Artist of the Day: Carpe Diem (or Not) Cheryl Hair- brained Schemes

Carpe Diem (or Not) hairbrainedschemes.etsy.com & www.chersmoon.typepad.com

Artist Bio:
Check out my blog: www.chersmoon.typepad.com

Local meteorologists have been threatening high wind and snow, so I've been "seizing the day" all week in regards to weeding and raking my yard. Even though I HATE weeds, I have to admire their survival in the face of serious hostility, their stubborn root system, their inability to be killed. I raked a pile as high as me today. I am tall. I now have innumerable calluses and splinters. I cursed a lot and I do not regret one word.

What I know for sure is that those little blankety-blanks are out there in my flower beds regrouping, revising strategies, laughing at me and my weak attempts to eradicate them. They will be back.

In any case, my place is starting to look like someone, (other than a hermit that never ventures out), lives here.

Tomorrow just may be a day when I choose not to seize the day or anything other than my keyboard or the remote. Or a chocolate-covered coconut treat.

When you hear the phrase Carpe Diem, more than likely you think of Robin William's character in Dead Poet's Society. I think of the sad sack protagonist from Saul Bellow's novel pleading, "what about the milk of human kindness." I read the book when I was eighteen, so I should probably read it again, especially since I used to be very naive and extremely tender hearted. Satire and irony seemed mean.

Eons later, my heart has a ecto-skeleton that would provoke envy in any crustacean. I'd lay bets I could read that book with a smirk. Maybe not.

If you haven't read Bellow's Seize the Day, check it out from your local library.

This Moment: 12:53 P.M. April 5, 2012

Dirt has made a landscape of my hands. The dark lines of my palms look like a satellite photo of the Nile framed by white sand. I have spent the last few hours preparing my small plot of earth for herbs and flowers. It is far too early to plant vegetables. An ambulance sounds its shrill alarm, followed by double bass notes of a fire truck following closely. After four days of walking, the old dog is running without a limp. She is resting now watching the little dog burrow the grass until he stretches out. He kicks his hind leg then jumps up and digs at the grass despite my admonishments until I stamp my foot on the deck. Clouds are tinged a faint robin's egg blue. A breeze wicks any moisture in the air. The newly weeded and raked beds are quickly turning from sienna to light cocoa. The small dog is on the deck pawing at the rug. He cannot find satisfaction. The emerging pink buds of the peach tree make me think of Persephone emerging from the musty Underworld into a world of fragrant blossoms. Now that she is free of Hades thick fingers I wonder how she has the courage to keep her bargain with the dark god and return every year. A small child's excited screams lift on the air. What game is she playing? The small dog is barking a warning to the woman and her two white dogs walking the lane. The old dog's ears are pointed backwards in annoyance. If I believed in reincarnation, I imagine the small dog is doing penance for his past as a Berserker, sword raised, jumping from the wooden Viking ship to foreign soil, his shimmering blue-painted naked body taut with the certain knowledge he would taste blood that day.

The Day in Cartoons: We're Building An Economy - Lisa Benson

We're Building An Economy - Lisa Benson

The people are powerful.

The man or woman in the cubicle, on the ground, in the trenches, behind the computer screen or the wheel, are the makers, the creators.

A country needs leaders to guide the ship, but it is the people that keep it afloat and prevent it from running aground, in the same way that any organization is nothing without it's people.

We, the people, make it happen.

What is "it"? Everything.

Earlier today I read about a woman who was fired from her corporate job at the beginning of the economic crash. She spent a year, living small, looking for work, but couldn't find another job that matched her education or her former income. So, she decided she had nothing to
lose and started a business- taking pictures of things she liked just because she liked them.

Sounds scary, maybe even childish. Am I right?

No. Everything begins with an idea, courage, tenacity, and sheer force of will to make it happen. That's how we build an economy, whether we're working for ourselves or a corporation. We're all in.

Artist of the Day: White Spring Blossoms - Sue First Light Photo

White Spring Blossoms Sue FirstLightPhoto.etsy.com & www.first-light-photography.blogspot.com

Spring flipped the on switch and nearly every tree and bush is blossoming. The seasons reflect my state of being; today is bright blue sky framed with white apple blossoms, and pink flowering cherry accents.

I hope your world is in blossom, and if it's not, that you make it so.

Artist Bio:
I’ve lived in Elgin, IL all my life. I started my shop here on Etsy after losing my job. I decided to move on and turn that loss into a positive and do what I love. I have been having a wonderful time taking pictures everywhere I go.

I offer beautiful imagery bringing the power of simplicity in the world to the walls of your home or workplace. Unique vision and post processing are created with love of the photographic art. I have an affinity for old barns, antiques, buildings with lots of texture, my Illinois countryside, and the flowers in my garden.

You can also find me here:
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/firstlightphoto
Blog: http://www.first-light-photography.blogspot.com

Poem Therapy 4:55 P.M. April 4, 2012:

Shoulda Been Jimi Savannah
Patricia Smith

My mother scraped the name Patricia Ann from the ruins
of her discarded Delta, thinking it would offer me shield
and shelter, that leering men would skulk away at the slap
of it. Her hands on the hips of Alabama, she went for flat
and functional, then siphoned each syllable of drama,
repeatedly crushing it with her broad, practical tongue
until it sounded like an instruction to God and not a name.
She wanted a child of pressed head and knocking knees,
a trip-up in the doubledutch swing, a starched pinafore
and peppermint-in-the-sour pickle kinda child, stiff-laced
and unshakably fixed on salvation. Her Patricia Ann
would never idly throat the Lord’s name or wear one
of those thin, sparkled skirts that flirted with her knees.
She'd be a nurse or a third-grade teacher or a postal drone,

jobs requiring alarm clock discipline and sensible shoes.
My four downbeats were music enough for a vapid life
of butcher shop sawdust and fatback as cuisine, for Raid
spritzed into the writhing pockets of a Murphy bed.
No crinkled consonants or muted hiss would summon me.

My daddy detested borders. One look at my mother's
watery belly, and he insisted, as much as he could insist
with her, on the name Jimi Savannah, seeking to bless me
with the blues-bathed moniker of a ball breaker, the name
of a grown gal in a snug red sheath and unlaced All-Stars.
He wanted to shoot muscle through whatever I was called,
arm each syllable with tiny weaponry so no one would
mistake me for anything other than a tricky whisperer
with a switchblade in my shoe. I was bound to be all legs,
a bladed debutante hooked on Lucky Strikes and sugar.
When I sent up prayers, God's boy would giggle and consider.

Daddy didn't want me to be anybody's sure-fire factory,
nobody's callback or seized rhythm, so he conjured
a name so odd and hot even a boy could claim it. And yes,
he was prepared for the look my mother gave him when
he first mouthed his choice, the look that said, That's it,
you done lost your goddamned mind. She did that thing
she does where she grows two full inches with righteous,
and he decided to just whisper Love you, Jimi Savannah
whenever we were alone, re- and rechristening me the seed
of Otis, conjuring his own religion and naming it me.

My first name, Danna, means mother of the gods in Celtic, and of Daniel in Hebrew. Three guesses as to which I like best.

My maiden name is English, first married name French, second married name German. I'd like to make a a last name. Nothing other than Bloom comes to mind at the moment, though.

Some days I think my first name is a perfect fit. Other days, I feel Josephine, Elizabeth, Theodora, are much better. Some days, Jezebel, Lucretia, Kali are the only names that work.

If I had to choose a name right this minute, I would pick Ruby Begonia or Lakshmi Turquoise.

One Sentence: 11:36 P.M. April 3, 2012

Yes, April is the cruelest month, the wild winds of the day a reminder of just how small we are.

This Moment: 7:59 P.M. April 2,2012

I am on the lane eating sushi watching the clouds pink as the sun departs. A constitutional scholar is discussing linguistics, the word choices of the chief justice and his court. I cannot keep myself from my small joke of Roberts and the Supremes. Language matters. It is through our words we reveal our most secret selves. Historian Fawn Brody knew this and pointed to Jefferson's increasing use of "mulatto" to describe the fields around Monticello after he began his affair with his slave and mother of his children, Sally Hemming. The justices will reveal themselves further as the argument deepens. Birds smaller than my thumb flit past on a rollercoaster current. The horizon has turned yellow, lined with gray. The green branches are turning a purplish black in the darkness. From where I sit, I see small rectangles of light appear as lights switch on all over the neighborhood. A dog barks to the west, then whimpers what sounds like frustration. The newly plowed field smells of cocoa and must. Birdsong fills the crisp night air. It is time to go inside.