Tag life

I draw naked people

JT Twissel 22 Comments

One of my many hobbies is figure drawing. There’s something meditative about spending a couple of hours intently focused on another human being, the contours of their body as they take different poses, the shadows and nuances of their muscles … I could go on and on. I haven’t done a lot of figure drawing over the past twenty years because it’s difficult to find a group of artists to join. And trust me, you don’t want to ask a friend, neighbor or spouse to strip and pose.

In the first session the five minute poses really killed me! But I had fun making messes.

A lot of people don’t understand that drawing naked people is not the same thing as creating pornography. Figure models generally belong to guilds that have strict rules and regulations. (Everyone can take off their clothes but not everyone can hold a poise for five minutes!) Successful figure models can earn up to 100 dollars per hour and the hours are generally mid-day or in the evening. Perfect for professional dancers.

Here I went a little crazy with a variety of pencils and chalks! I’m still trying to figure out my tools.

When my children were young I lucked on to a sculpture class that focused on the human form. Thus, my children were accustomed to seeing sculptures of naked people all around the house. However, every now and then I’d hear a new playmate snickering over the sight of “naked boobies!” and worry that the local vice squad might be showing up at my door.

This sculpture was done so long ago I can’t remember what I was thinking. We certainly weren’t beheading children and using them as props.

The group I was lucky enough to join meets in a room at the local community center that is also used for children’s art classes. It’s delightful to see their drawings posted all around … however, last session I needed to leave early and inadvertently left behind my sketches. Whoops. Naked bobbies in the children’s art space.

Experiments with chalk – it’s soooo delightfully messy.

I hope the janitor finds them and throws them away before the kids show up for their class! I don’t want to get arrested for warping young minds with naked boobies!

If I don’t show up for a while, send bail money!

The Fourth Quarter

JT Twissel 25 Comments

It’s hard to believe we are teetering on final quarter of the year. For me, it’s time for reassessments. Am I going to accomplish what I set out to do in January? Generally the answer is “no” which leads to the question: What can I accomplish before the end of the year without turning into a basket case? I’ve been told that’s one of the pitfalls of being an eldest sister. Eldest sisters, particularly those with working mothers are overly responsible, goal-oriented and guilt-ridden when failing to meet their goals. But you know what? I think I’m on the mend. Perhaps it’s age.

Note the little devils I had to put up with! Forget those impish smiles. “You’re not my mother!” was the only thing they could say.

For example, this year I vowed to:

  • Collect my stories and edit, edit, edit the crap out of them
  • Get more involved with the community
  • Hire a gardener; a handyman; and an electrician
  • Bronze a few of my sculptures with money my mother left me for such a purpose
  • Republish my second book.

Of all those lofty goals, I accomplished just one. The last one.

One of the dozens of sketches for the book. I learnt this year that I am not a skilled cover designer!

I must admit, it felt good to release the story to the world. Really good, considering that I began writing about the wacky world of mein Oncle Boob over thirty years ago.

As for my other goals, well the world will not end if I don’t finish them. It might end … considering how everything is going … but it won’t be because I did not hire an electrician.

Tomorrow I flip the page to a new month on the Wasabi calendar. Any guesses as to which flowering. plant is featured? Here’s a clue: it’s native to Japan where it is considered a great delicacy.

Okay young whippersnappers …

JT Twissel 21 Comments

[Note: this is a political diatribe not aimed at my readers and so I will understand if you wish to skip this post]

Not all people over sixty were hippies. I know many older people who are actively protesting against the current attempt at tyranny who’ve never been on a commune in their lives. Who’ve never gone to Haight Ashbury and worn flowers in the hair; who’ve never rocked out to a Grateful Dead concert and dropped acid. The young whippersnappers who are dissing older protesters by calling them “Elderly White Hippies” are in for a big surprise. Don’t tell them though. They won’t believe you.

Image from BlueSky

Nor were all hippies white although I will concede that the majority of the self-described hippies I met way back when were the children of white or whitish upper middle class professionals. For some of them, being a hippie was just a phase (I fall into that category). And after a few vagabond years, they settled into what could be described as normal lives. But many “hippies” turned their experiences on communes into lives devoted to socially and environmentally aware living. Many did great things. For sure, we changed the world although not as much as we’d naively hoped.

And so, if you’re over a certain age, sing along with me. Even if you’re not, someday, if you’re lucky, you will be. Might as well get prepared for the dissing of the young and clueless whippersnappers.

THEY SAY WE’RE OLD AND WE DON’T VOTE

They say we’re old and we don’t vote
All we do is sleep and watch TV
They don’t know the risk they take
For dissing one’s elders never turns out great.

My granny after a few vodkas and after being dissed – watch out!

Although it’s true, we may smoke pot,
At least I’m sure of all the things we got
We’ve got the time, to organize.
We’ve got the patience, to see it through.
And if they think we’re scared, then they don’t know,
about the Four Dead in Ohio.

Let them say our hair’s too gray
We don’t care. What we’ve got, they cannot take away
So, put your wrinkled hand in mine
There ain’t no hill or mountain we can’t climb.

Apologies to Sonny and Cher

Walk with me

JT Twissel 15 Comments

We finally decided to take the old Prius in for the Necessary Oil Maintenance the dashboard monitor had been displaying for weeks. My husband translated that to oil change which is something he used to be able to handle in the privacy of our driveway for very little cost. But that was before. Prius’ are special … as are most cars started via buttons and not keys. Lord.

From the Orinda Vintage Car Show – a car using manual ignition

So I contacted the dealer we generally use to schedule an oil change. It should take about two hours max, right? I asked. Noooooo, was the snide reply I received. The car needed its 70,000 mile grand nincompoopery of “services.” A dizzying list of valve checks, fluid replacements, tire rotations, brake fluid checks, face lifts, tummy tucks, nose jobs and oh, if there’s rat damage, well you better take out that second mortgage. And … there’s always rat damage. (I’ve long suspected the local auto dealers and repair shops are importing rats from all over the world and releasing them in Contra Costa California with the hearty admonition to go forth and consume the wires, hoses, insulation and whatever else appeals to them in every vehicle … be those vehicles in a garage or in the street! )

For various reasons, I dread going to the Toyota dealer. And so when a coupon arrived from an auto shop within walking distance of my house, I decided to give them a try. They’re a small shop whose owners love vintage cars. Every year they hold a vintage car show that keeps attracting more and more people and so I was surprised they also service newer cars. And they were very friendly; no snide remarks.

I drove over this morning and, as directed, parked the filthy beast behind two mint condition vintage Thunderbirds. After checking in with their staff of amateur comedians (“How long will the service take?” “The rest of the year.”) I decided the weather was perfect for the long walk home. No need for a Lyft. Although the comedians had their doubts. “Try to remember exactly where you are in case you can’t make it and we have to come get you.” Gads. Do I look that old?

Well, I made it. Come with me on my walk, will you?

Above is the beginning of my walk – the sidewalk in front of the community center, library and park. It’s generally a very busy area but not at 8:30 in the morning.

I know I’ve posted pictures of the old Art Deco Theatre before but indulge me once again. The morning light gave it a special glow.

The theater has been putting on various events all summer. The next one involves this guy – seen a couple nights ago passing out fliers.

Can you guess what he was advertising?

The last hill to climb. It’s steeper than it looks but I love passing through the redwood grove. Those trees have been here since before the Pony Express rode through them. The houses are built around them.

It’s gotten hot so the old Prius will probably have to spend the night at the garage. No way I’m walking back over there in the 100 degree heat!

By the way, it was great fun interacting with those of you who checked out my interview on Yvette’s Priorhouse blog! As a result, I look forward to getting to know several new (to me) bloggers and to interviewing Yvette and her fellow writers once their book comes out in October. More on that as it gets closer!

It’s hot but there are signs of autumn all around.

So long … I’m outta here and you’ll never believe why!

JT Twissel 44 Comments

The other day I received a communication of the utmost confidentiality and significance from a Mr. Pauwels Gaetan informing me that his client, Engr. Eldric Twissel, a distinguished business contractor for decades in Brussels had passed away due to a myocardial infarction shortly after the tragic loss of his entire family in a vehicular accident. In case you don’t believe me, here is that very same communication (with a bit of berry pie spilled on it I’m afraid.)

Reading further, I was stunned to learn that I am apparently the last living Twissel on the planet! And, as such, I am eligible to inherit good old Eldric’s 9,995,980.00 (Nine Million, Nine Hundred Ninety-Five Thousand, Nine Hundred Eighty Euros) which will make me – gasp – a billionaire? (I have no idea what the exchange rate is so I’m just guessing.)

After a month of fog, finally the sun! Oh, my happy days are here!

Unfortunately my friends, billionaires don’t blog. But I’ll remember each of you fondly on my yacht.

First … I suppose I’ll have to hire Pauwies to “assist” me through a “entirely legitimate” process with “no legal risks or exposure” to myself. All he expects in return is half of the 9,995, 980.00 Euros! What a gent!

Next, I guess I better head down to my bank to prepare them. Pauweis will undoubtedly want access to my account. You know, to make it easier to transfer the funds. Oh, and I better call my tax guy … perhaps I should relocate to Switzerland in order to avoid horrendous taxes? Oh dear, so many decisions. So much to prepare for!

A bench dedicated to Eldric and the Twissels?

Of course, I’ll have to do something to honor Eldric and all those poor unfortunate Twissels who met their demise in some ghastly vehicular accident. Any suggestions?

Bruce is beyond reproach

JT Twissel 45 Comments

Good Friday always reminds of the Seagrass family under whose wings I spent my high school years. They celebrated every holiday to the max, unlike my family. Easter we might get dressed up and go to church. Or we might not. One year we went to the Lutheran Church because my paternal grandparents were visiting and grandmother insisted that we not only go to church but that we look respectable.

My brother still hates wearing a suit! But my little sister has become quite the fashion plate. Don’t show her this picture. She’ll really pitch a fit!

The cheerful couple in the above picture, Myrtle and RB Senior, met in Fargo North Dakota and spent twenty-five years working on Indian reservations. I never really understood why until I recently discovered that RB Senior was a descendant of White Elk, aka Colonel Alexander McKee and Nonhelema, aka Grenadier Squaw. So living amongst the Native Americans was in his DNA. Unfortunately it was a life that hardened my grandmother to the point that she made RB Senior’s later years miserable. I only remember the quiet, taciturn man who died when I was twenty. But recently, via the miracle of the internet, I discovered he wasn’t always that way.

Oh Bruce, we never knew! Why didn’t you marry Katherine Ladd, whose “winning countenance never fails to influence the judges in forensic contests”? Or her twin sister, Rizpah, the laughing twin, who “plays gentleman friend to all the spinsters on the faculty.” A good laugh is indeed sunshine in a house. Or both sisters! You could have done it Bruce! Although, what was this Ford’s establishment on North Broadway you famously frequented?

Once again I have the ancestors in an uproar! But it is the holiday for forgiveness, right?

Happy Easter all.

Happy Hour and Other Sorrows

JT Twissel 28 Comments

I haven’t been around lately because I’m planning to re-release two books I wrote over ten years ago. The first one Flipka has a modified ending but otherwise is the same wacky tale described here. The second book has undergone a different POV and will get a new name. Readers had complained they didn’t know what the heroine would do next. That’s not an issue any more!

Rough draft for the cover. Do you think it needs more color?

Many decades ago I spent the week before Christmas hanging out at the Officer’s Club in Worms Germany with military personnel, primarily civilian, who’d opted not to return to the states for the holidays. The club had been decorated for the season with plastic poinsettias and cinnamon scented candles. Canned Christmas carols played. Drinks and bar food were half off but it was still a dreary place. One evening I sat at a table with a be-speckled young man who barely looked up at me as he scribbled on a notepad.

He was a cartoonist for various publications distributed to military personnel.

It was fascinating to watch him work. But eventually Happy Hour was over. I told him how much I loved his work – having spent many a Happy Hour waiting for my uncle to finishing schmoozing with his co-workers so that I could drive him home. And he handed me the drawings.

I wish I’d caught his name but I was so young. At least I had the sense to hold onto his scribbles and the memory of that evening all these years ago.

When I was thinking of a new title, those cartoons came to mind. And a record my uncle used to play …. every damn evening! Stanyan Streets and Other Sorrows by Rod McKuen. And every damn evening it got stuck on the same song:

For a while the only earth that Sloopy knew was her sandbox
Two rooms on 55th Street was her domain
Every night she’d sit in the window among the avocado plants
Waiting for me to come home
My arms filled with canned liver and love
We’d talk into the night then contented but missing something
She, the earth she never knew, me, the hills I ran while growing bent
Sloopy should have been a cowboy’s cat
With prairies to run, not linoleum
And real live catnip mice
No one to depend on but herself
I never told her but in my mind I was a midnight cowboy even then
Riding my imaginary horse down 42nd street
Going off with strangers to live an hour long cowboy’s life
But always coming home to Sloopy who loved me best
For a dozen summers we lived against the world an island on an island
She’d comfort me with purring
I’d fatten her with smiles
We grew rich on trust needing not the beach or butterflies
I had a friend named Ben who painted buildings like Rouault men
He went away
My laughter tired Lillian after a time
She found a man who only smiled
But Sloopy stayed and stayed
Winter 1959 old men walk their dogs
Some are walked so often that their feet
Leave little pink tracks in the soft gray snow
Woman fur on fur
Elegant and easy only slightly pure
Hailing cabs to take them round the block and back
Who is not a love seeker when December comes?
Even children pray to Santa Claus
I had my own love safe at home
And yet I stayed out all one night and the next day too
They must of thought me crazy screaming Sloopy Sloopy
As the snow came falling down around me
I was a madman to have stayed away
One minute more than the appointed hour
I’d like to think a golden cowboy snatched her from the window sill
And safely saddle bagged she rode to Arizona
She’s stalking lizards in the cactus now perhaps, bitter, but free
I’m bitter too
And not a free man anymore
But once was a time in New York’s jungle in a tree
Before I went into the world in search of other kinds of love
Nobody owned me, but a can named Sloopy
Looking back perhaps she’s been the only human thing
That ever gave love back to me