Friday Firesmith – Korea

Last September, North Korea tested a nuclear bomb that was supposedly its biggest and strongest yet but at the same time still able to fit on the end of a missile. There’s a lot of science between putting a warhead on a rocket and that warhead surviving the ride. But things got really weird in a place known to be left of surreal.

And here we go.

Let’s fast forward to March of 2018, when suddenly and without fanfare or notice, Kim Jong Un, North Korea’s decidedly different leader, shows up in Bejing, meeting with leader for life, Chinese President Xi Jinping.

Wait, what?

And now, with an alacrity that defies reason and past history we have this, from a week or so ago, Kim met with, in person, without any preconditions, South Korea’s president, Moon Jae-in.

Now before you get giddy and start singing Kim bye ya’ll, North Korea made deals to get rid of its nukes in 1992, 1994, 2005, and as recently as 2012. But this is the first time the two leaders of those two countries have ever gotten together and made this sort of deal, together, with their wives holding hands, and the world watching.

My take: Crazy never sleeps.

The Chinese want a reunified Korea that is friendly with the United States, particularly a United States with an unstable leader with a bad haircut and a history of threatening other nations with nuclear attack, as much as the Catholics want stronger child molestation laws. The Russians are less than thrilled with reunification, also. If you were not aware there was a Russian / North Korean border, you aren’t paying attention.

With the Chinese building artificial islands in the Pacific so they can claim the waters are territorial, and therefore control who comes and goes, it is damn unlikely Kim went to China and told President Xi Jinping he was reunifying the Korean Peninsula and he hoped everyone would accept this. I think this is highly unlikely.

What is more likely is that Kim was summoned by the Chinese to explain what in the hell was going on with all the earthquakes from the same area as the nuke tests. It’s been suggested that Kim’s nuke test program imploded and killed a lot of people he needed to be alive. I’m not really sure how much credibility to give this one. But if you’re arming yourself for a nuke fest to see who has the strangest haircut and suddenly you declare peace, it’s because you’re a lot stronger than everyone else or you’re a hell of a lot weaker.

Go figure.

What is a lot more likely than anything else is that North Korea’s nuclear program suffered a catastrophic setback under the mountains. The Chinese called Kim in to tell him to stop playing with fire or they would cut his allowance. Kim’s plan now is to play nice with everyone, hoping if he mentions Trump’s electoral victory and inauguration crowd size, there will be a bigly foreign aid package that can kickstart his nuke program again.

Crazy never sleeps. Kim is as dangerous right now as he was when he took office in 2011. The idea that this man woke up one morning and decided to give peace a chance is naïve and it is fraught with peril.

Whatever happened under the mountain that precipitated the summoning to Beijing and then the love fest, might be the real deal and we’ll see peace in our time.

Or war.

Which seems more likely to you?

Take Care,
Mike

Mike writes regularly at his site:  The Hickory Head Hermit.
 
Opinions expressed in this article are not necessarily those of the management of this site.
 
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Friday Firesmith – Life Is Good

It’s pretty amazing when you think of it. You, yes, you, have access to a vast variety of photos, memes, and news stories all delivered to you, every single day of your life, and for the price of your internet connection. For reasons no one can really explain, your host, our host, some guy in Saint Louis, Missouri, United States, named Jon, “scours the web”, and that means he’s in cahoots with others like himself, who shamelessly steal from one another, and suddenly you can sit back and be entertained and amused, by the work of people you may have never known existed otherwise.

Think about it. Just scroll through the stuff before and after this article. If you were the age you were right now, but fifty years ago, was there anywhere on earth you could see what you’re seeing now? Maybe there isn’t any cultural value to something that shows the top ten skateboard park fails, or a homemade water slide that flings some drunk young man into the air to land in a tree, or a cat that meows loudly when country music is played, but fifty years ago they were clashing metal hoops down the road with sticks to make them roll faster.

Yeah, that was a thing.

You may have thought, as a kid, that kids everywhere did the same things you did, but you never had a chance to go anywhere and see what life might look like anywhere else. Now, with the internet, you can listen to some preteen girl in China throw down playing guitar to heavy metal.

If that’s not your thing, cool, it doesn’t have to be. That’s the entire point of going to a site named Bits and Pieces. You get a lot of different things from different sources, and you don’t have to like it all to find enough to keep you around. What you might not realize, or you might for that matter, is how broad a cross-section you’re getting of digital life.

Go back fifty years ago. You check a book out at the library that has fun poems in it created by poets from around the world. You find in the back of the book a library card that tells you “ThatOneChick’s Grandmother” checked this book out. You feel connected to this person but there is no way the two of you will ever meet, much less get to communicate about the merits of the book.

Never read the comments! But do. There, in the comments, you find your tribe, and hopefully not an echo chamber, but you will find people there who agree or disagree with you. You can agree with me, disagree with me, revile me, or tell me you’d like to be friends with me on FB, and who knows, maybe even sit across a table and drink with me someday. Maybe we’ll chase a metal hoop down the road with sticks, to make it roll faster.

Life, in and of itself, without anything else but your eyes and ears, and your sense of smell and taste and touch, is amazing. That IS life. Yet given the ability to experience life through the eyes of others, to see a video of a man being body blocked by a porpoise or listening to a woman sing, or just looking at some stupid sight gag that you’re ashamed to admit made you laugh like hell, it’s wonderful. It’s incredible what you have, what we have, what you and I, right this very moment, can share, and it is magic.

Thank you for being here with me.
Mike

Mike writes regularly at his site:  The Hickory Head Hermit.
 
Opinions expressed in this article are not necessarily those of the management of this site.
 
Editors Note: You can ignore the disclaimer sentence above in this post.  I’m good with this one!  
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Friday Firesmith – Washer Hell

Back in 1996, when I bought my first house, the previous owner of the house left a washing machine with the house, which made me very happy. It was a fairly new Whirlpool model, and my washer was on its last legs. After the new washer turned the legal drinking age, I started having problems with it and started looking around. A friend of mine with a fairly new washer told me she was upgrading to a Speed Queen and asked me if I would be interested in buying her front-loading model. I did the research, it looked like a great deal, and besides, this is one of my Dog Rescue friends, so I know I can trust her.

The first issue was to get the washer loaded. I had NO idea how heavy these things were and it’s a top-heavy thing because it sits on a storage pedestal. A friend of my friend is a bulky guy and he was supposed to help but as we were loading it the washer shifted and it fell on top of him, pinning him to the truck bed. He’s a giant dude, but this didn’t feel good at all to him, and he kinda bailed on me once we got the washer in the truck. I strapped it down after shifting it around, and I realized, Houston, we have a problem.

At fifty-seven years old, there are some Great Truths to be had. One of them is I’m no longer capable of lifting truly heavy things, nor am I able to push and pull on stuff like I once did. I got the washer out of the truck and onto my porch by pushing it and shift it back and forth, walking it, out. Then I was able to get it on the dolly and into the house. The washer is twenty-nine inches wide. The door to the part of the house where the laundry room is has a doorway that is twenty-nine point zero five inches wide. I discover, the hard way, that I had to turn it facing back to get it through that door. And once I was through that door, I had to move the dryer and the old washer aside, and then push and pull and walk the new washer into place.

Mostly, heavy stuff can be moved easily in that it can be moved by one aging Dog Lover and part-time Writer. But it does take a lot of time, some thought, and a lot of pushing and angles and it helps if you’ve got beer waiting for you. Slowly, but surely, I pulled the new washer in, and discovered I had trapped myself in the laundry room. I had to crawl over the dryer to get out. Even pushed all the way over to one side, the dryer was still in the way of my escape. The difference between the old washer and the new one is nearly five inches.

I had to push it back almost all the way, connect the hoses, get the drain hose fitted in, get the power plug in, and then push it back some more. All of this by myself, with four dogs trying to help. So, the power button is pressed, and *cue astral choir* The machine hums to life!

Overall, it’s as fast as the drinking age washer, and it is a hell of a lot quieter. It seems to use less water. It doesn’t shake the house during the spin cycle. And the clothes are cleaner, too. The downside is that the door has to be left open or mold grows inside of it.

I doubt this one will live long enough to be old enough to drive a car, but we’ll see.

Take Care,
Mike

Mike writes regularly at his site:  The Hickory Head Hermit.
 
Opinions expressed in this article are not necessarily those of the management of this site.
 
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Friday Firesmith – No Means No

A few years ago I was on FB and I was trying to find out if anyone had ever had problems with a dog who licked himself in the same spot so much it created a sore, or a hot spot, and wanted to know of any cures or training I might employ. A friend of mine suggested renting the dog to a lesbian, which would have been hysterical, except it distracted from what I was trying to accomplish. So, I asked him to leave the conversation if he didn’t have anything helpful to say, and suddenly, things got weird. Suddenly, he started posting all sorts of off topic stuff anytime I posted anything. Some of it was funny, but mostly it encouraged people to go off on a tangent sometimes and FB was FB. So I sent him a message, told him to stop, and he told me I was overreacting. I said, okay, does this mean you are or you are not stopping? He began posting on everything I had posted in the last month. Cut and blocked, forever.

Sunday, April 22nd, I asked a question strictly to the women I know on FB. Does no always mean no? Does no sometimes mean anything else or something else? The very unscientific poll came back with over twenty-five responses, all from women, and all of them said the same thing and most were emphatic.

No means no.

The oldest woman responding is seventy. The youngest is twenty-one. There are married women, single women, conservative women, and liberal women. All of them, each and every one of them, said the same thing.

No means no.

A couple of women sent me messages and asked me if I truly did not know or what? One of them was annoyed and hostile. But the poll wasn’t built to find out what women thought, because I suspected as much. The poll was designed to let men know this is what women think of the subject.

No, dammit.

There were some horror stories mixed into the comments, and I saw that coming, too. I think men ought to read those comments and wonder what sort of guy does that sort of thing. The answer is far too many of them do that sort of thing. The answer is nearly every woman out there has had to fend a guy off, and sometimes failed at it. The consequences of this failure to communicate what no might actually mean is serious to women.

As a man, you very likely have never faced this on a date, at work, at school, at night walking home, or from your spouse. Most women have, and they still do.

We have it easy. I block someone on FB and he’s gone forever. I told him no, he wouldn’t listen and started harassing me and a few clicks later and the problem is solved. Ask yourself what a woman who weighs a hundred pounds is supposed to do in a real-life situation with a two hundred pound man who thinks it’s funny that she refused him. We men never have to think about it. Maybe we should.

Take Care,
Mike

Mike writes regularly at his site:  The Hickory Head Hermit.
 
Opinions expressed in this article are not necessarily those of the management of this site.
 
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Friday Firesmith – Silence and Darkness

Last night, as I lay in bed not sleeping, it occurred to me that at any given moment of my life, it would take a few seconds to contact someone else. This might be someone I knew or someone I was merely connected to on the internet, just as you and I might be, and at any given moment I could change the lighting in my room by contacting someone else on the internet.

There are fewer and fewer people who have lived most of their lives with these conditions as a new thing and more and more people who have had this as a preexisting condition in their lives. 

I lived for many years without a television or a telephone and the people I knew thought this slightly odd, but the generation before me were not fully invested in either device.

Books were once my sole companions in life, those shadow creatures that never left my side, and populated my world with names and personalities and events. I had a reading lamp that I kept for years and it never failed me until it fell off its place on the headboard, and crashed onto the floor. Whatever it was that broke inside of it killed it, and it was odd shopping for a lamp. There were smaller, lighter, LED lit, and cheap. No personality at all, mind you, but the one I bought is still around and still works.

What year it was, I cannot remember, but I remember consciously making the decision to begin a migration away from human activity. My writing had begun to absorb more of my time, and as such, I drank less, and read more. Both reading and writing require that human interaction be reduced, and my lifeboat was created out of twenty-six letters, rearranged various combinations, very much like the ones you are reading now. Thanks, by the way. I don’t say that often enough.

Here’s the question I have for you at this point in time; has social media made you less social? Or has the ability to interact on demand created friends in your life that you would have never met otherwise?

In Dog Rescue, social media could not be replaced easily if at all. It’s a tool that’s invaluable and heavily leaned upon every day in ways that most people never considered. Social media gives people within the group opportunities to cross post lost dogs and found dogs so that wners are found, sometimes, within minutes.

But as I lay in bed, with the cell phone and the laptop shut down for the night, and the router unplugged, there was a stillness, and a darkness, that I realized that I missed in life. Very rarely does anyone simply sit and absorb the energy of the universe anymore, in a porch swing or on a stump in the woods. Gone are the days of reinforced solitude, and total darkness, or even the accidental kind, and I wonder, truly wonder, if there’s a generation coming up that will rebel against this connectivity that we have created out of thin air and hotspots.

Take Care,
Mike

Mike writes regularly at his site:  The Hickory Head Hermit.
 
Opinions expressed in this article are not necessarily those of the management of this site.
 
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Friday Firesmith – The Back of the Truck

In 1959, America was shocked by the murder of four people in their home in Kansas by two ex-convicts. The murders might not have happened at all, but one of the murderers was told the family had a safe filled with money. Once he was released from prison he paired with another ex-con and went to get the riches. There was no safe, no wealth, and the two killed the four people in the house to leave no witnesses. Both were later caught and executed for their crimes which was made famous by the book, “In Cold Blood” by Truman Capote. As far as writers go, Capote was a total jerk.

Back in 1997, I was working for one of the local counties in this area who had state contracts to do drainage work on some of their dirt roads. Basically, this consisted of installing drainage pipes under roads using prison labor. There were about a dozen roads on this project and I got to be lunch buddies with one of the guards, who would tell me stories about the men on the crew and how they came to be in a striped uniform.

One of the men was from one of the better-known families in the area, a family with money and class, which do not always go together, but this man, whose name was Robert, started stealing as a child. He was kicked out of high school, twice, for drugs, and at the age of twenty he stole his mother’s checkbook and tried to cash a check for $100,000.00 dollars. That’s right, one hundred grand. Needless to say, the bank called the cops, and his family, finally tired of his antics, had him arrested and he was put in prison, and hence on the work crew.

The guard called Bob over and had him tell his side of the story, and Bob, who was very excitable, loved an audience and was quite animated, and told us that they had cashed the check, and he had buried the money in a cemetery.

So,” I asked him, “a bank handed you one hundred thousand dollars in cash?”  And Bob assured me they had, and in fact, the reason he got away with it was his family dealt with large sums of money all the time, and it wasn’t unusual for him to pick up that kind of money at all.

I stopped and listened to Bob, with his black and white stripes on his clothes and his dreams of digging the money up and taking off to Mexico, and that was what originally connected his story with the one “In Cold Blood” and I thought it wouldn’t take a lot of scheming and dreaming for this man to kill someone. Bob didn’t appear violent and he had never hurt anyone, but this was a man who very clearly began to be obsessive very quickly, and delusional, in a very serious manner.

Last week, when I was kicking around ideas here about what was in the back of the truck, the real story is the people trying to rob it. It’s deep and dark, comedy to have someone like Bob there, a disgraced fallen angel from a good family, teamed up with meth headed losers who peaked when they graduated from Middle School. Yet it’s an entirely American story, straight from nonfiction, that people like Bob exist, and still roam the street, looking for that easy score they are convinced will drop in their lap and they can go live in ease down in Mexico.

These people are incredibly funny to write about. It’s laughable to listen to someone doing time on a work crew in a ditch talk about going to Mexico and living on the beach with a new woman every day. It’s hysterical that these people think, or pretend to think, that they have the wherewithal to pull off a crime that will set them up in drugs and alcohol for the rest of their days and they’ll never have to work again. These are the kinds of people I think about when I write stories like meth heads hijacking a truck, and it’s easy to laugh at them.

Until the shooting starts.

Take Care,
Mike

Mike writes regularly at his site:  The Hickory Head Hermit.
 
Opinions expressed in this article are not necessarily those of the management of this site.
 
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Friday Firesmith – Squirrels

I have a friend who is a professional dog walker, and you’d be very surprised that someone can do this for a living. But it is a be-there-at-the-right-place-at-a-certain-time and handle multiple dogs with different personalities, and rain or shine you have to take the dogs out, and holidays are when people most need you. People are soulless @ssholes on the holidays because those of us in rescue find dogs tied to the front door of the animal shelter before we open, and between the week before Thanksgiving and New Year’s, we get more dogs than you would ever believe. Dog walkers, who fall in love with all their canine clients have to live with the idea the people who you were just working with every day wanted to go on a two week cruise and didn’t want to pay the dog walker or boards so it was easier to dump the dog at the shelter at a time when they don’t have any room.

If you didn’t realize this was a thing, good morning.

At any rate, one story I get from dog walkers that doesn’t involve the pet being betrayed by their owner, is squirrel stories. Fluffy-tailed rodents will stand behind a fence and torment dogs. They’ll run right in front of a dog on a leash knowing the dog is restrained, and good walkers know how hard their shoulders are about to be popped when the dog takes off. Squirrels know what they doing and they’re being little demons about how they act around dogs.

Enter Wrex Wyatt, Flying Dog.

Wrex has been known to go vertical without hesitation. Four years ago, during his first tour of duty here, Wrex got up on the kitchen counter and helped wash dishes by licking them clean. He’s been known to greet me by booping me in my back, between my shoulder blades, with his front feet. As I am walking. Then Wrex discovered the porch window’s screen was busted.

The window sits five feet from the surface of the Earth and Wrex began jumping through it to stay ahead of the other dogs when the six of them were going out. Then he discovered that it is a mere seven-foot jump, horizontal, to the bird feeder, where squirrels hang out. The feeder is a foot lower than the window so Wrex has been experimenting with timing a jump, and picking a squirrel off the birdfeeder.

Sunday, he scored his first hit.

I was quite surprised to have a dog bring me a squirrel, because generally speaking, dogs aren’t that good at it, and the squirrels know it. In the long, neverending, and enduring chase between my dogs and squirrels, I think I have seen two or three caught in seventeen years. Mostly, there have been intense stares into treetops.

There was another dead squirrel waiting by the feeder when I got home.

Wrex Wyatt, Flying Dog, Squirrel Bane.

Take Care,
Mike

Mike writes regularly at his site:  The Hickory Head Hermit.
 
Opinions expressed in this article are not necessarily those of the management of this site.
 
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Friday Firesmith – Paranoia Starts Here

Traffic is one of the metrics I use to gauge my mental and emotional health every day. If traffic bothers me, a lot, I know I’m not grounded. Let’s face it; there is nothing productive you can do to make traffic better other than mount a fifty-caliber machine gun to the top of your vehicle and pour money into ammunition if you intend to start blasting away at every idiot on the road. I’m not advocating violence here because it would take more money than the Mexican wall and more time than explaining why a porn actress seems more credible than a sitting president.

Traffic is light and I have classical music playing, a collection of songs from various artists and each song is over ten minutes long. The first song takes me into Quitman, and the second is just beginning when a semi truck brakes hard at the railroad tracks, even though nothing is coming. It’s a truck with a big brown box looking thing for a trailer, with all sorts of numbers and lettering on it. I pass it because this is a four-lane, and I know it will catch up with me soon, and sure enough, it does.

But instead of passing me, the guy gets behind me and stays there, in the other lane, and we’re both doing about forty-five because we’re still in town. I keep thinking he will speed up and pass me but he doesn’t and I remember the very instant that I thought, “This is weird.” I kick it up to fifty-five and he changes lanes to get behind me but doesn’t speed up. Very weird. A few minutes later and he’s way back of me now. This is odd because I’m still doing double nickels and most trucks are in a hurry.

Finally, about the time we’re getting into Valdosta, he passes me, fast enough to get about one hundred meters in front of me, but not fast enough to gain any distance, and he stays there, a steady distance ahead of me. Now, things have gotten downright strange.

I began a short story once about these meth heads that decided to hijack a semi-truck by stealing some road construction signs and making their own detour. They get the truck off the main road and hold the driver at gunpoint and open the trailer and… I never finished it because I struggled with the cargo. Humans? Riches? Aliens?

But for some reason, the truck that is now ahead of me makes me think of a nuclear weapon, and feel free to explore the nature of a man who thinks of nuclear weapons in traffic, but the reality is I would rather be this close to Ground Zero of a nuke than twenty miles away.

The truck slows down once we get into the part of town where there’s a traffic light every other block, and to my horror, once I catch up with the Nuclear Kenworth, he nearly crushes two cars changing lanes to get behind me again. Was this guy sent by Facebook or something?

I make a right turn and he follows, and now I’m just trying to put some distance between us. It’s a forty-five but I lay down at fifty-five, and he’s dropping back. You know, this exactly like the story of the headless horseman, written before this country was born, I think. A traveler on the road is beset by a mysterious fiend and… wait. Where did he go? I check the rearview and there is no truck at all. He must have turned off somewhere.

This is just an odd coincidence, the Nuclear Truck and I having the same path for a while, even if it was over twenty miles of it. Yet the story does not end here, for once at work I got into my work truck and headed out. There, at the intersection where the first light I have to go through sits the Nuclear Truck. He was making a left turn, away from me, like a shark circling in the water, searching for its prey.

Take Care,
Mike

Mike writes regularly at his site:  The Hickory Head Hermit.
 
Opinions expressed in this article are not necessarily those of the management of this site.
 
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Friday Firesmith – Where Are The Savages?

We were a bunch of savages when we were kids. We were half naked practically all Summer long, we played outside until it was dark, we swam in creeks and ponds, and we caught snakes. We camped out under the stars, ate candy we stuffed in our pockets, and drank water right out of the hose. We threw dirt clods at one another and meant it, and we also wound up with cuts, bruises, BB gun wounds, and on occasion got hurt when we wrecked a bike or fell out of a tree. From the time classes ended in May until it let back in when September rolled around, there wasn’t a time I didn’t have some open wound on my legs or arms or both. Scars were badges of honor to be compared with the wounds of other kids, and the scar I wore on one of my knees was one of the more impressive ones. The scar on my finger from the bite of a foot long alligator was also envied, quite strongly, and you knew you were someone when other kids came up and asked to see your scars.

When I was a kid I promised myself I wouldn’t grow up to be one of those adults who didn’t like kids, but here we are; I simply dislike children.

A couple of years ago I managed a construction project that stretched out over seven miles and went through many sub-divisions and side roads. We had quite a few miles of drainage pipes and that sort of thing. We spent nearly two years on the construction, and in that two years, we never saw the first child outside playing. There wasn’t a bicycle tire track or a barefoot print anywhere near any of the areas I would have been knee deep in as a child. I never saw kids outside playing ball or hide and go seek. There were a couple of ponds in the area and two good sized lakes. I never saw a kid near any of these in the light of day. I didn’t see any kids mowing the grass or pulling weeds in a flower bed or raking leaves.

Other than people don’t teach their kids as many manners as I’ve taught my dogs, I think part of the problem is my inner child doesn’t like these kids. None of them have ever fallen off a bike at top speed on a dirt road and got a mouth full of sand and road rash. None of them have ever felt a snake slip over their leg in a creek. None of them ever walked barefoot two miles into town to see an afternoon movie for a dime. These pale and overprotective creatures wouldn’t have survived the kids I hung out with. Being physically tough, immune to heat and cold, being hard enough to push a mower in the middle of the day, in the middle of July, and was not only common, it was expected.

I cannot remember seeing a kid pushing a mower in the last ten years. Honestly.

If you’ve got a kid that’s a hard playing, hardworking, bat swinging, ball kicking, tree climbing, sun burned little savage, sound off. Let me know there’s not only hope out there, but life as well.

Take Care,
Mike

Mike writes regularly at his site:  The Hickory Head Hermit.
 
Opinions expressed in this article are not necessarily those of the management of this site.
 
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Friday Firesmith – An Unfinished Life

I met an artist in 1985, and the rest is history, as they say. I wouldn’t start writing until 1992, seven years later, but once I started an attraction to artists, and art it never really stopped. One of the first artists I met and had a serious relationship with left a bundle of sketches with me back in 1987. I still have them and I kept them safe all these years. She and I got back together for a while and she was stunned I still had them after thirty years. It was in 1989 or 1990, a friend of mine gave me a painting, and I still have that one, too. Over the years, I’ve collected paintings, and I have two my mama painted, which almost started a war with my sisters, but all in all, I’ve managed to go through artists and art, and I’ve never bought a single painting ever.

Until now.

The Turner Center, in Valdosta, isn’t The Louvre by any means, but I have never gone into the building and walked out disappointed. They did a showing of the work of local High School seniors a few years back and I was blown away. They did a showing of African Art once that left me wondering how much more I haven’t seen in my life. But mostly, no matter how great art is, no matter how much it speaks to me, I never have the money, or I always wait too late.

Until now, that is.

In late December, I went to see the latest exhibit, and as usual, I was blown away. There was also a section dedicated to disabled artists, and it was impossible to tell there was any flaw in the physical form of any of the artists, and suddenly, there was this painting.

I won’t tell you how much it cost, but I really couldn’t afford it, and right after Christmas and all. But the painting stuck in my mind, so two weeks or so ago I contacted the artist, a wonder, wonderful, human being named Deanna Griffin, and she told me the painting was still on tour. I contacted the tour and they sent me the paperwork and…

On the 12th of March, 2018, I bought my first painting.

One day, I might know more about the painting, the woman whose face was captured there, perhaps, one day, but what I can tell you is this painting speaks to me. It tells me to keep looking, to keep wondering, to look at the shadows and the light, the color and the depth, the strokes of the brush and the stroke of genius.

There is something always unfinished about your life if you paint, or write, or draw or take photos, or carve. You are always alive, always about to complete a project, begin a new one, edit an old one, or think about what’s next.

This is the painting that says this to me.

That’s why it’s the first one I ever bought.

Take Care,
Mike

Mike writes regularly at his site:  The Hickory Head Hermit.
 
Opinions expressed in this article are not necessarily those of the management of this site.
 
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