tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-39349935933452239992024-03-17T23:02:39.789-04:00The Writer and the WandererNovelist and travel writer, Mary Morris, reflects on landscapes and literature and the role that each has played in her life. For more on Mary Morris go to her website <a href="http://www.marymorris.net">marymorris.net</a>Mary Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01630615930015497995noreply@blogger.comBlogger299125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3934993593345223999.post-36799753654919507062017-12-04T12:36:00.001-05:002017-12-04T13:03:21.489-05:00Moments of the Absurb<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Here are just some moments I've captured that still can make me laugh. So if you could use a good laugh, enjoy!<br />
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Cow standing behind crumbling stone house.<br />
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ET at an airport somewhere<br />
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Kate on swan in Palm Springs during cold snap.<br />
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Ronald McDonald giving a namaste blessing in Bangkok airport. <br />
And below - this one you're on your own. <br />
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Mary Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01630615930015497995noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3934993593345223999.post-48664850872459479832017-11-30T14:22:00.002-05:002017-11-30T14:22:26.823-05:00On the Way to the Sahara<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhilXPl1tBhtyAYgQHj1ym3ggeY_OTvzwAunMARafp4ANbDIlwFbP9ppkmOgbcX393u3XWjLMDc5PfCbaQ9USdbfxZuxuSPwMAA_Suu4w9VNfeTLZY_0lpbpDLQbsyXenoxvlgLoZhsu1YN/s1600/P1010142.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1197" data-original-width="1600" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhilXPl1tBhtyAYgQHj1ym3ggeY_OTvzwAunMARafp4ANbDIlwFbP9ppkmOgbcX393u3XWjLMDc5PfCbaQ9USdbfxZuxuSPwMAA_Suu4w9VNfeTLZY_0lpbpDLQbsyXenoxvlgLoZhsu1YN/s320/P1010142.JPG" width="320" /></a>We wouldn’t have
stopped if it weren’t for the donkeys.
There were a dozen or so in the pick-up truck, braying, their heads
sticking from the sides. If it weren’t
for the donkeys, we would have kept going.
And then I wouldn’t have seen you again. “Stop,” I shouted to my husband, Larry, who is accustomed to my
sudden detours. He maneuvered into a
parking spot right next to the truck so that I could get a picture. I didn’t
notice that we were across the road from a huge outdoor market or that the
smoke of grilled meat filled the air.
I didn’t even remember that this was the town where you said you’d
be. All I was thinking about were the
donkeys.</div>
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Then we heard
someone shouting, calling my name. I
turned and there you were. You were
eating kebabs and grilled lamb and you started waving. “You must join us,” you all shouted.</div>
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We had met only
hours before at a rest stop on the road south of Fez. We were headed to Merzouga on the edge of the Sahara. You were heading south as well. We’d be taking the same road. I’m not sure why you started speaking to
me. Perhaps we smiled at one another. Two women on the road. Or perhaps it was the children playing with
some puppies and I was watching them.
“Do you speak Arabic?” you asked. </div>
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I shook my
head. “Do you speak French?” You shook your head. “English?” </div>
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Then you asked,
“Italian?”</div>
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I do speak Italian
but I was surprised to hear you ask me there on the road to the Sahara. So we found our common language and chatted
as any two women might. I told you
that we were from America. You were
from Erfoud, but you had been living in Genoa for a long time. “Why Genoa?” I asked. Your husband had found work in Genoa in a
metal factory you told me. For some
reason I assumed that the older man who sat in the front seat of the car that
was stuffed to the gills with suitcases and toys was your husband, but I didn’t
ask. I told you my name and you told me
yours. “Latifa,” you said.</div>
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I couldn’t resist.
“Queen Latifa?” I asked and you got the joke. We laughed. You asked if I had children. I told you I had a daughter and you told me
I was smart as you pointed to your three who were chasing the puppies near some
shrubs. You worked as a nurses’
aid. I was a teacher. Neither of the men nor the children spoke
Italian. It was as if we’d found a
secret language of women like Nushu, that written language of Chinese women
that men cannot decipher. </div>
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And then I asked
if you knew a place for lunch along the way.
We had at least a six hour ride ahead of us. And you told me about a town called Zaida and you said there were
restaurants, but as it is sometimes when I ask directions, I didn’t really
listen to your answer. I vaguely
recalled the town. Then we were ready
to get on the road again. We said our good-byes the way travelers do. Maybe I’ll see you in Zaida, I said. And you said, yes, you must join us for
lunch, but of course we knew we never would. We were just two travelers, coming
together at a rest stop on the road.
We both drove on; we passed one another once or twice. Then Larry and I stopped by the side of the
road for something – a photo, I don’t recall.
And we didn’t see you again.</div>
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And now in this
town where we’d stopped because I had to take a picture of a truckload of
donkeys, you were shouting my name.</div>
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The five of you
were seated at a wooden table. There
were dozens of these tables and grills going with all kinds of meat and the
older man grabbed two chairs and you made space for us. You didn’t hesitate and suddenly there was
shouting and more food was added to the grill.
More lamb and marinated chicken and kebabs. So much food it was hard to make room for it all. The meats grilled to perfection, yogurt and
flatbread and bottles of orange soda and pop, and olives and onions and we were
all eating, scooping up the food. </div>
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The older man, I
soon learned, was your father and he had driven all the way to Tangiers to get
you. I was stunned. That is a very long drive and he was an
elderly man. He and I spoke in French
and somehow we all made ourselves understood.
Your father told me loved his garden.
I told him I loved mine. He had
been a teacher. He had six children and
they were all educated. He loved them
all. </div>
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We ate the lamb
with bread and our fingers. You asked about
our daughter. I complimented your
kids. We were mothers and travelers and
that alone gave us much in common. Then your father excused himself and
disappeared. He did not return for the
rest of the meal. When I needed to go
to the bathroom, you pointed to some stairs and I went up. On my way to the ladies room I passed a
carpeted hall and there was your father with perhaps a dozen other man,
prostrate in prayer. For a moment I
paused. He was so tall and lean and
silent, stretched out on the floor. </div>
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I made my way to
the bathroom, then back down to where you were. When I got back to the table, your father had returned as
well. We asked about the bill and our
hands were pushed away, our money stuff back into our pockets. You would not hear of it. “C’est tout fait,” your father said. It’s all been taken care of. We exchanged addresses and said our
good-byes. </div>
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“Come see us in
Erfoud,” you told me, but we would not be going back that. </div>
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“I will call you
when I come to Italy,” I promised and I believed that I would. We drove until the road turned to sand and
the GPS kept telling us to turn around.
But it was the only road. All
the way I kept looking for you, Latifa.
That night in the Sahara we arrived at our hotel, a rather sad place
that had seen better days. We were its
only guests. “It’s about the terrorists,” the owner told us. “No one wants to come here any more.” Around the moon there was a strange white
circle and before us nothing but sand. </div>
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Years later I was
going to Genoa and I remembered that you lived there. I was sure that I had written the address down in my journal. I
went through everything. Every scrap of
paper I’d saved from that trip and I never found your address. That was when I realized that I’d never see
you again. In that brief moment when
our lives intersected we had become friends.
During that week in Genoa I walked the city, thinking I’d find you. Perhaps we passed one another on a crowded
street, in a marketplace, but I’ll never know. I wanted to tell you that I
don’t think I’ll ever eat a meal that good again. </div>
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Mary Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01630615930015497995noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3934993593345223999.post-40611721159698022092017-11-16T14:05:00.003-05:002017-11-16T14:05:30.162-05:00TALKING TURKEY<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Thanksgiving is
approaching and it’s time to answer that question you’ve been asking yourself
all these years. What is the origin of
the word “turkey?” Turkeys are
indigenous to the New World (i.e. not Europe) so when the early explorers arrived
somebody had to name them. </div>
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Here is the theory
that I ascribe to in my new novel, <i>Gateway
to the Moon</i> (to be published by Nan A. Talese/Doubleday, April 2018). While there is no historic proof, this is
at least a good story. What is fact is
this: In 1492, as he was preparing to
sail and discover his sea route to China, Christopher Columbus hired a man
named Luis de Torres to be his interpreter.
De Torres spoke five languages, including Hebrew, Arabic and
Aramaic. His real name was Yosef ben Ha
Levi Halvri (Joseph, Son of Levi, the Hebrew).
He was a converted Jew and, many believe, a secret or crypto-Jew. Crypto-Jews were those who continued to
practice what the Spanish Inquisition called “the dead Law of Moses” at great
risk to themselves.</div>
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Columbus believed
he was soon going to enjoy the grand palaces and riches of the Great Khan. Never mind that Columbus was basing his plan
on the writings of Marco Polo, who narrated his tales to a French romance writer
in a Genoa prison. And that the journey
of Marco Polo had happened two hundred years before Columbus set sail. Columbus was determined to become famous and
get very rich in the process. But he
needed an interpreter to speak with the Jewish and Arabic traders he would meet
along the way, who would lead him to the Great Khan. So he hired de Torres and on August 3, just days before the Jews
who failed to convert to Judaism were to be expelled from Spain, de Torres
sailed with Columbus on the Santa Maria. </div>
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Some eight weeks later when Columbus and his men
arrived in the Bahamas, expecting to be greeted by the entourage of the Great
Khan, with offerings of gold, they were met instead by the naked native Taino
people who spoke Arawak, and offered them trinkets and parrots. Columbus was certain that he had arrived in
Mainland China, then known as Cathay.
After days of waiting for the emissaries of the Khan to come for
him, Columbus sent de Torres and
another man named Rodrigo Jerez inland to find the palaces. Instead de Torres and Jerez came to native
encampments where they took smoke into their lungs via burning leaves stuffed
into a pipe. They are said to be the
first “white” men to smoke tobacco – a practice that did not interest Columbus
at all. It is also said that de Torres
feasted on a large native bird that was sweet and delicate.</div>
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Now this is the
part that may or may not be an invention, but de Torres did not know what to
call this fowl. He could think of no
other name so he called it <i>tukki</i> which is the Hebrew word for
parrot. So it is possible that the bird
that we will be brining, stuffing, carving, gobbling, and in some cases (in a
tradition that I find rather creepy) “pardoning” is actually named for the <i>tukki</i>. Though I can’t really imagine eating a
parrot. I have a pet parrot, and she is
very intelligent. I don’t think I can
eat anything that talks.</div>
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But whatever you
do or whatever you devour, have a Happy Thanksgiving. And when the conversation lags or the L-tryptophan makes everyone
sleepy, you can share this juicy tidbit around your holiday table and get a
lively conversation going. <br />
<br />
turkey painting by MM Nov. 16, 2017<br />
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Mary Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01630615930015497995noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3934993593345223999.post-52841956010703022592017-11-16T14:01:00.000-05:002017-11-16T14:01:43.683-05:00Me with Tigers<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZQum_PTlAFaGuXfoFJ6jK_QtMYA1HW_dqzTM0uZqAb-qE5_QAnVYYNIwtW6cXXA7AnigEP6zKBA-IogpCII-JtfBesATRi9rNljYITJEMjjNXPJolCV5O-BfQFLX-l9te_PaDQEmNngXv/s1600/IMG_1596.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZQum_PTlAFaGuXfoFJ6jK_QtMYA1HW_dqzTM0uZqAb-qE5_QAnVYYNIwtW6cXXA7AnigEP6zKBA-IogpCII-JtfBesATRi9rNljYITJEMjjNXPJolCV5O-BfQFLX-l9te_PaDQEmNngXv/s320/IMG_1596.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Mary Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01630615930015497995noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3934993593345223999.post-56904982010247686462017-11-13T15:00:00.001-05:002017-11-13T15:01:40.005-05:00First and Last: For Larry. Two Poems<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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The first poem, "Final Approach," I wrote while sitting in LAX almost thirty years ago in 1988 waiting for my then boyfriend, Larry, to arrive for a visit. I was skeptical and full of doubts. I felt certain that nothing would work out for me, and that this would just be another disappointment. The second poem, "You Were A Fisherman," I wrote last month in Portugal while we were on vacation. These seems to go together. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfd0rMGHQy1fvxBXc9HvMAFNRqT5Jv1i977_7J9_tPuWZgxw5ojkZcbhsYWrWkDcLjcCjywCggG02l8qsg7GDFHAZ824dwtYp4CmGam5WHPmqzQ7i-RFiylvLzbhwf6mDv0H1fftJSchrX/s1600/IMG_7109.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfd0rMGHQy1fvxBXc9HvMAFNRqT5Jv1i977_7J9_tPuWZgxw5ojkZcbhsYWrWkDcLjcCjywCggG02l8qsg7GDFHAZ824dwtYp4CmGam5WHPmqzQ7i-RFiylvLzbhwf6mDv0H1fftJSchrX/s320/IMG_7109.JPG" width="320" /></a>Final Approach</div>
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As I sit at the airport,</div>
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Awaiting your flight</div>
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I think of how many before you</div>
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Have come and gone.</div>
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How many gates and terminals</div>
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Others have crossed</div>
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Moving in and out of lives.</div>
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I have kept vigils before</div>
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Over those who come close</div>
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then disappear.</div>
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Like a specter, drifting away,</div>
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and I have my own version of this.</div>
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Leaving without a word.</div>
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Touching down and taking off.</div>
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In my heart I go close,</div>
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Then fly off to other lands - </div>
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Islands where silver fish</div>
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Feed out of my hand -</div>
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and I have seen you come and go</div>
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A Million times or more,</div>
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In disguises of beasts,</div>
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Pirates and wizards,</div>
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In the night like a stalker</div>
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You've landed in my dreams</div>
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And planted memories of moments</div>
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Yet lived my nights restless</div>
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With your promise.</div>
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<br /></div>
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But they have just announced</div>
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Your final approach</div>
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As I hurry to write these words</div>
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And wonder if this won't be</div>
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for the last time.</div>
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There is talk of fog,</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfP89M4xr5h1b87UxCFAdzCZRaJr_mLYYTivjNeau2V1UQIslPccfA3k0h9ULLzZUpoRi_yyM8IO2G8hs47z43EuCB-DyY_6qJOdjXhKn7Axg7shZ659XUoUdT403edfHXcLw4B4I_umq7/s1600/Larry+20100001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1095" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfP89M4xr5h1b87UxCFAdzCZRaJr_mLYYTivjNeau2V1UQIslPccfA3k0h9ULLzZUpoRi_yyM8IO2G8hs47z43EuCB-DyY_6qJOdjXhKn7Axg7shZ659XUoUdT403edfHXcLw4B4I_umq7/s320/Larry+20100001.jpg" width="219" /></a></div>
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A radar landing.</div>
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Remote control bringing you in.</div>
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But a calm comes over me</div>
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As if this were my last moments</div>
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Alive on this earth</div>
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and I am at peace</div>
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with all I have done.</div>
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I feel you touch down</div>
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In perfect visibility,</div>
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and I spread my wings</div>
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To take you in.</div>
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You Were A Fisherman</div>
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It came to me this afternoon</div>
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At lunch in Nazare.</div>
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What I hadn’t understood</div>
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In all these years.</div>
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Gazing into your sea-green eyes.</div>
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How else to explain</div>
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Your fear of water?</div>
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Of the ocean’s depths.</div>
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How you have felt the tide</div>
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Tugging at your toes</div>
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And so none of us drowned.</div>
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It was in your other life</div>
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That you were a fisherman.</div>
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You sailed the Atlantic</div>
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Your hands slimy with fish;</div>
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Your briny breath.</div>
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You were a fisherman </div>
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As you stood above the dark swirls</div>
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Just before I pulled you down</div>
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As you caught me</div>
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In your web,</div>
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In your tangled nets. </div>
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Mary Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01630615930015497995noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3934993593345223999.post-76563247441594179392017-11-13T13:28:00.001-05:002017-11-13T13:28:55.999-05:00 Porto on Paper<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBjtvCI6RPsRfOwRc2pt9b6_n-aNaVUEkiBZcNUpLslxk06Wn5KPhnL1LzQIXXZ4_uBdTMvVNV-dJn8QdLQSHTjIoXimu02eXOK_C7xB_G-pCpMtOP30EcRUQgv3XpwUUkfr8n-obAJHHB/s1600/FullSizeRender+%25288%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="458" data-original-width="640" height="229" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBjtvCI6RPsRfOwRc2pt9b6_n-aNaVUEkiBZcNUpLslxk06Wn5KPhnL1LzQIXXZ4_uBdTMvVNV-dJn8QdLQSHTjIoXimu02eXOK_C7xB_G-pCpMtOP30EcRUQgv3XpwUUkfr8n-obAJHHB/s320/FullSizeRender+%25288%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a>For years I've kept travel journals. They used to be just writing but in the last fifteen or twenty years I've begun adding a visual component. I sketch and draw in them. And for many years I never was able to do any painting or drawing that didn't happen inside the pages of the journals. But lately I've started to feel constrained. I've been wanting to go beyond the journal. And yet for some reason I seemed afraid of paper. As a writer I rarely have that dread of the blank page but as a painter I did. Some of my concerns were practical. What if I ruin the painting? Then I've ruined the page. And what should the painting be about? As a writer I've never had a problem with the blank page. I could almost always fill it and besides writing paper is cheap. But good watercolor paper, let alone canvas, that was another matter.<br />
<br />
But I've been digging deep. Trying to take some risks. I've been spending a lot of time for various reasons reading about Joan Mitchell and looking at her glorious work.<br />
<br />
About ten days ago I put a large sheet of watercolor paper on my painting table and there it sat, staring at me. But yesterday late in the day I had an idea for something I wanted to do and so I did it. This painting of Porto. It is big. About 28"x 14" and it's on paper, not in the journal. I feel a bit the way I did as a young writer when I finally opened the drawer where all my poems had lain for so many years.<br />
<br />
I can't exactly explain why this felt so good. Why it feels so good to not be afraid of paper, of mistakes. Just letting it happen.<br />
<br />
Again to repeat the Tahitians. They have no word for art in their language. The closest thing translates to "I'm doing the best I can."<br />
<br />
Enjoy whatever it is you are doing. There are no mistakes. They are just steps along the way of learning. </div>
Mary Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01630615930015497995noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3934993593345223999.post-66703209495509580162017-11-04T12:52:00.001-04:002017-11-04T12:53:58.283-04:00Morning Fog in Porto<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFrrnM-BTN0VkPwfefxTWGVGHoA5DLij8pAIxScT3vodjltmX5msz0QtWjNPpCOlS-9eSWSmZZA8ycYSEfbuqevL_JMwx-JTAwVMR-Z_lVi8Tze0U_uaTFP1pu56TDVwERE_Ih2N6k0fST/s1600/Porto+-+20170001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1125" data-original-width="1600" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFrrnM-BTN0VkPwfefxTWGVGHoA5DLij8pAIxScT3vodjltmX5msz0QtWjNPpCOlS-9eSWSmZZA8ycYSEfbuqevL_JMwx-JTAwVMR-Z_lVi8Tze0U_uaTFP1pu56TDVwERE_Ih2N6k0fST/s320/Porto+-+20170001.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
It was early when I took my walk<br />
along the banks where gulls<br />
cried but I could not see them.<br />
Morning fog was everywhere,<br />
Obscuring the river, the buildings, the road.<br />
Yet this suited my mood.<br />
My fuzzy head, my uncaffinated soul.<br />
The worries that had kept me up<br />
Uncertain of what lies ahead,<br />
Regrets that lay behind.<br />
But here on my morning walk<br />
I could only see what was right before me.<br />
What was ahead was cloudy and hidden.<br />
What was gone, forgotten.<br />
Across the river cyclists in orange vests<br />
Shot out of the mist like flames<br />
Flashing like a promise or a dream<br />
Then they too are gone<br />
and once more I can see<br />
almost nothing at all.<br />
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Mary Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01630615930015497995noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3934993593345223999.post-51991722988767924452017-10-01T17:58:00.003-04:002017-10-01T17:58:55.038-04:00Listening to Scheherazade<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzJTGw6SsUZO0rfSESECScV5-TdvOTBWJHHVSBu0kKa14M9oxdbgWOSGnG-mlKBNo-tct5EHtieb7JmG_10ltW_Rg8vUGcDq0s0YBsjGod_Ck120k-aBpp97LA6CR8EpexkfEyV01suhE0/s1600/IMG_6143.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzJTGw6SsUZO0rfSESECScV5-TdvOTBWJHHVSBu0kKa14M9oxdbgWOSGnG-mlKBNo-tct5EHtieb7JmG_10ltW_Rg8vUGcDq0s0YBsjGod_Ck120k-aBpp97LA6CR8EpexkfEyV01suhE0/s320/IMG_6143.JPG" width="320" /></a>The other night I was making dinner and listening to classical radio. It is my routine to do this. I can't say that I am actually listening as much as just letting the music work its way through me. I didn't hear what the announcer said about the piece he was about to play but the moment I heard the opening refrain I knew what it was. I don't have very good music recognition. I might be familiar with a work but I can rarely name it. But in this instance I knew right away. I put down whatever I was doing, picked up a glass of wine and sat down and listened.<br />
<br />
It was a piece of music I hadn't heard in fifty years but I remembered the last time I heard it. It was on my twentieth birthday in 1967, and I was in love with a boy. I'll call him Steve. Steve had a girlfriend back home who sent him brownies that were still warm and knitted winter sweaters for him. But we were lab partners in biology and we had spent a lot of time today. We did an experiment in which we created a window in an egg and watched as the chicks grew. Night after night we'd go to the lab and look at our chicks.<br />
<br />
Steve and I spent much of our free time together, studying, or just having fun. One evening I returned to my dorm to find a giant branch waiting with my name on it. I'm not really sure why he left half of a tree for me but my dorm was impressed. One weekend we road the MTA from Cambridge through Boston. We'd get on different cars and run into one another, pretending we hadn't seen one another in years. We were thrilled to find one another again. This made the riders very happy. And on the night of the Boston blackout we stood on the roof of the library for hours, shivering in the cold, huddled together, watching until the lights came back.<br />
<br />
But always between us there was the girl back home, making her brownies and sweaters. I really didn't even know about her until one weekend when he told me he wouldn't be around. His girlfriend was coming to visit. He said it matter-of-factly but he knew it hurt me. We hadn't kissed. We hadn't touched. But he knew how I felt. And I think he felt the same. And so the months of our first year of college wore on.<br />
<br />
And then it was May, a beautiful month, the end of the school year. It was the time of exams and it was also my twentieth birthday. Steve asked me out for that Saturday night. I didn't mention that it was my birthday but I was thrilled. We went to a party, then we went into Boston and out to dinner. We walked all over the city. And at the end of the evening he asked if I wanted to go back to his dorm.<br />
<br />
I had a curfew but I don't remember what it was, and I'm not sure I cared. Anyway I said yes. As we were walking towards his dorm, I told him that it was my birthday. He was completely distraught. "Why didn't you remind me" he asked. "I feel like an idiot," he said. I told him he shouldn't. I told him that I'd had one of the most wonderful nights of my life which was, and in some ways still is, true. I was young and in love and not much else mattered to me. But still he kept shaking his head, telling me how terrible he felt that he'd forgotten.<br />
<br />
As we were walking through the cinderblock corridors of his dormitory, I said I had to use the bathroom and he told me to meet him in his room. And a few minutes later when I walked in to his room, it was dark. Candles were lit. There was a cake. And Scheherazade was playing on a turntable, and it played over and over that night.<br />
<br />
We didn't make love. We didn't lose our virginities. It was in fact a fairly innocent night under the circumstances. We wouldn't become lovers until many years later, long after he'd married his girlfriend, and they had children, and then broke up - and then only very briefly. And the next morning Steve came to my dorm and told me that he was committed to the girl back home. And I told him it was all right. I understood.<br />
<br />
Deep in my heart I know that Steve and I weren't meant for one another. But we had that one moment. That night. That perfect night. So that evening a few nights ago I sat in a chair in my kitchen, not making dinner, but remembering a perfect night just as I remembered the bars to a piece of music I had not listened to in fifty years.<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Mary Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01630615930015497995noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3934993593345223999.post-38314970512538718662017-09-04T12:39:00.004-04:002017-09-04T12:40:46.623-04:00<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
"A good traveler has no fixed plans<br />
<br />
and is not intent on arriving."<br />
<br />
<br />
Lao Tzu<br />
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Mary Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01630615930015497995noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3934993593345223999.post-81658061795118630682017-09-04T12:33:00.000-04:002017-09-04T12:33:05.129-04:00Dear Theo<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqUvcq0AFDNG7RDdcxfPwcBJCZ7CL6XD3bZkknb5qXFBZMYmzPt6LN0FQ9YjeqCQg0hCjyVIJgU9iqOGbsrRqYpTn9pklTrC6mDbhUCo9ocsptwsiLtCyWCEuFgipQKVksulYxzxk06hiY/s1600/By+the+Light+of+the+Moon0001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1162" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqUvcq0AFDNG7RDdcxfPwcBJCZ7CL6XD3bZkknb5qXFBZMYmzPt6LN0FQ9YjeqCQg0hCjyVIJgU9iqOGbsrRqYpTn9pklTrC6mDbhUCo9ocsptwsiLtCyWCEuFgipQKVksulYxzxk06hiY/s320/By+the+Light+of+the+Moon0001.jpg" width="232" /></a><br />
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"I've attempted a night sky."<br />
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Mary Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01630615930015497995noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3934993593345223999.post-58386987870873557022017-08-22T16:32:00.003-04:002017-08-22T16:34:51.821-04:00A House Cat Observes the Sun Set <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtqNVI4PkMucnO7gDKMYJpv2WDnNyhefm-7Z4NJHf9uqlTPazAT-06sxqtrl8fMeS0fnZAbZdIfKhWa_qmsQhhvXCdWW5daCmtPFg4J2tM4P5C2OiMjtTR6N9eyBKYf5UckSWt-4KiXVad/s1600/scan0004.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1152" data-original-width="1600" height="230" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtqNVI4PkMucnO7gDKMYJpv2WDnNyhefm-7Z4NJHf9uqlTPazAT-06sxqtrl8fMeS0fnZAbZdIfKhWa_qmsQhhvXCdWW5daCmtPFg4J2tM4P5C2OiMjtTR6N9eyBKYf5UckSWt-4KiXVad/s320/scan0004.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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I have always been drawn to the tension between home and away. </div>
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Mary Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01630615930015497995noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3934993593345223999.post-2511573534230920222017-08-22T15:56:00.001-04:002017-08-22T16:00:06.424-04:00<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">Everybody should be quiet near a little stream</span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">and listen...</span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;"> Maurice Sendak</span></b><br />
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Mary Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01630615930015497995noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3934993593345223999.post-53551329060924393972017-08-19T16:06:00.005-04:002017-08-19T16:10:25.208-04:00A Tale of Three Cities<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUeUImPGb_83lHFtwplZMm2wQaYRK1fF-suHuUoLNhNQau5OM9JRKGwv2rBmjDaNDQkQA2gUzRSIXEk8374sDWmymVidLRg2kTix3eoP-8Ez5Ke5d2AFGBjVPt5RyQT7_rFG7Zw5FfRsH6/s1600/Mojacar+30001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1145" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUeUImPGb_83lHFtwplZMm2wQaYRK1fF-suHuUoLNhNQau5OM9JRKGwv2rBmjDaNDQkQA2gUzRSIXEk8374sDWmymVidLRg2kTix3eoP-8Ez5Ke5d2AFGBjVPt5RyQT7_rFG7Zw5FfRsH6/s320/Mojacar+30001.jpg" width="229" /></a></div>
Actually there's not much of a tale, but here are paintings of three cities. Whenever I go to a new place, I try and do a painting of it. These paintings only exist in my travel journals. At times I've tried to repaint them from the journals on to paper but it is never very successful. For whatever reason the journals seem to be the only place where I feel completely free. Though I have started to work right on paper more, especially when I'm home, I love doing this work in my journals. These are, in order, Mojacar, Spain, Auvillar, France, and Matera, Italy. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnBYfSvHPkoJN5ZP23sZ6VnDP9XgWIqLqUplGR8vIIg85T1EZpc3WtwXEp9WIXmyRYc-gZVsO_M9aAJ0-uND-G7YD-Oa7fDDZ9Ba8e__cBK_IYdhVUTI7f7jCriFxIWF6g1B8uo1oRExcU/s1600/Auvillar%252C+France+As+Good+As+It+Gets0001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1250" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnBYfSvHPkoJN5ZP23sZ6VnDP9XgWIqLqUplGR8vIIg85T1EZpc3WtwXEp9WIXmyRYc-gZVsO_M9aAJ0-uND-G7YD-Oa7fDDZ9Ba8e__cBK_IYdhVUTI7f7jCriFxIWF6g1B8uo1oRExcU/s320/Auvillar%252C+France+As+Good+As+It+Gets0001.jpg" width="249" /></a><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi240unZ95aty8yQO8jhRdKhidpjtMu492cjl_YAdJgxILfw4DsrOH1Oo9YeumspPFVYQBYsveAViBYOEGu0b0dT6ORY6NcuRaVYzczso1Q_fnVwba_SXTRSunpPp6FADAaG9e_oDwKgN4W/s1600/scan0006.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1240" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi240unZ95aty8yQO8jhRdKhidpjtMu492cjl_YAdJgxILfw4DsrOH1Oo9YeumspPFVYQBYsveAViBYOEGu0b0dT6ORY6NcuRaVYzczso1Q_fnVwba_SXTRSunpPp6FADAaG9e_oDwKgN4W/s320/scan0006.jpg" width="248" /></a></div>
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Mary Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01630615930015497995noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3934993593345223999.post-32607084426963572982017-08-19T05:36:00.003-04:002017-08-19T05:36:36.257-04:00"There is no blue without yellow..."<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0S0mNtsNYYet52mtXRvGE12wPAaAzGFeXP5gBUXzrTjogcxE5hxDf3JfqHceIAOyUTusXTcTUmP5Tfu_FZJmsx5JnVmVZBy1YWiPE4-vm8vLSvTeRdnPqp9LzUyPAVL7cM6nUZ2dgghZB/s1600/IMG_6143+%25281%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0S0mNtsNYYet52mtXRvGE12wPAaAzGFeXP5gBUXzrTjogcxE5hxDf3JfqHceIAOyUTusXTcTUmP5Tfu_FZJmsx5JnVmVZBy1YWiPE4-vm8vLSvTeRdnPqp9LzUyPAVL7cM6nUZ2dgghZB/s320/IMG_6143+%25281%2529.JPG" width="320" /></a>In a letter to Theo, Vincent Van Gogh once wrote, "There is no blue without yellow and without orange, and if you put in the blue, then you must put in the yellow and orange too, mustn't you?" </div>
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I was stunned when I read this. For a long time I have been doing watercolors. I've never really studied art, though I've wanted to. But then I've never really studied writing either. I just read a lot, all the time. And I also looked a lot. And for whatever reason when I paint I almost always use a lot of these three colors. But especially yellow and blue. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx4gV5Br5eT_5F3waRnbXED0fG_iTKj8iPMc8qI6eGk-cdC_8nb_pTbzjER052SMw9iDixHn2C70cmiS0jpOz7WPagZ4SBMu2WGWHu2pvPi2LEAN-J_pm2-9M3eLI-907KfPaJ7gr0P01B/s1600/After+Seeing+Matisse0001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1230" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx4gV5Br5eT_5F3waRnbXED0fG_iTKj8iPMc8qI6eGk-cdC_8nb_pTbzjER052SMw9iDixHn2C70cmiS0jpOz7WPagZ4SBMu2WGWHu2pvPi2LEAN-J_pm2-9M3eLI-907KfPaJ7gr0P01B/s320/After+Seeing+Matisse0001.jpg" width="246" /></a></div>
My mother loved blue and yellow. Our living room was always some blend of those two colors. Yellow curtains, blue chairs. She had a good eye. She also had a degree in fashion from the Art Institute of Chicago but was never able to work in fashion. But she had a decorator's flare and an artist's eye. And our house was a study in blue and yellow.<div>
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I read once that the painter, Joan Mitchel, used a lot of blue and yellow. Joan was the first wife of my cousin, Barney Rosset, founder of the Grove Press. So I know a lot about Joan. Her biographer posits that when Joan was little her mother had yellow curtains, as did I, and if she pulled those curtains back, she could see Lake Michigan. As could I. </div>
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So blue and yellow and orange. You cannot have one without the other according to Van Gogh. Or my mother. Or Joan. Who knows why the eye must see what it sees. </div>
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I am painter really. I don't know a thing about drawing. But I love color. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHB7mZI65XfAPEVQu3GxND0uh3QpvLJdAQuHmc61ECrtrQb5Asm8sQ-gBVDqgYbeN2rGZV1Jue66kSqMHkdxjKiRjsLF-ubpuSNZFX-yl-B3zFL3dAlDm5YMRPRtLPrIb6wpTT5W9GF065/s1600/IMG_6059.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHB7mZI65XfAPEVQu3GxND0uh3QpvLJdAQuHmc61ECrtrQb5Asm8sQ-gBVDqgYbeN2rGZV1Jue66kSqMHkdxjKiRjsLF-ubpuSNZFX-yl-B3zFL3dAlDm5YMRPRtLPrIb6wpTT5W9GF065/s320/IMG_6059.JPG" width="320" /></a>Most of my paintings are done in my travel journals on the road. But lately I've been more sedentary so I am trying to allow myself to be in the travel mode and paint on a small card table upstairs when I am home. </div>
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On thing that helps me do these is the Tahitian definition of art that translates to something like I'm doing the best that I can. That's all we can hope for, isn't it?<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Mary Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01630615930015497995noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3934993593345223999.post-42612951266597625602015-09-15T11:34:00.000-04:002017-08-19T16:00:39.489-04:00Child's Play: Reflections on Serena Williams and Pablo Picasso<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzdrj6Sn_O0J-WGHEUcUQQI0QZAOiEQhcZbsCBh50AiFrV7m9Zs53ZnpeWF1Dyk4gKeMC8N1lk1PFM4PyZMQPH-IA7fwhQUFw5ixnRXTKBigHsTI7CM9lr-OpBo4oJgxUjM3Z76q5O1UVc/s1600/head+of+a+woman+after+picasso0001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzdrj6Sn_O0J-WGHEUcUQQI0QZAOiEQhcZbsCBh50AiFrV7m9Zs53ZnpeWF1Dyk4gKeMC8N1lk1PFM4PyZMQPH-IA7fwhQUFw5ixnRXTKBigHsTI7CM9lr-OpBo4oJgxUjM3Z76q5O1UVc/s320/head+of+a+woman+after+picasso0001.jpg" width="205" /></a>Last week two events happened for me on the same day. I went to see the Picasso sculpture exhibit that is just opening at MOMA and I watched Serena Williams get throttled on the court. At the Picasso I was amazed at how much inventiveness and experimentation and truthfully just plain fun Picasso must have been having as he bent sheet metal and carved wood. I'm not saying that it's not hard work, but I was amazed that he could bend a fork and it becomes the talons of a bird or he takes a child's toy car and turns it into a baboons head. As I stood staring at this completely ridiculous, and amazing, piece entitled "Little Owl," I thought that here is someone who has a child's imagination and sense of wonder. All of his work to me reflected his child-like nature and in that nature he is completely free.<br />
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And then I watched Serene, grunting, shouting, smashing her raquette, never a smile, a look of contentment and certainly not playfulness. She was not just miserable. Her ranting and stumbling and failing was almost Biblical. Of course everyone is calling it the biggest upset in tennis history, but I watched Vinci smiling, shaking her head, steady, enjoying the game. It didn't surprise me that much in the end that Serena lost. What surprised me was how miserable she seemed even before she was losing. How she wasn't playing so much as pummeling. Whatever she wanted, she wanted it too badly, and that made her lose it.<br />
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It was interesting for me to see these two events back to back. I am reminded of one of my favorite tidbits of knowledge. I've written about this before but I'll say it again now. The Tahitians have no word for art in their language. The closest they have is an expression that translates to, "I'm doing the best I can." I love the idea of trying, doing your best, but it's not about winning or losing. And in the end for me it is really about pleasure and pleasure is about freedom. It's not easy to become children again. (I think it was Matisse who said that you have to grow up to become a child again).<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ392ftwD0ODFRJOL_PwTuHtjPH_JjyBbqOZ1Dm2aOBXMc89Cfu-mPmNHQePLcXTgvaWqgPnmQudDpGPomd14qA5IcbgRJzxYArnr8GCC6b2V4f4ERrcS5ZSBUT9nAZPpNgZFMCNyT7Xhz/s1600/Fire+Island+Sept.+20150003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="278" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ392ftwD0ODFRJOL_PwTuHtjPH_JjyBbqOZ1Dm2aOBXMc89Cfu-mPmNHQePLcXTgvaWqgPnmQudDpGPomd14qA5IcbgRJzxYArnr8GCC6b2V4f4ERrcS5ZSBUT9nAZPpNgZFMCNyT7Xhz/s320/Fire+Island+Sept.+20150003.jpg" width="320" /></a>Sometimes I'll sit down to write or paint and I'll say to myself oh I'm not any good or I don't have any ideas or whatever we say to make ourselves feel lousy and then I'll just start to fool around - in my journal, with my watercolors, on the page. As artists, performers, even athletes, we have to be able to play and we have to be able to enjoy the game.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDksF8I2eIQS_bgx5CscvoWD4e6lPyOclD9C66WHxw_e1dZDtWux1hSC0foef8S3s-zX_0GXnqzlnG1_lhvzQGxxADjcV-ZWbHqHCMwTY3ZRTzm7XL4djMPPz4s9dYB2Q4Y4FbzvOXjipT/s1600/Little+Owl+after+Picasso0001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDksF8I2eIQS_bgx5CscvoWD4e6lPyOclD9C66WHxw_e1dZDtWux1hSC0foef8S3s-zX_0GXnqzlnG1_lhvzQGxxADjcV-ZWbHqHCMwTY3ZRTzm7XL4djMPPz4s9dYB2Q4Y4FbzvOXjipT/s320/Little+Owl+after+Picasso0001.jpg" width="320" /></a>I feel badly for Serena because this loss will haunt her her entire life. But perhaps she will learn something from it. I'm not sure if she ever really loved the game (I think what she loves is winning), but maybe she can find it in herself to enjoy it. I remember once when I was in a very bleak place and nothing was working out and my husband told me to write stories again the way I did when I was twenty years old and did it for the love of them. <br />
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I go back to Picasso's Little Owl. Go and take a look. Here was a great artist. Perhaps the greatest artist of his time and he made a little owl with screws and bolts for legs, a silly little <br />
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glorious object that I fell in love with, and I thought to myself that we all need a little owl in our lives. If we're trying to write a little poem or win a grand slam, you need your little owl. A part of creativity and success comes from having a good time. </div>
Mary Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01630615930015497995noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3934993593345223999.post-67892037832067481292015-09-07T13:49:00.000-04:002015-09-07T13:49:10.120-04:00Mary in Marseilles<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuERaaVIlgW9pL-cGqxS0sp6_f3gMh30P9mLFcK-VgUI20SzMNL7ULl34VBIRJLAbDMI6Gvu8z63ypgI0is6YXeJRbQhiTR_cPxxnA5ejSZYKJ8rHOqcWg0zEH4TTSHqTFECX6UHZjncw0/s1600/IMG_0751+%25281%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuERaaVIlgW9pL-cGqxS0sp6_f3gMh30P9mLFcK-VgUI20SzMNL7ULl34VBIRJLAbDMI6Gvu8z63ypgI0is6YXeJRbQhiTR_cPxxnA5ejSZYKJ8rHOqcWg0zEH4TTSHqTFECX6UHZjncw0/s320/IMG_0751+%25281%2529.JPG" width="240" /></a>A funny thing happened on our way to Marseilles...but I'll write more about that later...for now just this image of me at the gorgeous waterfront museum. </div>
Mary Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01630615930015497995noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3934993593345223999.post-6689021501148672852015-09-07T13:41:00.002-04:002015-09-07T13:41:29.504-04:00Detoured by a Caribbean Band...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Last night we were headed to a movie but on our way stumbled upon these festivities instead. Got a jump on the West Indian Day celebrations. Wonderful band at La Caye across the street from BAM. The food looked great too but there was an hour wait! But the beer was cold and the band very cool. <br />
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I don't know their name or their names, but it didn't seem to matter. The music kept flowing. The movie will be there tomorrow. The band said they'd be back soon. The leader shook my husband's hand as he ran off to a gig in Queens. Just one more reason to love Brooklyn...<br />
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Mary Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01630615930015497995noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3934993593345223999.post-80025550948390213122015-08-18T04:14:00.003-04:002015-08-18T09:19:12.036-04:00Jazz Is Not Dead!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOVhnUMC4dP11vxLvVHUmv8lOBUgs7TSHMLJdLAslNOK94dVyVGGTSKmRY1AOnPAG2W5ZrcnwanmeR3UpO4tQ3lBjj4E5SyQmeftktdJKGKT_DhZCynAmPhGOXclWP-Sh2iJJjd3kZHarf/s1600/IMG_0815.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOVhnUMC4dP11vxLvVHUmv8lOBUgs7TSHMLJdLAslNOK94dVyVGGTSKmRY1AOnPAG2W5ZrcnwanmeR3UpO4tQ3lBjj4E5SyQmeftktdJKGKT_DhZCynAmPhGOXclWP-Sh2iJJjd3kZHarf/s320/IMG_0815.JPG" width="240" /></a>On my vacation recently in Paris I went down to the Metro. A train must have just pulled out because there was no one on the platform except for a man. <br />
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He was lanky and tall and seemed to be contemplating the wall. Suddenly took out a black marker and begin to draw on an advertisement. It took him perhaps thirty second. <br />
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In bold, black strokes he was shaping something.<br />
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It took a moment, but soon I could see that it was a trumpet. When he turned and saw me standing there, he was clearly upset. He thought his action had gone unseen. He stared at me with a gaunt face, but there was something playful in his eyes.<br />
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I made a motion with my hands. "It's a trumpet?" I asked.<br />
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Relieved that he wasn't going to be arrested, he nodded yes.<br />
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"Where's it playing?" I asked in French.<br />
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"Everywhere," he replied. Then with a shrug of his shoulders and a wry smile he disappeared on to the train that had just appeared. He took it one station; then I watched him slip away.<br />
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But he was right. I began to see his trumpets everywhere. And I began documenting them. Here are all the ones that I found. I liked the statement he's making on all the subway ads, but mostly I like his trumpet. It was always the same. <br />
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And clearly at least in Paris as another graffiti below says, jazz is not dead!<br />
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Mary Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01630615930015497995noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3934993593345223999.post-61279488023302921122014-12-01T11:56:00.001-05:002014-12-01T11:56:12.031-05:00A favorite quote from Wendell Berry...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Mary Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01630615930015497995noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3934993593345223999.post-54877407642175016782014-09-30T12:21:00.002-04:002014-09-30T12:21:25.444-04:00Sleepless Nights<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWMxXI9_mECmcAF7qeaVeyx_6bADybbYqiCru8htluGzhQOTJcQqqmWFiKmujacu6m04kfos6Rhyphenhyphenc3mOVyfEXXMKJ50lUFdnGsLrwnIPkmdpIpmPyNh1g2XfQizKaTxoeIPi7uFOCCpgBT/s1600/watercolor+-+two+faces0001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWMxXI9_mECmcAF7qeaVeyx_6bADybbYqiCru8htluGzhQOTJcQqqmWFiKmujacu6m04kfos6Rhyphenhyphenc3mOVyfEXXMKJ50lUFdnGsLrwnIPkmdpIpmPyNh1g2XfQizKaTxoeIPi7uFOCCpgBT/s1600/watercolor+-+two+faces0001.jpg" height="320" width="314" /></a>Last night I had a sleepless night. Not that unusual for me but when it happens I'm always surprised. It is as if my mind can't stop moving though my body has. Or at least though it tries to do so. I got my novel in yesterday and can't seem to know what to do with all the energy packed up inside of me. As a friend once described it, I'm like an unemployed samuri, searching for my next mission. I have no idea what to do with my sword. And at the moment I can't think of much that I want to say or even write.<br />
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Given that I was having a sleepless night I decided to read Elizabeth's Hardwick's thinly disguised novel by that same title. Sleepless Nights. But I must admit that reading it just made me more awake. I realize that I was filled with longing. It is a desire that it is hard to describe. As I said to Larry this morning, I want to fall in love with life again. Not that I've fallen out of it, but between the fact that our daughter's dog tried to eat my parrot, my daughter had a bike accident, she had a reading, my back hurts, Larry is at the skin doctor, hoping for a clean bill of health, I can't wash dishes, I'm feeling that all of this is just getting in the way of where it is I want to go.<br />
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And where is that? Do I need to make a mileage run to Paris or LA to calm my wandering soul? I think of the Elizabeth Bishop poem, "Questions of Travel." Do I need to go there to think of here? I heard a line from Faulkner last night on, of all places, Criminal Minds (they do good quotes) and it was something like how we don't have to surpass the past or the present. We have to surpass ourselves. We have to do better at every moment. <br />
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I wrote in my journal last night circa 2:30 a.m. that I am bored. Bored of all the above. The dogs, the dishwasher, the meals to prepare and clean up after, the shirts that need mending, the things that need to be thrown out but never are. The pair of shoes I'll never wear again. I'm tired of casual hellos and breathless good-byes. But if depression is anger turned inward, isn't boredom just a form of depression? Aren't we turning something in instead of turning it out?<br />
<br />
My therapist whom I'd been seeing on and off since 1980 died in July. It was a heart-wrenching grief that grabbed me. Who would always be at the other end of the phone call now? Who would explain to me what boredom really meant? Then I had a dream the other night. I dreamt that somehow I was at a party on Park Avenue and Jane was there. I was stunned and told her that I thought she'd died, but she told me she didn't; she'd recovered. "So why didn't you call me?" I asked her. "I was waiting for you to call me," she replied.<br />
<br />
I went back to reading Hardwick. The following lines jumped out at me. "The beginning of June was hot. I took a journey and, of course, immediately, everything was new. When you travel your first discovery is that you do not exist." The phlox bloomed in its faded purples. On the hillside, phallic pines. foreigners under the arcades, in basket shops. A steamy haze blurred the lines of the hills. A dirty, exhausting sky. Already the summer seemed to be passing away. Soon the boats would be gathered in, ferried roped to the dock."<br />
<br />
What does she mean? When you travel...you do not exist. I feel as if I exist so much more when I travel. As if I am perhaps alive for the first time. But I think that what she is saying is different. It think what she's saying is similar to what Camus meant when <br />
he said when we travel, we are the most afraid because we no longer have all that baggage with us - our job, our social standing, the people who prop us up on a daily basis - indeed we no longer have the props, that make us who are.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1y8VzYUv8agQRnyiE4XTAdgEZH240tO_2j61jl-n-h-n-TzFRzYdWuQCxL-XHQq3YlPUzcap7MRStOAKpyUdBuwqDllD2Pg91tIJfpZV35e4HE2Pe0mdNa0Mj743cF-fUSPgupYLNDAg-/s1600/Barcelona+botanic+garden+fountain0001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1y8VzYUv8agQRnyiE4XTAdgEZH240tO_2j61jl-n-h-n-TzFRzYdWuQCxL-XHQq3YlPUzcap7MRStOAKpyUdBuwqDllD2Pg91tIJfpZV35e4HE2Pe0mdNa0Mj743cF-fUSPgupYLNDAg-/s1600/Barcelona+botanic+garden+fountain0001.jpg" height="320" width="232" /></a>I think Hardwick is saying that once we are out in the big world, all those things that we think make us who we are no longer exist and we just become one with the whole roiling mass of life. It can be terrifying. And exhilarating. Once Andre Malraux said words that the effect that it is not so astonishing that we have been thrown at random among the profusion of stars. It is astonishing that we have been able to fashion images of ourselves sufficient to deny our nothings.<br />
<br />
It seems to me that that is what we do in our daily lives with our friends and our dogs and our phones and take-out food and lovers and jobs. We fashion images that enable us to deny our nothingness. And it is only in travel - and perhaps I might add in sleepless nights - that we can come to the realization that we do not exist. Not as these distinct entities we think that we are but rather as a particle, the petal of a flower, a drop of rain within the vastness and endless hours of it all.<br />
<br />
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Mary Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01630615930015497995noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3934993593345223999.post-12813837125877614262014-08-14T12:09:00.001-04:002014-08-14T12:09:02.535-04:00Spelunking Into Ourselves<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwJYsQxoLtF1SaDT-T_ovJ_vVWd-ha0Rz-JPSIaiUZdnQNjmJky9B3muB43qaxr4XzL5CrCJZhZX7kDI_mbj2fzQpHl7zAqitOlcKSKPPU8VMu-IN53zeD3KJagDtUKRT_-DzyD2LxB2Z0/s1600/P1010640.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwJYsQxoLtF1SaDT-T_ovJ_vVWd-ha0Rz-JPSIaiUZdnQNjmJky9B3muB43qaxr4XzL5CrCJZhZX7kDI_mbj2fzQpHl7zAqitOlcKSKPPU8VMu-IN53zeD3KJagDtUKRT_-DzyD2LxB2Z0/s1600/P1010640.JPG" height="320" width="239" /></a>Yesterday I went with a dear friend to see Audra McDonald in
Lady Day at the Emerson Bar and Grill and when this amazing show ended my
friend turned to me with tears in her eyes.
She said she could not bear the tragedy of Billie Holiday’s life. And I told her that I could not believe the
wonder of her gift. It was an odd
moment. My friend riddled with sadness
and me with admiration and, I’m not going to lie, even a tinge of jealousy. </div>
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Don’t we all – well at least those of us who are artists -
in some way want to dig that deeply, but the fact is how many of us can? To me it is a little like spelunking. I’ll only go so far and then the darkness,
the narrowness makes me stop. Fear
takes over. This is something I’ve
puzzled over for most of my adult life.
There are moments when I have dipped that far down and it has terrified
me. </div>
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I recall many years ago seeing Equus on Broadway. It was one of the first plays I saw when I
came to New York and there was one line and one moment that has never left me. The play, for those who may not know it, is
about a boy who blinds six horses with a railroad spike. Clearly the boy is insane and most of the
play takes place in the asylum where he has been sent along with the fleeting
images of the horror he has committed.
There is a moment when the psychiatrist says (and forgive me I do not
recall the context), “I can cure him of his madness but I will take away his
passion.”</div>
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<br /></div>
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Isn’t that the tightrope all artists are walking? Between our madness and our passion. It is a delicate balance, to say the
least. While Flaubert told us to be
ordinary in our lives so that we may be wild in our imaginations at times I
find it difficult to reconcile the two.
</div>
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It brings us back to the age-old question. Do artists have to suffer? What was it about Billie Holiday, Piaf, and
most recently Robin Williams that made them so destructive? I suppose I’m one of those who always go
back to the mother. That somewhere in
our core we are shattered. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiswWNmk7AJUzDphLOVZl7qYY5vqYXLTveS4FPy-UE5iqVtEM8x2yWQp0rIPUi6FNmYi6bOATJeaxKJjKamnwS7nk09iHJvQ_nEHtBr2KugIYHjqlel7qGWb5jQDcBOihcvuxijgDer667u/s1600/Blue+wall.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiswWNmk7AJUzDphLOVZl7qYY5vqYXLTveS4FPy-UE5iqVtEM8x2yWQp0rIPUi6FNmYi6bOATJeaxKJjKamnwS7nk09iHJvQ_nEHtBr2KugIYHjqlel7qGWb5jQDcBOihcvuxijgDer667u/s1600/Blue+wall.JPG" height="320" width="239" /></a>On the other hand Billie Holiday had a loving relationship
with her mother and in the play it seems to be the revoking of her cabaret card
after she pleaded guilty to a felony she did not commit. But Billie was already hooked on heroin so
again who is to say. Is it the art that
makes us dig deeper until we have perhaps dug our own graves. Or is it the art that is our rescuer and
enables us to climb out of the holes of despair, at least for a time, in which
we have found ourselves. </div>
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I don’t know. I have
my thoughts, but I cannot know for sure.
Once a read about a Harvard study that showed that creative people
remember their childhoods as unhappy, even if they were not.</div>
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<br />
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I still see my friend, her eyes welling with tears over the
tragedy of Billie’s life. And I feel
myself in the audience in awe of her gift, and I think that the truth lies
somewhere in between in a place few of us can ever really understand. </div>
<br />
</div>
Mary Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01630615930015497995noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3934993593345223999.post-64957007168833841262014-08-12T11:53:00.008-04:002014-08-12T11:53:56.136-04:00Dreaming of San Sebastian and beyond...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Much to my dismay it is August in New York and I'm finding myself at home. It seems that, for reasons I don't understand, I have no place to go. This year I've been to Thailand, Key West, Hong Kong, Barcelona, Mexico, Chicago, Macau, Red Hook and yet somehow it isn't enough. Why doesn't someone invite me somewhere? Why do I do better in motion? I always have. And yet the artist needs to settle down. <br />
<br />
This painting is of San Sebastian. I did it last night while watching the news. I'm not sure why I needed to listen to all the miseries of the world as I painted this serene setting, but for whatever reason I did. San Sebastian is the closest I have come to a home that isn't my home. And so I long for it.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQKpDGopL2DtlU6beU4B09MFrVUcq9BYjC_Q5Rq6Gm5kcb2QecCOLtax_kJpDEEkugomaLnwZgGAAE8ZpVdAxcZ8aYWhyow0iz22l3vRjnJadstVy63pwcXwCLQuHgho6rFclfIWMqgcAq/s1600/Paris+20110002.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQKpDGopL2DtlU6beU4B09MFrVUcq9BYjC_Q5Rq6Gm5kcb2QecCOLtax_kJpDEEkugomaLnwZgGAAE8ZpVdAxcZ8aYWhyow0iz22l3vRjnJadstVy63pwcXwCLQuHgho6rFclfIWMqgcAq/s1600/Paris+20110002.jpg" height="320" width="231" /></a></div>
So I've been reading Paul Nizan in French (something I haven't done - reading in French that is - since grad school). Aden-Arabie. And dreaming of the far away, the beyond, the elsewhere, the not here, the exotic, the Far East, the imaginary cities, imaginary landscapes, places I remember, places that are no longer what they once seemed to be. My head is full of nostaglia which I believe is a form of denial. As if some place else is better than here.<br />
<br />
Isn't that what Elizabeth Bishop says in "Questions of Travel?" One of my favorite poems that states the paradox of travel. "Think of the long trip home. Should we have stayed at home and thought of here?" <br />
Or as my mother said when she put me aboard the SS France for my junior year abroad, "You take yourself with you."<br />
<br />
My mother wasn't the world's wisest woman but that was a wise saying - one I carry with me wherever I go.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH_J8eNaPewI3iLQOJBT9ufVoTGe06pms8_YenzWt_TvDQBJzywYDBYnfGsmqyaf4cbn1SNBCRh4L4jgUmAK55R67aIuCGiUajeJA7SVjs0XyGoIYAlg9rxjpAwXG-9Dsmw2fUhWZ0kPoN/s1600/Barcelona.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH_J8eNaPewI3iLQOJBT9ufVoTGe06pms8_YenzWt_TvDQBJzywYDBYnfGsmqyaf4cbn1SNBCRh4L4jgUmAK55R67aIuCGiUajeJA7SVjs0XyGoIYAlg9rxjpAwXG-9Dsmw2fUhWZ0kPoN/s1600/Barcelona.jpg" height="320" width="214" /></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdJYmaZ3ZGeIYXn4_zs0fdnPp9nMImU3uiooGwPV1HfUsQShJwoZaNxHPogqxviD82aTZGjHNeDjK27RC-A3xCqbbR-vQHnGp0qemxOe1X-jvDMiNyxtfRGhVy7kqIbh5r2jb_KBoPMmdZ/s1600/portals+-+terraza+Rome0001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdJYmaZ3ZGeIYXn4_zs0fdnPp9nMImU3uiooGwPV1HfUsQShJwoZaNxHPogqxviD82aTZGjHNeDjK27RC-A3xCqbbR-vQHnGp0qemxOe1X-jvDMiNyxtfRGhVy7kqIbh5r2jb_KBoPMmdZ/s1600/portals+-+terraza+Rome0001.jpg" height="320" width="230" /></a>But for now I am going no where fast and so I am dreaming of other places. Why can't I relish these final dog days of summer? Why do they call them that anyway? I think I remember that it doesn't really have to do with dogs. Now I'm dreaming of Labor Day and the bustle of the fall, the busy-ness of it all, and soon I'll be yearning for the days when I found myself with little else to do except dream and paint images of places where I no longer am. <br />
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Mary Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01630615930015497995noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3934993593345223999.post-16037837898604382782014-08-07T13:04:00.001-04:002014-08-07T13:04:33.962-04:00What Gets Left Behind...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDBYRiDNstOx2E3Bb3eAZro-bUocumG54oYiMj9KSo21c4lH3WrF68tZgrl4UHjOjV19aQTLO87zyaf49x1Lvv9Wvg-BvO-bT2Fv3s1UtKzISaXbM1FAyc2n3WMThSVKKJfs-nFPUrDaL4/s1600/Paris+20110006.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDBYRiDNstOx2E3Bb3eAZro-bUocumG54oYiMj9KSo21c4lH3WrF68tZgrl4UHjOjV19aQTLO87zyaf49x1Lvv9Wvg-BvO-bT2Fv3s1UtKzISaXbM1FAyc2n3WMThSVKKJfs-nFPUrDaL4/s1600/Paris+20110006.jpg" height="320" width="306" /></a>A few years ago Larry and I were heading to Paris for a week's vacation. We hadn't been away in a while and I was feeling rather stuck, in need of change. It was to be a working vacation - as many of ours are. I'd packed my clothes in a wheelie that we'd carry on. But the important things were in my black backpack. My journal, my paints and pencil kit, the book I planned to read (IQ84, I believe), our camera, my meds, my makeup, and several manuscripts of stories and a novel I planned to work on in the cafes. Just a week, but that was what the doctor ordered.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglI22xKc4svzTeNZANRqmnhSfw-liOXSZnBhqVZRd-kL9fyh5k39IdkPKh408LgkNdRwK6p4UPXjkAOfLhCVUY4CLSp_ofrsU-xT0f_zKGUomiYDnYqkvU0jGXlmDy_TTuv5fw_uJ2nuWs/s1600/Paris+20110004.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglI22xKc4svzTeNZANRqmnhSfw-liOXSZnBhqVZRd-kL9fyh5k39IdkPKh408LgkNdRwK6p4UPXjkAOfLhCVUY4CLSp_ofrsU-xT0f_zKGUomiYDnYqkvU0jGXlmDy_TTuv5fw_uJ2nuWs/s1600/Paris+20110004.jpg" height="278" width="320" /></a>We loaded up the car and drove to Newark where we'd park in long term parking. A van would pick us up there and take us to the terminal. As we're unloading the trunk, I'm counting the bags. And it takes a few moments for it to sink in. Because my backpack with all my work and my journal and writing tools isn't in the car. "Where's my backpack?" I asked Larry, my voice trembling.<br />
<br />
"I thought you took it?"<br />
<br />
"I thought you were loading up the car."<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSQ9U3dIrfmq_unbwTdCZCqNHVpEgLaVInmlLwVncENYGH5_hc3ZPZIXGMI-pAtFl4DBMcsQCMukEzPZhblnB-N3e-Vuh6Zka0txJ_clq4BZ1bf2vDjGuJLPcUp3m21BalfF_-kHsx5wWf/s1600/Paris+20110008.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSQ9U3dIrfmq_unbwTdCZCqNHVpEgLaVInmlLwVncENYGH5_hc3ZPZIXGMI-pAtFl4DBMcsQCMukEzPZhblnB-N3e-Vuh6Zka0txJ_clq4BZ1bf2vDjGuJLPcUp3m21BalfF_-kHsx5wWf/s1600/Paris+20110008.jpg" height="320" width="254" /></a><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxZTqXfH7nU7SYmdWtnwuPncVM8NeYVhhFpRGYm4jm03KAlWWa9e2-TiiDM6tnDX9iNomHoVabLJq8wc9OJwMz81KB8Fg4g67uYH_mP2fFPUQbojmpTKjvSqIYA12yhafXsLUDGuCCrFEd/s1600/Paris+20110007.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxZTqXfH7nU7SYmdWtnwuPncVM8NeYVhhFpRGYm4jm03KAlWWa9e2-TiiDM6tnDX9iNomHoVabLJq8wc9OJwMz81KB8Fg4g67uYH_mP2fFPUQbojmpTKjvSqIYA12yhafXsLUDGuCCrFEd/s1600/Paris+20110007.jpg" height="263" width="320" /></a>So began our sinking argument that would travel across the ocean with us. He said he was packing the car; I thought he'd see my backpack and put it in. We struggled for a solution. <br />
<br />
Did we have time to go home? Could we order a car that would go to our house and our tenant could give it to the driver who would bring it to the airport? All kinds of options were considered and discarded. A car did pick up the backpack but got stuck in tunnel traffic. And so I was going to be flying without any of the tools of my trade into a great unknown and in a very bad mood.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhPNOfrhsoXST6l-rkUWroALKhgFDFRapK61iHvIYgdJFTNtI9L9pOS1taD7_5gmnfkOeDpr6YsoxdeJR3qDv2KKGtQw5d-aHCrWp02Lrs1Ge6y55jpAmEKYvqbnqLq1PwX9w3he7hteKy/s1600/Paris+20110010.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhPNOfrhsoXST6l-rkUWroALKhgFDFRapK61iHvIYgdJFTNtI9L9pOS1taD7_5gmnfkOeDpr6YsoxdeJR3qDv2KKGtQw5d-aHCrWp02Lrs1Ge6y55jpAmEKYvqbnqLq1PwX9w3he7hteKy/s1600/Paris+20110010.jpg" height="250" width="320" /></a><br />
At Larry's suggestion we went into a bookstore at Newark. I bought something I thought I might read. I don't remember what it was at the time. And then Larry pointed out that they did have small journals and I could buy some pens. "It's something," he said. <br />
<br />
To me it was nothing. I wanted my journal. The one I'd been working in. The one that contained all my notes for the stories I would soon be writing. Still I bought it, assuming all that would be in would be my venom. <br />
<br />
We barely spoke on the flight. Upon arriving we went to a pharmacy where I began the tedious job of reconstructing what medications I needed, what I could get over the counter, what my doctor in the US had to fax in a prescription for. All this before we even got to our apartment.<br />
<br />
At last we went to the apartment. It was small but cozy right in the Marais. We were exhausted and though normally we'd try and stay awake to fight the jet lag instead we tumbled into bed, waking just at dusk. "Come on," Larry said, urging me out of my anger and lethargy. "let's take a walk." As is often the case with my husband he had an ulterior motive. He recalled the store on the Boulevard San Michele that sold art supplies and ever so gently he steered me in that direction. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1voJIJl7LeJvKYghy7HOL8iPIi3qyIG6YPg14ye9cAy1OyzHzz78Qq-tsxESGHFVyHYpsI0Y2z6Kufkcdo55-Id7Fr4Svi1HLHFZtcW_fVEg3eLK76iMffyrDP1zeSSr3SJ54rjjZGV70/s1600/Paris+20110001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1voJIJl7LeJvKYghy7HOL8iPIi3qyIG6YPg14ye9cAy1OyzHzz78Qq-tsxESGHFVyHYpsI0Y2z6Kufkcdo55-Id7Fr4Svi1HLHFZtcW_fVEg3eLK76iMffyrDP1zeSSr3SJ54rjjZGV70/s1600/Paris+20110001.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a><br />
I had my little journal with me in my pocket, though I had yet to write a word. Normally I write on the flight, but not on this one. Before nightfall I found myself in the store where I bought a small watercolor kit, a few pens, a glue stick. Then we wandered over to a cafe where we drank several glasses of wine. <br />
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The next day we woke to the sun shining. I pulled my little collection of supplies together and off we went, heading no where in particular. We bought some coffee and croissants and plunked ourselves down on a spot near the Seine. Beside us an elderly couple were making out. A child played with a ball. An accordian player got on a loop of romantic Parisian songs. It wasn't long before a Japanese bride and groom appeared. She wore a bright fuscia gown with black fishnet stockings and a black veil and he was in white sharkskin with an odd shaggy dog hairdo. Their photographer crossed paths with three guys who told us that they were shooting a music video for Julien Clerc. A green balloon floated by. Somehow the bride and groom ended up in the music video. We wandered over to la Flore de Ile for ice cream.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbySWvTJZa_Q-xbcl-KMwQS5wo22kR1SCS6WWBdYRsxrh4ICpV36m_tZVdrT4WS5PIkJKvhBtIF3mNYX4OeXHU4BXziY05-1SrMXprCqeifVs4yix9UlHHhTgZGHltt5pXZ38cGUY33utl/s1600/Vienna+20090003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbySWvTJZa_Q-xbcl-KMwQS5wo22kR1SCS6WWBdYRsxrh4ICpV36m_tZVdrT4WS5PIkJKvhBtIF3mNYX4OeXHU4BXziY05-1SrMXprCqeifVs4yix9UlHHhTgZGHltt5pXZ38cGUY33utl/s1600/Vienna+20090003.jpg" height="230" width="320" /></a><br />
It was late when we staggered back to our little apartment where we ate olives, grilled toast with goat cheese and smoked salmon and sipped Bordeaux. Why we hadn't killed one another I didn't know but life was starting to feel good again.<br />
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Over the next week I did none of the things I'd planned. I worked on none of the stories, or the novel. I didn't continue my journal. Instead I started something new. A small Paris Journal. In time I came to love its size and compactness. The pages absorbed color well. And I could do what I truly love doing best. Sitting in cafes and bar, scribbling, drawing, painting. <br />
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I found myself oddly unencumbered. No enormous tomes to read, no work staring me in the face. It was as if leaving that heavy bag behind enabled me to travel light in so many ways and that was what the journey should have been about from the start. </div>
Mary Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01630615930015497995noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3934993593345223999.post-72326202053333727812014-07-25T10:56:00.001-04:002014-07-25T11:47:31.840-04:00Get Lost!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7uUYLhA6Hb6vW5R-KcRdlBrRbxQwdqFAxFKlBwbf-e1zCBb3-IhEVTfADxsSHHhyDFu6XTFwfGQDSdjMgr5eLuF0FV3oBWFPixt4TIYU6qC4p-MhMYk1XU6mKFE_Hl-0dNxBGsNyJYNC2/s1600/Desire+Paths0001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7uUYLhA6Hb6vW5R-KcRdlBrRbxQwdqFAxFKlBwbf-e1zCBb3-IhEVTfADxsSHHhyDFu6XTFwfGQDSdjMgr5eLuF0FV3oBWFPixt4TIYU6qC4p-MhMYk1XU6mKFE_Hl-0dNxBGsNyJYNC2/s1600/Desire+Paths0001.jpg" height="219" width="320" /></a>My husband and daughter are on a long-planned road trip. They are going to run in the Nova Scotia marathon in Barrington, Nova Scotia. They are driving up the coast to Maine, then on to New Brunswick, taking the bridge across to NS. Yesterday late in the day I received this first text from my daughter on the road. "We"ve already lost something." I envisioned credit cards, running shoes, a wheel off the car, something essential to their endeavor, but when I ask what she wrote back. "The map flew out the window."<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjbhNE91Hk_4RJQMuGbkSNXnPdiFqmiRnrGdghPM85bVeCD_BH-1mQalx1S2zyYuuuAT7xt2KupV48oKbR2Fn9HP9DjKWVTutEvwXVx9fvJnuhgL_3T2RN0GY76fRlCvqU_B37VOZGx82n/s1600/+Maybe+California.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjbhNE91Hk_4RJQMuGbkSNXnPdiFqmiRnrGdghPM85bVeCD_BH-1mQalx1S2zyYuuuAT7xt2KupV48oKbR2Fn9HP9DjKWVTutEvwXVx9fvJnuhgL_3T2RN0GY76fRlCvqU_B37VOZGx82n/s1600/+Maybe+California.jpg" height="320" width="199" /></a>I was fairly certain which map that was. The carefully annotated one of New England that we'd had in the car for about ten years. I'm not sure if we ever really used it, but I know that Larry who was somewhat apprehensive about this trip (long drive, grown-up daughter, 26 mile race, etc) told me he'd marked their route. He had it all planned. He'd showed me the four pages of mapquest directions (drive .05 miles, make sharp left on to the ramp, drive .03, etc). Of course I probably would have done the same thing, but I teased him a bit. I told him then to just throw it away. Just drive northeast, I said.<br />
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When I heard that it was the map that they lost, I was, of course, relieved, but also I felt oddly happy with this news. I wrote back to Larry. Here is the message of the map. Get lost!<br />
Getting lost in this day and age isn't that easy to do. In fact it requires some reverse skills. No GPS for instance. No smartphone Google maps. In Morocco in the Sahara we used a GPS for the first time. It kept saying, "Wrong road; turn around" until I unplugged it. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFD_550F27k1V9Fq1uHQMP-uvdrDCYlCfPGEBfRGSHYj4UzxJ-mmFhoDr73rbwWCqntc3nwd4y3iDXWYakFi3Djh1FeMAta2FMVhZhHA2eiAkDL_QQkfE9MVQnZm0sSi048rGuW5NvYuhF/s1600/Botanic+Garden+March+2012+009.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFD_550F27k1V9Fq1uHQMP-uvdrDCYlCfPGEBfRGSHYj4UzxJ-mmFhoDr73rbwWCqntc3nwd4y3iDXWYakFi3Djh1FeMAta2FMVhZhHA2eiAkDL_QQkfE9MVQnZm0sSi048rGuW5NvYuhF/s1600/Botanic+Garden+March+2012+009.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a><br />
Matt Gross who was once the frugal traveler for the New York Times and now has gone out on his own wrote a series for the Times about just this theme. He began in Tangiers. He traversed the city with no map, no guidebook, no guide. Just following his nose. Matt wrote about doing the two things that he loved most: sitting in one place for a long time and doing nothing; ambling without destination. <br />
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There's a word for this in French. You call someone a "flanner." He walks without purpose or plan; he has no where specific to go and nothing to do. You walk for the sake of walking. And in the process you can get lost. <br />
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I've never been one for itineraries. Once we were planning a trip with dear friends and as we were planning it it was becoming clearer and clearer that they were people who had plans and we weren't. There's a famous saying by the founder of the Dada movement - I think it was Tristan Tzara - who said that not having a plan is a plan. I like that notion. It is my plan not to have a plan. In the end we do best traveling alone. <br />
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God's curse to Adam was "You will be a restless wanderer." The words "travel" and "trip" in fact come from the term Latin term tripalium which was a form of Roman torture similar to impalement. Nobody knows how tripalium morphed into travail in French and travel in English. How impalement transformed itself into a Eurail pass. One other interesting detail. If you Google tripalium, trip advisor and trip planner come up right after it. I'm not sure what this means. Though I would say that for me any plan is a form of torture. <br />
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For me the pleasure is in the wandering. It is in the moment when, as E.M. Forester wrote so beautiuflly in "Room With A View" you are visiting Florence without your Baedecker. It is when you cancel the guide. Or when your map flies out the window. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVYPELH1EQW2UWWfJqBdNvLvX7zJ4gRUVccPBiGaRG5QfUBIc7kZw32-lE_jMDjbQLevIHUGAYQV3p4gXVxLpmywD0MVaP_AxNCh0W1uuMqNfj2Oa8aBk7lBN75lPHhddu6X2HCaukr64q/s1600/DSCN4700.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVYPELH1EQW2UWWfJqBdNvLvX7zJ4gRUVccPBiGaRG5QfUBIc7kZw32-lE_jMDjbQLevIHUGAYQV3p4gXVxLpmywD0MVaP_AxNCh0W1uuMqNfj2Oa8aBk7lBN75lPHhddu6X2HCaukr64q/s1600/DSCN4700.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a>I believe that for Larry and Kate the fun has just begun. It is the difference between taking a trip and traveling. And once you allow that the journey is the destination, and the map is not the real way, then there's no telling what you'll find. <br />
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Mary Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01630615930015497995noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3934993593345223999.post-51215447819858983672014-07-22T16:39:00.001-04:002014-07-22T16:40:46.471-04:00Old Woman in Hong Kong, leaning on a wall...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh71MNt4iF64nA60P-0_QOAWt56px2KIpuc5xKSPKtBmhvGeHRXTvSnxIQG3ihbU6_3XoopyKt6KMhXkbSPW3odhqWxjyWFtDiXVka0sSlrmsJoFgwo1aXmMofcj4Bt1nZESDZ01xewQan/s1600/scan0007.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh71MNt4iF64nA60P-0_QOAWt56px2KIpuc5xKSPKtBmhvGeHRXTvSnxIQG3ihbU6_3XoopyKt6KMhXkbSPW3odhqWxjyWFtDiXVka0sSlrmsJoFgwo1aXmMofcj4Bt1nZESDZ01xewQan/s1600/scan0007.jpg" height="320" width="219" /></a>Larry says you're a poem, not a story, but it is your story that draws me in. We saw you when we arrived and now you are here again as if to mark our leaving. <br />
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You stand by the wall, peering down, morning after morning - watching the people as they come and go. The parents, taking children to school, lovers who've just tumbled out of bed on their way to work, husbands and <br />
wives, mother going to market, nannies with babies. Dogs. <br />
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You watch them all as you stand at your wall - your caregiver at your side. I imagine that you are standing on an egg crate, some kind of a box, just high enough for you to perch your elbow on this wall. <br />
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In this sea of high rises the wall that surrounds you stands out. It is low, perhaps not six feet high, made of stone. Behind it I can see houses, trees. I like to think that it is a small village, a remnant of the past, and when you are gone it will be gone too. If we come back in a year or more, I'm sure this enclosure in which you dwell will be torn down. It cannot survive you.<br />
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I long to peek behind, to walk in the door that is always open on Mosque Road. I peer in and can see the shabby huts that comprise the neighborhood where you dwell. I am curious. I want to know what goes on behind this wall. I want to see where you live, to walk in your garden. I want to step inside your trailer or your house.<br />
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Instead I watch you, watching. If someone waves, you greet them. Otherwise your eyes just follow the flow of the escalators, the sea of humanity that flows by as we sit across the way in a cafe, watching you watch them. <br />
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Life streams by and you are old.<br />
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What is your story? Or is it a poem? Is the caregiver your daughter as I'd like to believe? Or a loyal daughter-in-law? Have you loved someone? Is he gone? When did he leave you? <br />
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My eyes are filled with tears as life passes you by. You are my mother. When I look back, you are already turning to leave. </div>
Mary Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01630615930015497995noreply@blogger.com1