May 11: "Wet Morning," Artists at Work, "Rabbit in the Morning"

Billy Collins has a green thumb . . . 

Wet Morning

by: Billy Collins

The big red bougainvillea

is drooping,

an effect of last night's

wind and rain.

Thunder too,

but plants don't have ears,

or is that

what the petals are for?

We got some rain last night.  Not a lot.  However, it was cloudy and wet enough to obscure the auroras that were blazing all over the heavens.  I don't have any bougainvillea in my backyard, but I'm sure my lilac bushes enjoyed their shower.

It is Mother's Day weekend.  I took my son Mother's Day shopping this afternoon.  He wasn't happy about it, but he picked out a card and a present without bloodshed or violence.  That's a win in my book.  This evening, my wife and I attended a fundraiser for a local theater group we support.  My wife drank an overpriced pop.  I drank two glasses of overpriced wine.  And we listened to really good music sung by some talented friends.

My wife is now sleeping.  My son is playing online video games upstairs in his bedroom.  My puppy is in her crate.  And I am getting ready to watch an episode or two of my latest obsession--a British competition show called Landscape Artist of the Year.  My wife hates the show, but I find it endlessly fascinating watching artists at work.

It almost makes Saint Marty want to take up oil painting.  

Rabbit in the Morning

by: Martin Achatz

He watches the dog

from a hunch of dewy grass,

waits for her to charge

or bark.  Instead, she lifts

her snout, sniffs, looks

away, like an old 

girlfriend at a 50th reunion

who can't remember 

your name.

February 26: Saint Victor

Okay, anybody who has been following my blog for any length of time knows one of my greatest faults is jealousy. It's a running theme in my life and blog, along with mental illness, sex addiction, food addiction, and chocolate.  I can become ridiculously obsessed with the successes of relatives, friends, authors, and celebrities, especially if I find the successes completely undeserved.

Let me give you a pretty innocuous example. I have an uncle who paints oil landscapes.  He started this artistic pursuit a few years before he retired after 30-plus years at GM in Detroit. In his retirement, his output has increased. He's like the Grandma Moses of our family, minus the fact that he wasn't born before Lincoln became president, didn't work on a farm most of his life, and wasn't a woman. Uncle Moses doesn't sell his artwork.  He does his own matting and framing, and he usually gives it away to family and friends.

He donated several of his paintings to the medical office in which I work. I'm surrounded by his talent, and every week some person asks me if his artwork is for sale. I have never had any kind of artistic ability with oil painting. My visual arts abilities are restricted to pen and pencil sketches. I've tried to duplicate my uncle's landscapes with colored pencils with limited success. Very limited. I envy my uncle for his gift, and the fact that he's sort of become a semi-legend in our extended family. I will never reach the stature he's reached among our relatives, unless I win a Pulitzer Prize or publish a bestselling book that Oprah chooses for her book club. Even if I become a Blog of Note it won't matter. And the most frustrating thing is that Uncle Moses remains kind and humble. It's sickening.

Victor, today's feast saint, is another example.  He was born in France and spent most of his life as a hermit in the region of Champagne.  He's famous for converting many to the Christian life, but he remained a recluse.  Most of what we know about Vic comes from hymns and an Office about him written by Saint Bernard of Clairvaux.  Vic never wrote, composed, painted, or performed.  His whole life was defined by "prayer, fasting, and almsgiving."

I guess I should take a few cues from Vic and Uncle Moses.  They never wanted fame or notoriety.  They lived and used their gifts, quietly and without fanfare.  They didn't care who was paying attention.  (By the way, my uncle is still alive, still painting, and still full of humility.)

Saint Marty needs to practice his humble act a little more.  He might become a Blog of Note that way.  Not that his relatives would give a shit.

Here's a few examples of Uncle Moses' paintings: