Allowed off-leash
More than she ought to be
Into the woods she wanders
Discovering new trails
Wagging her bushy tail.
Hikers crossing her path
Admire her independence
Inquire where her master might be.
Intoxicated by the myriad
Of unfamiliar scents they carry
(Wishing for a treat hidden in their backpacks)
She sniffs in all her glory,
Her warm, wet nose in the air
As they stroke her shiny hair
And remind her of her beauty
Clearly oblivious to the matted parts
Beneath the surface where she harbors
Fleas and ticks and prickly burrs.
Along the paths she bounds
With endless reckless abandon
Into familiar territory, then fearlessly
Branching out into newer tangents
Tackling the tangles of thorny briars
And unkempt paths
Seemingly undiscovered by others
Where wild flora flourishes
And she does too.
Splashing in streams,
Passing patches of warmth
Playful glare of gleaming sun,
She notes the locations of
Cool protective shelters
(Should she need one come dusk)
Refreshed and exhilarated
Stopping to pause
And lick her paws
And take in all her surroundings
As she pleases.
In the quiet moments
She hears the whisper of rumblings
Thinking it the hint of impending storms
Or quaking of the earth beneath
Her four feet
Or the approach of imminent danger;
Perking her ears, she listens attentively
And recognizes the language of her
Own hungry belly
And notices the fatigue
From her lively jaunt
Settle into her aging joints
Reminding her that her puppy days
Have been left behind
Despite this day
Where they briefly resurfaced.
Suddenly,
Coming to her senses,
She recalls her dish awaiting
Filled with tasty tidbits
Panic sets in when she realizes
She has lost her way
Markings on the trail fading
As last lights past sunset
Play with her vision
She squints
Looks around
Runs in circles briefly
Then charts a course
Managing to backtrack
Following her faint footprints
In evening dew-softened soil
And the familiar stench
Of pheromones
And waste
She left in her wake.
As chill of nightfall
Settles in her bones
She locates the gate
Left open
Anticipating her return.
Softly she enters
Careful not to awaken or stir
Those hoping for her arrival.
Gingerly,
She wipes the mud from the trail
Upon the Welcome mat.
SPOZ 5/16/16
Monday, May 16, 2016
Paying Attention
Eyes glazed
In a daze
She gazes
Outside the classroom window
Where she effortlessly translates
The language of blue jays who explain
The simple science of feathered flight
For her to comprehend
And explore.
Sporadically she drifts back inside
The cinder block prison
With cursive letters in alphabetical order
Making eager eye contact
With the warden
At the chalkboard
Feigning a cursory nod
With her most genuine masquerade
Confident
Of audience approval.
Pen in hand, she doodles maps
In the white spaces of her speckled
Composition book
That lead her to far away forests
Thick with fragrant earth and trees
Sailing ships afloat in mist
Of alluring distant seas
Where her tender heart yearns to be
Creating the illusion
Of copiously copying useless notes
The pointless facts she will memorize with ease
And faithfully regurgitate
Without ever having tasted
Their splendor first
Wearing the uniform of contentment
Like a grandiose costume on stage
Convincing viewers of her character
Suspending disbelief
Like the insect suddenly snatched
In the extravagantly spun web
Outside the window
Where she instantly
Recognizes her reflection.
By Susan Oscilowski
5/14/16
Wednesday, December 2, 2015
Apparition
He reeks
Of age and stale booze;
She fights her gag reflex,
Appearing not to notice.
His face,
As rough as the glass-strewn sidewalk
Where he lays,
Scratches her delicate palm
As she strokes
Undaunted she remains
He sputters
Wracked with convulsions
She dares not wipe from her lovely face
The spit and sweat of his frenzy
His fingers
caked with grime
yellow-stained from borrowed cigarettes
cracked from cold and neglect
bowed; joints stiff and swollen
She caresses the stone-cold hands in hers.
His eyes bloodshot
and devoid of lustre
Fight hard
to focus on her gaze
The pity he sees there
Stirs in him
The hint of a smile
Before sleep captures him,
A fleeting memory flashes
of bedtime prayers recited
decades ago
A sparkle dances
In a tear he sheds
Wrapped in her embrace.
He reeks
Of age and stale booze;
She fights her gag reflex,
Appearing not to notice.
His face,
As rough as the glass-strewn sidewalk
Where he lays,
Scratches her delicate palm
As she strokes
Undaunted she remains
He sputters
Wracked with convulsions
She dares not wipe from her lovely face
The spit and sweat of his frenzy
His fingers
caked with grime
yellow-stained from borrowed cigarettes
cracked from cold and neglect
bowed; joints stiff and swollen
She caresses the stone-cold hands in hers.
His eyes bloodshot
and devoid of lustre
Fight hard
to focus on her gaze
The pity he sees there
Stirs in him
The hint of a smile
Before sleep captures him,
A fleeting memory flashes
of bedtime prayers recited
decades ago
A sparkle dances
In a tear he sheds
Wrapped in her embrace.
Tuesday, December 1, 2015
(Is it really 2 years since I added anything to this blog? I guess because all of my writing has been entered into my personal, hand-written journals where it happily co-exists with my art madness. OK. These are not new; however, they represent my passion for writing. --SuzyOzone)
Larval Compositions
When you hear the distant song
Of naked cicadas composing
Beneath cold, dark rock of December,
Fly/flee at once to the refuge of your pen
Let their melodies echo in your ink
Warming the notes to a thaw.
Here upon the rough, lined bark
Your soul emerges, where
You, too, must discard your shell
And climb to chant a summer's eve
Across Eternity
Beyond Mortality.
(SPOZ-12/2002-from the inside cover of a new journal)
Misplaced Muse
(The irony of this one's title is that I only found page One (of 2?) in my mammoth collection of saved papers; a date printed on the back is April 2007, but who knows if it has anything to do with when I printed the poem on the other side in my feeble attempt to save the Rainforest by conserving paper.)
I've misplaced my Muse once more.
Cleared clutter from my closets
De-junked demons and dumpster dives
Shredded reams of scribbled papers
---she never showed up.
I folded a heap of laundry
As deep as a sigh
But she didn't dance from inside the basket
Of forlorn, un-mated socks.
The sink, piled to the window ledge
With dirty dinner dishes
Didn't disclose the muse
Under the muck covering the counter top.
As I bleached the basin to beaming,
And moisturized my hands,
I wondered why no rhymes had come;
No imagery; neither metaphor or similie;
Not a peep of onomatopoeia, or even
A little alliteration.
In the grumbling hum of the garbage disposal,
I thought I heard her groan to me
Perhaps she's sliding through sewers,
Searching through slimy sludge,
Seeking a spark of inspiration
To share with me.
Maybe not.
The last time I remember playing with her
(and I SHOULD have put her back where she belongs)
I cannot recall--
Was I stewing in a seething saucepan of solitude,
Icy in my isolation,
Frozen in fear?
(To be continued if I can find the next page of this poem; but not right now; I have chores to do first!)
SPOZ
Larval Compositions
When you hear the distant song
Of naked cicadas composing
Beneath cold, dark rock of December,
Fly/flee at once to the refuge of your pen
Let their melodies echo in your ink
Warming the notes to a thaw.
Here upon the rough, lined bark
Your soul emerges, where
You, too, must discard your shell
And climb to chant a summer's eve
Across Eternity
Beyond Mortality.
(SPOZ-12/2002-from the inside cover of a new journal)
Misplaced Muse
(The irony of this one's title is that I only found page One (of 2?) in my mammoth collection of saved papers; a date printed on the back is April 2007, but who knows if it has anything to do with when I printed the poem on the other side in my feeble attempt to save the Rainforest by conserving paper.)
I've misplaced my Muse once more.
Cleared clutter from my closets
De-junked demons and dumpster dives
Shredded reams of scribbled papers
---she never showed up.
I folded a heap of laundry
As deep as a sigh
But she didn't dance from inside the basket
Of forlorn, un-mated socks.
The sink, piled to the window ledge
With dirty dinner dishes
Didn't disclose the muse
Under the muck covering the counter top.
As I bleached the basin to beaming,
And moisturized my hands,
I wondered why no rhymes had come;
No imagery; neither metaphor or similie;
Not a peep of onomatopoeia, or even
A little alliteration.
In the grumbling hum of the garbage disposal,
I thought I heard her groan to me
Perhaps she's sliding through sewers,
Searching through slimy sludge,
Seeking a spark of inspiration
To share with me.
Maybe not.
The last time I remember playing with her
(and I SHOULD have put her back where she belongs)
I cannot recall--
Was I stewing in a seething saucepan of solitude,
Icy in my isolation,
Frozen in fear?
(To be continued if I can find the next page of this poem; but not right now; I have chores to do first!)
SPOZ
Friday, October 4, 2013
Indian Summer Again
I
My favorite month of jeweled hue
Crept unnoticed in solemn debut
But homesick summer meandered by
Visiting long after we said goodbye
Flirting with a show of lush memories
Teasing and soothing with caressing breeze
I couldn't explain the lump in my throat
Resisting some tears as I rigged my boat
The blue and white sail blended with sky
I studied the clouds and let out a sigh
Carillon bells sang a vespers prayer
Notes like golden leaves danced through the air
Sun set too soon past equinox's theft
Trickles of purple faded, then left
Squinting in twilight, approaching land
The vessel now quietly resting in sand
Headed home grateful for time on the lake
Celebrating the last trip this season I'd make
Trying to savor this most splendid day
Wishing October would not fade to grey
II
Ignoring remaining chores on my list
I dashed out the door; I couldn't resist
The Indian Summer, so tempting and sweet
Invited me to an exclusive retreat
Of sailing at Gifford Pinchot State Park
With just a few hours until it got dark
The surface of lake near-perfectly still
Save for the leaping of bass; yet the thrill
Of setting my sail and tacking away
Knowing how much I needed to play
Glad for the solitude but wishing as well
For someone to share this passionate spell.
Wednesday, October 2, 2013
Mermaid & Bluebird
Spending a weekend in Newburyport, MA always stirs my love of all things nautical. My college roommates & I toured the Lowell Boat Shop in Amesbury and took a boat ride along the Merrimac River. That was all I needed.
Trips to the many shops in town also sparked my creativity, and since I had my usual art gear with me (as always), a project had to happen.
The local Starbucks there had an art wall with a mermaid theme, thus my inspiration.
Maybe I'll share more pictures and story of her creation later, but it's a gorgeous October day, and I have yard work awaiting.
She's a work in progress, and the mixed media is on a roughly constructed substrate of ticking fabric- covered cardboard. The background colors were dyed paper towels I had in my emergency art first aid kit. The netting used for her body and the sea were colored burlap-type ribbon I bought in a thrift store. The sequins came from my home stash and had been used to make a dance costume shirt.
Here she is:
I added a pencil drawing of a bluebird made before the mermaid .
Trips to the many shops in town also sparked my creativity, and since I had my usual art gear with me (as always), a project had to happen.
The local Starbucks there had an art wall with a mermaid theme, thus my inspiration.
Maybe I'll share more pictures and story of her creation later, but it's a gorgeous October day, and I have yard work awaiting.
She's a work in progress, and the mixed media is on a roughly constructed substrate of ticking fabric- covered cardboard. The background colors were dyed paper towels I had in my emergency art first aid kit. The netting used for her body and the sea were colored burlap-type ribbon I bought in a thrift store. The sequins came from my home stash and had been used to make a dance costume shirt.
Here she is:
 | |
| 1st draft |
I added a pencil drawing of a bluebird made before the mermaid .
 | |
| with added bling |
 |
| Bluebird--Prismacolor pencils |
Tuesday, September 10, 2013
Mural Update
We are making progress...a few more artists have joined the fun, and I'm about ready to step away from the ever-changing landscape. Sorry, but there will be no metaphorical tangents at this point about the ever-changing landscape of my life. Maybe in another blog; later. John Paul & Maria joined Teresa and me to see how they could contribute to the project, and in the hours we worked yesterday, the difference was obvious on the canvas:
In spite of the challenges of artistic collaboration, the trio worked well, respecting the opinions and suggestions of Teresa who had already spent much time laboring on making the stones three-dimensional.
At the conclusion of the session, the artists were pleased with the results.
******************************************************
A major flaw in the canvas has driven me to distraction. The three flats are joined after they were connected/secured to the viewing area. A fabric tape of some sort joins the pieces in the front while the framing pieces are linked with screwed-in blocks of wood or metal strips. One of these--after years of use and abuse--is warped, so a large gap had created a vertical strip which cannot be obscured. Whatever we try to paint on it still betrays the imperfect substrate. From a distance, the view is painful for those of us who obsess about such things.
My remedy for this took at least an hour of my time when I returned today alone. First, I drilled holes into more metal connectors and scrap wood to pull the warped board in line with its neighbor. Then, I experimented with Plaster of Paris to fill in the gap on the front surface--over the area already painted. I covered about 80% of the offending opening, creating a stark white strip over the masterpiece. In my experiment, I learned how quickly the powdered plaster sets when added to water and stirred. It took about three minutes before the mixture hardened to stone, requiring I make many small batches until I finished.
Ouch! The worse part was that the strip ran right through the beautiful masonry the kids had labored to create. Guilt swamped my being. I attempted to paint over the drying plaster, but the instructions said to wait 24 hours before painting, and I didn't want it to be seen by anyone who happened to walk in on it. An hour later, I stripped it bare, and swept the white mess from the floor. I went behind the canvas and filled in the gap between the wooden vertical braces, stuffing it with a strip of black foam insulation with adhesive backing. The re-paint afterwards hid more of the seam as I blended it into the scenery.
The trunk of the tree to the right of center follows the track of the former gully. The image is blurry, but it's difficult to detect the flaw in the backdrop.
When viewed through French doors leading out the the balcony, the landscape is not overpowering, but lends itself to the air of elegance I was attempting to re-create.
A small stream has been added to the left side of the scene, and a barely noticeable line of trees on the horizon line.
I may put in a few more highlights tomorrow (and take a better camera)--then I will walk away and declare it finished. I am quite confident I would make changes to it on a daily basis if it were here in my home studio, but since it is not, and because it was commissioned---so technically I cannot claim ownership, I will abandon it to its new home, allowing the imperfections to remain. The artistic process matters more than the (un)finished product, and I feel so fortunate to have been able to create a landscape that I'd surely enjoy if it was outside of my veranda.
In spite of the challenges of artistic collaboration, the trio worked well, respecting the opinions and suggestions of Teresa who had already spent much time laboring on making the stones three-dimensional.
******************************************************
A major flaw in the canvas has driven me to distraction. The three flats are joined after they were connected/secured to the viewing area. A fabric tape of some sort joins the pieces in the front while the framing pieces are linked with screwed-in blocks of wood or metal strips. One of these--after years of use and abuse--is warped, so a large gap had created a vertical strip which cannot be obscured. Whatever we try to paint on it still betrays the imperfect substrate. From a distance, the view is painful for those of us who obsess about such things.
My remedy for this took at least an hour of my time when I returned today alone. First, I drilled holes into more metal connectors and scrap wood to pull the warped board in line with its neighbor. Then, I experimented with Plaster of Paris to fill in the gap on the front surface--over the area already painted. I covered about 80% of the offending opening, creating a stark white strip over the masterpiece. In my experiment, I learned how quickly the powdered plaster sets when added to water and stirred. It took about three minutes before the mixture hardened to stone, requiring I make many small batches until I finished.
When viewed through French doors leading out the the balcony, the landscape is not overpowering, but lends itself to the air of elegance I was attempting to re-create.
A small stream has been added to the left side of the scene, and a barely noticeable line of trees on the horizon line.
I may put in a few more highlights tomorrow (and take a better camera)--then I will walk away and declare it finished. I am quite confident I would make changes to it on a daily basis if it were here in my home studio, but since it is not, and because it was commissioned---so technically I cannot claim ownership, I will abandon it to its new home, allowing the imperfections to remain. The artistic process matters more than the (un)finished product, and I feel so fortunate to have been able to create a landscape that I'd surely enjoy if it was outside of my veranda.
Sunday, September 8, 2013
Ozone Studio on the Road
Sometimes it's more fun to play at a friend's house than make a mess in my own studio. I can't say yet where the "friend" is to be found, as I think the artwork is supposed to be held in secret until a later date. I can only give a hint: the name Agatha....
Teresa, my youngest child, has taken a brief break from her passion for American Girl dolls: sewing their clothing, and crafting every possible accessory for them. She does her research online at a favorite crafting site. A few days ago, she accompanied me on a journey to create a large piece of creative expression. Some of our collaborations in the past have ended badly...sad to say, she's not always comfortable sharing adjoining pages in one of my art journals side by side on my bed. It leads to comparison, and all my attempts to remind her that art is for fun, that I've had four decades more to experiment with it, and whatever other psychology I can pull from remnants of my college days---falls short. She's left those sessions in tears, leaving me to wallow in needless guilt. Perhaps I should avoid doing art with her when it's past both our bedtimes.
In spite of my concerns, she's coming along for the ride on this one. The subject in question is a rather large mural with a stone wall, meadow, woods, and sky in the background. The medium is acrylic paint. The location is a secret. For a few weeks. I am hoping I can give a peek without ruining the fun for others who will get to see the results. It is possible the finished result will be viewed by 1,000 people. (That's more than a little scary!)
For research, I drove around, looking for old stone walls. Teresa actually pointed this one out to me, and it's one I've passed several times a week for years, but hardly noticed. I used it as my model to practice drawing the subject. It's on Market Street in Camp Hill, PA:
I suspect it has been painted often by plein air enthusiasts, as we have some talented artists sketch during festivals in the area.
Before finding the wall, I sketched out a rough idea of what the whole picture might look like. I tried one in pastels and another in oils. The second one was an evening view, but too dark and in the wrong orientation for the person who commissioned the work. I'm still using my cellphone camera, so the colors don't translate very well, but it's the idea of the process I'm trying to convey here:
When we started on the large canvas, I suggested how we might try to make the stones look realistic--but let Teresa discover how that would work. She quickly got a handle on it.
The three stones to the left of her hand were her first attempts at creating a 3-dimensional view. From a distance, they really popped! Maria came today and added some green tints to the grout--which may have aged with the help of moss and other organic agents. She spent an hour working before she headed off to another activity. Over two days (not counting many hours of research and preliminary sketching) and more than 10 hours with Teresa, the picture is emerging:
The grout appears yellow--but that's my camera's exaggeration. It's more of a baby-poop green. I added the upright stones to the ledge, trying to incorporate shadow and depth, ignoring the fact that I never paid attention when studying perspective in the classes I took and the myriad of drawing books I've used in self-study for more than three decades of art exploration. I wasn't able to get a good photo of the meadows and trees because we had to leave before others invaded our space. I'll do that the next time we get in.
So far, Teresa is doing marvelous work! I keep standing back to admire it, and taking photos as the magic unfolds. She, in turn, scolds me to to stop playing and get back to painting. She suggests which areas I should be focusing on. The best part is watching her lose herself in the effort, and chip away at the self-conscious worries about the imperfections. Several people have been around while we're at the project, and all have commented on her part. It couldn't make me happier.
We have to keep bopping our own little critics like Whack-a-Mole critters at an arcade as they surface from their burrows, but so far, we're winning.
Teresa, my youngest child, has taken a brief break from her passion for American Girl dolls: sewing their clothing, and crafting every possible accessory for them. She does her research online at a favorite crafting site. A few days ago, she accompanied me on a journey to create a large piece of creative expression. Some of our collaborations in the past have ended badly...sad to say, she's not always comfortable sharing adjoining pages in one of my art journals side by side on my bed. It leads to comparison, and all my attempts to remind her that art is for fun, that I've had four decades more to experiment with it, and whatever other psychology I can pull from remnants of my college days---falls short. She's left those sessions in tears, leaving me to wallow in needless guilt. Perhaps I should avoid doing art with her when it's past both our bedtimes.
In spite of my concerns, she's coming along for the ride on this one. The subject in question is a rather large mural with a stone wall, meadow, woods, and sky in the background. The medium is acrylic paint. The location is a secret. For a few weeks. I am hoping I can give a peek without ruining the fun for others who will get to see the results. It is possible the finished result will be viewed by 1,000 people. (That's more than a little scary!)
For research, I drove around, looking for old stone walls. Teresa actually pointed this one out to me, and it's one I've passed several times a week for years, but hardly noticed. I used it as my model to practice drawing the subject. It's on Market Street in Camp Hill, PA:
Before finding the wall, I sketched out a rough idea of what the whole picture might look like. I tried one in pastels and another in oils. The second one was an evening view, but too dark and in the wrong orientation for the person who commissioned the work. I'm still using my cellphone camera, so the colors don't translate very well, but it's the idea of the process I'm trying to convey here:
So far, Teresa is doing marvelous work! I keep standing back to admire it, and taking photos as the magic unfolds. She, in turn, scolds me to to stop playing and get back to painting. She suggests which areas I should be focusing on. The best part is watching her lose herself in the effort, and chip away at the self-conscious worries about the imperfections. Several people have been around while we're at the project, and all have commented on her part. It couldn't make me happier.
We have to keep bopping our own little critics like Whack-a-Mole critters at an arcade as they surface from their burrows, but so far, we're winning.
Friday, August 9, 2013
Studio Progress
I am happy to report that the studio is evolving and will one day be open to visitors. I spend more time there than I should--including wee hours when insomnia robs me of pillow slumber. As I am trying to organize, new projects sneak into view and cannot be ignored.
Neglecting studio play-time often means supplies retire before they get put into use. Tubes of watercolor paints, destined to capture my vision of the ocean on a recent beach day--were dry beyond use, thwarting my attempt at a lovely Atlantic seascape. A collection of porcelain and glass paints were headed for the same fate after living in a small cedar chest for more than 8 years. They were dragged out of hiding, and sacrificed to any surfaces they might adhere to. This included plastic photo frames, freezer paper, and a trio of vintage wine bottles rescued from a neighbor's recycling bin. The paint is goopy, and the drier it gets, the harder it is to manipulate. I poured it into the bottles, slowly turning and creating interesting visual patterns.
The bottles have found a new home in the foyer on a beverage cart I found at a thrift shop when hunting for props for Oyster Mill Playhouse. After the play ended, the cart followed me home, but suffered the loss of the lower glass shelf in a moving mishap. I love the person who was involved in this accident, and will not name her, but I am hoping when she sees this, she will be happy that the cart has been salvaged.
A piece of plywood--also abandoned by its owner--was easily cut with my jigsaw, and sanded to replace the missing glass. It will need to remain unfinished until the muse moves me to enhance its beauty.
The remainder of the poured-out glass paints are drying in small circular compartments in a salvaged plastic container that lived its previous life as a holder of medical specimen jars. I can attest to the fact that no biological specimens of human or animal origin ever came in contact with the plastic now in my studio. The disks created by the paints will become elements in future projects.
Perhaps a prohibition on creating art should be imposed in the studio space until it is cleaned and de-junked...but then again, if I'm in charge, that's not likely to happen.
Neglecting studio play-time often means supplies retire before they get put into use. Tubes of watercolor paints, destined to capture my vision of the ocean on a recent beach day--were dry beyond use, thwarting my attempt at a lovely Atlantic seascape. A collection of porcelain and glass paints were headed for the same fate after living in a small cedar chest for more than 8 years. They were dragged out of hiding, and sacrificed to any surfaces they might adhere to. This included plastic photo frames, freezer paper, and a trio of vintage wine bottles rescued from a neighbor's recycling bin. The paint is goopy, and the drier it gets, the harder it is to manipulate. I poured it into the bottles, slowly turning and creating interesting visual patterns.
The remainder of the poured-out glass paints are drying in small circular compartments in a salvaged plastic container that lived its previous life as a holder of medical specimen jars. I can attest to the fact that no biological specimens of human or animal origin ever came in contact with the plastic now in my studio. The disks created by the paints will become elements in future projects.
Perhaps a prohibition on creating art should be imposed in the studio space until it is cleaned and de-junked...but then again, if I'm in charge, that's not likely to happen.
Tuesday, July 30, 2013
A Job to be Envied
Although I am not "gainfully employed" at the present moment, I do have a job. Well, actually, I have several: I am a full-time wife, mom/Grandmum, home maker, business mentor, driving instructor, unlicensed plumber (with 4 fixed toilets & a sink faucet replacement to my credit), rookie sailor, autism expert, public speaker, lifelong learner, scanner, home-school supervisor on break, mediocre cook (but decent yogurt-maker), writer, mixed media/ upcycling artist, kayak queen, sporadic runner, cyclist, Irish dancer, athlete, standardized patient & clinical skills instructor, actress, props mistress, chauffeur, bicycle repairman, photographer, carpenter, and poet; the list implies I don't do any of the above well. This is not intended to be an apology.
I don't do a good job keeping the house neat or clean. I try. Really. But I live with seven people, and an eighth who spends a great deal of time here--except for sleeping. And I've never been neat. Ask any of my siblings or former roommates. I am organizationally challenged. But that's not the topic of this entry.
My employment status is rather uncategorizable. (Sorry, Spellcheck.) I recognize this period of my life as valuable, although the IRS may rank 2013 as one of my lowest income years. I have survived 19 years of diapering babies and toddlers, and 7 years as caregiver to an elderly parent. Perhaps this is my only chance to catch my breath and take stock of where I've been and where I am meant to be.
The following poem describes my kayak trip this week--when I finally got to see a bald eagle while on the water after years of searching them out. It is justification for my role as unpaid poet & lover of nature.
*******************************************************************************************
Cicadas roar
Drowning out the din
Of vehicles rushing
Over the highway bridges
Mourning the demise
Of the weekend gone by.
Birds on tiny islands chant
Prayers to dawn they've yet to see
From their western vantage point
Where shadows of night linger
Oblivious to the fact
That Monday is here.
Egrets, white as the sparse clouds
Swallow sunlight and emit it
From their pure feathers
Their graceful movement celebrates
The epitome of their beauty.
Slow river carries us
Above its shallow basin
Green weeds dance like hula dancer skirts
Tickling our boats as we glide over them
Warm water drips off our paddles
Onto our arms
Splashing its way back in.
Our trio of paddlers
Immensely grateful
That we travel here beneath the Rat Race
Appearing subdued and serene
Masking our exuberance
For our meanderings
On this utterly perfect summer day.
We feel in our bones
How vital it is
For us to connect to nature's beauty
Instead of losing our souls
In pursuit of passing material gain
In some God-forsaken cubicle.
We take our coffee break
Drinking from a steaming thermos
Blue kayaks nestled in a muddy bank
Of an island rookery
We savor the sweetness of blueberry scones
Watching the everyday lives
Of egrets, herons, and cormorants
And discussing politics
Out of earshot of supervisors
Not envying those of our species
Showering for work at home.
As we paddle along
The shady groves between the islands
Soothed by the breeze
On our suntanned skin
We caught sight
Of a lone bald eagle
Wingspan as wide as our boats
Soaring to a perch above us
Studying our fleet from his vantage point.
We paused in awe to admire him
In his regal majesty
Marveling at our fortune
For finally finding him
The illusive symbol
Of our nation
After years of hoping
To catch just a glimpse of one of his breed
On our river sojourns.
I brush aside my twinge of guilt
For indulging in
What some might regard
As truancy from my domestic duties
And thank God for my youthful sense of adventure
And my current state of mid-life physical fitness
While many of my age-peers
Show signs of decline
Trapped inside their vehicles
On their way to Friday's paycheck.
I don't do a good job keeping the house neat or clean. I try. Really. But I live with seven people, and an eighth who spends a great deal of time here--except for sleeping. And I've never been neat. Ask any of my siblings or former roommates. I am organizationally challenged. But that's not the topic of this entry.
My employment status is rather uncategorizable. (Sorry, Spellcheck.) I recognize this period of my life as valuable, although the IRS may rank 2013 as one of my lowest income years. I have survived 19 years of diapering babies and toddlers, and 7 years as caregiver to an elderly parent. Perhaps this is my only chance to catch my breath and take stock of where I've been and where I am meant to be.
The following poem describes my kayak trip this week--when I finally got to see a bald eagle while on the water after years of searching them out. It is justification for my role as unpaid poet & lover of nature.
*******************************************************************************************
Cicadas roar
Drowning out the din
Of vehicles rushing
Over the highway bridges
Mourning the demise
Of the weekend gone by.
Birds on tiny islands chant
Prayers to dawn they've yet to see
From their western vantage point
Where shadows of night linger
Oblivious to the fact
That Monday is here.
Egrets, white as the sparse clouds
Swallow sunlight and emit it
From their pure feathers
Their graceful movement celebrates
The epitome of their beauty.
Slow river carries us
Above its shallow basin
Green weeds dance like hula dancer skirts
Tickling our boats as we glide over them
Warm water drips off our paddles
Onto our arms
Splashing its way back in.
Our trio of paddlers
Immensely grateful
That we travel here beneath the Rat Race
Appearing subdued and serene
Masking our exuberance
For our meanderings
On this utterly perfect summer day.
We feel in our bones
How vital it is
For us to connect to nature's beauty
Instead of losing our souls
In pursuit of passing material gain
In some God-forsaken cubicle.
We take our coffee break
Drinking from a steaming thermos
Blue kayaks nestled in a muddy bank
Of an island rookery
We savor the sweetness of blueberry scones
Watching the everyday lives
Of egrets, herons, and cormorants
And discussing politics
Out of earshot of supervisors
Not envying those of our species
Showering for work at home.
As we paddle along
The shady groves between the islands
Soothed by the breeze
On our suntanned skin
We caught sight
Of a lone bald eagle
Wingspan as wide as our boats
Soaring to a perch above us
Studying our fleet from his vantage point.
We paused in awe to admire him
In his regal majesty
Marveling at our fortune
For finally finding him
The illusive symbol
Of our nation
After years of hoping
To catch just a glimpse of one of his breed
On our river sojourns.
I brush aside my twinge of guilt
For indulging in
What some might regard
As truancy from my domestic duties
And thank God for my youthful sense of adventure
And my current state of mid-life physical fitness
While many of my age-peers
Show signs of decline
Trapped inside their vehicles
On their way to Friday's paycheck.
Art Ventures
SuzyOzone Art Studio is not open for guests...not yet, at least. But for the curious among my friends, I'm willing to give a peek. As a mixed-media/up-cycle artist, my collection of supplies takes up more space than it merits. Last week, I took a trip to the Habitat Re-Store & Creative Re-Use shops in Lancaster and came home with an abundance of treasures. I should put it in my will that if I pass away before using up all my creative resources, I bequeath the remainder back to those two wonderful businesses. I'm hoping my family won't turn me over the the reality TV show about hoarders in the meantime.
Some of my more organized friends who have succeeded at de-junking, Feng shui, and removing all clutter a la St. Francis of Assisi, would have to sit me down to a serious lecture. That's why I keep earplugs on hand. Of course, they are right, and change is necessary--but the one principle they suggest is not bringing anything into the house without an immediate use or a place to live. And put your toys away when you are done playing...don't they know I'm NEVER done??!!
Anyway, I feel I must give evidence that I am trying. I re-purposed an old box spring into an upright wall storage unit for some of my art supplies. I stripped it down to the wooden frame, stapled in 18 cardboard envelope boxes (salvaged from my brief stint working at an insurance agency), and decorated it. I do more art if I can see where I put my things. Using hot glue, I connected wood chess pieces up and down the front sides of the frame--you can see my assortment of scissors displayed on them:
It may be hard to see in the photo, but a set of vintage building blocks spells out the name of the studio down the center post. The two middle-left shelves have white popsicle molds holding paint markers.
In order to prove there was a good reason to save empty prescription bottles--I connected a bunch of them onto a backboard, covered them with red satin ribbon and fabric trim, and sorted out my collection of Sharpie markers.
There are always multiple projects in process simultaneously. I steal a few minutes here and there to work on them. Several have been completed recently: a miniature blanket box and a sculpture of house cleaning fairies..
This is on the back of the fairies sculpture: "I wish the cleaning fairies believed in us like we believe in them."
Oil on canvas (yes, I occasionally work in traditional media) of a seascape. You have to squint really hard to see me in my sailboat near the horizon.
I didn't do the drawing: it's from a gift bag used for European postcards (I think). Looks like Old Amsterdam, and it may have come from the gift shop of the Van Gogh Museum. It is colored with brush markers and some color has bled through from a food-dye stained paper towel decoupaged underneath it.
Mixed media from an altered book titled: My Life as a Trapeze Artist. I started many years ago. The photo of the wooden puppets was taken in Austria in a toyshop window.
More mixed media from the same book; the images are of Kabuki dancers from an old book about Japan.
Acrylic paint and iridescent medium on leather. This is a work in progress. Waiting for ideas to strike.
That's all for now. Bug me and I'll post more.
Some of my more organized friends who have succeeded at de-junking, Feng shui, and removing all clutter a la St. Francis of Assisi, would have to sit me down to a serious lecture. That's why I keep earplugs on hand. Of course, they are right, and change is necessary--but the one principle they suggest is not bringing anything into the house without an immediate use or a place to live. And put your toys away when you are done playing...don't they know I'm NEVER done??!!
Anyway, I feel I must give evidence that I am trying. I re-purposed an old box spring into an upright wall storage unit for some of my art supplies. I stripped it down to the wooden frame, stapled in 18 cardboard envelope boxes (salvaged from my brief stint working at an insurance agency), and decorated it. I do more art if I can see where I put my things. Using hot glue, I connected wood chess pieces up and down the front sides of the frame--you can see my assortment of scissors displayed on them:
In order to prove there was a good reason to save empty prescription bottles--I connected a bunch of them onto a backboard, covered them with red satin ribbon and fabric trim, and sorted out my collection of Sharpie markers.
There are always multiple projects in process simultaneously. I steal a few minutes here and there to work on them. Several have been completed recently: a miniature blanket box and a sculpture of house cleaning fairies..
That's all for now. Bug me and I'll post more.
Friday, June 7, 2013
"iPod is disabled. Try again in 22,718,572 minutes."
"iPod is disabled. Try again in 22,718,572 minutes."
by Susan Oscilowski
published in Youth Advocate Program Autism Spectrum Disorders Newsletter May/June 2013
copyright 2013
Color me clueless when
it comes to technology, so if this message appeared on my device, I'd
shriek and then calmly hand it over to one of my sons. As my personal
tech-support team, Robert and John Paul know what to do, just as I know
which articles of clothing should never go in a washer or dryer. I have
learned to delegate any task involving gadgets, knowing that I'd sooner
put defective items into electronic recycling than even consider
repairing them.
But the ominous-sounding
warning struck my friend Anne's device, and we laughed about the
message as we both took a rare afternoon together for coffee. When I
mentioned it to Robert, he explained something I couldn't repeat here if
I tried-and John Paul chimed in, attempting to translate the solution
into a language he thought I might understand...at 15, he's still too
naïve to know it's hopeless to expect I'll ever get it. But I think they
were confident the iPod could be reset electronically-I was able to
comprehend at least that much.
Anne's teen son Billy, wanting to use his younger brother's iPod,
apparently entered every mathematical algorithm he knows to find the
password to allow him access. It's in their genes to unlock hidden code,
and our sons share a similar knack for knowing how to operate machinery
equipped with a motherboard, chip, or other magical widget. Tommy
thought his cleverness would prevent Billy from using his iPod, but
although Billy didn't get in, he made it nearly impossible for either of
them to be able to use it.
Just how long will it
take before Anne's boys will be able to try to get back in? Using an app
that converts minutes to years, she discovered that 22.7 million
minutes is about 43 years. The brothers will be in their 50's, and the
device would have been obsolete for nearly 42 years, based on my
observations. Anne will be quite elderly by then, and if I'm alive, I'll
be approaching the century mark.
My intention for this
article was to share some advice, hope, ideas, or stories with others
who like Anne and me, are blessed to raise children on the autism
spectrum. The topic wasn't supposed to be about devices, but there's a
reason I am redirecting my thoughts into that realm. As a student in a
Communication Mentor course, one of my assignments was to assist
individuals with verbal challenges--- and their parents or
supporters---in experimenting with a variety of devices designed to
overcome deficits in spoken language. I brought an iPad to Billy, and
because of his amazing capacity to operate computers, it was a
near-perfect fit. (They just had to figure how to lock him out of Angry
Birds.)
Youth Advocate Programs'
philosophy of presuming intellect applies here: even though we can't
understand what Billy tries to communicate to us on a daily basis, he is
always trying. For more than a year, he has been using Proloquo on his
iPad, and has made great advances in speech and expressive language.
Three of my sons have a diagnosis of ASD, and like Billy and Tommy, they
have genius oozing out of their pores. Although my boys have not had
impairment in expressive language, it's easy to see why outsiders might
not view them as intellectually gifted. And artistically gifted. If I
didn't have a space limit on my writing, I'd happily go into more
details about them.
We are living in an age unlike any other because we have tools at our
disposal to break silences and dispel stereotypes which have left so
many people with harmful and downright wrong labels and assessments. We
had the fortune to meet many people in the Communication Mentor course
who have much to teach the rest of us about their hidden gifts.
At a conference on the
West Coast, 6 of my kids and I met one great example of this. Peyton
Goddard of San Diego sheds powerful light on breaking silence. As
someone trapped without capacity for speech for two decades, she
harbored deep insights and profound comprehension about the world around
and inside of her. At the conference, her mother read Peyton's poetry;
her presentation knocked my socks off. Our presentation of Irish dance
that evening had a similar effect on her, as she needed strong
persuasion by her father to leave us after we finished our show and took
time to meet her and her family.
Until the bonds were
broken as a young adult, she was thought to be severely intellectually
disabled, and faced a life I wouldn't wish on my worse enemies. In her
book, I am Intelligent, co-authored by her mother Dianne Goddard, Peyton
chronicles an interior life and incredible journey filled with despair
and hope. Her breakthrough came, when at age 22, she typed "i am
intlgnt" on an electronic device offered by Dr. Robert Friedman-who,
like her parents, knew that Peyton had much to share with the world
after being dismissed. She is the first person in the US to graduate as
valedictorian from college using facilitated communication. Her book is
not for the faint of heart, but I couldn't put it down as I laughed,
cried, and gasped through the contents.
Billy won't have to wait
22.7 million minutes to try to gain access to his brother's disabled
iPod. Someone will figure out how to fix it. This energetic teen is
already proving what Anne and other family members knew all along: that
he possesses gifts which need to be unwrapped and enjoyed. We all do.
Wednesday, October 24, 2012
Gotta love October days
CLINGING TO TODAY
Mid-October
mid-day sun
Cajoles me to
squint against her radiance,
A breeze I
can barely feel
Peels the
golden brown leaves
From their
grasping branches.
Ceremoniously
they process
To their
graduation,
Descending in
clearly defined groups--
Stripping the
splendid forest array
Softly into
grey.
I crunch a
firm crimson treat
With tongue
and teeth--
It bursts
with tart juice swimming
Along my grateful
taste buds.
The flavor
sings me a memory of decades
Dwelling in
days like this one to savor
Crunching raked
piles of glee
Under
stomping giddy feet.
Inside, a
fleece jacket waits its turn
To wrap me in
comfort,
Assured I won’t
neglect it much longer
As days get
shorter.
But this day
my naked arms accept
A few more
bronze freckles
Destined to
last till I wither
Unlike the crispy
brown specks
On route to
decay.
Yesterday’s
rain softened the mud;
Compressing the
scribbled-crayon carpet,
Tickling my
nostrils with a lasting perfume
I suction it
deep into lungs and retain it.
Black locust
saplings, bedecked in oval emeralds
Defy the
annual aging of elderly neighbors.
A dozen Phoenix
trees, as big as me
Sprung from
the seeded ashes
Of parents
toppled by fierce winds
This time
last year;
The orphans
mock the murderers
Who toppled
in terror
Ancestors quaking
their burial grounds
With great
drama before they succumbed to slumber.
Upon this
fertile earth
Which gave
them birth
The children
rose swiftly,
Like an army,
strong and plentiful
Climbing independently
Towards cerulean
skies.
As I sit,
crickets belt out solos;
Paired
cicadas do duets,
Their tune the
dirge of siblings laid to rest;
Redheaded woodpeckers
add percussion
Hammering beaks
for smaller relatives
Of the noisy procrastinators
avoiding naps.
I toss the
core of my Winesap sucked dry
Contributing
to the sweet stench of decay
Hoping the
soil will be as satisfied
With my
donation
As I linger
Still squinting
Ignoring chores
which will still be
Wanting to be
done
After I drink
in what remains
Of this impeccable
day.
SuzyOzone
10/24/12
Thursday, April 26, 2012
Losing It part 3
For those of my readers who have seen my recent posts on Facebook, you already know this...or some if it. For others who don't have valuable time to waste on social networks--techno-gossip--hope you get a laugh.
As a follow-up to a recent post here, I did locate the missing new phone in my husband's car--it had slid down the front passenger seat on the side by the door. Finding it only brought a pale sense of relief. Five days later, the new phone parachuted from the pocket of my pants into a flushing toilet. I never saw it go in, but heard it, and knew from the ache in my stomach that I wasn't going to find it under the cabinet in the powder room, where I'd hoped beyond reason that it would appear.
Stop laughing! It's not that funny. Nor is it uncommon. The comments on my FB post revealed many stories of cellphone mishaps.
I had just transferred a large collection of phone numbers off the old cell, and didn't get rid of it. A few hours later, I heard a faint buzzing sound from the potty where it took a nosedive. A brief session with a plunger retrieved it, and withing a few days of letting it dry out in a jar of rice, it still has capacity to function, at least as a camera or storage device for MP3 files. The new one--if it survives past the two year expiration date for the insurance policy--will suffice for now.
As a follow-up to a recent post here, I did locate the missing new phone in my husband's car--it had slid down the front passenger seat on the side by the door. Finding it only brought a pale sense of relief. Five days later, the new phone parachuted from the pocket of my pants into a flushing toilet. I never saw it go in, but heard it, and knew from the ache in my stomach that I wasn't going to find it under the cabinet in the powder room, where I'd hoped beyond reason that it would appear.
Stop laughing! It's not that funny. Nor is it uncommon. The comments on my FB post revealed many stories of cellphone mishaps.
I had just transferred a large collection of phone numbers off the old cell, and didn't get rid of it. A few hours later, I heard a faint buzzing sound from the potty where it took a nosedive. A brief session with a plunger retrieved it, and withing a few days of letting it dry out in a jar of rice, it still has capacity to function, at least as a camera or storage device for MP3 files. The new one--if it survives past the two year expiration date for the insurance policy--will suffice for now.
Employments Symposium
I headed to Philadelphia today with 7 of my kids to take part in an event sponsored by Networks for Training & Development. Last year, I took a course with them to become a Communication Mentor, hoping to work with individuals who are non-verbal. Learning about Assistive Technologies has opened my mind to a paradigm shift; being able to facilitate communication for people with physical and intellectual challenges has had some amazing results.
While attending classes at Arcadia University, I met some amazing people. Jill Gromen was one of the organizers for today's event, and she & I had some conversations about my son's experiences with a mentor who led him to find work doing photography and video production & editing. Chris made his debut as a speaker, taking part on a panel with three other young people overcoming obstacles like he has. He was eloquent as he shared his relationship with his hero, and told the story of how meeting Bill led to his pursuit of an entrepreneur venture. His presentation was met with overwhelming approval, as was his display of his photography, and his short video clip from his latest soccer film.
The O'Clan Contingent of the Rebel Heart Irish Dancers (Miss Stephanie, Andrew, Robert, Maria, John Paul, Teresa, and I) performed during the lunch break. Miss Stephanie talked about the founding, growth, and development of the troupe, and our mission in education, entertainment, community involvement, and outreach.
She explained how her siblings take part in almost all of shows, and help with teaching, choreography, costume design & construction, running shows, and taking care of all aspects of business.
It was difficult to leave the Crowne Plaza, because so many of the participants were overwhelmed with the contributions we made to the event.
Miss Stephanie got an email from the organizers of this year's TASH conference in November. They said they were reviewing our proposal to perform and present our story at this year's event in California. They are trying to see if they can fit us into the schedule (and hopefully fund our travel and lodging expenses). I am keeping my fingers crossed and my outlook hopeful.
I'll update when I hear more.
And speaking of updates, my poem "Silent Voice" was rejected for this year's version of Wild Onions Magazine. I'll get over it. It was meant for Alina--not everyone affiliated with Penn State College of Medicine Department of Humanities, after all. And she & her mom loved it. In the end, that's all that matters.
While attending classes at Arcadia University, I met some amazing people. Jill Gromen was one of the organizers for today's event, and she & I had some conversations about my son's experiences with a mentor who led him to find work doing photography and video production & editing. Chris made his debut as a speaker, taking part on a panel with three other young people overcoming obstacles like he has. He was eloquent as he shared his relationship with his hero, and told the story of how meeting Bill led to his pursuit of an entrepreneur venture. His presentation was met with overwhelming approval, as was his display of his photography, and his short video clip from his latest soccer film.
The O'Clan Contingent of the Rebel Heart Irish Dancers (Miss Stephanie, Andrew, Robert, Maria, John Paul, Teresa, and I) performed during the lunch break. Miss Stephanie talked about the founding, growth, and development of the troupe, and our mission in education, entertainment, community involvement, and outreach.
She explained how her siblings take part in almost all of shows, and help with teaching, choreography, costume design & construction, running shows, and taking care of all aspects of business.
It was difficult to leave the Crowne Plaza, because so many of the participants were overwhelmed with the contributions we made to the event.
Miss Stephanie got an email from the organizers of this year's TASH conference in November. They said they were reviewing our proposal to perform and present our story at this year's event in California. They are trying to see if they can fit us into the schedule (and hopefully fund our travel and lodging expenses). I am keeping my fingers crossed and my outlook hopeful.
I'll update when I hear more.
And speaking of updates, my poem "Silent Voice" was rejected for this year's version of Wild Onions Magazine. I'll get over it. It was meant for Alina--not everyone affiliated with Penn State College of Medicine Department of Humanities, after all. And she & her mom loved it. In the end, that's all that matters.
Saturday, April 14, 2012
Crowning Moments
Allow me to gush about the amazing experience of being a part of the Rebel Heart Irish Dance family. The 100+ member troupe has officially adopted me as "Mum" of all. It's no surprise that non-Oscilowski dancers and their families touch my heart. I can't tell you how many times other people's children have brought tears to my eyes. Our show this week at Cumberland Crossings in Carlisle was a great example.
Anan, one of the youngest dancers, tends to steal any show that he and his 3 year old sister Alana perform with us. They exceed the quota of cuteness allowed in any one place.
Anan performed a 2-hand ceili with my son Andrew. Andrew is 19 and stands about 6 feet tall, and Anan who just turned 5, is short for his age. As they prepared to dance, and Miss Stephanie was telling the audience about what they were doing, Anan looked up at Andrew with such admiration, you'd think he was holding hands with God. The beaming smile on his face as he looked at his towering partner was one I will cherish.
I doubt that many residents of Cumberland Crossing noticed how well Andrew performed the step, as they were too charmed by the little guy hanging on for dear life at the hands of his mentor.
Andrew's mission has been to recruit the young boys who get dragged to the studio for their sisters' lessons. He has privately tutored many of them, and attends the lower level classes to give instruction and encouragement to the males wanting to emulate him and his brothers John Paul and Robert. Although he is humble about his dancing feats, Andrew has won the hearts of many, including the boys who look forward to their time in class and at shows.
What a gift!
Anan, one of the youngest dancers, tends to steal any show that he and his 3 year old sister Alana perform with us. They exceed the quota of cuteness allowed in any one place.
Anan performed a 2-hand ceili with my son Andrew. Andrew is 19 and stands about 6 feet tall, and Anan who just turned 5, is short for his age. As they prepared to dance, and Miss Stephanie was telling the audience about what they were doing, Anan looked up at Andrew with such admiration, you'd think he was holding hands with God. The beaming smile on his face as he looked at his towering partner was one I will cherish.
I doubt that many residents of Cumberland Crossing noticed how well Andrew performed the step, as they were too charmed by the little guy hanging on for dear life at the hands of his mentor.
Andrew's mission has been to recruit the young boys who get dragged to the studio for their sisters' lessons. He has privately tutored many of them, and attends the lower level classes to give instruction and encouragement to the males wanting to emulate him and his brothers John Paul and Robert. Although he is humble about his dancing feats, Andrew has won the hearts of many, including the boys who look forward to their time in class and at shows.
What a gift!
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