have in a long time. I've not been afraid to share what I've written. I'm optimistic that I will be in attendance for future receptions for the magazine. And if I don't make it, you can bet I'm off somewhere, wearing a silly hat, doing other vital work in her memory.

CHASING THE MOON

My children share with me a fascination for nature, but when it comes to the moon in its many moods, we strive to pay attention. An unspoken agreement exists between my two oldest daughters and me: whoever first spots a moon worth viewing (or a rainbow) should send a text message to the others.
Tonight it was Stephanie's turn. She had just left work after a 13+ hour day in the Hilton Hotel kitchen and was off to purchase her first washer and dryer for her new home. I knew the actual full moon was slated to appear tomorrow, but I try to live one day at a time, and a Lunar Alert means "Drop what you are doing and go outside-NOW!".
The alarm was sounded throughout the house. I reluctantly pulled myself away from a collage on Andrew's binder for his homeschool portfolio; Lauren abandoned her Facebook social life with college friends she recently moved away from after graduation; Robert and John Paul logged off their laptops, relieved at the break from finishing portfolio work; Andrew put down his copy of Hound of the Far Side by Gary Larson (which, by no small coincidence, has a cartoon of a dog howling at the moon on its cover.) After a stress-filled day working at his maintenance job AND his portfolio writing samples, he finally re-discovered out-loud-laughter perusing the warped comics, and his glee allowed me to sigh deeply.
As we filed into the van, Lauren ran back into the house to summon Maria and Teresa from the basement where they were about ready to perform an impromptu---but well rehearsed---theatrical venture on the basement studio stage.
I can't help but muse at how sweet it feels to be able to load the van with 6 of my 8 kids with less than 5 minutes of warning time. Had I really survived two decades of getting them up and out into the 14 passenger red Ford Super Club Wagon van, wondering if I'd ever see this day when we'd set records for firefighter-like speed in doing so?
As yesterday marked the summer solstice, it didn't matter that 2/3 of them were barefoot for our excursion. Finding matching shoes and socks before any outing used to mean desperately pleading with Saint Anthony in Heaven for miracles to cover their little piggies so we wouldn't be late. Our Favorite Finder of Lost Things helped us locate the foot coverings, but promptness still eludes us. But here we were tonight, driving up the hill on our street in search of the perfect viewing spot.
My husband Fran had left to walk our Bassett Hound, Duke through the neighborhood, so the pair of them got to enjoy a twilight celestial sighting of their own.
Andrew was more thrilled at the fact that daylight was still in abundance at 9 p.m. He was fascinated when I told him that in Dublin four years ago, his dad and I were amazed that skies were still bright at ten p.m.
We quickly located the peach-colored target of our adventure in the southeastern skies about 20 degrees above the horizon. As I drove through the winding streets, we couldn't decide where we'd get the best view, so I, being the driver and tour director, overruled their suggestions and headed for the west shore of the Susquehanna River in Wormleysburg.
By chance, we sighted a newly-constructed public recreational spot just outside the gates of the remains of the Walnut Street Bridge. I forget what year it happened,(1992?) but since we moved here to South Central PA, the western span of the structure connecting City Island with Downtown Harrisburg on the East Shore and Wormleysburg on the West Shore, was obliterated by a cresting river loaded with chunks of melting ice and snow after an extreme winter. The local community has yet to obtain funding to restore the historical structure, so the mini-park acts as a pacifier until we can afford to bring the crossroads over the river back to life.
Tonight, the air was free of humidity and the temperature held on in the low 70's.
We somehow managed to escape the barrage of Mayflies and mosquitoes which nowadays remind me of Egyptian plagues before the original Passover of the Israelites. After I parked the van, the kids bolted from their seats to explore the new tourist attraction where they had an optimal view of the moon over the river at dusk. By the time we arrived, the moon had faded to a pale gold and shrunk in size as it climbed above the roofs of the pubs below us, where patrons enjoyed food, drink, and merriment on the patios of the local establishments.
The attention of my children quickly diverged from celestial highlights to exploration of new territory. Several layers of brick and concrete walkways and walls held treasures of young trees and flowers in bloom. My kids have never passed up an opportunity to test their balancing skills on narrow topped walls, and tonight their pent-up energy from an intensive week of ending another school year found release. They chased each other in patterns I could not follow. My attempts to capture the moment on the camera of my cell phone were hindered by the quickly fading source of light.
Two park benches faced each other, flanking the remains of the bridge, now separated from curious onlookers by an ornate wrought-iron fence. My children engaged each other in a game they called "categories," racing from bench to bench after verbal prompts from one or more of their siblings. In this moment, freed from cares of the family, house, work, school,chores, and neglected to-do lists, I felt a wave of gratitude sweep over me. The weight of caring for my 99 year old father-in-law melted like soft serve ice cream in July.
Fireworks exploded with colored lights as I backed the van out of the parking space above the boat docks. I focused on the inclined driveway in my read-view mirrors, trying to avoid backing into the Susquehanna as the children marveled at the reflections on the water's surface. I did not need to watch them any more than I needed to stare at the illuminated sphere ascending to its zenith.
As hard as I often try, I cannot create times like this, where my kids simply enjoy their youthful energy and the company of each other. I cannot help but attribute their close bonds to years of homeschooling. As I watched their glowing faces, oblivious to the problems facing this generation, I was swept away in the mystery that I had given birth to each of them. I quickly forgot the moments preceding the Lunar Alert text, where in self-pity I curled up on a love seat, worn out by the struggles of getting through another day, another year closer to my appointment as worm food. Tonight, we chased the nearly-full moon, illuminating our lives like fireflies as the warm days grow shorter beyond our notice.

Starting Over; Inspirations

At the top of my resume, my greatest strength should read, "Mistress of Begin-Again." (Rhymes with Michael Finnegan.) I've done it more often than I have given birth, changed diapers, impersonated the Tooth Fairy, or written "Clean Out My Closets & Garage" on my To-Do Lists. This resilience is my trademark; I'm like the whiskers on Michael Finnegan's chin-again--"...pulled them out, but they grew in again..."

Today I make reference to my latest attempt at resuming physical activity after a period of inactivity: Irish dance.

At the end of May, I had the privilege of dancing on stage again* with six of my children. In addition, the two oldest were backstage: Chris with his video camera, preserving the moments on film from the wings, and Lauren, just a few weeks after graduating from college--doing her best job of bi-locating as she simultaneously supported the stage crew, ticket distributors, concession vendors, cast, and her little sister, the director.

Miss Stephanie, founder of Rebel Heart Irish Dancers in 2007, pulled off her dream of a stage show to a sellout audience. We've been part of entertainment events at the Rose Lehrman Theatre in Harrisburg before, but never as the headliners. Superstitious fears prevented us from speaking aloud our hope to fill all 400 seats, but the wishes were engraved in our veins. Miss Stephanie, my third child, independent since before she could walk, was always willing to work relentlessly in pursuit of whatever was in her sight. She let go of some of that independence by asking for help (GASP!!!) from parents of her dancers, and friends willing to lend support. She was most gracious in accepting offers of making costumes, getting publicity, keeping track of ticket and t-shirt sales, building web sites, conducting business via e-mail, and more than I could safely mention in one blog.

Suffice it to say the result was worth the combined effort of dozens of volunteers, along with the talent of nearly 50 dancers, two vocalists, and Seasons, a family of delightful musicians playing Celtic tunes. If you were fortunate enough to attend, you may have caught the contagious enthusiasm of all involved. If not, there will be future events, like the one we just got invited to by the local chapter of the Autism Society of America with less than a week's notice. But I thought this was going to be about me...

My focus for this entry was supposed to be how once again I have had to restart my fitness regimen, but my kids have contributed significantly to my ADHD problems for 25 years. They've also been my major excuse for getting off track with exercise plans.

I discovered my inner athlete at the end of senior year in college. My passion for running and martial arts blossomed in 1979, as did my identity as a physically fit woman. My wedding in October of 1984 followed my black belt test, and two weeks later, I was expecting my firstborn. I had injuries during the early stages of my athletic pursuits, but none set me back like recovering from pregnancy and childbirth.

I love raising eyebrows, but particularly by my admission that I've lost over 250 pounds. Doing the math: eight children in 16 years, 25-30 pounds gained with each pregnancy, lost when I dragged my sleep-deprived bones back into the woods for trail runs, the creek for kayaking, the gym for body-building, and my living room for the exercise video du jour. I love getting into a rhythm of training, keeping fitness logs, tracking falling numbers on race times, pants' sizes, and the bathroom scale.

I equally despised the thought of lumbering with a blobby belly and cellulite-riddled thighs out into public to get back into shape. My thin-as-a-rail husband supported my efforts at resuming training, but once I reached my goals, he'd look at me with that glimmer in his eye, and WHAM!!, another baby took up residence beneath the stretch mark-streaked abdominal flab.

Working out isn't the problem; thinking about working out is my greatest obstacle.

My youngest child is nine, but after getting back into shape after she was born, I've endured health setbacks and several surgeries, each with a period of limited activity. The year I turned 50 was one of my best for training, including winning the Female Masters' Division of a one mile race I had competed in since my early 30's. I had fought off another 40 pounds before that birthday, which helped me cross the finish line in under 7 minutes.

Four of those surgeries came in the past two years, and this has been the toughest mental battle I've fought to get in gear again.

But here I am, adding another activity to my repertoire. My youngest daughter, Teresa, taught me my first steps of Irish dance--the easy reel. When Stephanie walked in on our lesson, she got the idea that it might be time to join her adult class (as I had hinted for an invite for a long time.) Early this year, she threw me in with Alice and Barb who had danced with her for years. After only a few sessions with them, we made our debut on St. Patrick's Day at a private party in a pub. Good thing it wasn't taped and shown on YouTube, or we'd have quit. But we had a blast, and spent two months learning more steps for the stage show.

Here we were, three mature women, sharing spotlights with a group of little girls. Miss Stephanie designed complementary dresses for us to do our slip jig. We couldn't stop smiling, and the kids in the show made us feel welcome. I can't speak for Barb or Alice, but I know I didn't quite master the choreography until a few days after the performance. My own children were too focused on their own parts in the show to notice or be embarrassed by my presence, and I spent time in the wings admiring their finesse and vitality.

Tonight, I joined two other women in a new beginner class. We learned the basic steps of an easy reel. It's reminiscent of returning as a white belt after my first child was born, and my black belt had to be re-earned.

I'll be aching tomorrow, but not quite as bad as after a sparring match at the dojo. And as I do the dishes, I can expect any one of my children to come into the kitchen, and remind me how to point my toes, swing my foot to my knee, or bend my knee to kick my butt. Thanks, guys, but I'm already pretty good at kicking my own butt.
(* I've previously danced with all of my kids in The Nutcracker Ballet and Footloose.)

Starting Over; Prelude

     Forgive me for spending more time trying to find my way back to my blog than writing in it. It's like the recurring dream where I am searching for something...a treasure in the trash curbside in the dark, coins in the grass beside the sidewalk, my long-lost teddy bear-- tattered from decades of affection, the script I'd thought I'd known by heart--forgotten as I found my place on stage (late for my cue and clueless)...or my car keys when I'm rushing out the door leaving for work.Forgive me for that rambling, run-on paragraph. I can scarcely keep track of my own thoughts, yet I expect my readers to delight in my words. Were I editing a composition submitted by one of my children, there'd be red all over this.

   I refuse to make my blog a confession of my faults (I'm Catholic; I prefer to share those with a priest.) But now that my guilt about neglecting my public on-line billboard has been expressed, allow me to get down to the business of spilling my guts. Blood. Tears. Opinions. Observations. Metaphors. Hyperboles. Hypotheses. And just plain silliness.

(The artwork was created using Adirondack Alcohol Inks on glossy photo paper. I am happy to report that I have given this piece away to a friend who is rediscovering the joy of playing with art supplies.)