Hair Story

This was the summer of my nineteenth year and my first venture to Europe. Liege, Belgium was my first stop. My college roommate Michele, was born in Belgium and a close family friend, her “Tante Berte”,  was kind enough to let us stay at her tiny apartment . Lacking bathing facilities, she recommended her hair salon so that we could wash our long, “jolie” locks. We prided ourselves on being free spirited hippies, hence not a curler or hairspray had touched our virgin hair. (well perhaps an ironing session or two ) And so, it was a matter of vital importance that we learn the french phrase for, “ no teasing”. According to Tante Berte, it was, “no crepage”. .

I can still picture that Salon de Beaute. There I sat, plastic caped, continuously muttering, “No crepage, s'ils vous plait, Madame.” “No crepage”, I uttered while she set my very long hair on miniscule rollers. “No crepage”, I begged, as I viewed my very tight curls. Then, out came the metal comb and I cringed as each little ringlet was backcombed to a height I could never have imagined. My eyes were shut as I heard the hiss of hairspray. She may have been going for a Bridgette Bardot coif but the rest of me missed the mark. I ventured a peek over at Michele. Her “do” was an Audrey Hepburn french twist multiplied by 100. I don't know who would have won the height contest, as Michele's extended nearly two feet above her petite frame. I, on the other hand, sported two feet wings from each ear. When I reached to touch it, it felt like a motorcycle helmut.

As we retreated from this place of torture, I glimpsed at our reflections in a shop window. In retrospect, Michele's style was a forerunner to the “ Marge Simpson”, and mine an exaggerated, 'Georgie Girl”. Right now, I can still see us rushing down the street to hide our embarrassment. It took us ages to comb out all the knots and wash out all the hair gunk in the kitchen sink; all accompanied by fits of laughter. I don't know why this memory stayed with me all these years. There was something about that summer ; the feeling that anything was possible. Ahead of us was Paris and my first real love , but that's another Chapter...

Arachne

She lives inside me now:

crotched beneath my surface..

poised to pounce..

poised to scrape me raw

at the least hint of a suggestion.

Teased mane; the lioness

laden with false eyes and

and painted lips: uttering

her metaphors as she

gathers her victims.

All hapless souls ; eager,

so eager to suck her youth dry

They thrive on the mock flattery

These hollow men : her slaves

as she spins the Web

around them.

All fall down.

All fall down.

Raw and gaping.

She awaits an errant word

any farfetched reminder of

your indiscretions,

misconceptions

venial and mortal sins…

She lingers; now anxious

to open my cancerous

scars…

This flesh will endure.

They  only killed my soul.

C Reilly 11/2013

TINY STORIES

As the storm raged on, the train approached the bridge. Fiona's mistake was switching seats.

                                             ****

Out of the darkness, the neon flashed: ”Automat”. Within, kindred souls warmed over free “ketchup soup”.

                                            ****

No matter that he broke her heart. She will forever regret the stain of lentil stew on the ceiling.

                                            

                                           ****

Two tiny ladies gingerly balanced upon their high heel shoes. It was merely a gentle breeze that toppled them.

                                            ****

This was their last kiss. He turned, and wiped away a tear along with his fingerprints.

                                           ****

When you are seven, you will always cherish the aroma of apple tarts. When

you are seven, you will always have your grandmother there to bake them.

                                          ****

There are a thousand more places I would rather be than here. But then, I get to glow in the dark like those forgotten plastic saints.

                                           ****

One summer's eve, he touched her skin through a small hole in her skirt. Today, it hangs abandoned on a rack in the Good Will.

                                           ****

The naked woman stood on the seventh floor ledge. She was only supposed to teach him a lesson until the chorus of onlookers shouted, “Jump.”

                                          ****

Wearily, Dr. Maudlin turned off the laboratory's lights and crept out. He failed to notice the malus peregrinus lurking in the corner.

   

                                         ****

Winky Dink's escape was immenent until someone erased the dangling rope.

                                        ****

Miss Holloway was born on a dark winter morning ; a brittle branch breaking day. Now is the Autumn of her life.

                                        

                                         ****

One dead leaf clings to her window. He is gone.

                                         ****

              



                " Sins of the Father"

 I needed to create this mixed media piece after watching the heart wrenching documentary,

"Deliver Us From Evil".   It follows the destructive path of Father Oliver O'Grady as he

continuously molested children while many of his clerical superiors did nothing to stop him. The
most chilling part for me was when this priest spoke detachedly about his crimes without
any sign of remorse nor recognition of the lives he destroyed. Which was worse : the obvious

sickness of Mr. O'Grady or the deliberate cover-up by the Catholic Church ?

The above work was a very emotional one and became more abstract as I progressed. Materials used:  found objects, recycled tea bags, tissues, acrylics, ink, pencil, photos and typeface. There are pictures of the victims embedded/ buried under the decay. Here and there are glimpses of white for the loss of innocence battling with slashes of red for the violence.   Some words are emerging to break the long reigning silence. You may find a Christ-like image deeply hidden in the chaos.

Or, then again, you may not...

Alice's Chair



She adopted me. It was October, 1996 ; not long after my one and only son, Dylan, packed up his belongings and headed out the door for his first year at Wesleyan U. Ignoring warnings to “give it time”, I found myself at the Greyhound track in Bridgeport, Ct. A yelping chorus preceded my timid entry into the kennel. I will never forget the sight of dog after dog lined up in two -tiered cages. These veterans seemed huge; many with sickening battle scars. All heroes and heroines with empty eyes. Then I noticed a cage isolated from the others and within was a delicate fawn-like creature, much smaller than the rest. “She just had surgery”, the manager, Penny said. “When will she be ready for adoption ?”I asked. “ Soon, but someone else is waiting for her.. Give me your number just in case.” Penny explained that she was fortunately only in one race. Although traumatized and trampled due to her small stature,she was graced with early retirement.

Flash to two weeks later and I am back nervously signing adoption papers . Luckily, the other client had withdrawn her request.  There were rules about using a muzzle at first. (to protect my cat, “just in case”) I was asked to attest that I would have a cage/kennel for her so she would feel comfortable. After all, she never lived with a family and her home was an ugly metal jail. Then and there, I named her, Alice because no other name would suit her.

Alice had a mane; an equine headdress that I can still feel today. Inside her ear was a blue tinged tattoo ; a human stamp of dominance and cruelty. She had the saddest eyes and bowed her head submissively. And so off we strolled to the parking lot ; a Mom with a recent hole in her heart and a timid creature scared for her life. But, as Penny prophetically said, we were a “perfect match”.Pitifully, the muzzle was way too big for her needle nose and I had to lift her into the car. All the way home, I kept thinking, “What have I done?”

Once home, I carried her up my porch stairs and the muzzle bit the dust. I quickly learned that she was much more at risk from Sebastian, my cat. He promptly clawed her nose and poor Alice whimpered. The very first night, she balked, donkey-like , at the entry to her cage and I retired it to the basement. She formed her own cave in my back hallway and lived there for a couple of weeks. But , bit by bit she ventured out. I have memories of lying on the floor with her as she seemed most comfortable being at eye level. There came a day, when Alice learned to jump up on the couch. Another when she finally learned how to get into the car and climb some stairs.

I was told that greyhounds are, “couch potatoes”, which is mostly true. But I rued the day that I was encouraged to let her run free at Seaside Park. Once unleashed, she looked at me for about two seconds as I watched the dawn of remembrance flicker in her eyes. She turned in a circle once and then sped off so fast that I could only manage to see a brown dot in the distance. Eventually, she tired of the teasing game or just ran out of steam. I did learn, though, that Alice was always fearful when faced with narrow spaces; probably a flashback to her racetrack nightmare.

In 2,000, I married and we moved to Milford, CT. There, Alice guarded the Duck Pond and trampled the leaves each Autumn,. Once, while we were out, the fire alarm went off and the firemen joked that they thought there was a kangaroo jumping up and down at the door. It was just Alice's way of greeting people, but with her huge ears, pointy nose and coloring, she was a close clone to a Wallaby.

Back then, and throughout her life, people would often stop me and say, “What a wonderful thing you did !”. Me ? I thanked my lucky stars, she came into my life. I was often told by Vets that she would probably not live past 8 or 9, due to her breed and other medical factors. Well, this skinny girl proved them all wrong. She just progressively dwindled. One of the saddest occurrences was her refusal to get into the car. That used to be the highlight of her day. As all animal lovers will agree, there never seems to be the right time to let your pets go. Even now, I can't write about her last day. Just know that she had her last doggie ice cream and was at peace.

Last month, we parted with “Alice's chair”. We kept it until it no longer seemed a part of her. The chair, itself ,became just a decrepit eyesore; no longer a part of her remarkable spirit. We kept it with us, just as we kept her; well- past their expiration dates. Initially, the torn upholstery reflected her life. And we often mused about how she could delicately curve her bony body into a ball, leaving her spindly legs to dangle in space.

We kept it with us even when Alice could no longer manage to lift her aging body. She simply stared at the chair, longingly wishing herself back into its comfort and warmth.

Just as we still long for her...

Nanny's Irish Soda Bread

Vegetarian Fennel Stew

Vintage 47

This is the story of a young woman who loved to dance with abandonment. In spite of a knee injury, she never lost the joy of moving to beautiful music. She kept a journal and within it contained her dreams, forgotten loves and some tears. As many , many years passed, the world only saw her aging face and growing lack of grace. She joined the society of forgotten souls. The invisable women of “a certain age”. But within, always within, still lived this passionate spirit.

***********************

The Process

Within an antique film viewer, I layered several transparencies. Included are my xrays, an old poem, and photographs of my original sculptures. Unplugged, one sees merely a worn wooden box from which some weeds are growing. When lit, the dancing figures ignite.

TAPESTRY

 

I was thinking about all the intricate stitches, colors and patterns that evolve from a long-term relationship. It's more subtle than a shared memory.  His childhood becomes yours. His pain has wrapped around your heart.  He knows when you ache.  You hear an obscure word and exchange a knowing look with him.  You know exactly when he will laugh in a certain film.

My grandmother once decided to wash an old tapestry I found at an estate sale.  I came home , looked up at her clothesline, and  saw long threads waving in the wind. 

I'm not ready to be unwoven.

Too Many Good-Byes

This is an oil painting I did of my Mom saying goodbye to her dog, Casey. I titled it, “Farewell” because it was the last goodbye. She bent down to kiss his old dog face and told him a secret. I noticed how white Mom's hair had become and her once beautiful hands bore the price of sun and hard work. I painted her sadness and my own. The bright Florida colors under the harsh sun seemed to mock the grey we felt inside...

Back then, she was still living at her house in North Palm Beach and would insist on driving me to the train station. Even though she said train whistles made her 'sad”, she always waited there until my train was just a speck in the distance. Then eight years ago, she was faced with the difficult transition to “assisted living”. (This is a woman who once was the Director of Public Health Nurses and continued to work well into her 80's.)

When she could no longer drive, she sat downstairs with me to await the taxi. Last year, Mom no longer went downstairs, but I looked up to see her waving from her terrace.

Then, this June, I looked up and her terrace was empty.

So was my heart...

The Magic Bullet ( or the Health Benefits of Procrastination)

It sits in its original packing box, mocking me. I can't count how many times, Nigel has passed it

 by without any notice. I could open it and put it on our crowded kitchen counter. There it

would live amongst the blender, an aging toaster, dead can opener, and a revolving cast of dishes, cups,

etc. Should he one day actually notice its existence, he will undoubtedly inquire as to its function.

There will be a pithy comment, such as, “Don't you already have something like this ?” My prepared

rebuttal: “ Well, no dear, this is the MAGIC Bullet”. (Not to be confused with the baby Bullet,

hibernating peacefully in a distant cabinet)

How proud was I to resist the 4 a.m. TV pitch ! “ If you act now, you will receive... BS”

It was my good friend who performed the evil task. Says she: “ I make these delicious., healthy

drinks and I have already lost 75.3 pounds in 5 days, and look, I 'm a natural redhead again..” I was

actually brainwashed into believing that a smoothie of kale, chia pods, salmon, swiss chard, seaweed

and bananas would be an epicurean delight.

So, now, every time I move the box to sweep, or manage a side glance as I go for mail, I

believe that I loose a pound or two. ( and aren't those golden strands amongst the silver ?)

10/20/2013

Big Mac Is Watching Me

No, I am not basking in the neon glow of McDonald's. I am having a silent argument with my computer. At the beginning of each line, he (must be masculine) insists on “capping” my first letter. I know, I know, all you savvy techies have a ready solution. It will make perfect sense to you, but I will attempt to pay attention while my eyes“glaze over”..(as per my computist husband)

Perhaps I could live with this one aggravating control issue, but how can one justify Mac's insistence that I have mizspelled (sp ?) and arrogantly suggest better options.? Well sometimes, I like to create words. Hey, I'm silly that way. Call me an artiste if you will, but stay out of my head and go bother a more compulsive soul. I am not such a dinosaur that I long for the olden days of ubiquitous Underwoods where each manuel erasure left an obvious hole. Nostalgically speaking, there was a comfort in the click-clacking of the keys; that is, until they ended up a jumbled stuck mess. And where was that box of carbon paper when I was rushing a last minute term paper ?

Simply, I long for a sensible medium. Leave me to my Thesaurus and spell and grammar check be damned ! ( Did I spell, “Thesaurus”right ?)

Big Mac, are you listening ? Wake up ! I need you.

Now For Something Completely Different...


This is one of my favorite Vegetarian recipes. (perfectly suitable for omnis, as well)

http://www.vegetariantimes.com/recipe/quinoa-stuffed-peppers-2/