Old Bookkeeping, New Painting

October 1

OLD BOOKKEEPING, NEW PAINTING

What will become of the fine lines I use to divide good news from bad?  How will I handle a life with no screen to keep the silt from shifting across my personal landscape?  A delicate crosshatch had kept little checks in little boxes; now the checks are bouncing randomly, no pattern or restraint.  My old bookkeeping has come to an abrupt end, leaving many questions and much uncertainty.  I lift the green visor from my brow, looking for answers from the periphery.  Taking the long view I put down my pencil and pick up my paints, sling the easel over my shoulder and walk away from meticulous survival.  The fine lines I have now are in my brush strokes and even bad news is somehow good.

Donate some time.

*

Saltbox House

Refusing to make reasonable demands

is quite as dysfunctional as making unreasonable demands.

The opposite of an extreme is often twice as crazy

and harder to explain.

I open my mouth and dry toast is the reply.

Nothing should be said when nothing can be done

and to do nothing is harder than one might think.

I fold my hands but my lap rejects them;

I quiet my mind but my soul objects.

I must let my heart sing

and trust you enough to ask for help.

You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault

http://www.amazon.com/Sober-On-The-Way-Sane/dp/1440417342/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1388576888&sr=8-1&keywords=sober+on+the+way+to+sane

http://www.amazon.com/More-Lines-From-My-Life/dp/1448677203/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1388576956&sr=8-1&keywords=More+Lines+From+My+Life

Pictures and Frames

March 9

PICTURES AND FRAMES

I paint my way into the corners of the frame.  Each picture I fill diligently, color, texture, all the tricks I use.  I work hard to get the desired effect.  I hold nothing back; I put heart and hopes forward.  I load my brush with pigment; I propel my tongue out of my mouth.  I use it for balance like a kangaroo uses its tail.  Stroke after stroke, I layer the image.  My depiction is fresh to me.  I bring the green, the red, the blue, blue, blues; all of those flow from me.  The canvas fills; my soul soars through the tinctures.  Then the disappointment begins, the complaint and lamentations.  The perspective is off.  I can’t seem to contain this scene within the confines of this gilded prison.  I re-adjust.  I tilt my head; I paint from the bottom up, then the top down.  No, no.  I must pick up a new canvas, the frame oak, burnished and honeyed brown.  I cast to the side the gilt and sculptured casing; I lay it along the wall with the others, the many discards of life.  As yet, the obvious has escaped me; the tint, the hue, angle, size may diverge but that is all.  I have recreated the same scene in all the frames.  In all my attempts, I have painted only one picture.

Learn your process.

*

Résistance

Resisting tough love

is approaching long run action

with short run thinking.

I hate to set the toddling babe down lest he fall,

but in the end if I do not put him down

he and I will both be the worse for it.

Whether I see a forest or I see trees

depends so very much on my perspective,

also on my willingness to delay

the prevention of minor scrapes

to eliminate the need for permanent scaring.

The theme is greater personal responsibility

and less irrational fear.

Guarding tomorrow’s possibilities

by not hamstringing them today

through the resistance of tough love

saves lives, it saves mine.

You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault

http://www.amazon.com/Sober-On-The-Way-Sane/dp/1440417342/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1388576888&sr=8-1&keywords=sober+on+the+way+to+sane

http://www.amazon.com/More-Lines-From-My-Life/dp/1448677203/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1388576956&sr=8-1&keywords=More+Lines+From+My+Life

Pinocchio as a Girl

May 7

Pinocchio as a Girl

I should be painting today instead of reframing the future, an unnecessary and ephemeral job at best.  Kind of like lassoing an unborn colt, I try to put a rope around something that cannot get away.  Outcome hasn’t much to do with foregone conclusion and wouldn’t I be better mixing colors and wetting brushes than cutting slices from a pie in the sky?  But tomorrow seems more spacious than this crowded present and I con myself into believing this is a harmless trip to the fair.  I lose my light, my thought, my sight with these thieving sojourns; leaving me to creak around because all that is left is wood.

Nothing gets in the way of something

*

MAIL

I form my query

Fold my mind

And mail it off to God

With a stamp of approval from my sponsor

The questions sent are of no great interest

But the responses are a spellbinding group

What is returned unopened

Is a wide array

The circuitous route taken by some

Is a charm of elucidation

I rub my finger over the intact seals

And marvel at the travels of the wax

I mourn over the defunct gods

And their public relations organizations

Slow is my resolve to pour over the replies

I get easily caught in lackings and shy from true contact

The equations embedded in my heart read the letters

And sing the notes; these songs are just for me

I know them like my name

I turn the envelope and see how old the postmark is

Suddenly

March 23

Suddenly

Creeping realization has never been my experience with G-d’s handy work in my kitchen.  I start out making a mess and I find in short order that G-d has made a meal; fit food for apt hunger.  I could throw myself into the kneading and shaping, but without the yeast which is so freely given I have no bread; only a lump that will choke me in the end.  Even my very own abilities are gifts I was incapable of offering to myself and are only found here in my possession through sheer grace.  I have woken up with my face saliva glued to the table top far too often only to discover my Higher Power doing and I am grateful; for without that action I would be un-done.

Learn to live with the shadow of the moon

*

HOW RED IS RED

I check my color and contrast
I paint the setting sun
Add a bit of yellow
And fill to the edge burgeoning poppies

Add more blue and paint the blood
Which pools around my mind
The equalizer of all my mental conversations

Too much is never enough, as the story goes
I pursue my shades and signatures
Too much for the fingers and not enough for the toes
I disregard fraudulent crimson

I scale the mountains of intention looking for perfection
The leach of my addiction drains the other colors from my rainbow
My sponsor asks only one question
"How red is red?"

Resistance

March 8

Résistance

Resisting tough love is approaching long run action with short run thinking.  I hate to set the toddling babe down lest he fall, but in the end if I do not put him down he and I will both be the worse for it.  Whether I see a forest or I see trees depends so very much on my perspective, also on my willingness to delay the prevention of minor scrapes to eliminate the need for permanent scaring.    The theme is greater personal responsibility and less irrational fear. Guarding tomorrow’s possibilities by not hamstringing them today through the resistance of tough love saves lives, it saves mine.

Raise the roof on your thinking

*

PICTURES & FRAMES

I paint my way into the corners of the frames.
Each picture I fill diligently,
Color, texture, all the tricks I use.
I work hard to get the desired effect.
I hold nothing back, I put heart and hopes forward.
I load my brush with pigment,
I propel my tongue out of my mouth,
I use it for balance like a kangaroo uses it's tail.
Stroke after stroke I layer the image
My depiction is fresh to me,
I bring the green, the red, the blue,
All of them flow from me.
The canvas fills, my soul soars through the tinctures
Then the disappointment begins,
The complaints, the lamentations,
The perspective is off.
I can't seem to contain this scene
Within the confines of this gilded prison.
I readjust, I tilt my head
I paint from the bottom up, then the top town, No---No.
I must pick up a new canvas and frame.
The oak, burnished and honeyed brown.
I cast to the side the gilt and sculptured casing.
I lay it along the wall with the others.
The many discards of my life
As yet the obvious has escaped me.
The tint, the hue, the angle
Size may diverge but that is all.
I have recreated the same scene
In all the frames,
In all my attempts,
I have painted only one picture.

Old Bookkeeping, New Painting

October 1

OLD BOOKKEEPING, NEW PAINTING

What will become of the fine lines I use to divide good news from bad?  How will I handle a life with no screen to keep the silt from shifting across my personal landscape?  A delicate crosshatch had kept little checks in little boxes; now the checks are bouncing randomly, no pattern or restraint.  My old bookkeeping has come to an abrupt end, leaving many questions and much uncertainty.  I lift the green visor from my brow, looking for answers from the periphery.  Taking the long view I put down my pencil and pick up my paints, sling the easel over my shoulder and walk away from meticulous survival.  The fine lines I have now are in my brush strokes and even bad news is somehow good.

Donate some time.

*

Saltbox House

Refusing to make reasonable demands

is quite as dysfunctional as making unreasonable demands.

The opposite of an extreme is often twice as crazy

and harder to explain.

I open my mouth and dry toast is the reply.

Nothing should be said when nothing can be done

and to do nothing is harder than one might think.

I fold my hands but my lap rejects them;

I quiet my mind but my soul objects.

I must let my heart sing

and trust you enough to ask for help.

Definitions

July 30

DEFINITIONS

I am close to my Higher Power but I have no words to describe It.  I have found it best to say nothing unless asked.  When I do speak, it is always about the path I took or the way I held my face.  I know the things that changed, and the wind that blew.  This is not the sketch most people seek.  My skin is brown and my smile broad; this is not from over-exposure to beams of light.  Closeness warms me.  I glow from standing near.  I know the face and form is different for every day; I must not stop for definitions.

Taste silence and smell the words.

*

The Acts of Hope

I cover my head when I pray

in hopes that God wants me sheltered.

I attend meetings to keep alive the hope

that sobriety is the end of isolation.

I talk to the people in my network

hoping I have something helpful to share.

I sit down to the blank page with hopes

that HP still chooses to collaborate with me.

I pick up my paintbrush filled with hope

that color is still my friend.

I inhale air along with hope that each breath

is worth the effort and I am worthy of this life.

Hold the Line

July 22

HOLD THE LINE

Relax is not the same as give up.  Unwind is not fray.  Let go doesn’t mean never grab hold.  It is important to have moderation in all things including moderation.  Exuberance and enthusiasm are wonderful in their season; too much and I could get an adrenaline addiction.  Make sure your song has more than one note and make sure that you sing more than one song in your life. Change, interest and excitement are vital to my existence.  Like my sponsor says, “if you take all the spikes and ridges out of your life-line, it means you’re dead.”

Give allowance to yourself.

*

The Landscape of Words

Paint takes time to dry;

I work with words.

I say azure and you are there with me,

even if I am far from this mortal coil.

My pigments stay fresh as long as you know blue,

as long as you can hear me, read me, see me.

I paint 6X8 cell and we are imprisoned together,

trapped,

till I tell you of the key I slipped into your shoe.

I love the flow of watercolor,

adore the mushy paste of oil,

but nothing beats the world we paint

and repaint here on this page.

Buffoon

September 18

Buffoon

Never juggle knives and butter at the same time or you will just spread your problems around. Passing on the knives is the first best idea, leaving the butter in the dish is the second. I have gotten many funny schemes into my brain; gotten them in with ease, it is the getting them out of my brain I struggle with. Crowbars and coercion have been my favored tools; ineffective though they may be, I am persistent, while wishing to be dexterous. It took me years to realize the problem with juggling is that it begins with me throwing things and ends with disaster if I can’t catch it all. What slips through my fingers through daily living is hard enough what I throw into the fray for showmanship is, too much. I needn’t be the fool flinging my pins when my goal is to stay on them.

Learn a song in case of karaoke kidnapping

*

OLD BOOKKEEPING, NEW PAINTING

What will become of the fine lines

I use to divide good news from bad?

How will I handle life with no screen to keep

the silt from shifting across my personal landscape.

A delicate crosshatch had kept little checks in little boxes

Now the checks are bouncing randomly,

No pattern or restraint.

My old bookkeeping has come to an abrupt end

Leaving many questions and much uncertainty.

I lift the green visor from my brow,

Looking for answers from the periphery.

Taking the long view

I put down my pencil and pick up my paints.

Sling the easel over my shoulder

And walk away from meticulous survival.

The fine lines I have now are in my brush strokes

And even bad news is somehow good.

The Acts of Hope

July 30

The Acts of Hope

I cover my head when I pray in hopes that G-d wants me sheltered. I attend meetings to keep alive the hope that sobriety is the end of isolation. I talk to the people in my network hoping I have something helpful to share. I sit down to the blank page with hopes that HP still chooses to collaborate with me. I pick up my paintbrush filled with hope that color is still my friend. I inhale air along with hope that each breath is worth the effort and I am worthy of this life.

Take your inventory but don’t sell your stock

*

WHAT’S WRONG WITH THIS DUCK

The duck looks fine sitting on the edge,

The rubber face frozen in a permanent grin

The appearance is flawless.

As long as it is not called to duty

No one will ever know.

Stay still---don’t jump.

When dropped into the water

This creature born for the tub

Lays on its side, one eye looking at the ceiling

The other straight at the bottom.

Floating is occurring but something is oh so wrong.

As indelicate as it may seem

This duck needs a big squeeze

No kid gloves and tender touches.

This duck has sucked in old bathwater

And misused ideas

Only a big push in the right direction

Will get this rancid stuff out.

Though the duck will get bend out of shape

There is no reason it can’t bounce back

That’s the wonderful thing about rubber

It is flexible and resilient

Even if it doesn’t always volunteer.

Old Book Keeping, New Painting

October 1

OLD BOOKKEEPING, NEW PAINTING


What will become of the fine lines I use to divide good news from bad? How will I handle a life with no screen to keep the silt from shifting across my personal landscape? A delicate crosshatch had kept little checks in little boxes; now the checks are bouncing randomly, no pattern or restraint. My old bookkeeping has come to an abrupt end, leaving many questions and much uncertainty. I lift the green visor from my brow, looking for answers from the periphery. Taking the long view I put down my pencil and pick up my paints, sling the easel over my shoulder and walk away from meticulous survival. The fine lines I have now are in my brush strokes and even bad news is somehow good.


Donate some time.