Michael Douglas Jones

The Isle of Circ

2012-02-08T20:50:00.001-05:00

The Isle of Circ (an imaginary land) by Michael Douglas Jones

Journal entry No.03/30 On the Island. I have abandoned my airship and now, on foot, move deeper toward the center of the Isle of Circ, my map showing the concentric rings that mark its depth. I can’t help but feel like it takes a leap of faith to move to each inner ring; each ring a smaller and smaller circle, until I reach a point where I am either spinning or perfectly still.

For the full story of the expedition to the Isle of Circ:

http://mjonesstudio.com/circ_journal.htm

Leaving, Returning

2012-01-28T20:14:00.001-05:00

Leaving, Returning. Prints and cards available here.

We live, we learn, we leave, return;

fly south and north, the back and forth,

the fifth, the sixth, the palimpsest.

Our journal faded, overwritten,

never lost;

forgot;

forgiven.

We meet, we sleep, we meet again;

again

Restricted View

2012-01-18T11:15:00.002-05:00

The modifications to this blog post are in accordance with proposed guidelines for the Stop Online Piracy Act (SOPA), also known as House Bill 3261. In all manner of art and speech, the government reserves the right to remove any inappropriate matter which contains offensive material such as nudity, words, or colors that are not beige.

As an artist, of course, I'm against Web Piracy, but when lazy lawmakers write vague laws hoping the Supreme Court can sort out the details, we have to call them out.

Leaving You at Sundown

2012-01-15T19:53:00.003-05:00

one small stone in a riverbed of stones; day15

Sunset on Sundown Road, Laytonsville, Maryland. January 15

Leaving; riding beside the split-rail toward the sundown road. In the crisp winter air, the smell of oak wood smoke fades; the warmth of your whisper still wrapped like wool around me.

On The Dock of This Day

2012-01-13T09:18:00.002-05:00

one small stone in a riverbed of stones; day13

On the dock of this day, 1928

Eastern horizon quickening, lightening; sea of sun rising, readying, raising the mainsail of morning; dawn’s winter wind roars like stevedores on the dock of this day. Swaying ship masts of high hill pines creak and caution, as icy hatch hinges slam and shudder; flags snap and shiver. The crew of crows comes aboard from the valley, cawing commands; all is ready before the mast, this day may get under way. Day breaks cold against my face charting a northwest course; with the western moon over my left shoulder. I turn and face into this fine adventure.

Once

2012-01-11T16:04:00.000-05:00

one small stone in a riverbed of stones; day11

On a rainy Wednesday afternoon, in the empty aisle of gift wraps and greeting cards, past the paper plates and party hats, a lace gray grandmother, with spectacles and a pocket magnifier, lingers alone, reading sentimental Valentines, just like the ones her children used to send her.

This Day

2012-01-10T08:31:00.001-05:00

one small stone in a riverbed of stones; day10

This Day ~ A Drama in Four Acts

There is one moment, in the frosted hour before dawn, with the full moon melting, moving low, in the west behind the pines, with the fog facade on the eastern valley trees, before the crow caws the morning message, before obsculta in the deep silence is overwhelmed by the white noise of aeroplanes and motorcars. There, in that full circle surrounding, I can turn in any direction, take a moment, take a breath, and begin this day. That moment, when the fullness of nature nods knowingly, and wakes the world. That is my moment.

UNION Exhibit & Valentine's Book Signing

2012-01-09T13:10:00.000-05:00

Terah Ware ~ Modern Vintage Jewelry with a Neo-Victorian Style

The UNION exhibition will open in Boonsboro, Maryland at GiftsInnBoonsboro on February 4, 2012, and continue throughout the month.

I am so pleased to share the gallery space with Terah Ware. Terah is a jewelry artist, teacher, and writer from Berkeley Springs, West Virginia. Her website, An Era’s Ambiance, is a beautiful, modern vintage masterpiece.

Right next door to the gallery is Turn The Page Bookstore and I will be signing copies of UNION: The Courier Journals at the Valentine's Book Signing on Saturday, February 18, 2012 from 12-2pm with Nora Roberts / J D Robb , Mary Burton, Mary Kay McComas, Donna Kauffman & Sarah Wendell and local author, Mary Alice Baumgardner.

UNION is a mixed media art/journal exhibit commemorating the sesquicentennial of the American Civil War. This exhibition includes a series of collage pieces that follow a personal journey through the fictional journals and love letters of a cavalry courier between 1861 and 1865. A slideshow of the art pieces is available here, and the book is available here.

Small Stones

2012-01-08T19:59:00.001-05:00

one small stone in a riverbed of stones; day8

Bowl of Stones. oil painting ~ Michael Douglas Jones

At our feet are small stones that glow brighter than summer stars, but only if we see the light inside them. Were we not distracted by the babble and chatter of the cobblestone city, we would walk on stars; the glow rising through our feet to our faces. You would see it in my eyes, as I see it in you.

More like May

2012-01-07T19:25:00.001-05:00

one small stone in a riverbed of stones; day7

More like May ~ Michael Douglas Jones

This warm January morning, more like May; a mockingbird, with mate, in the winterberry tree, plucks a berry ripe red, and flies to the top of the redbud. Turning back, he wonders; in this struggling economy, will there be enough berries to last until the June bugs return. Turkey vulture, high above, knows there is always plenty.

The Farm in Fox Hollow

2012-01-06T17:34:00.000-05:00

one small stone in a riverbed of stones; day6

Seven Buff Browns ~ Michael Douglas Jones

Down the ridge road at the farm in fox hollow, fresh this morning from the house of hens; seven Buff browns and the duck’s one daily. Down on the farm; no discrimination.

The January Garden

2012-01-05T12:10:00.002-05:00

one small stone in a riverbed of stones; day5

October’s uncarved pumpkins
in the January garden,
one by one, become
a winter dinner bowl
for passing passerines.

Pristine Moleskine

2012-01-04T13:21:00.000-05:00

one small stone in a riverbed of stones; day4

Pristine moleskines,

four to a drawer,

tucked inside

the chiffonier;

waiting for words

I thought unworthy

of pristine moleskines,

four to a drawer.

Predawn Snow Shower

2012-01-03T10:14:00.000-05:00

one small stone in a riverbed of stones; day3

Winter. A collage sketch by Michael Douglas Jones

Snow shower, sugar powder, dry and drifting down the ferry road, where I walk, winter warm, recalling summer girls, with funnel cake faces, waiting for the Ferris wheel.

First Day Back

2012-01-02T10:53:00.001-05:00

one small stone in a riverbed of stones; day2

Crow painting by the incredibly talented Kandy Vermeer Phillips.

Fifteen minutes before dawn,

black dashing in every direction,

fifteen crows cawing, complaining;

they’re already late for work.

This First Day

2012-01-01T17:26:00.004-05:00

Rainbow north, this first day.

one small stone in a riverbed of stones; day1

Seconds before sunset,

our ancient mother’s

glowing smile;

my doubts

about this day

dissolved.

Fragile

2011-12-24T00:22:00.001-05:00

Fragile. color pencil sketch ~ Michael Douglas Jones

Glass ornaments,

fragile, forgotten,

break so easily,

carelessly left

clinging

to the Christmas Tree.

Children,

fragile, forgotten,

break so easily,

carelessly left

clinging

to the Family Tree.

I swept

the broken bits

beneath

the presents;

their presence

forgotten.

Wallpaper

2011-12-21T20:57:00.000-05:00

Wallpaper. oil painting ~ Michael Douglas Jones

These walls were papered

by the landlord,

long before this was my room,

and all the tenants here before me

never questioned or presumed

that they could ever change the patterns

of the walls, or of the world.

They were held by their surroundings,

as sure as if there was no door,

for they accepted

what was presented

and never questioned their décor.

When we look a little closer

at the walls surrounding us,

we see the seam

is slowly lifting,

and behind,

we find

no wall at all.

Aloft

2011-12-20T10:44:00.000-05:00

Aloft on 9th Street. A photo collage ~ Michael Douglas Jones

Day 20: Friendship - What kind of a friend were you in 2011? What kind of a friend do you want to be in 2012?

I am not distant; I am right here, calling to you; I am an untethered balloon that moves away from where I want to go. I drop letters and drawings over the basket side to tell you, but they get caught up in the wind and drift away. I am not aloof; I am aloft, and cannot reach you.

There is no way around it; I am a recluse. I love this world; I love people; I care deeply, but there is a deeper feeling that has always been inside of me, that keeps me inside of me. I can’t call it fear; it is deeper than that. It possesses the whole of me, but to call it phobia sounds foolish. Reaching out is the most difficult movement to make; my arms, my voice, they fail me. I reach out through my art, through my written word, to tell you how I feel, to show how much I love you.

I’m getting better, but you already know

I will never call you, though I want to know that you are well.

I will never email you, but will always give a warm reply.

I will never ask to be your facebook friend, but will eagerly confirm.

I will never stop trying to be a better friend.

I am not cold; my eyes well up with compassion complete.

I reach out to the whole world, but cannot move my hands.

If you would just give me yours;

I am your best friend, I simply need a hand.

Shift Happens

2011-12-19T16:37:00.000-05:00

Passerines. mixed media from Eggs in Envelopes ~ Michael Douglas Jones

Day 19: Then and Now

What was your life like a decade ago? How has your life changed since then?

Often, in the last days of December, we look back at the crooked path we’ve worn in the ending year, using that same past to plan the future. Weighted down, but ready, we bring our bricks and baggage to pave a perfectly patterned road ahead. Then, as always, the earth shifts, cracks occur, and we start to stumble; yearly, wearily living along another winding path. Shift happens on this planet, I can’t plan it away. I can make scenarios, make contingencies, but I can’t make sure. There is simply no way to chart the changes that come along in a decade, so finally this year, I’m leaving my bricks behind, while I wander a bit. I still have much of my baggage, but I feel lighter already.

A decade ago, I had my first mixed media exhibit, Eggs in Envelopes, which developed out of one of those shifts; the sort that comes out of nowhere, right when you think your road is ready. That story is here.

http://mjonesstudio.com/ENE%20Notes.htm

You Are What You Eat

2011-12-17T12:43:00.004-05:00

Three Onions oil painting ~ Michael Douglas Jones

Reverb11 Day 17: Loathing - Who or what do you loathe and how have you expressed that in 2011?
I never use the word loathe; the sound of it just reminds me of comfort foods, like meat loaf with loaves of fresh baked bread. With that in mind, I present, for your consideration, a dessert tale.

Coarsely chopped scorn

and wild white venom

simmered

in the black beast stew;

she baked a loathe

of whole pain bread

and hate it by herself.

Her husband came home

in his cups;

much too late for dinner.

She met him

with the cake knife

to serve him just deserts.

Teaching Moment

2011-12-15T19:41:00.001-05:00

Day 15. Teaching Moment - Sometimes we find teachers in the most unexpected places. Who surprised you as a teacher this year, and what did you learn?

As we reach the middle of December, I find this Reverb11 project to be a most surprising teacher. I was sure during this year that I was paying attention and being awake. An intense year of art and writing surely was a time of focus; still these questions, near the end of the year, find me without answers. I feel like Herman Cain saying, “No, that’s a different one….I gotta go back and see….I got a lot of stuff twirling around in my head.” Well, actually, I never feel like Herman Cain, but I am surprised at how little I remember about this year. My focus was a spotlight on my work, when it should have been more of a floodlight on my life.

This is precisely what makes Reverb11 such an excellent exercise; it asks questions that we could be asking every day. I’ve never been one to make resolutions or keep a rolling record of my days, but that sort of attention to the detail of life completely wakes me up to what I am doing. It wakes me beyond what I thought I was; I thought I was awake, when I was sleepwalking.

Now, I’m going to do what I always say is future's futile hope; I’m going to make resolutions. I dislike even saying it, but you can hold me to it. I am going to carry my camera everywhere I go; I don’t mean my camera phone; I mean my real 35mm. There were so many moments, so many miracles, that I saw this year that I could have shared, like the day the praying mantis nest hatched. Have you ever seen that? Hundreds of tiny green twigs scurrying about, faster than light, eating each other; you have to separate them to various locations of the property or they might devour their kin; crazy, but an intense sensation, so much to learn about life.

I will keep a journal of days; the weather, the sounds, the stories of the bees, the comings and goings of the all-around-me. Like you, I am at the center of the universe; that should be noticed, appreciated, repeated in your story, history, her story.

Sure, there are other solutions and resolutions I should reconsider, but attention is my daily deficit. My attention needs my attention more than my diet, my exercise, or my phobias. To paraphrase my old buddy, the Buddha, “When the student is ready, the teacher appears.”

I could wait until January first, the new year’s day, but I will start early, in the morning, tomorrow morning, Friday; no need to set an alarm; I will be awake.

Gratitude

2011-12-14T19:29:00.003-05:00

Drawing by My Girl, 2009

Day 14: Gratitude - What five (5) things are you most grateful for from 2011? #reverb11

“An amateur artist is one who works all week at something else so he can paint on Saturday and Sunday. A professional artist is one whose wife works so he can paint all the time.” Ben Shahn, American artist 1898-1969

1. Grateful for my wife

I have loved her since she first sat behind me in 12^th grade Science class. Our first date was Senior Prom. A year later, I had to go into the service; she married and divorced; I married and divorced. I made it my mission to find her once again. It took ten years; I will never let her go. She’s a tough critic of my art and writing; most of the time she thinks I would be more successful selling khakis at Kohl’s; still she leaves at 8 and returns at 8, so that I can be this. She is the saint in my story.

2. Grateful for my girls

My art was my first love; it consumed me, satiated me, but it never jumped into my arms, or cried on my shoulder, full of fever. Art isn’t love like that. I never had children of my own, yet here they are; 40, 35, 12, and 9. They were gifts received by circumstance. Grateful doesn’t begin to encompass what these girls give me. On Friday nights, when they all gather round, it is so loud, they can’t hear my heart, but I can. I act the curmudgeon, so don’t let them know how much I treasure the moments when they bound into the room.

3. Grateful for my family

My mom lives with us in her own little apartment that the county calls a Registered Living Unit. Someday, I will tell you about the absurd law that regulates such an apartment in this county. Anyway, I count my mother as one of my girls, and I’m grateful for everything she does daily; she was the first one to insist that I should be an artist, no matter what others might say. She is my unconditional fan, so I must discount everything she says about my work. Sorry, mom.

My brothers, my cousins, my aunts and uncles, my in-laws; there are so many loving, supportive people in this family that could be saying, “Why doesn’t he get a real job?” They don’t; at least they don’t say that to me. They are always there for me.

4. Grateful for my online friends

I have met more incredible artists, writers, and heroes this year than I could imagine. They give themselves to the arts and to others without fail; they set high standards that make me work harder, and better, than I thought possible. I am, daily, grateful for these souls I’ve never seen or spoken with, yet they move me in life to a place high above where I once walked.

5. Grateful for my locals

From the local galleries to the local farms, there are those who advocate for artists, who advocate for a better world, who advance community when the world seems more isolated. I am reclusive, I am most comfortable at home, but this year my locals have pulled me out into the open air of community. A year ago, I would leave home with sunglasses on and hat pulled low; now I’ll stop and have a word with folks, because I feel welcome in a world where I once was worried.

I am grateful for much, but not for things. I am indebted to you; when you read, I am real. I am not an imaginary friend, I will be true.

Fear

2011-12-13T17:35:00.000-05:00

Day 13: Fear #reverb11

Back when you were drowning,

I dove into the deep end,

pulled you to the surface,

where you could catch your breath.

Now that both of us

have our heads below the water,

I fear you’ll finally find

that I never learned to swim.

The Unseen Symphony

2011-12-11T17:21:00.000-05:00

original oil sketch by Michael Douglas Jones

Day 11 What do you wish you had done more of in 2011? #reverb11

In my memory of moments, there were too few early summer evenings, outside on the cedar bench; my old friend, the cedar bench; the two of us, grayed with age, waiting for the moon to rise. We would sit in silence, as audience to the sunset songs of crickets, frogs, and creek; all in perfect harmony. Somehow, they knew which symphony was scheduled each evening. Too soon that faraway chorus was overwhelmed by unseen cicadas practicing a Philip Glass concerto behind a green curtain; too shy to let us see the performance. I applauded anyway, but the moon was rising; there would be no encore. Even the crows cawed out for more. We waited, and wished; we wanted more, but all and all, it was enough to last me through this winter.

The Dance of Beauty

2011-12-10T19:07:00.000-05:00

Day 10: A Moment of Beauty #reverb11

The whispering muse requests your prescience for the dance of beauty occurring at this moment.

Beauty is not fleeting. Our focus is fleeting; our attention to the dance of beauty is fleeting. Beauty is not a moment; it is a movement. We lie in the grassy field of our youth and watch the billowing beauty of clouds moving to the east, waiting for one to resemble a shape we call beauty. The cloud flowers into beauty and fades to background.

The moment a flower reaches its fleeting peak, we cut and keep it, as if we could save the moment when it was perfection. It was always perfection; it was always beautiful; it was we that didn’t notice. The flower moves into focus and fades into background again; it was beauty before, and beauty as background. Before it became flower, before bud, before seed, before soil and water, it was beauty. Beauty is all there is.

You also are beauty unfaltering. Before you grew to fit the form we call beauty, before you were born, before your parents were born, and even before that; you were beauty. All of that is the dance of beauty. The dance was never born and never dies. Beauty is not fleeting.

From the seed comes the flower;

from the flower comes the seed,

as the circle never-ending;

you and I are this

that always was and always will be.

Inside seed, was always flower;

inside flower, was always seed.

First came not the one, nor the other;

as perfect beauty,

always was, always will be.

Katydid.

2011-12-09T12:05:00.003-05:00

Day 9: My Best Photograph of 2011 #resound11 #reverb11

On an early August morning, watering the mandevilla, I noticed this Greater Anglewing Katydid on a leaf, not moving; I watched on and off all day, and it barely moved. It’s not the quality or the composition of the photograph that stays with me; it’s this reminder every time I see it. A katydid is stunningly beautiful, but hardly ever noticed, like us sometimes. We try so hard to fit in, to be liked, to be part of the group. If we can just blend into the crowd, we might be accepted, gathered up in the arms of a likeminded world and loved as one of them. This masterful disguise helps us not get eaten, but we don’t move; we don’t make our mark on the world. I don’t think we have to be extreme in standing out, like katyGaGa, but let our wings show, just a little. Will you do that? Katydid.

I Will Stay Here in Joy

2011-12-08T20:19:00.000-05:00

Day 8 Joy #reverb11

A past fraught with pain;

that is my past;

a future full of fear;

that is the future;

this moment is not past

or future.

I will stay here,

in this moment,

in joy.

There were 52 Friday nights in 2011, with two full moon Fridays. Which shall I choose? Just about every one brought me joy. There will be 52 Friday nights in 2012, with three full moon Fridays; how can one complain? Friday rarely disappoints, and if she did, she would be forgiven.

To Leave the War House Locked

2011-12-07T16:49:00.001-05:00

To Leave the War House Locked ~ original oil painting by Michael Douglas Jones

Day 7 #reverb11 Forgiveness

In my past, there was a warehouse where I stored my weapons of war. My anger and hurt were in there, with my drawn out plans of vengeance against those that had wronged me. I locked it deep inside me as I went about my days, and now the lock has rusted shut; I cannot get back in, and I've forgotten what I was fighting about.

Perhaps it is time to forgive those that have wronged me and to leave the war house locked.

On This Carousel

2011-12-06T16:05:00.002-05:00

Day 6 What made you laugh this year? #reverb11

Despite the peeling paint all along the midway, we answered the carny’s call, and climbed aboard on New Year’s Night. With a jerk, we started circling quickly counterclockwise.

2011 was a colossal carnival carousel spinning beyond control; faster, and faster, revolution after revolution. Sousa military marches shrieking in quickening 4/4 time; the bursting, blaring calliope sending white hot clouds of steam into the night, exploding the bright blue bulbs above us, darkening, sparking earthquakes and hurricanes, and still it spun faster. The strongest among us wrestled with the snapping wires that tethered the horses to the platform, but as hard as we worked, with arms stretched wide, we could not make the ends meet. No one could stop the whirl and there was only one way off. Brave faces on the verge of breakdown finally gave up and were thrown out into the gravel, where surrounding clowns laughed and left with all the brass rings. Avarice and ignorance watched from atop every spinning painted beast.

As I struggled to make my way through the mayhem to the safe center of the circle, I heard my little girls, out on the edge where the speed was greatest. Out on the edge, laughing loud and enjoying the ride.

When the mind worries, it works up a dreadful scenario and forgets how to laugh on the carousel.

Even when the ride is rough, these two make me laugh.

One Day Like This

2011-12-05T18:37:00.001-05:00

#resound11 DEC5: 2011 Theme Song

This month, writers from all over the internet are reflecting on 2011 and thinking ahead to 2012. I decided to join in this time, because I am between projects and know how important it is to work at your craft every day, even if it is only for an hour. In January, I will start a new project, but for this month, you can share in my own story, which at times may not be pretty.

Today, I chose a lighter subject, my 2011 theme song. Every life has a soundtrack playing behind it; a mood music that we hear as we go about our day. Music is an aspect of the arts that has always been of equal importance to any art I make. The photo above is from back in the 80's, when my brother and I formed The All Night Band, a three chord rock and folk outfit that played bars and such. These days, I have many moods and a hundred Pandora stations to reflect each of my personalities. If I’m working on a project, I usually can’t listen to music with lyrics, because the words are distracting, so I’ll listen to something downtempo or classical. My girls are always asking why I listen to sad music so much. I suppose it triggers a deep feeling that helps me find the depth of detail in writing or art. I simply tell the girls that sad music makes me happy; they roll their eyes and off they go. Sometimes, if there is a lot of chaos swirling about, I will go to simplynoise.com, turn up the brown noise and create a cocoon compatible for work.

My theme song for 2011 is not sad at all. One Day Like This by Elbow was introduced to me last spring on Twitter, by either mark Stratton or Brandee Baltzell. It immediately became the song I wanted to hear every morning; a song that starts the day off perfectly. The hook, the lyric, even the video, puts me in a mood to enjoy the world, whatever it brings. It came at an intense time of writing and art, when I was really starting to pay attention to the details of my world; even on chaotic days, I would stop and pay attention to the real world around me, if only for a moment. Real attention is a humbling experience, but also a moment when we can realize that this is all one flow, unfiltered.

Enjoy; it's looking like a beautiful day.

Here is a link to the official video that first attracted me; I love the joy found in this mundane job:

http://youtu.be/SQIdXKz4sE8

Here is a link to the band performing with the BBC Concert Orchestra:

http://youtu.be/OUUASDWrBdc

reverb11: Let it Go

2011-12-04T20:01:00.001-05:00

Day4 - Addition through subtraction - What have you let go of this year?

2:24 to 4:32

a.m. every night;

behind my eyes,

a flashing, ever flashing.

A torn retina

of flashing thoughts;

night after night.

Not nightmares;

madness.

A fist of thoughts

grabbing me,

pounding me.

Look at this.

See what you made me do.

There is nowhere,

no way

to look away.

The fist flashes

and grabs another thought;

pounding me.

This is worse;

look at this.

Now you’ve done it;

Look at this.

Behind my eyes,

my fist of failures

flashing.

You will never.

Until I

take a moment,

take a breath;

you are my mind,

you are not me.

I am this breath;

One breath, two,

three to ten.

I am this breath;

take a breath;

give it back.

Let it go.

Breathe in,

receive;

breathe out,

return;

receive;

return.

Take a moment;

give a moment;

let it go.

Fall away.

I have studied meditation and Buddhism for years, but only understood it intellectually. Only this year, have I learned how to calm my thoughts and let them fall away, thanks to the books and videos of Karen Maezen Miller. http://www.karenmaezenmiller.com/videos

While meditation has nothing to do with sleep, the calming breath can be used at any time of the day or night. This has added hours to my sleep and, surely, years to my life.

reverb11: A Moment in Time

2011-12-03T18:00:00.000-05:00

Day3 - A Moment in Time - one moment that you lived in 2011 that you will never forget.

There is only one moment in time; this one. Books will tell you that; I can tell you that; even the internet, which never lies, can tell you that. Do not, for one moment, believe it; find out on your own if there is only one moment. Don’t listen; live it. Logic is my lantern; I listened, I believed, but I never lived it before this year. This year, I actually stopped.

Stop.

Wait.

Do not move.

Be mindful. Eye full. Ear full. There is the moment in all its beauty, or banality. Just because we savor a moment never makes it nirvana; it is what it is, which is you, in a moment, a universe in a universe, ad infinitum.

This was the year I started to stop, savor, and set to paper every seemingly insignificant aspect of a moment. 2012 is the year I will do that every day, at least once a day; it will make all the difference in my art, my outlook, my life. It will change my world completely. You can believe it. I never lie.

reverb11: It Will Be Different

2011-12-02T17:39:00.005-05:00

If you could choose one thing that your children experience in a different way than you have, what would it be?

When I was ten, I slept with a loud old wooden box fan at the head of my bed, pretending it was a rumbling old truck that, every night, kidnapped me, taking me far away from my father. It was a two-ton Reo, green, like the ones I saw across the road at the Army base. Miles away it took me as I slept, but when I woke, I was still there in that bed, in that house of pain. Morning brought the light and I could go outside, away from the house to ease the fear.

By the time I was 13, I could maneuver the night; a quick cat, in kid's clothes, scaling walls and trees in quiet escape. No matter how late at night, as soon as the front door knob clicked open, I was up and gone; in winter weather, I had a ready place inside the closet, beneath a blanket, knees to chin, quiet breath. Not my first choice, closets are inferior hideouts, there’s only one way out. Many nights, I crawled out the window and slept on the flat roof, safe above the ground. There were too many other nights that I had to run to the field beside the Boys’ Club, within a copse of trees, away from cruising police cars, waiting, waiting for dawn to bring light to my world. I could not sleep out there; there might be monsters, but they were less dangerous than my father when he came home drunk, angry, and looking for a fight.

I still sleep with a fan beside my bed, a habit now, but necessary to sleep at all. The slightest noise wakes me and I do a check around the house. My family is sound in sleep, and I will sit for a moment, listening to a child’s breath; a child asleep in a dream with no trucks; simply sleep as it should be; so very different than mine. It’s not much, but it’s everything I wish for them.

.

reverb11: one word

2011-12-01T17:31:00.000-05:00

one word.

encapsulate the year 2011 in one word.

explain why you're choosing that word.

now, imagine it's one year from today.

what would you like the word to be that captures 2012 for you?

WRITE

Write. Right? Writing is what we do much of the time, but never think much about it. We write; we’re not writers. It’s a means to an end, a narrative that gets our point across. I, seriously, never thought about it until this year. This year I wrote a book. It didn’t mean to be a book; it started as a blog about an art exhibit, a narrative to get a point across, a sketchbook of words about art without drawings. That’s the way I’ve always worked; a visual artist that sketches in words, and then illustrates those words, discarding the writing once the visual is finished. This year changed that system, changed my thinking, changed my art.

I have noticed that, every ten years, my art changes dramatically. This is not a conscious effort; it happens, and then I discover it in hindsight. I won’t go into the centuries before 1990, because my memory fails me, but I didn’t consider myself an artist until 1992 when I had my first solo show of trompe-l'œil still life oil paintings. Before that I was a student of art, a dilettante, dabbling in every medium I could find, trying to find the one, the serious one, because I was a serious artist. Of course, being serious meant that I made up so many rules to paint by, that I painted myself into a corner with rules and lost the joy of the art.

To find the joy, I started working in mixed media in 2000. This method was very similar to how I had worked before; write down the narrative, and then set up the props; only now, I wasn’t spending another 300 hours painstakingly painting an exact replica of the scene; the props were the art. The academic oil painting was no longer necessary.

It is only now that I see that writing is the thread that runs through the art. Every ten years, I seem to simplify, to pare down the excess of the art; maybe that is wisdom of age, or losing the muscle to carry it all. Either way, coming into 2011, the words had become the joy of the art, while the actual visual piece had become the accompaniment. Was it even necessary?

That is where I find myself as we end 2011. Write. That is the word that I discovered this year; that is the word that completely encapsulates this year. I write; that is the root of my art. I’m not ready to call myself a writer; I am still an artist, perhaps a writist. Maybe my 2012 word will be writer.

The Courier Journals

2011-10-02T22:22:00.001-04:00

Now that the UNION exhibit has opened, I will photograph all of the finished pieces and post them here as soon as I can. The book, UNION, The Courier Journals 1861~1865 is now available in paperback. This contains all of the journal entries and letters contained on this blog with revisions and a new beginning entry. If you would like to preview the entire book, please visit this link: http://www.blurb.com/bookstore/detail/2577711.

The book can be ordered on the Blurb website, if that is convenient, though the signed paperback can be ordered on my ArtFire site, for less: http://goo.gl/MDJls The signed book is also available at The Delaplaine Gift Gallery in Frederick, Maryland.

The UNION exhibit continues at The Delaplaine Visual Arts Center through November 27, 2011, and then travels to Nora Roberts’ Gifts Inn Boonsboro in February 2012.

Thank You

2011-09-18T21:00:00.000-04:00

Thank you so much for the support you’ve given these last twenty months while I shared my progress on this exhibition. This open studio approach was a new situation for me and I worried that I might make decisions to please an audience that was watching over my shoulder. Whether that happened unknowingly, I can’t be sure; what I am sure of is that I produced much more than I had originally envisioned, because you pushed me and I am forever grateful. Secluded in the studio, I thought art to be a solitary act; it is not; it is artist and audience.

I do hope you will be able to visit the Delaplaine Center and see this exhibit.

Union
Mixed Media collage by Michael Douglas Jones
September 29 – November 27, 2011
Receptions to meet the artist: 3-5 PM October 1 and November 5
http://www.delaplaine.org/exhibits/upcoming-exhibits/

UNION

2011-08-10T11:30:00.006-04:00

Journal Entry: Wilderness, Virginia; May 23, 1865

I have been staying in the one room school house, west of the blacksmith shop. I am still uncomfortable sleeping in a bed, so most nights, spread my blankets on the floor, my pistol close at hand. My night mind resembles the rattle and chatter of the camps; it is only when I rise, with the welcome morning light, that I can work one task at a time to quiet my mind and see a moment without sabers of doubt flashing, gashing me.

My brothers have left for Fredericksburg; they want to be a part of the rebuilding. They each find enjoyment in the hand work of carpentry and mechanics. Even though Fredericksburg is now known as part of Military District No. 1, they feel that one day she will again be our beautiful city. There are too many people in the city for me, too many hollow eyes standing, staring into ruins that once held life; too many hollow hearts, looking for opportunities to take advantage. Had President Lincoln lived, a more perfect union might have prevailed, but I fear retribution, not reconstruction, may be the new order for some time to come.

Marianna has returned from western Virginia with Cousin Betty. Betty’s Ellwood home has been taken over by a carpetbagger who declared her farm a part of the spoils of war. She will move to Fredericksburg until they are able to evict him. My brothers offered to remove him by force, but thought better of it; no reason to be hanged now after surviving the noose for four years.

Marianna has grown quiet, as have we all. Her work in the hospitals was greeted with disdain by some doctors working there. There may now be a path to equality for men that were slaves, but women of all colors are still treated as chattel. She longs to go to New York to join the suffrage movement; if she goes, I will follow. So many women worked tirelessly throughout the war to bring equality to all people, but it seems that many of the abolitionists were only interested in freeing men that would vote and work for Northern interests. That is a broad brush I paint with, but I see no desire among the politicians to now bestow equality on women.

I hope Marianna will stay with me on our land; I will be farmer, blacksmith, miller, cooper, all of the tasks it takes to rebuild, even if I can never return to the simple sylvan paradise that was the Wilderness. If I stay busy in my work, I can control my doubts, my fears, my fitful nights.

I cannot explain my doubts to Marianna, so we simply walk to the run along the water’s edge near the plank road. I sit on the split oak, while Marianna wanders along the smooth stones, spotting spring minnows; the sparkles of sun from the water skip about her skirts; tiny stars of hope and happiness that seem to always circle her. She is my hope, my one happiness, though I never find the words to say it true. I have known her since we were children and still can not describe the depth of her eyes.

Words seem insufficient; Marianna says only deeds are true. Together, one task at a time now; we two could create a perfect union, with no separation, no words. I could cease the babble and chatter; a honeysuckle vine could tie this journal to a piece of the split oak and float it away down the Wilderness Run. While Mari watches the minnows, I can watch my fight float away. I can take her hand and leave my pistol on the plank road.

~Isaac

Walk to the Run

2011-08-09T10:16:00.002-04:00

Journal Entry: Wilderness, Virginia; May 3, 1865

When I left to join the cavalry, I had fears, because I knew nothing. Returning from war, my fear has grown, because I know too much.

Returning from war is as difficult as leaving for war. I try to return home, but everything reminds me of war. I am back on my land, but this was the field of battle; it no longer resembles the fertile farm of four years ago. The land is scarred and aches, like my own wounds ache. Just a year ago, 28,000 casualties on this ground within a mile in any direction; one battle of the hundreds of battles; every witness tree weeps from its wounds. The burnt pine woods hide shrieking skulls still waiting to be recovered. At night, I hear them wail.

I will work to turn our warhorses to draft horses pulling the plow, but the wild-eyed stare of the cavalry charge is still in their eyes; still in my own eyes in the glass. I have avoided mirrors for some time; it shakes me to come upon my reflection. After four years on the front, I cannot sleep without a pistol beneath the pillow.

I walk down to the Wilderness Run to listen to the sweet rippling creek song of my youth. A ancient fallen oak, split straight down the middle by lightning, provides a bench along the upper half of the S curve in the run; its torn edges remind me how I felt, split down the middle at Spotsylvania. Spring rains have flooded and receded, like the fight that flooded Virginia and receded. A far off wind in the high trees can, at times, sound like a thousand warhorses at gallop and I am at once back battling at Brandy Station, with ten thousand troopers in crazed combat. I am not yet home when every sound and sight brings me back to war. Where are the whispers that calmed me at Fredericksburg?

I move along and sit close to the edge of the run, where its S turns to shallows and it sings sweet lullabies that too soon turn to the sound of battery wagon wheels fording Antietam Creek and I am back at the red fields of Sharpsburg, with the smell of blood and black powder.

Hawk, high above the tree tops, sails in circle, effortless, shining silver in the afternoon sun; smaller circles until he barely moves at all. The stillness of his flight returns me to the hellish fire at Gettysburg with its birds above the battlefield. Nature stays constant; still I am not home.

The Wilderness Run rolls, drip-rippling over stones, white foam rising, its rhythm repeats, repeats, repeats, reflecting sun and soul, ancient runes in water; are we water; running, repeating, running from our past, and then repeating. The run repeats the sounds that I hear in it, be they violent or peaceful. I must work the sounds away from the sounds of war.

There will come a day when I stroll in the cool of the early evening to sit on that fallen tree; when the tree will be a tree and that is all it will be; the wind will just be the wind; the creek will be the creek. The sounds will be simple and sweet, and will not remind me of other times. There will only be the sound of now, the union of the land and the man. And then, I will be home.

Until that day, to find the calm; I close my eyes and repeat the lines I wrote at Fredericksburg.

I am the breath,

the whisper,

of all that came before.

I am the breath,

the promise,

of all those still to come.

Penny Parcels

2011-08-08T09:04:00.001-04:00

Journal Entry: Front Royal, Virginia; April 30, 1865

I always figured my first mission after war ended would be to collect the parcels I have hidden over the course of my travels; penny parcels cobbled together from captured cartridge cases and pieces of mislaid metal and wood, holding small bits of life and memories lost in the chaos of four war years. Finding a penny; I picked it up. Now, I am not sure I want to retrieve those memories at all.

Those parcels are stored, buried in the deep soil of my soul. If I try to unearth them, they may fall apart like dead leaves in my hand. I can not go back to those times; I can not go back there; there is no there. Let someone a hundred years from now unearth that life; it is no longer mine.

The Quiet Beast

2011-08-07T13:21:00.000-04:00

Journal Entry: Winchester Virginia; April 29, 1865

I am traveling under the white flag; our army has surrendered, but I carry this reminder to soldiers who might fire first out of instinct, or out of vengeance. That is who we are now; men of war; the bloodstain does not wash away in a day. We are each uncertain how to react around the next bend in the road, to the next sound unseen. Who am I now? What am I now? I am the quiet beast outside your door; my claws are .44 caliber and never retract. I may turn on a spur, and take you down, not out of anger, but out of habit. This is the uncertainty of returning soldiers riding the long roads home.

This is Not The End

2011-07-12T11:07:00.001-04:00

Journal Entry; near the house of Mr. Wilmer McLean in the village of Appomattox Courthouse; 3pm, April 9, 1865

Soon, there will be a flurry of couriers riding under white flags of truce; a pale flag, the colors not yet dyed in the new fabric of this union. The bloodstains will not wash away in one day. What we have lost has been large, but what we have learned could bring this union closer to what our forefathers and mothers intended. Union; there is no separation. Each in all, all in each.

My last duty as courier will be to deliver the news to my brothers of the 9^th Virginia Cavalry. I rode this morning with the entourage of General Robert E. Lee to meet General Grant. They have been inside the McLean family’s home for some time discussing terms of surrender. Many men are outside, waiting; all eyes are on the quiet house. I turn my attention to a mockingbird in a mulberry tree; a tree more grand than mine back in the Wilderness, if indeed a mulberry might be given such status.

I had such grand ideas about this journey; the places I would visit, the people I would meet, the culture I would carry back, the progress of men and machines across the miles I would travel. Like Lewis and Clark, or Lewis Carroll, all travelers to Wonderlands; that would be me.

What I learned was that the greatest joy was not in grand places, but in the smallest moments of quiet; the seemingly insignificant sounds and scenes. Mockingbird, in his grey, plain jacket, does not need the rooster’s red cockscomb; we do not watch him prance; we listen to his beauty hidden in the trees. He finds every song worth singing. Mockingbird absorbs every song he’s heard and shares them with everyone; I should absorb the voices of the boys that no longer speak. I am all of them; I should speak for them, so their melancholy songs are not hidden in the trees, lost to the times. With war’s end, there will be much talk of grand battles, and massive volumes of war history, but these journals are the voice of the boys in the grey, plain jackets. Those are the voices of this union.

Journal Entry; 5pm, April 9, 1865

Today, while an army surrenders, war will not end. I am finished with this war, but I fear this war is not finished with me. This is not the end.

Black Butterflies

2011-07-01T23:30:00.004-04:00

Journal Entry; south of Cumberland Church, Virginia; the evening of April 7, 1865

Another fierce day of fight and run; the 9^th Cavalry still triumphs, but the walking, weary foot soldiers fall, starving, exhausted, in the road, no longer able to outdistance the blue storm approaching from all points.

We ride all night, so I write in the saddle, savoring even a weak west evening breeze; a flight of black butterflies flutter far above our heads. One lands on my shoulder; no, not tiny wings at all; the air is filled with floating ashes. High Bridge burning; our last bridge burned behind us, Federals surrounding in every direction. The butterflies flit and fall, settling on the soil, dissolving with the dew. We are an army of black butterflies, about to dissolve back into the soil; there is nowhere else to go. We are ashes.

Collecting the Past

2011-05-16T11:32:00.006-04:00

Journal Entry; High Bridge, Virginia; April 6, 1865

Today, the 9th Virginia Cavalry captured 800 Federals, six flags, and a big brass band. Hard to imagine that scene; four years into this hellish parade, we have no shoes, yet the Federals still travel with saxhorns and cornets. Despite our cavalry dashing and daring, our main army is one day closer to starvation and destruction. One company of our regiment has already left; some other boys are riding north tonight, afraid they will be captured and imprisoned. I don’t think so; President Lincoln seems, by all accounts, to wish for a return to union; he understands that most men were fighting for their homes, not a rich man’s system. Some of those leaving are the war hawks that adhere to the cause, whatever they find that to be. They ride west to create a new south. They are full of fever, their hearts are flint, and for them, this war will never be over. They will pass the fever to their sons, and to the sons of their sons; on and on, this war will run. I never did believe in the cause, a high sounding euphemism for slavery, which has no place in such an enlightened country as America. There are those that will not learn; whose eyes are closed to change, so if it took war to change our course, then so be it.

Let the hawks fly west; I stand with the crows that call out to kin. We must collect the living left to us and start with the soil; it is all that remains. We have family, we have hands; we will start fresh to build our future on the greened over graves.

I am writing to Marianna. One of the boys leaving will be riding through Wilderness Corner; I’ve asked him to leave the letter with Will Simms at the Wilderness Tavern. Will knows most everything that moves in the Wilderness, and will see that Marianna receives my letter.

If I am killed in these last days of mayhem, I need to remind her of my letter sent in the summer of ’62, when I started my collections. Throughout this journey, along the roadsides, I have found discarded treasures, small measures of life’s gathering. Books and book bindings, art and artifacts, teaspoons and tableware; pieces of families fleeing from the flames of war; I could not let it all become kindling for campfires, so I picked it up like pennies. See a pin and pick it up and all day long you'll have good luck.

Because a courier must travel light, I hid my journals and penny parcels along the path I traveled, mostly in, or near churches, because those were rarely burned or breached. Each location marked here by an X leading to the next. Sometimes inside, under a staircase; sometimes, outside near a large elm, I would hide or bury a small parcel, a cartridge box time capsule full for the future.

Soon, it will be time to collect the past to remember it, not to build upon it. If we are to craft a settled life, it cannot be rebuilt from peace torn asunder. That lumber is too weak; we must start a new foundation.

Xhighbridgesouthsideunderjoist

Letter Home; April 6, 1865
Dearest Marianna,

While most are abed, I am in the saddle patrolling the High Bridge Road. I have ridden for weeks, seeing nothing but destruction and the dying embers of this war. Like my campfire, where the flames die down and then unexpectedly spring up with fire again; the fight dies down and then springs up with fight again. Our army was cornered, cut off from all supplies and any escape, but today our troopers kept High Bridge from burning, so that shall be our route to safety, my path back to you.

If you have it, please reread the letter I wrote you in the summer of ‘62 about the parcels. They are not riches, though they are treasures. Only my brothers and I know the whereabouts. Before I collect them, I am coming home to you; if you will still have me. I must confess; I am more like a hobbled greybeard than the shy swain that rode off to adventure. I have changed considerably; my eyes from the inside do not change, but when I happen upon my reflection it is so different. There is no nimbus around my head, no medals on my chest; war was not at all like anyone imagined.

It has been almost a year since our last evening together, though it stands clear in my memory. The whispers of the wood fire, its glimmer, like a halo, in your hair; there were few words; I said nothing and you said only, “Hold me.”

We stopped time that evening; we stopped war. Words will not heal our wounds; words will not make us forget, but if we can just hold each other long enough to stop time once more, perhaps there is a chance to start a new time; to craft a new life.

I shall make it so.
I remain yours,
beyond time.

Both Bowl and Spoon

2011-05-06T12:53:00.005-04:00

Journal Entry; Amelia Courthouse, Virginia; April 5, 1865
There were gentlemen; there were heroes; there were common men, and cowards. Death was equal in its coming. That I survived is not enough; I must prosper, that those boys be remembered. I will remember them to my own sweet mother, and if I should meet their mothers, I shall describe them, each and all, as gallant troopers to the last breath; heroic sons of America.

The many wars waged for causes, just and unjust, are eventually resolved; history is written and revised as years pass, but mothers whose sons never return will hold that simple truth in their eyes, and still continue to give again. They know no other way.

A mother is both bowl and spoon; filling, sharing, giving; seeking nothing in return; overflowing, holding nothing back.

I have nothing to offer these mothers, only my eyes looking into their eyes, letting them know that they are not empty; that I too am their son, and they are loved.

Going Home Soon

2011-04-08T12:33:00.001-04:00

Journal Entry; Amelia Court House, Virginia; April 2, 1865

   Eye bleary, battle weary; siege surrounds our last nights, our final flight to Danville.
   Cricket rhythm far and faintly fills the ravine to the east; Cheshire moon to the west; dying campfire crickcrackles at my side.
   April, my favorite month before the storm of war; the spring rains of restoration. Tonight, the scent of approaching rain reaches me, quenches me; satiates me, yet the belly rumbles, grumbles, drawing a ration of only three cracker crumbles since last week.
   No food, no fuel, so burn the train at Danville. If I cannot ride home, I will walk the sixty miles due north from this little courthouse. Going home soon, it seems, to the Virginia hills or the vault of heaven.

Xnamozinechurchbeneathfrontstaircase

Simply A List

2011-04-02T22:03:00.005-04:00

Tonight, I am starting to finalize the 150 Journal Project in order to complete the collage portion of this exhibit. I have reviewed the journal entries, thus far, to find the references to nature that should be pictured in my collages. I had no idea how extensive it was, so I am listing it here to help me keep a record of what still must be completed in this project.

The list:
squirrels scurry
hemlock
a flutter of sparrows
the soft whisper of wind
the warm white sun
the hornets’ nest
downy woodpecker
red-tailed hawk
common crow
a call of vireos
stallions
field mice
white pine
the weary redbud
maple
oak
cattle
mourning dove
cricket
black walnut
scent of sassafras
red-winged blackbird
a fine stable of Morgan horses
the furrowed field
codling moth
thoroughbred
raven
the scent of a mulberry tree
spring freshet
early morning mockingbirds
winter snow
rabbit
the tree line
white-tailed deer
a covey of quail
the rising seedtime sun
vulture
the dark before next dawn
foal
calf
pup
bees
Quarter horse
wild-eyed horses
chicken
cow
growing grain
breeze through the bare branches
chatter of the winter wren
the mourning dove’s crying call
shoreline ice
snow on the hills
the farm fields
the morning fog
a naïve sapling
the smell of morning campfires
aurora borealis
the purl and trickle of the creek
the trill of the unseen junco
the river turns like a slithering snake
the slightest zephyr
the big dipper
the North Star
dark, iron thunderclouds
the pear tree leaf in autumn
pine sapling
chittering of chipmunks
the basso profundo of bullfrogs
an even thunderstorm
the scent of wild blossoms and rain
seeds from my pocket
Johnny Appleseed
the smell of honeysuckle in the breeze
moonlight
Colony collapse has finally hit the hive
an assembling gaggle of geese
the winter sky
the sun rising sky
the spring rain
a fallen leaf from the autumn tree
the budding oak beside the well

I wish I had another year to work on this sesquicentennial project; it has taken a year to see its circle and get back to the beginning.

I am finishing up the CSA project: http://bit.ly/hl6cnH and now will immerse myself in the sesquicentennial project for the next 148 days.

There are still a couple journal entries to post before this story, or perhaps, this segment, ends. You have my deepest thanks for your encouragement along this journey. I appreciate your comments, and please, if you find some historical detail that doesn’t ring true, let me know; I am not a historical expert by any stretch of the imagination; I am simply a pilgrim, as you are, on a journey that seemingly never ends.

The Warring Season

2011-03-15T09:33:00.005-04:00

Journal Entry; March 12, 1865; Five Forks, Virginia

The air is altered this morning, lush with life, full of sound and sway.

Two squirrels scurry through the trees, each mouth full of leaves for fresh dreys. We wait, while winter leaves. The crow caws, sending out the news, as if we didn’t know that change is in the altered air. The crow’s cousin, in a treetop ninety feet north, answers the caws, a coarse duet, until a call of vireos joins in like piccolos; a welcome spring symphony as winter leaves. I close my eyes; letting the warm sun wash my face; I listen a bit before a wagon’s rumble overrides the song.

When I listen alone to the rustic world, everything is as it was, forever, before this. Spring is budding and simple creatures are mating, making nests, singing in celebration. I was of that world before the war, but now I am between two worlds. One world dances, coupled with life; the other marches alongside death. Winter leaves and war commences, as it has each spring for three years. This will surely be the last season of war; Virginia is a wasteland with nothing left to sustain the armies in this siege. The high north punishes the deep south on Virginia soil and her children will be left lacking when the armies go home.

When I go home; if I go home, how will it be; who will I be; being from these two worlds. I am like the red-tailed hawk and common crow sitting in the oak together; should not be so; mortal enemies so close; what will Marianna make of this pairing, this man of two minds.

Yesterday, a hawk swooped down to within five feet of my face, before lifting into a hemlock ten yards past me. Surely a sign. Or simply an obstacle on his way towards a flutter of sparrows distracted by spring’s promise.

Hawk is pure and perfect spirit; he is never distracted; he has one course and stays to it. Hawk is who I am in the midst of battle alongside Death, who gives no quarter. I have seen Death’s hollow face and no longer hold its fear.

Crow knows he lives in an imperfect world, so he adapts to the daily changes in that world. Crow is who I am when the battle is done, coupled with life, charting its changes. I have seen that everything is change and no longer hold its fear.

We shall soon be released from this warring season. Who will lead me home; which do I follow; Hawk or Crow? Will we wander between the pure and the imperfect, never finding home, or can we walk in both worlds and no longer hold fear?

Xwhiteoakroad600feetfrom5forksdoublestumpsouthside

Furious Wind

2011-02-20T19:57:00.001-05:00

Journal Entry:
December 10, 1864;
Jarratt's Station, Virginia.

At dawn, the soft whisper of wind rose, awakening the restless among us; winter coming on, a new season of whispers, new voices from the north. By mid-morning, it had blown every cloud from the sky, leaving a beautiful blue vault of heaven and the warm white sun. And then, the wind picked up.

By noon, I knew this furious wind was working to blow these two armies away from the banks of the James River. This has gone on long enough, said our natural mother; war is at a standstill, something must move, so the gust blew harder from the north.

It is one o’clock and men who have walked headlong into the hornets’ nest hold their collars and beg mercy from the blast. What tents they had are tattered; the spikes tossed into the air, the cots scattered, tumbling down the embankment. What hats they had, are pulled down and tied like Sunday bonnets. The infantrymen hunker down in the trenches, the gunners cling to the south side of the battery wagons, but even the heaviest wagons rock and creak, the panels lift and slam; the tarps shiver, as though they are alive and afraid.

The fury rips at the regimental colors; flags of every stripe pop like whips in the wind. It claws at the scars of every battle, at every hole from shot and shell. Our identity, our flags, so painstakingly mended with horsehair by the coarse hands of the color bearer, who sews with the care of a Charleston seamstress. The north wind returns the scars, the holes, the rips and it then blows harder.

Herds of horses huddle in the makeshift corrals, except for a few stallions that stand, head up high; their manes and tails appear as if in full gallop, though they are standing still. They face the wind as they would the battle; they know no other way.

The winter wind rises, the white pine gives, the weary redbud breaks, but the maples are dancing in a hands held high hallelujah to the sky. Brown leaves tumble and blow by, like field mice scurrying for shelter from this red hawk wind.

This moment takes me back to hurricanes of my youth; the gales so hard that the strongest oaks behind the blacksmith shop swayed like saplings and my mother whispered - keep together - it will pass in time. And it did.

I tuck my papers in my pocket and stand, eyes closed, arms outstretched, face front to the wind, and wish; wish to be blown away from here; wish to lift in the sky and fly to my home. It feels like flying; flying on this fast current, barely off the ground, but fast, faster than I‘ve ever ridden, right on to my home.

The whispers have returned in the air, lifting me; the whispers of Fredericksburg are calling, becoming more urgent here, crying, even wailing, so loud that I forget my flight, and falling, open my eyes. I am still south of Petersburg; still in this hell beneath the vault of heaven. But for a moment, I could handle it; for a moment, I was high on the wind and home. If I hold that moment for each moment hereafter, for each moment that I have; I could handle hell, and it could be my home.

Xjarrattsstationdepotruinsnortheastcorner

Morning’s Doves

2011-02-06T14:29:00.001-05:00

Journal Entry: Sept 23, 1864; Cat Tail Creek, Virginia
The siege is set, yet the 9th Cavalry is always in the saddle, riding in reconnaissance; we slip in and out of the Federal lines like a grey wind; the bluecoats pull their collars up tight around their faces to fend against our certain chill. They know we are there, somewhere close, but they shield their eyes, that we might pass in peace, for they have previously felt the wrath of our veterans. Just last week, we rode around the left of Grant’s army and up alongside his rear lines into Coggins’ Point on the James River to capture 2400 cattle, 300 horses and 11 wagons, with no loss of our troopers. This week, we eat well; next week, maybe not.

This entire region from The Wilderness to Richmond has become a lawless landscape of deserters, raiders, and ne’er-do-wells. At sunrise, we follow the smoke, over a ridge, to find burning homes where soldiers and looters are leaving with as much as they can muster. I have seen so many mothers starving; left with only the clothes they carry, holding hungry babies on their hips. Mornings find them foraging along the roads, like mourning doves, sorrowful in their song, scratching in the soil for bits of seed and sustenance. We give what small rations we have in our haversacks, but cannot give them the peace they seek. They do not cry or complain; their eyes hold no tears for themselves. If they hold hope at all, it is for the future of the children.

I tell them that soon life will be better, but my eyes betray me, having seen the life leaving from too many children of other mothers.

It will be better, morning dove, it will be.

Final Threads

2011-01-24T16:10:00.001-05:00

Journal Entry: Sept 14, 1864; Cat Tail Creek, Virginia
Camping alone tonight near Petersburg; crickets stand picket at the perimeter to protect me. Their rhythm will stop with any unfamiliar movement; I trust in the nature I know. The nature of man; I am not as sure of that. Thousands of tattered men now stand in a death stare across the lines, waiting, watching as more and more Federal troops cross the James River in the last deadlock of this war; no final feint to slip away, this is the endgame that could last months.

This is a new way of war; not a battle and then a respite. General Grant does not rest; he fights and moves, still fighting; the battles have different names, but it is one continuous fight. It has been this way since May, and our lines are pulled as thin as twine, unable to stretch any tighter. Once Grant finds the frayed threads; the cut may be quick, but it will not be clean, and that day will end it all.

Letter: Sept 17, 1864; Cabin Point, Virginia
Dearest Marianna,
I have not heard from you since I returned to my duty; I know the postal system at this point is less effective than a message in a bottle sent down the Rappahannock. I trust you have moved westward to join Cousin Betty at Lexington and not returned to the hospitals in Fredericksburg.

The rumble of the railcars, the rattle of the battery wagons, and the noise of war keeps a man from thinking beyond the battle ahead. That is why we camp together, to keep the comradery. I am not cut from that cloth; I am reclusive and my search for silence has brought me to the river once more to hear the calming rush and roll of water; that is the only way I can collect my thoughts, which are always of you. Here, by the water, under the black walnut, with the scent of sassafras, I can find brief passage to another time, a September, ages ago, when you would simply seduce every sense I possess.

This fight is nearly over, and soon, you and I will gather up our loose threads to sew our life back together; as beautiful a double ring quilt as has ever been seen.

Until then, I remain
yours beyond the ages.

.

Time

2011-01-21T11:01:00.000-05:00

Journal Entry: Nance’s Shop, Virginia; June 23, 1864
I am becoming more and more aware of time; the days, the months, now years spent away from home. Soon, I will turn twenty-four, but I feel as tired and worn as a hobbled greybeard, as though my life has passed; I should be home. I should have lived life, as it was promised. While this war has dragged on and on, approaching its fourth year, there are so many opportunities I have missed. I should have lived a quiet life, instead for riding with the firebrands. I should have watched the red-winged blackbird near the river run, instead of watching red blood turn black on the banks of the Antietam. I should have shared an ale at the Wilderness Tavern with my friends, not buried them there. I should have farmed with my brothers, instead of fighting my other brothers from the northern states. I should have lived by now.

By now, I should have taken on my role as adult, to take care of my mother and father, as they cared for me. I should have built my own home, a small cottage down near the run. By now, I should have married, and danced many a Virginia Reel in the parlor with my dearest Marianna. I should have started a family; the tiny tickle of babies laughing should have filled my rooms, filled my heart.

I should have built a red bank barn and raised a fine stable of Morgan horses by now. In the three years that I have lost, I should have planted and harvested, planted and harvested, and then, planted once more. I should have seen the seasons, the spring growing, the winter resting; all that, I should have lived it.

My list of should could go on and on, but I should not dwell upon it. I will have my time to live that life of simple treasures; I will take note and honor every moment. It is a time that hundreds of thousands of boys will now never have; hundreds of thousands buried far from the life they should have lived.

I should live; I could have died.

A Poet of the Past

2011-01-18T16:56:00.003-05:00

Journal Entry. Ashland, Virginia; June 6, 1864

Many evenings, when I am able to visit my journal, it is a calming experience; an old friend to share the joy and sorrow of this journey. I try to find balance by revisiting letters from family or remembering the old way of the world before war. Today, though, I keep returning to a letter given to me when I was last home. It came from a boy that apprenticed in the blacksmith shop with me several summers ago. A man now, he lives in Pennsylvania, a blacksmith with his own prosperous shop. I had written him a year ago to explain that I had joined the cavalry to protect my farm and family; I bore no animosity toward the North and hoped he was safe from the horrors of this war. These are his words that he wrote in return:
~Someday, my old friend,
Someday, your life could be better. You sit there with your pencil, and your paper, and your pitiful candle scribbling some nonsense about nature. Nature won’t help you, it won’t hold you up. Your precious sun quits halfway through the day and leaves you cold in the dark. But some day; some day soon, we will have sun all day, all night. We are on the threshold and there is a door; behind that door is the solution; a powerful solution in the iron that makes the steam engine, the iron that forges the cannon. We will wield that iron, as a hammer, and batter that door to bits. The steam engine that drives the railroad will drive everything. Someday, there will be prosperity for all that follow, and mark my words, everyone will follow. Who would want to stay behind; who would want to stand behind a plow and horse. Steam will power an engine to plow the fields of plenty; fields so large that one farm could be the size of ten, of a hundred. Let me tell you, many people make this war out to be about ending slavery, but, I know, the future promises more slaves than you can imagine. Men and women of every stripe will flock to our shores, begging to be among us, begging to purchase a portion, however small, of our prosperity. They will work their fingers to bone for the promise of a future here, and they will do so without force or fetters. They will be slaves to the idea of an easier life.

You are a poet of the past; you have been on the land too long. Grand ideas are rising up from the ashes of this war. The old agrarian society is being burned away, and industry will rise in your fields. When this war is over, there will still be slavery; we would not call it that, for every man will be legally free, but this new chattel will embrace their position, because of the promise that each and all have an equal chance to rise and prosper. Whole families will rush to share in the crops they harvest, share in the industries they work. This is America; we do not need to hold men down by force; men can be held down by fortune’s promise.

So, you may sit in the dim light of your candle writing in your journal; your pencil will become a stub; your candle will burn out, but the forge that is the future will burn forever and there is no limit to land’s resource or the power of the fire.

I believe you have talents that can take you further than the fields of Virginia; I am enclosing a rail pass. Come to the city and join us.~

I keep his letter in my journal and think, how a man could be so wrong, and then hope that it is he that is wrong, not me.

None are more hopelessly enslaved than those who falsely believe they are free. ~ Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

The Many Wounds of War

2011-01-02T13:42:00.003-05:00

Journal Entry: Ashland, Virginia; June 4, 1864
   President Lincoln has placed General Grant in charge of the Federal Army and I am told that he will never retreat, which was confirmed after his defeat at the latest Wilderness battle. Instead of moving back across the river, he turned to his left and continued on toward Richmond. The Federal Army has unlimited men and supplies, so if ten thousand fall, he will bring twenty thousand; if they fall, he will bring a hundred thousand. Grant will outlast his enemy, leaving a scythe swath of sorrow throughout this state, my home. Our leaders will attempt to hold off the inevitable; it might be a month, it might be a year, but with that turn to the left, the outcome was determined. Within a year, we will return to what we once were, though that seems impossible now. My home, the Wilderness is no longer what it was; even the trees are riddled with battle scars, as though ten thousand downy woodpeckers had explored every oak and maple. I am scarred as well; beyond my sutured war wounds, I am torn terribly each moment between a hope and a despair that split me down my middle.

   I am not who I once was; none of us are that. I remember boys who were assigned to the cavalry merely because they rode into town that first day on a horse. If you owned a horse, you could be a cavalryman. Many of those boys had never ridden faster than a trot and their horses were more adapted to the furrowed field than the battlefield. Most of those boys are dead now; the rest learned quickly the awful lessons of war. Our mothers’ lessons were left at home; here on the field, duty requires another mother’s son to kill you, so you act first. Even our tools are not what they were; our plows replaced by pistols.

   After six weeks recovering at home in peace, I now see my fellow troopers differently. I look around the camp and see an army of doppelgängers; each of us is who we are and who we were; all twins to ourselves, almost ashamed to acknowledge one another, so different are our passions. I am both kin and killer, both the one and the other; I know every person is my brother, but I ride fiercely into battle, even as I regret it in that same moment.

   I, who had never even raised a fisted hand against another, now carry three revolvers; one holstered on my hip and two in pommel holsters on my saddle. When possible, I won't shoot to kill; a wounded man requires another man to carry him from the field, thus incapacitating two men at the expense of one. That carries some small bit of consolation, that the second man will live another day. Having the power to take a life is an impossible ordeal; I am damned if I do, and dead if I don’t.

And still, we will be here.

2010-12-26T22:57:00.001-05:00

Journal Entry: Wilderness, Virginia; May 9, 1864
We were never nomads; our land was patented to Thomas Jones in 1719, and here we are still, and here we will be in 100 years, unless the forces that pull and push this land intercede and leave this farm fallow; this soil unseeded.

The latest and largest battle at the Wilderness has ended; we were miles away, but now witness the aftermath. Wagons and walkers pass each day, all on their way to somewhere away from the Wilderness. Our once thick forests of pine have been burned again, leaving charred stumps and hordes of burning, shrieking skulls.

But soon, they will be quiet, and soon, sprouts will lean against them for support, like seedlings in white ceramic pots, and once again, after this war to end all wars is over, the pines will grow and the skulls shall house the field mouse and the codling moth; and still, we will be here in 100 years; other young Jones boys running through the pines of the Wilderness. We were never nomads.

Breath

2010-12-21T14:15:00.002-05:00

Journal Entry: Wilderness, Virginia; Sunday, April 24, 1864

I am dead.

No, you are breathing; this is not a place to die and this is not the time.

That is all of the conversation that I remember as my brothers brought me home last month. Small bits and visions move through my memory, but the ride home was mostly wiped away. A minie ball is made of soft lead and can inflect massive damage inside the body; to be hit by two and not die is seemingly impossible. I should be dead, but no bones or vitals were hit, so my brother sewed me up with horse hair and hope. The scars are ragged, but they are healing. Last week, Doctor McGuire took a look at me and said I will have limited movement due to the more worrisome wound, the larger gash behind my left shoulder, where I was thrown into that unyielding oak.

My father’s thoroughbred, Shortcake, is once again rested and ready. The 9th Virginia Cavalry is near the Orange Courthouse, so I must make myself ready to join my brothers in arms, my brothers of blood, and my brothers across the field of fire as we work out the final act in this drama. America could not have expected its founders to create a perfect union; we are still working out the design of this republic.

The pain of each wound pounds with the rhythm of my heartbeat, but that is merely an annoyance. The pain at the center of my heart, the hurt that takes my breath away is the sorrow of leaving Marianna once again. Poe’s raven watcher preferred that ancient Greek elixir, Nepenthe, the drug of forgetfulness, but Marianna is not Lenore; I shall never choose to forget.

Uncle James and Aunt Martha took Marianna to church this morning, leaving me to my own sanctuary, the mulberry tree. Here, beneath the refuge of her benevolent branches, I find myself simply sitting, breathing; watching the wonder of that quiet act, that profound power to breathe or feel another’s warm breath on your cheek. One should not have to visit death to become acquainted with life.

The world beyond the Wilderness is in various stages of chaos and calm, but right here I am in the center of the world. I can feel the whirlwind circling, but am not a part of it now. Tomorrow, I will tuck my scarf into my jacket, pull my slouch hat down to shield my eyes, and ride back into the gale.

The mighty armies could not kill me; the mighty oak could not kill me. Eventually, little by little, or all at once, this body will die, and that is just as it should be, but it will not kill me. I am the breath.

The house pictured above is the Wilderness Corner, Virginia homeplace of the Jones Family. In Federal Civil War era maps it is listed as the residence of the widow Jones, though she was not a widow; her husband, a blacksmith for the Confederate Army, was concealed behind a secret wall panel.

"Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore." from The Raven" by Edgar Allan Poe 1845

Back to the Soil

2010-11-30T22:22:00.001-05:00

Journal Entry: Wilderness, Virginia; March 12, 1864
Spring freshet is always a time of revival near the rivers, when winter snow begins to melt. The early morning mockingbirds and rushing waters distract from the task at hand; not wise when war, from its winter rest, begins to wake. On the first day of March, the 9th Virginia Cavalry was near Mattaponi River, chasing raiders once again, and I was riding with messages between units as we searched for the elusive Colonel Dahlgren. The high waters had separated the raiders, so stragglers and skirmishers were all up and down the river. Riding along the tree line, I watched the water flow with its flickering reflections of the rising seedtime sun, mentally planning the plantings that would resume once war ends.

I felt the jolt of white-hot pain in my side before I ever heard the crack of the rifles from across the river. My horse, thinking I had kicked her hard, reared up and right, taking off in a gallop. With my saccade, she turned so completely on her haunches in confusion that I was thrown into the trees. Minutes, hours, days; unconscious or awake, I did not know as I lay face down in fallen leaves. On my left arm, a cut through my shell jacket, blood beneath, but no pain, only perfect peace. Pain became a sensation, like heat; I was now unmoved by sensation. I was not numb, simply unmoved. I attended more important thoughts; so this is how it feels to die. Perhaps I could move, but did not care to try. No pain, no cold, no wet March ground; no grim feelings at all, only the sound of the rushing water, or the sound of blood rushing through me. That low whirring sound deepened the desire to sink deep into the soft soil and leave this war. No light, no fear; only the whispers of Fredericksburg, the obsculta of Gettysburg; all unmoving, all merging with my body and sinking deeper back into the rich dark dirt.

After a time with this calm quiet, I slowly lifted my hand to my face, touching my forehead just between my eyes, to locate my center of thought; I was still alive, but completely comfortable with returning into the earth. I did not long for life; all desire and regret were over. At peace, even if no one ever found me; I was the last deep snow melting into a warming soil ready to receive new seed.

Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; seedtime and harvest shall not cease.

A hand reached down into the soil that I was becoming and pulled me into the sunlight. Silhouetted by the noon sun, I was sure the figure standing above me was Me; the alive Me; the Me that would not let Me leave. It was my brother pulling me back from a place that I could not leave on my own.

My brothers had arrived with a battery wagon to carry me home. They had searched, knowing that, despite my distractions and reclusive nature, I would not take hours to ride between camps. There would be no surgeon’s saw or prison camp for me that day; they tied me inside the wagon and immediately rode for home; neither army was large enough to stop them. My brothers have since returned the wagon to the front, but I am recovering here at home with my Marianna. I shall not tell her how close I was to sinking back into the soil.

While the earth remaineth, seedtime and harvest, and cold and heat, and summer and winter, and day and night shall not cease. Genesis 8:22 ~ Webster’s 1833 Bible translation

Fresh Harvest

2010-11-23T21:14:00.001-05:00

Journal Entry: Williamsport, Maryland; July 13, 1863
The swollen Potomac River has subsided; our wounded and worn army has started to cross to safety. The 9th stays behind as the rearguard. We will surely be attacked as our numbers become smaller. Like my brothers, I have an aversion to sabers, so I have added two more revolvers to my belt; fine unfired .44 Army Colts, picked up from the field at Gettysburg; fresh harvest from that orchard of death. Slippery with blood, they stained my hands, like mulberries from my favorite childhood tree.

My childhood; where is my sweet mother to wash these stains away? Could she have imagined her sons’ futures? What must she be feeling this day? She knows the fields, the fruits, the times to sow by sun and moon; she knows nothing of the field of battle with its fallen fruit. The seeds we sow are far different; the harvest in my hand is heavy and will never satiate my hunger for home. I will write home to my mother that I am once again spared, but cannot help but think of the other mothers; the mothers of the 50,000 casualties at Gettysburg, the 30,000 at Chancellorsville, the 26,000 at Sharpsburg; there were so many other battles that I did not see. The newspapers estimate over 300,000 casualties of this war and I fear the worst is waiting beyond the horizon; waiting as the mothers wait.
Death has started to surround them, suddenly, like summer storms; how could the weather change so quickly, after such a tranquil morning.

Logic is My Lantern

2010-11-20T21:42:00.001-05:00

Journal Entry: Williamsport, Maryland; July 12, 1863
A young soldier’s decapitated head, floating down the rain swollen Potomac River, screaming for water to quench his thirst; I am unsure; no, I am sure it was another hallucination. New moon, no light, not possible; keep saying that; logic is my lantern. No sleep in days; I have no faith in my eyes or ears; I have seen flashes of fire from rifles that are not there, rabbits with riders running into my path; they are not there; chimera, illusions. We have been in the saddle night and day for a week; maybe a few minutes down, but then, back riding again. We eat in the saddle; we try to sleep in the saddle; I am writing in the saddle. We are worn to ruin and have not been dry since leaving Gettysburg a week ago. We are pinned against the Potomac, unable to cross; bridges burned and the rains have made the fords more dangerous than the Federal Army that has us surrounded. Our cavalry must keep riding to warn of attacks. Why the Federals do not push us into the Potomac, I do not know.

We ride, we wait, we watch the darkness around us. New moon nights can whisper like a lover, or scream like a banshee. All depends on the state of mind, and a mind deprived of sleep sees banshees on every tree branch. I stay logical, but my grandmother’s Welsh legends loom large in my learning and rise without rest.

High water floods the fords preventing the pathway home. I have listened to the whispers of nature since Fredericksburg; perhaps the river is now telling me I cannot go home; ever. I cannot think; my eyes are bleary, my horse sways from exhaustion. Illusion; whispers; which is truth; which is tricks. My throat is dry; I cannot quench this thirst, but I will not go down to the river tonight.

Struggling

2010-11-15T13:43:00.001-05:00

In addition to the 2011 Sesquicentennial Journal Exhibit, which from now forward will be called The 150 Project for obvious reasons, I am still working on two other collage series; The Scent of Pear and The Beekeeper’s Boy. I took some time away from blogging the last two weeks to produce new work and open online shops that sell my originals and reproductions, because funding for the 150 Project fell through due to the struggling economy. The exhibit is still scheduled for September, 2011.

Struggling; the media always makes life seem like a struggle, a fight, survival. If I turn on the television at 5AM to check the weather, the news is always about the struggle and the fighting. It is not a promising way to start the day. This morning, I didn’t turn it on at all and it made quite a difference in my attitude. I will learn the important news soon enough, but no longer will it be my wake-up call.

Before I rise, I have found it helpful to remember these words by Chinese Zen master Ta-Hui:

“In the mornings before they've opened their eyes and gotten out of bed, when they're still only half awake, their minds are already flying about in confusion flowing along with random thoughts. Although good and bad deeds have not yet appeared, heaven and hell are already formed in their hearts before they even get out of bed. By the time they go into action, the seeds of heaven and hell are already implanted in their minds.”

I don’t have to say the entire quote; I can simply think, “Today, shall I create heaven or hell?”, and then try not to forget my answer when I look in the mirror.

The above image is "The Morning Air. 2/5", from the collection of Jennifer Valentine.

Obsculta

2010-10-30T23:07:00.002-04:00

Journal Entry, East of Gettysburg, Pennsylvania. July 3, 1863
This battlefield is an unnatural arena; a sweeping sylvan vista transformed into a barren burial ground. The birds and deer are always the first to sense the shift from living to dying. At Chancellorsville, a covey of quail were the first warning that Confederate forces were at the Federal flank. Small animals are quick to leave with the first roar of artillery and many a man might follow if common sense prevailed over duty, which it seldom does. If there were common sense in this world, we would be in a more peaceful place.

After the battle, the first to return are the vultures, high in the dead trees waiting. Waiting is what they do; spreading their wings wide to warm in the morning sun, and then rising high at midday to circle. Since childhood, I would watch them circle as I ran to the spot below them to insure the prey was not a foal or calf; some poor pup injured and watching them circle above, waiting. Still, it is what they do; they remove what life has released.

This week at Gettysburg, there will be much waiting. The bodies of men are removed from the field within a day, though sometimes two or three days pass due to horrendous numbers. The horses cut down on the field of battle will remain until the vultures for the carrion come.

Listen; are those falling leaves or tiny wings.
Obsculta; it is the first word in The Rule of Saint Benedict. Obsculta; careful listening from deep within the heart; listening for the sound beyond silence; listening to know you are not alone. It is a gift given, or an acquired calling. I have had the gift, the calling, the curse, since Fredericksburg; I hear the birds before flight, the bees before buzz; the movement in the air, the whisper, if you will.

Obsculta at the Rummel Barn east of Gettysburg; the heat of July sun, the heat of cannon fire, the heat of hell itself, east of Gettysburg, July third. With General Lee wounded and captured, I am no longer his courier, and I ride into the fray with my fellow troopers, pistoled, sabered, and fortunately, a better horseman than any Federal trooper I encountered. Fortunate too, to have a Quarter horse, taken two weeks ago from a fresh young Federal recruit who preferred running to riding as he retreated. This horse and I went full gallop across that field, firing to the front and no man could stop us. When we reached the Rummel Barn, we wheeled and, with empty Colt, I started to reach for my saber, when all of hell’s heat cooled, the devil’s din rescinded; my mount threw her head back, and I did as well. And there, above, a sight I had not seen; birds above the battlefield; too high to identify, too small for vultures; circling; circling the insanity. Flying in ever smaller circles, eventually reaching a center, where they appeared to float above unmoving, unmoved. Obsculta. I could hear them in my heart and I followed, centered, unmoving, unmoved. I could see as they saw, as birds above the battlefield, above time and beyond it.

An exploding canister behind me brought my attention back to the field of battle, which had moved to the west. I dismounted and slowly walked from the barn across to the ridge, where I sat on the remnants of a split rail fence cut clean down by carbines. There is so little to say about what I have seen, the saying of it seems so small and scarcely touches it at all, as if I write with disappearing ink; the real scene disappears, replaced by inadequate words. Writing, talking are each inadequate; listening is all that is real.

Obsculta.

The images that appear with these journal posts are not final art pieces. They are simply a montage of elements I have chosen that may become parts of the final exhibit art. This is a work in progress.

Shades and Whispers

2010-10-21T10:01:00.001-04:00

Journal Entry: Brandy Station, Virginia; June 10, 1863

For months, The 9th Virginia Cavalry had become like phantoms, in all places at once. The rumor that we were riding was as real as if we were. If the opposing commanders believed we were in the area, they turned and retreated as if we were at their flank. A well placed lie whispered by the women of the town was as good as the truth. We loom large as legends, whether we rode with Rooney Lee or JEB Stuart himself.

This week, the whole of the Confederate Cavalry paraded before General Robert E. Lee at Brandy Station. Never had I seen so many horsemen; there were near 9,000 men charging in mock battles as the colors waved, the ladies swooned, and there at the front of it all was the beau sabreur, General J.E.B. Stuart. We paraded as the invincibles, superior to all, Stuart’s Star, the bright light of Lee’s Legions. Alas, parades are pretend, a play upon a stage; once we dismounted, the men and their mounts were exhausted. We are daring, but depleted. The whole of Virginia is depleted. There is little food and no rest for horseman or horse, but to reach the third act, the second act must be played out, no matter how terrifying, no matter how reluctant the players. Thus, continues the second act…

The dark before next dawn brought, charging across the river, a Federal cavalry force, even larger than our own; perhaps 11,000 Federal troopers in what became an unimaginable grotesque lasting from 4am until nightfall. A hornets’ nest of sabers and pistols; the buzz and whistle of savage stings all around our heads; arms flailing wildly with reins in one hand, a sword in the other; wild-eyed horses colliding in confused canter. Many boys were half dressed riding bareback, because they were just waking, running into battle. A more sanguinary scene I have never seen. Dante and Virgil witnessed a lesser hell than this.

In the aftermath tonight, I look around this camp, hear the whispers, and see that we are what Dante and Homer called the Shades, the shadows of the dead. No longer the invincibles, we are torn, bloodied, defeated even in victory. Truly, we are the shades, or in Latin “umbra”, but actually, we are “penumbra”, almost shadow; the dead that do not know yet they are dead. We appear to be everywhere when we are nowhere. If we are to join the shades and whispers, may it not be in the shadows; I must bring these boys back into the light.

FreeFriday: free hi-res graphics; Queen Alice

2010-10-15T09:55:00.000-04:00

Today’s image is from the 1903 Jones Fourth Reader, a wonderful old reading textbook for fourth and fifth graders. It contains many beautifully detailed wood engravings, including this one from a short selection taken from Through the Looking Glass. The smaller size shown above does not compare to the full resolution image gained by clicking once, and then clicking again to the largest image.

Cap of Courage

2010-10-13T16:52:00.000-04:00

Journal Entry: Orange County, Virginia; May 5, 1863 after the Battle of Chancellorsville.
With Fredericksburg secured by our artillery on the heights, the entire Federal Army determined to move west and cross the Rapidan River at Ely’s Ford on their mission to reach Richmond. This route runs right through my farm; the entire area from the Wilderness Tavern east up the Plank Road to the church and Chancellorsville has, this week, seen nearly two hundred thousand troops battling where just a few families make their homes, leaving not one chicken, not one cow, not one growing grain. The Wilderness Tavern, at my property edge, was once the scene of lively parties; now a hospital, a scene of death. It will be remembered now as the site where General Jackson had his arm amputated; he has been removed to the south and should recover. Were this not my father’s fathers’ home, I would follow Betty west where there is true wilderness, for my Wilderness shall never seem the same; though the earth and soil are remarkably resilient, I fear I am not. The whispers I once heard have turned to screams and I cover my ears.

We have ridden 80 miles in just the last 24 hours chasing Stoneman’s Cavalry back across the Rapidan. I am within a mile of my home and have not seen it; my house and the blacksmith shop may not even be standing. I am told that the fine family home of our friend, Ves Chancellor, burned to the ground under shot and shell. My house is not so fine, but it is where my mother gave birth to me and where I have always expected to see my own children born.

With tens of thousands more casualties over the last few days, we rest a day, before we ride again. Even outnumbered ten to one, we know this landscape; we are this land. We know the roads and routes that make up this region and how to move undetected through the tangle of trees. They should have known where this would lead; we would not run from our homes. So now, the Federal Army has at last retreated back north across the river, but they will return to this route, renewed and resolved to take Richmond. They have seemingly unlimited resources and, through depletion, will whittle my world down to its last little bit of split wood, leaving only a splinter.

Five yards off to my left, a flash of red, white, and black dresses a downy woodpecker hanging upside down, inspecting every inch of a split rail fence, before leaving unrequited. I watch now in rapture. He knows his task, moving up and down along each rail seeking sustenance; he does not feel sorry for himself at the lack left behind by the thousands of invaders; he moves along the rail, doing what he must. The Virginia Pamunkey Indians say that the red crest of the downy woodpecker is its cap of courage. Surely, the whispers have sent him to me this day that I might find courage as well.

A Brief Respite

2010-10-12T18:36:00.002-04:00

Journal Entry: Gordonsville, Virginia; May 2, 1863
Tonight, we are having our first food in 36 hours. Minutes after my last journal entry, we took to horse and have barely dismounted in those five days while opposing Stoneman’s Cavalry. Being a courier for W.H.F. Lee affords me a better mount than most; I am on my third fresh horse this week, which is worrisome, as this latest is a stallion captured from the Federal Cavalry. An undisciplined mount is likely to take the wrong path when pushed. Just today, Lieutenant Boulware of Company B was taken prisoner when, unaccustomed to battle, his new horse bolted, taking him beyond the charge and straight into the hands of the Federal Army. He was not seen again; hopefully he will be paroled and not sent off to the prison camps; death is more desirable than the disease and despair along the dead line at the Fort Delaware Death Pen.

Though there is much to say, I am too tired to hold my pencil and I see the General in deep conversation with Colonel Beale. Soon enough we will remount to meet the raiders again.

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FreeFriday: 1882 map of Wilmington

2010-10-08T12:03:00.002-04:00

For Free Friday this week, I offer for your enjoyment, an 1882 wood engraved map showing the 1864 approaches and obstructions to Wilmington, North Carolina. This image is from an 1882 Pictorial History of the United States by Alexander Stephens. I was leafing through this old volume, relishing the textures of the letterpress and the fine detail of the engravings, when I came upon this map, which reminded me of our daughter who is living in Wilmington, completing her Master’s Degree, which lead me to wonder when she, or we, would visit. I would like her to return to Maryland, even though I love Wilmington, a wonderful city that combines colonial and contemporary so well, reminding me so much of my other favorite cities, Frederick in Maryland, and Fredericksburg in Virginia, where I grew up. So many feelings arise from one simple engraving. It is curious how the mind and memory work; one second you are simply admiring the textures of an old book, and then an image fills the mind with emotions; joy, worry, hope, pride, sorrow; all rushing out before calm replaces complexity and returns to the simple act of admiring the textures of an old book. How often we get lost in that rush of emotions and lose hours wandering, wondering and worrying. So many approaches and obstructions, we could certainly use a map.

Give the image a click or two to download the hi-res file.

There Comes a Voice

2010-10-05T18:14:00.004-04:00

Journal Entry: Orange County, Virginia; April 27, 1863

I had heard that the war has forced Cousin Betty to stay out at Greenwood, past the Orange County Court House, about fifteen miles west of the Wilderness. My curiosity about the nurse named Whitman and my longing for an excuse to travel alone spurred me down those familiar plank roads to find her. By desire or design, I found her there, packing to move further west to Lexington with her family. She was surprised and happy to see me; so many friends and relatives shall not be seen again. She took me aside and told me about the books she had hidden at Ellwood. After a short visit, I said goodbyes, as I was eager to return to Ellwood; in this lunacy that we have substituted for society, we never know when some cold soldiers will use fine old books for fire starter.

I was elated to find three books on her library shelf secreted behind thick volumes of Wordsworth and Tennyson. Betty told me that these books would not be considered proper reading for a lady. Betty always appeared proper, but I knew well her sly little smile when she had a mischievous thought, and she had many, mostly when the men in the parlor smoked cigars and pontificated about grand ideas; thoroughly pompous elder statesmen they were, and thoroughly unread.

I gave the caretaker at Ellwood a note from Betty to borrow the books and have used every free minute this last two months to read them. The first book was quite new, only a couple years old; Charles Darwin’s Origin of Species. There are passages on evolution in this large scientific exploration that are so beautiful, I feel I am reading poetry, not botany or biology. I can see why this volume was kept hidden; there would be no peace in the parlor with a debate raging about where we originated.

The second book, with a penciled inscription on the front page, was bought in Boston at the Old Corner Bookstore in 1855. This small volume of poems would be even more shocking and risqué to the elders; Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman, the very same man that was nursing soldiers at Fredericksburg. Whitman's name does not even appear on the book, except on the copyright and in one of the untitled poems; I assume because he feels he is one of the many; the many voices of America. Marianna said he had accompanied the hospital train back to Washington in January. These poems are rough and flamboyant, but it is a book that puts into poetry my thoughts and whispers of this last year; if I could actually write from my deepest heart, these would be my words. That such a being walked in the halls, just across the river, where I have walked is beyond my comprehension. From the other side of the river, there comes this voice so powerful that I shall never be the same. Had Marianna not met this man and forwarded his presence to me, I might have traveled this land a lifetime and never known that there is a voice for us all; a voice for America and the world. Both of these books leave me with the belief that originally we all grew out of one, and remain one with all.

The third book, Hermetic Mystery, a book on Alchemy, was published anonymously in 1850. It contains much arcane language, so it has been very hard to read, but one alchemical dictum reached me and put sense into the nonsense of this war. In Latin: Solve et Coagula — "dissolve and coagulate". Separate, and Join Together. This seems so right; our loose union of states necessarily had to be broken down completely in order to rise again in a new form, a pure and whole union.

In just three books, each recently written by a poet, a scientist, and a mystic, there is hope in a hopeless world, a promise of a new age of enlightenment. At last, I can see beyond my madness and the hysteria of this world. All of my questions have not been answered; I do not ask that they should, but this short verse from the Whitman book has given me a guideline to pull upon:

Why should I wish to see God better than this day?
I see something of God each hour of the twenty-four, and each moment then,
In the faces of men and women I see God, and in my own face in the glass,
I find letters from God dropt in the street, and every one is sign’d by God’s name,
And I leave them where they are, for I know that where-soe’er I go,
Others will punctually come for ever and ever.

These words are not my own, I pass them along as they were passed to me. One need only open books and read; all words, all worlds will open to them and be known.

Free Friday: How Plants Grow

2010-10-01T09:32:00.001-04:00

As October arrives today with its cooler weather and winter’s promise approaching, we tend to think that nature is starting its yearly hibernation; bare branches and brittle, barren stalks will soon abound; everything will appear lifeless, or simply asleep. Both may look the same in their stillness; that is why we lean in close as our babies sleep, listening to their breath, the breathing in and breathing out, reassuring us that all is as it should be.

Winter is when our Mother Earth breathes in, so it is difficult to tell exactly what is happening inside her, until she breathes out again in springtime, revealing once again an effluence of loveliness. All the botanical science in the world does not take away the magic and majesty of that breath. I am glad to live in a region where we see the seasons so distinctly.

For Free Friday this week, I offer for your free use in projects, a favorite image of mine, a wood engraving from the 1858 book, How Plants Grow from the Botany for Young People series by Harvard Professor, Asa Gray, M.D. The text for Figure 41 reads, “The acorn with the seedling Oak growing from it; the seed-leaves remaining in the shell, but feeding the strong root which grows downwards and the stem which shoots so vigorously upwards.”

Give the image a click or two to download the hi-res file. We are all sowing seeds of one sort or another.

Breathing In, Breathing Out

2010-09-28T17:14:00.001-04:00

Journal Entry: Winter quarters on the banks of the Rappahannock River, Virginia; February 23, 1863

Cold and dreary February; ice and cold wind blow.

I remember, years ago, writing that line to start a poem. Those first words are the only part that I remember now; it was in another lifetime as an innocent farm boy waiting for the warming of spring. Now with war, winter is a quiet time, while armies restock, regroup, and wait for more pleasant weather to kill each other. February is still cold along the banks of the Rappahannock, but no longer dreary for me; others gripe and grumble, but I am no longer that lost soul that was once laid low. I am consoled by the sight of my breath in the frozen air; breathing in, breathing out; the same air as the breeze through the bare branches. I am buoyed by the winter whispers around me; the cheerful chatter of the winter wren comforting the mourning dove’s crying call; the river rush singing beneath the shoreline ice; all these voices even more muffled by snow on the hills. Through these voices, I know that this earth, our ancient mother, is not asleep; she has not abandoned her sons and daughters because of our folly. In terms of her time, this weary war is but a blink and will soon be what we call history, and she calls this one moment.

During this past year, I have met more men and women than I even saw in my entire life before this war. I have learned much about America that was not in the books of my cousin’s fine library. Americans are robust stock, mixed from around the world, the strongest men and women that were able to complete the journey from the old worlds. We all make up America; we are not separate; we fight now, but will be a union once more I am sure.

I am still a Confederate courier, but am becoming a messenger with a new message, one that I cannot yet openly share with others. As much as the other troopers despise this war, most are still loyal to THE CAUSE, even if they are not sure what that is. I am equally loyal to Virginia, but there is a loyalty to a greater union; much greater than states or status. This is what I have heard in those whispers; we are all in union; there is no separation.

I am the breath,
the whisper,
of all that came before.
I am the breath,
the promise,
of all those still to come.

Free Friday: Postal Stamps, Full Sheet

2010-09-24T09:10:00.000-04:00

There is something so romantic about letters and envelopes, especially now, when almost all correspondence is electronic. There is mystery in a bundle of letters; an almost adolescent anticipation just as we open the mailbox, where any day holds hope; where a dream might come true within the letter bundle. On his appointed rounds, the postman, that romantic carrier, shuffles the bundle small to large, and then ties it with a string. A gift wrapped with ribbon could not promise so completely.
Today, I offer for your copyright-free use in projects, a full page of designs for postal rubber stamps. With each new project, I make up a sheet of these to use in my collage. These are all vintage images that I have altered or made from scratch. You can cut/paste with Photoshop to layer onto projects, or print it of high resolution paper, and have a sheet of rubber stamps made. Give the image a click or two to download the hi-res file.

Warmer into Winter

2010-09-21T12:55:00.005-04:00

Journal Entry: Port Royal, Virginia; January 4, 1863

It seems our regiment will make our winter quarters around Port Royal, which is wonderful, as I should be able to spend much more time with Marianna. After the trials and revelations of the past year, her face is a welcoming world of warm whispers. Each time I see her, I say very little at first, because I cannot catch my breath; my voice would seem as though I had just run miles through the farm fields to greet her. In my heart that is how it seems, even if I catch a glimpse of her from across the room. Fortunately, Marianna has much to say, so my hying heart can calm a bit before I say a word or two; a full sentence takes much longer. I am her gallant trooper, so I try not to sound like a breathless schoolboy, though that is how I feel around her.

In the days since the Fredericksburg battle, Marianna has been helping across the river at Chatham, my Cousin Betty’s home. The Federals have turned the large house and grounds into a field hospital and it is a gruesome scene. There are also wounded Confederate prisoners bedridden there, so Marianna went to make sure they were treated well, which they were. She says she has met the most remarkable man working there as a nurse and companion to each and all. His name is Walt Whitman and he brings small gifts of food and writing papers, sitting with the wounded for hours at a time. Marianna says he is a journalist who has traveled here from New York, but I am sure I have heard his name before.

My cousin, Betty, spends her summers at Ellwood, across the Plank Road from our home. There she has a grand library; it is where I have enjoyed many hours reading her collection of books. Betty, a tiny, beautiful woman ten years my senior, inspired my love of reading as a boy. I'm not even really sure if she is actually a cousin, but she's a Jones, I'm a Jones, and our families have lived right here for well over a hundred years, so I call her cousin. I remember that, just after I enlisted, she showed me a slim volume of poetry, from a Boston bookstore, which she adored. I told her I would read it in a few weeks when I returned, but that was twenty months ago, a lifetime ago. That slim volume was called Leaves of Grass, which sounded like poems I might like, and the frontispiece pictured a jaunty gentleman, as I might like to become as I aged. I believe the author was Walt Whitman. I am sure that is coincidence, but this will be a warmer winter with the memory of happier days spent with friends, family, and books in a fine library next to a blazing fire. It certainly brightens my evening, sitting here in my wet, cold shebang, with an inadequate campfire, writing my own slim volume by lantern light.

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NOTES: Walt Whitman traveled to Horace and Betty Lacy’s mansion, Chatham, in Fredericksburg, Virginia to volunteer as a nurse in the army hospitals after the Battle of Fredericksburg. His graphic recollection of this time can be found in his book, Memoranda During the War.

Pictured above is the frontispiece to the 1855 publication, Leaves of Grass. It is a steel engraving by Samuel Hollyer from a lost daguerreotype by Gabriel Harrison.

Ellwood Manor, is a circa 1790 home located on the Wilderness Battlefield in the Virginia counties of Spotsylvania and Orange. Much of the Battle of the Wilderness was fought on the plantation itself. William Jones’s daughter, Betty, inherited the 5,000-acre plantation in 1847. Betty married J. Horace Lacy in the house on October 19, 1848. With the exception of the Civil War years, the Lacys resided at Ellwood until 1896, when they retired to a smaller home on Washington Avenue in Fredericksburg.

Free Friday: Natural Characters

2010-09-17T08:55:00.002-04:00

This is the last week of summer and, as seasons end and begin, I usually spend some time thinking about what I’ve done, where I am going. I was thinking this morning of renewing one of my rituals, beginning the day with a form of meditative drawing, using color pencils. These small color pencil drawings on a stark white background were a way to get the art flowing before going to the studio to work on my larger pieces. They were very much a form of meditation, taking the simplest objects and contemplating their significance in this world. The drawing of similar objects again and again became a sort of mantra repeated until the outcome was no longer as important as the process. This form of meditation suited me more than sitting Zazen.

For Free Friday this week, I offer for your free use in projects, a sampling of the natural characters that I drew time and time again. Give the image a click or two to download the hi-res file. Try a drawing meditation; you can do it anywhere. What simple tools we choose to use to get inside this mystery.

An ornithological note: My egg drawings are generally not specific types, as each egg represents the mystery of birth and life’s potential.

Whispers in the Whirlwind

2010-09-14T12:35:00.011-04:00

Journal Entry: Fredericksburg, Virginia; December 13, 1862

A two day ride brought our regiment into Fredericksburg this dawn, moving across the Massaponax Creek, until the morning fog lifted, revealing what seemed to be the entire Federal Army artillery just yards away. We quickly splashed back across the creek as Major Pelham wheeled two cannon into our front as though they weighed nothing; spinning them around to open a whirlwind of fire against the whole of the Federal army. With two guns, then one, he held off their advance and saved our lives. The fog was rapidly replaced by the drifting, acrid brume from Federal batteries on both sides of the Rappahannock. Our regiment spent the day supporting Major Pelham’s guns. As I carried messages back and forth between Hamilton’s Crossing and General Lee’s command post on Telegraph Hill, I could see the results of yesterday’s unimaginable and almost total destruction of our beloved Fredericksburg. Further beyond my imagination was the dutiful march of row upon row of boys in blue reduced to red heaps as thousands fell at Marye’s Heights. Finally, as evening approached, I could watch it no more and gave Shortcake a leg, turned on her haunches to the right and rode west to the heights above the city.

I could not shake this scene from my senses; we ride and march about this country en masse with chests puffed out, behind shiny shoulder straps boasting of battles with grand artillery and all of the mayhem that industrial progress can muster, but tonight, when we look into the winter sky, we should feel ashamed at what we have wrought. What must the small children and weary women of Fredericksburg be thinking as they huddle, hidden in their once happy homes upon this killing ground, surrounded by the moans and screams of those boys clawing at their doors or left on the field below the heights; their last breath visible in the cold winter air.

We first ask them to send off every boy and man, leaving only the very youngest and very oldest, and then the boys return, bringing the battle to their doorstep, as though we were not content to let our mothers use their imagination; we want them to experience hell here at home.

I tied Shortcake to a naïve sapling and sat for a while as the pop and roar of arms died down. I took out my Colt and thought, for just a moment, that I could end this hell, at least for me. I could extinguish my lantern, be among the missing; deeper in the trees, no one would find me; the sapling would grow and over the years consume me, so that one day I might provide a little shade for some survivor of this absurdity. I laid the pistol beside me and reached for my pencil instead. For solace, I took to my journal, to lose myself in my writing, “Come children; join our parade; bring your mothers that all may see our folly. Come children …”

And then, quiet. A quick quiet transforms the landscape. I look back to the winter sky and an event rarely seen this far south fills the dark horizon; the northern lights, aurora borealis, a miraculous sight at any time, but truly awe inspiring at this moment. With the coming of the lights, the moans and screams have disappeared. At first, I think perhaps the roar of Pelham’s cannon has deafened me permanently, but this is different. I hold my pocket watch to my ear; I can hear it ticking; seven o’clock. Something celestial has indeed descended and all seems at peace, as though the vast vault of heaven was pleading for no more murder, no more mayhem; perhaps a final sign to those mortally wounded and still on the field, seeing with dying eyes, faintly hearing the ethereal angels’ calming call within those lights, “This too shall pass. Be still; be at peace; dissolve back into union with your ancient mother.”

The complete quiet is replaced by the softest whir of wind, or is it a whisper; no, not one whisper, a dozen whispers, then a thousand. It must be in my head; there is no one within a hundred yards. I continue to write, soothed by the scratching of pencil on paper, but the whispers remain, as though I could hear everyone upon the earth and beyond it as well; the whispering angels, the mothers, the children, the dead, and the nearly dead; they speak as one, yet I cannot understand their words. I look back to the sky; the northern lights still a shimmering green glow; not a mirage; I see many men below the hill pointing to the sky; do they hear the whir of whispers. I recheck my watch; still ticking; still seven o’clock, still this moment, though I was sure many minutes had moved past me. I have been stilled by this distant flame; touched by this light; we have all been touched this night.

What am I to make of these whispers? They could be calling all, or me alone. Am I to join them; am I already dead and do not know? Slowly, the lights soften to black, the whisper blends with the winter wind; I wrap my wool around and wait to wake tomorrow. Or not.

Journal Entry: Fredericksburg, Virginia; December 14, 1862

   I am awake; awake, yes, I am sure of it; I feel the cold air as I breathe in. I breathe out; yes, awake and alive; I breathe in the smell of morning campfires from below the heights.

   Those whispers are no longer constant in my ears, yet they will be constantly in my heart and part of my voice. The whispers are softer now, coming when I listen, between breaths, in the purl and trickle of the creek, in the trill of the unseen junco, even in the slightest zephyr moving through the white pine. I will live for those whispering, live for them, as they have died for me.

   Today there will be much moving about, removing the dead from the fields, removing the armies to regroup. I will lose myself in the commotion and try, once again, to find Marianna. My wish is that I could be like the Dickens’ ghost of Christmas future and take Marianna forward in time where surely there will be no more wars.

A Christmas Carol, a novella by English author Charles Dickens first published by Chapman and Hall and first released on 19 December 1843.

My thanks to Kelly Letky for her inspirational comment that led me to add this next morning entry.

Free Friday: All of Us

2010-09-10T10:45:00.001-04:00

I remember September 11, 2001 as vividly as the Kennedy assassination, and the first man on the moon. Yes, I am ancient, which is my point. You and I are ancient; each and all, we have been here forever. We were born of our mothers and fathers, yet we were always a part of them, and every generation before them. There is not a break in the lineage, when any of us appeared out of nowhere and became separate. We were always here. We are all children of the same ancient mother. All of us.

I recently found a copy of my family tree dating back into the 1300’s, and looking over it, the entire idea of it seemed superficial, like viewing a giant sequoia tree from an inch away. My family tree is, as yours, a single tree of infinite branches and roots extending through the universes. If in my anger, I cut off a branch, I hurt you and me, and everyone that came before or after.

As we remember 9/11, let us too remember that, even when we disagree with our sisters and brothers, they are still our family; they are doing the best that they know at this moment, as are we. They may have moved far away and taken on a few peculiar habits, but mom still loves them, so we should try to love them as well. I have often been called naïve and overly optimistic, and I agree that I am all that and more; after all, I am ancient.

For Free Friday this week, I offer a favorite image of mine, “All of Us”, the frontispiece from an 1886 book entitled All Sorts of Children by Alice Rollins. Give the image a click or two to download the hi-res file.

Players in a Play

2010-09-08T13:13:00.005-04:00

Journal Entry: Fredericksburg, Virginia; November 19, 1862

Arriving in town early this morning, I could not find Marianna. I spoke at length with our friend, Charles Chewning at the Army Supply Depot, south of Fredericksburg near the hospital. He rode with us in the 9th Virginia until his left leg was badly cut by a Federal saber at Manassas in August. Charles is the finest fellow you could meet and one of the best horsemen I have ever met in Spotsylvania County. Many a time we would race and, likely as not, I would have his dust kicked up in my eyes, but never would he boast about it. It grieves me to know that, lame for life, he will probably never ride again. He is like almost everyone working at the Supply Depot; each on canes or crutches.

He spoke with Marianna a few days ago. She was moving between hospitals on both sides of the Rappahannock River. In the hospital beds, there is no blue or grey, no north or south; there are only boys in pain, patiently waiting for assistance, waiting for healing, or waiting for angels to quietly close their eyes. There are Virginia boys, as well as Vermont boys, so Marianna does as she can to help. We each have our role to play in this awful drama. We do as duty calls, even when we wish to extinguish the footlights and return to anonymity; no longer actors in someone else’s theatre.

Free Friday: British Butterflies

2010-09-03T08:52:00.002-04:00

The long, lacy white trim on the butterfly bush is fading; its crazy quilt of Monarchs and Painted Ladies has started to unravel. The hummingbird hurries between the persistent petals, like some frantic seamstress trying to sew it back together; I might miss her most. September moves us into a new season, and here in Maryland we have truly changing seasons; between beautiful springs and autumns, there are sweltering summers and snowbound winters. That is the way I like it, for each season opens with fresh hope and promise that all will be once again wonderful. Growth, rest, and renewal; that is a natural cycle seen, not on a screen, but outside under foot and over head. A walk in the woods is a completely different experience in each season; it renews the spirit of the walker, who then may work to renew the spirit of the world. Take a walk this weekend; it helps the world.

For Free Friday this week, I offer for your free use in projects, another assortment of butterfly cards. These butterfly cigarette cards are part of a 50 card “British Butterflies” series published in 1927 by Wills’s Cigarettes of Great Britain. The originals each measure 1 3/8” x 2 5/8”. Give the image a click or two to download the hi-res file.

Here and There, Then and Now

2010-09-01T09:14:00.001-04:00

    When Catherine Moreland at the Delaplaine asked me to start this art/journal project commemorating the Civil War Sesquicentennial, I had no idea that it would become an autobiographical memory. My intent was to show the incredible change in America during the second half of the nineteenth century leading to the Gilded Age, but in relating what may have happened on a personal journey of a particular cavalry trooper; his story became my story. Perhaps, Fellini was correct that, “All art is autobiographical; the pearl is the oyster's autobiography.”

    As I research the rather sketchy history of the 9th Virginia Cavalry, I try to fill in the blanks based on my own history and emotional connection to the land where that trooper and I spent our childhood. Because I had at least ten ancestors that rode with the 9th Cavalry, I could be cut from that same cloth and I find that, after reading a couple brief sentences from the regimental history, I am effortlessly transported to the time, the scene, and the emotion. Having been in the military during the Vietnam War, I empathize with the trooper’s pain of uncertainty and the loneliness of life far from home.

    If I leave the comforts of my modern home, sitting or walking outside for a time, I move back and forth between 2010 and 1862, from here to there, then to now, as if there were no difference, and possibly, there is none. Perhaps, as philosophers and physicists have said, there is no past or future; there is only now, this very moment. I have tried, for years, to see the logic in that theory, but only with this project, have I felt it in my being; a deep connection to each and all across time.

    My projects always take on a life of their own; it could be my life; I just didn’t know before.

Keep Together

2010-08-28T23:02:00.002-04:00

Back in the days before the internet; yes, there was such a time; we prehensile pilgrims would go to the public library to find information. To find anything, we searched through library catalog cards; not quite as quick as Google, but fast and efficient for its time. Thumbing through the cards left a golden patina on their edges; the fingerprints of past seekers; searchers on a historic quest for knowledge. We knew by the cards that there were others like us, on a spiritual path, an intellectual path similar to ours, even if we were only seeking books about ponies; we were not alone in our pursuit.

Now there is a magical website where you can make up your own library catalog card. The website: http://www.blyberg.net/card-generator/
is offered up by self proclaimed library geek, John Blyberg. I only found this site yesterday, so I have not ventured beyond the card generator, but that alone brings back wonderful memories of my youthful intellectual quest. At the top of today’s post is a card I made, so go; make a statement of your own in the way that once was Holy Grail, the catalog card of knowledge.

Free Friday: Lesson Learned

2010-08-27T10:01:00.000-04:00

Here we are at the last three days before school starts. I will be happy to return to routines and rituals, although those will be adjusted since little girls grow and routines that worked yesterday are outdated today. Life and the lessons we teach become more complex. As much as I miss the simple days of dolls, I am ready to share the drama of middle school. Yesterday, JJ even admitted to me, with her nervous smile that she likes a boy, and so it begins. I am sure she will become more guarded in her secrets shared, so the first lesson for me is “Learn to listen.” Listen to the shouts and whispers; not to the words as much as what is behind the words. I will resist giving my immediate “Father Knows Best” solution, but will be available when she asks for it. I have three days to study this lesson, before the true test begins.

Today, I offer for your free use in projects, another page from Osgood’s American Primer of 1870. Give the image a click or two to download the hi-res file; lesson learned.

The Secret Panels

2010-08-25T09:31:00.007-04:00

Journal Entry: November 18, 1862

   This week, we rode through Brandy Station and back into the Wilderness; everyone at home was thankful to see me and I am thankful to be seen, thankful to be alive. Our recent rations have been slim, but retreating Rhode Island troopers supplied us with new saddles, pistols, and sabers, so we appear prosperous. We spent this evening at the Wilderness Tavern and were treated like returning heroes from the northern battles. I asked many questions about kith and kin, in order not to speak about myself, or my madness. Even with candle light and lanterns, the tavern is dark and, thankfully, keeps me in shadow, so my soldier’s heart does not show in the haunted eyes hidden by my hat.

   Most of my uncles and brothers ride with me in the 9th Cavalry, but Uncle James makes flour for the army; he does not join us in battle, though his life is equally dangerous. He has built a secret panel beneath the staircase and behind it in a small space, he stays when the enemy, or the Home Guard, is near. He and Uncle Isaac also built a secret room in the blacksmith shop to hide his horses. Isaac told me that he tied cloth around the horse’s hooves and when the Federals came, looking to loot, they heard the muffled sound of the horse hooves, thought it was Confederate cannons in the distance and quickly fled. How is it that he still has his sense of humor? Federal soldiers have carried off every chicken we owned and turned over the smoke house for spite, yet my uncle still has his humor.

   My Marianna has gone to Fredericksburg to help as she can at the hospitals near the Army Supply Depot south of town. I hope to find her when we move into Fredericksburg tomorrow to make winter camp, but the great Federal Army is moving in that direction as well. If it happens that there is a battle there in the city I love, near the girl I adore, my madness will be complete.

   I know complete madness for I have seen it. My grandmother, Polly, lost her twins when they were just nine years old. My grandfather stored rat poison out in the barn and the twins ate it. This tragedy drove my grandmother mad; for the remainder of her life, she would wear white every day and thought she was a waiting bride. She died as she sat, waiting, beneath that huge old oak tree in 1856.

   I am but 21, and have already seen too much horror and too little humor to suit me. I long to disappear behind a secret panel beneath the sky, just me and my Marianna. My love may be my last saving grace, and she is fifteen miles east. At dawn’s first light, I will ride ahead of the regiment on the Plank Road east into town; let no picket attempt to stop me, for they shall know the wrath of the weary where no quarter will be given.

James Jones (1828-1902) ran a mill from 1857 to 1869 and produced flour for the Confederate Army. He was the great-great-grandfather of Michael Douglas Jones.
Polly Johnson Jones was the great-great-great-grandmother of Michael Douglas Jones. These stories of Polly, James, and Isaac are true.

Hope for Us

2010-08-21T00:36:00.005-04:00

Journal Entry: Friday, September 26, 1862

It is now nearly a week since we crossed that meandering river, away from the malodorous mayhem of Sharpsburg, and still, most of the memory stays with me; I am sure I will never shake it. Where the Potomac meets the Opequon creek, we camp. We came here to rest, and wait; what will the shoulder straps shake up for us next?

We went into Maryland to take the war north, away from our homes; we returned leaving tens of thousands on the field; men and mounts dead, or dying, on the soil from whence they came; waiting for relief; an hour, a day, another day; perhaps never. Am I the blessed one, or are they? I have always believed that the hanged man is more fortunate than the man imprisoned forever, for the hanged man has been released.

Early this morning, the camp scrambled from their tents as an orb lifted above the river, like an oracle in the northern sky. Sunlight reached it before dawn shone on us below; a Federal reconnaissance hot air balloon lifting into the air, like hope for a lighter tomorrow. Hardly anyone had actually seen one before and it caused quite a stir. One of our sharpshooters bet he could bring it down, but just the sight of it brought us such joy that he was quickly talked out of his wager. Joy; did I just write that word. Joy; I thought it might never return; perhaps there is still hope for us in this hell.

Joy, sorrow, joy, sorrow; how quickly I return to sorrow. Is madness meant to feel this way; one extreme to the other? Here at the Opequon, the Potomac River turns to the north, and then quickly to the south, then back again north, then south again, as though she was unsure which way was right. This river is so much like me; I do not know which way is right. I have completely lost my direction. Were I up in that balloon, high above the mayhem, it would be easier to see that, though the river seems to have lost direction, she, in the end, finds her way and joins the Chesapeake Bay, joins the Atlantic Ocean, and joins her ancient mother.

This river, these states, this boy, eventually, shall all find their footing; find their direction to rejoin some larger truth. There is no future in separation; we were meant to walk together, as we did to form this nation, all peoples in a union. Let the firebrands try to separate us with their talk of difference and division; surely, we are all from the same mother. That must be so. We must make it so. We must.

Free Friday: 1949 French Table Setting

2010-08-20T09:44:00.000-04:00

The girls are leaving tonight for one last trip over to the ocean before summer ends. I will miss my girls madly, but I will not be lonely. Once I finish my lengthy to-do list, I will devote every available hour to my arts. Solitude, I love your quiet company. Simple pleasures, simple meals; simply creative time.
Today, I offer for your free use in projects, a full page from a 1949 French book on the family kitchen. Among the illustrations is a table setting for a simple meal without a server. Give the image a click or two to download the hi-res file; bon appétit.

Free Friday: White House Invitation

2010-08-13T08:21:00.003-04:00

Living close to Washington, D.C. means that much of our TV news coverage centers around politics and the White House, because it is local news. There is a story here about White House party crashers that won’t go away. Their fifteen minutes of fame is into overtime. Today, I offer for your free use in projects, a 1947 invitation envelope from the Truman White House. I have the invitation as well, but I am always more interested in stamps and envelopes. I have removed the original recipient’s address and given you two versions. Give the image a click or two to download the hi-res file; print it on high resolution paper, and then fold and glue the edges back. Fill in an address to create a trompe l’oeil conversation piece.

Laid Low by Buck and Ball

2010-08-10T09:46:00.006-04:00

Journal Entry: September 20, 1862

Today, we were back on the Potomac River at Shepherdstown, where the river turns like a slithering snake. Keeping the Federals from following us home, we drove them back across that snake. On the bluffs above the ford, we saw many Federal boys, young and new to battle, carrying new Enfield rifles that wouldn’t fire. Panicked, they tried to climb down the cliffs, but failed in a hellish falling dance. We have seen too many dances of death in too few days. We have, each and all, seen too much.

I have left Maryland, having been laid low, having seen more of hell than any fiery brimstone preacher could have posited. Blanketing those hills and sunken roads of Sharpsburg is a blackening red field of carrion, both men and mounts.

Tonight, I had to leave camp to be alone, out by the river, away from that hell, if only for an hour. Here, with the crackle of my fire burning and the steady rhythm of the river nearby, I am usually unafraid; still, fear rises in me now. I have skills beyond most men to take care of myself; I know the wilderness; I have faith in my Colt, my shotgun, my saber, my senses. My faith in practically everything else has been shaken; our world, our ancient mother seems to be without hope of rescue, as though a mighty musket fired buck and ball at close range square into her bosom. This earth beyond rescue; my soul seems beyond repair.

In the clear midnight sky, the stars are the stars of home and they comfort me somewhat. The big dipper is bright above me; its cup pointing to the North Star. I have been told that it leads slaves north to freedom, or to a lesser form of slavery. If any one among us can find freedom in this tortured world, I wish them Godspeed. Perhaps a clear sky will lead me back to Marianna and my Wilderness home. Perhaps.

After a moment of pondering, I look back to the northern sky, but the stars are now covered by clouds; so quickly the sky changes; so quickly the world changes, so quickly.

Free Friday: Back to School

2010-08-06T07:59:00.004-04:00

Just 24 days left of Summer2010 and then, back to school, but not just school; middle school. Who thinks it’s a good idea for sixth grade to be middle school anyway? Today, we start the back to school shopping ritual; supplies and clothes… but, wait, what’s this… a full page of middle school dress codes; “hems of shorts and skirts must fall below the tip of the middle finger when arms are held straight down to the sides with shoulders in relaxed position … sleeveless tops must have straps at least the width of the index and middle finger combined”. What the what? I am suddenly nostalgic for ABCs and crayons; the simple days of elementary school, so today I offer for your free use in projects, a page from Osgood’s American Primer of 1870. Give the image a click or two to download the hi-res file; easy as ABC.

Soldier’s Heart

2010-08-04T19:16:00.007-04:00

Letter Home: September 19, 1862
Dearest Marianna,

Worry not, for I am well. By the time this letter reaches you, I am sure you will have heard about the battle at Sharpsburg, or if you see a northern newspaper, the battle of Antietam. We cannot even agree on what names to give the battles; they name for the nearest river, we name by the nearest town.

We crossed the Potomac River into Maryland on September 5th, and travelled through Poolesville to Barnesville, then New Market. High atop Sugar Loaf Mountain, we could see so far that I looked south to imagine your face looking north as you awoke. Riding through Frederick City, which seems so similar to Fredericksburg, I was immediately homesick. At dawn on the 14th, the regiment crossed South Mountain and rode through the day and night toward Boonsboro near Sharpsburg. During the main battle we were detached behind the lines to gather stragglers; the Federal artillery rounds passing over our heads like dark, iron thunderclouds; loud, but not raining down on us.

Your friend, Charles, did not fare as well and was badly wounded; the infantry always takes the brunt of the battle. His unit, the 30th Virginia Infantry, lost three-quarters of their men in a period of perhaps fifteen minutes near the Dunkard Church. This morning, I was riding south towards the Potomac River, when I saw Charles in an ambulance wagon heading, hopefully, back to Fredericksburg to recover. For him, this weary war is over. Despite his wounds, he was in good spirits, or pretended to be so. When he saw me, he started to sing, “If you want to have a good time, jine the cavalry!”, although his voice, like his body, was weak.

I want this letter to go along with the wagon train back to Fredericksburg; I know not where I am bound, though I am bound to you always.
Journal Entry: September 19, 1862
At dawn on September 15th, we entered Boonsboro, and even though there were large blue masses of troops off in the distance, I did not think we would be the ones to open the ball at this bloody battle. As we moved into town, there was a large building on the main street, a hotel, I believe, that was being used as a hospital for soldiers from both sides and we meant to secure it. The streets were narrow, so our unit was spread thin and could not hear the orders from front to back. Suddenly, we were attacked from everywhere at once. I was at Colonel Lee’s side when his horse went down under carbine fire and Private Lewis offered his mount to assure the Colonel’s escape in order to rally the rest. Fire flew from the front and sides; we were even fired down upon from the upper bedroom windows by Boonsboro citizens. We were the forlorn hope with hornets heavy around our heads, stinging from every direction. Whitewashed fences were shattered from shell and shot, young boys shattered as well; their faces washed white with shock. We fought our way out of town wildly with sabers and sheer luck, except for the thirty boys whose luck left them that morning. These are truths that I will not share with Marianna, for she has worry aplenty without my minor complaints, especially minor when compared to the two days after, which have wrought a red field of devastation that no man has seen in our history and shall likely not see again. That night of the 17th, it was difficult to cast a sleeping blanket on the ground for every inch seemed covered with those forever sleeping. And we could not sleep, and may never sleep again without that scene searing our eyes.

Two weeks ago, when we crossed into Maryland, we entered the dangerous unknown, a completely different world that looks identical to my world, but here, there are new rules, new risks. The families look identical to my family; yet here, I am not king of the castle, I am the knave, the rogue; it is an impossible trial that I may not endure. I feel as if I am in a travelling grotesque gypsy show, a player upon a strange stage, where all actors switch roles with each new scene. Those that were once allies are now enemies. The props and scenery change, act to act, from idyllic green gambol to flaming red horror. I feel that I have gone mad; we have all gone mad, for there is mayhem and madness all about me; good men killing good men, all for the glory of our state, our country, our homeland that once we all shared.

Do the other actors in this folly feel the same, would they listen, or think me the fool. To the other actors I plead; I have passed through your streets unnoticed and, at other times, paraded through those same streets as the hero. I have been hailed, I have been hanged. I have played every part in this once glorious play. Now I know not who I am at all. Am I hero; am I villain? Am I complicit in this crime, this horror? Of course not; of course. How will I ever return to my Wilderness home, to my Marianna; will she even recognize me in this character I now play. Could I change my role even if I wished, or am I doomed to play this madman forever?

The older veterans speak of the “soldier’s heart”, a sickness born of combat; the hurt of a hollow heart, the haunt of a hollow stare; an ancient disease brought on by the horrors of war. I must have that hollow heart; the part I play; the Knave of Hearts.

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Charles Grimsley was a corporal in the 30th Virginia Infantry, Co. I., wounded at Sharpsburg on September 17, 1862. He was the great-great-grandfather of Michael Douglas Jones.

23,000 total Americans, Northern and Southern, killed, wounded, or missing during this one day of fighting on September 17, 1862 at the Battle of Sharpsburg; the single bloodiest day ever in the history of America.

Keep Together

2010-08-02T11:32:00.004-04:00

Today is a bittersweet day. I am working on setting up a studio for JJ, our 11-year-old. She has decided that, since she is going into middle school this fall, it is time to give up her baby toys and convert her “cottage” into an art studio. We donated huge bags and boxes full of stuffed animals, Polly Pockets, and tiny toys to local charities and had a yard sale to sell her larger pieces, so she could earn a little spending money. There were a few toys that she wanted to keep, because they had special memories, like the tiny Snow White figure, whose hand she loved to chew, but I was surprised that a girl who hates change was able to part with so many possessions. I am putting together a long art table for her today, and this week, we will go out to find her first true easel; she has grown too tall for her old one. I remember her peeking through the legs of my easel when she was starting to walk. She is the reason I switched from oil painting to collage; I certainly could not use lead white around a toddler.

And that’s where the bittersweet begins. JJ has been with us since she was five months old, but it seems sudden that so soon starts this separation dance that we do with each of our children. I am excited about working next to her, in her studio or mine, but gone are the days of princesses and puppets. Gone too are the nights, during thunderstorms, when she always whispered, “Keep together”, and we would cuddle under covers, until it passed. This is her choice, not mine; I wish to forever keep together. I want her to grow in every way, yet I want her to remain the same. I am sure that I confuse her with these very different signals I send. I want her to know that I am always beside her, in the studio, in her growth, in her life with all its pains and promise. I can no longer direct her by simply lifting her up and placing her where I will. I can show her how to lightly hold a brush, if she will let me. I can show her how to politely hold a conversation, if she will let me. If she will let me, I will take her hand and start this separation dance, and we will circle for as long as I’m allowed.

Free Friday: Vintage Luggage Labels

2010-07-30T07:25:00.002-04:00

I am always happy to return home after spending time away in hotels, as I am a bit reclusive, or perhaps even agoraphobic, so to celebrate being back home, here are a couple vintage hotel luggage labels to use in your art projects, or stick them on your luggage for that globetrotter look, even if you don’t leave the house. Give the image a click or two to download the hi-res file.

Saving Grace

2010-07-28T17:56:00.004-04:00

After all these battles,
all these victories and losses,
there is a saving grace, a love;
a canteen offered to a friend or a foe;
a sharing of the cool water of compassion,
a caring at the open door;
opening beyond words,
beyond our own world,
where we are the open door;
where we are the cool water;
where we are the saving grace.
Where we are.
You and I.
We are that.

Saving Grace, an original oil painting by Michael Douglas Jones

Beautiful Dreamers

2010-07-26T13:24:00.007-04:00

Journal Entry: September 7, 1862.

Two days ago in the afternoon, we forded the Potomac River and rode into Poolesville, Maryland, where we found the citizens cheerfully accepting our currency of the Confederacy. With new boots and books, we are camping tonight near New Market, a fine old town, though not nearly as friendly. As I said, the wind here in Maryland blows sometimes south, sometimes north. No matter; I am content to sit with my books in the quiet of this evening.

I treasure books, the texture of books, the print pressed into the page; even as a child visiting my cousins in Fredericksburg; they would be outside playing hoops and sticks, and I would be inside, in a corner chair, while the adults conversed, or danced to “Oh! Susanna”. There in my corner complete, reading, running my fingers over the pages, alone, but never lonely. At home, I kept a small wooden cigar box full of bits of paper and printed pictures which seemed almost magical. I might spend hours arranging the papers in patterns, as if it were a whole world made of paper, and it was my puzzle to put in place. My father worried about me, I know, but my mother encouraged me, and besides, I could run and ride as well as anyone in the county and there was no better marksman for miles.

My friend, Simeon Paytes, a fellow trooper of Company E, told me that I will perhaps return in a future life as an artist. Simeon is a Spotsylvania gentleman, well educated and worldly, but not uppity, impeccably dressed, but no nob, nor gal-boy. He is a private, as I am, but when he is going down the line, I bet the fancy girls mistake him for ole J.E.B. Stuart himself.

So, Simeon said that he had read, and it might happen that we would all return to this world in another form, a reincarnation, one life after another until we reach some higher place. I listened, but I supposed that it wasn’t logical for one person to be born again as a new person. It seemed to me that one person becomes all peoples, just as the pear tree leaf in autumn falls onto the earth, and blends with the soil that blends with water and sun to become the trees growing pears that are eaten by people, so that the pears become part of people; all in all; each in all, and all in each. We are all of everything and everywhere at once.

Simeon pulled at his beard a bit as he pondered, “So,” he said, “the blood of all the boys dying on these fields will blend together, and in a hundred, fifty years or so, we won’t be able to tell the Federals from the Secesh, so we won’t wage war, because we would be killing ourselves?”

“Sounds logical.” I said.

Simeon smiled a curious smile, gathered up his traps and walked away whistling “Hard Times Come Again No More”, and I went back to blend with my books.

PAYTES, SIMEON C.: Enlisted. 4/10/62 in 9th Virginia Cavalry, Co. E. He was hospitalized with gonorrhea, Aug.-Sept. 1864, but then present on most rolls thru 10/1/64 final roll. Paroled at Lynchburg, 4/15/65. Drew a pension in Spotsylvania Co. in 1920. Simeon's sister married into the Jones family in 1859.

Americans were first exposed to Buddhism around 1850 from Chinese immigrants.

"Hard Times Come Again No More" was written by Stephen Foster in 1855, and he wrote "Beautiful Dreamer" shortly before his death in 1864 at age 37.

Blood & Thunder

2010-07-24T20:09:00.004-04:00

Journal Entry: Edwards Ferry on the Potomac River, September 4, 1862

Tomorrow, we move into Maryland to take a taste of devastation to the north. Northern newspapers are full of horrific headlines, as if the popular “blood & thunder” novels were now being played out on fields of fire in a faraway land, but those fields are our home lands, and those fires are our homes. The readers are blood thirsty; the editors feed that thirst. The happy news of weddings and births has been crowded out of the pages, replaced by scenes of southern suffering. This war has become a shocking stage for a bloodlust that has been quickly growing, like the population, for years. The young, buoyant nation of our forefathers, that worked together to elevate the citizenry, has taken a turn towards destruction and sensationalism. Where we once came together in a crisis or disaster, our interest now seems to be simply self-interest. I hate to spread this mayhem to another state, but perhaps war must be seen first hand, if we are ever to see peace.

So, it is into Maryland, we shall go. Maryland is a state in a contrary state of mind, for as many citizens lean south as lean towards the north, somewhat akin to a pine sapling depending on the day’s breeze for its direction. Entering a Maryland town, we will never know how we shall be received; if the wind will be blowing north or south. Even President Lincoln was so unsure of her leanings that, last year, he jailed 31 Maryland legislators suspected of favoring secession, as it would have been devastating to have Washington City surrounded by secession states.

Were we not weary of war, this would be a fine adventure. A year ago, almost to a man, we had never left Spotsylvania County, Virginia, and now, here we are at Edwards Ferry, about to cross the Potomac River into the mountains of Maryland. From a distance, it is a beautiful, idyllic scene, but what waits; I fear it shall be blood and thunder.