Goldenrod blooms in late August, its yellow/golden statement the sign of autumn’s arrival.
Autumn reinvents; its transformative voice slow and measured. Suddenly, stunning red vines drape like stoles across the shoulders of a chain linked fence. Then, another cluster, a red spray.
A red lipped leaf becomes a reflection on roads less traveled; brilliance in the midst of bland.
Yellow, brown, green and red coexist as death arrives. Humans try to fence nature out, tell it where, how, and when to grow. But nature is nature, pushes, even through iron.
Autumn reinvents.
2020 needs immediate deliverance. Drift wood reminders of scenes from movies, Deliverance and Daughters of the Dust.
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 This painting is called The Man In The Blue Shirt Stares Into The Aqua Cave. Such a long titled because I painted this piece three months ago and didn't know what it was. Usually, when I finish one of these abstract pieces, I turn it around, look at all angles and something pops out. This one didn't. Well, last night I was sitting in front of the TV eating a bowl of popcorn and happened to look over at this painting which was propped against a house plant sitting the window. All of a sudden, I saw the little man in the red shirt and guess what? He was staring into the aqua colored cave. That's it. That's the post. Happy creating!   Post Script:
Another revelation. Look closely at the painting. Now I see an old woman with a curved back wearing a red top and a yellow skirt standing behind the little man in the red shirt sitting and staring into the aqua colored cave. I wonder what they see? Is the old woman whispering something? Did she lead the man to the cave? Will the man embark, journey into the unknown? These are the things that fill my mind.  With fabric shops closed during the pandemic, I began looking for alternative sources for fabric. Purchasing fabric online is always an option but there’s something about the feel of fabric that’s missing on the computer screen. Goodwill proved a great find. I was amazed about the exceptional fabric used in men’s dress shirts, lovely cottons and linen. And the colors! There were the regular dress whites and plaid work shirts. But the pastels really got my creative juices flowing, pink, lilac, baby blues. I knew I wanted to highlight the pastel, a quilted wall hanging that would embrace a man’s gentle side. As I began cutting the fabric, I couldn’t help notice the tags – all not made in America. For some reason, this made me laugh. All this negative political stuff going on and America can’t even sew her own clothes. What a farce. Really put things into perspective. Hence, the quilt’s title, Not Made In America.
I cut and machine pieced squares, half square triangles, and strips from the men’s shirt fabric and one woman’s blouse. For the border I used purple batik. The quilt back is a mixture of shirts, the batik and other fabric from my stash. The quilt measures approximately 41 ½” and 50” give or take. My quilts are never perfect. Not Made In America is machine pieced and stippled, hand stitched hem, polyester batting.  Not Made In America, 2020, cathleen margaret
Further Detail, and Quilt Back   Companion Piece to Not Made In America, canvas, acrylics, oils, permanent marker; 30" x 24" Happy quilting and other wonderful, creative things.  My latest find from Goodwill. There’s wonderful adult coloring books out now. Beautiful flowers that need doing.
 In my opinion, line drawing is the most relaxing of all “art as therapies.” By therapy, I’m referencing relaxation and peaceful environment. Your idea of therapy is your idea. Explore those definitions. The concept of line drawing is simple. Have you ever doodled on the back of an envelop while on hold or while talking on the phone? This is line drawing. The materials are simple. A blank canvas, whether paper (with structure) or anything that will take ink and, like we called them back in the day, magic markers or Sharpies in various writing widths, from very fine to fat. I like using black markers. The starkness of black on white is pleasurable to me. There are other colors as well. Sometimes I’ll throw in a splash of red for interest. Lines: ___________ thin to fat and fatter, straight, zigzag, squiggly. Circles with the same concept in mind, thin to fat, big to small and everything in between. Take a look at your “Wingding” fonts for ideas. The fun is in the doing, the drawing and connecting. Start with small renditions of your lines. Don’t try to rush it by thinking you need to fill big spaces all at once. The magic of line drawing is total nothingness. Forget time. Focus on the line you’re pulling, or the circle you’re drawing. And never fret about whether the circle or line is straight. Better that they aren’t. When you’ve completed the piece, look for symbolism, hidden meaning or images of people or structures that you had no idea you were drawing. If you don’t find anything, it was not meant to be. What you’ve completed is your peacefulness on the page and what can be more beautiful than that? This is Shoes, Circles and Tumbling Boxes 
This is art as therapy. Try your hand. There are no mistakes or rules, only Sharpies, a surface, your hands and heart. The first one will probably feel a little tentative, but then watch how you feel the next time you try. Here’s to happiness!
#ArtAsTherapy  This is not a post about berries. It is, however, about train of thought, how one thing leads to another, especially when you're in a creative mood. The other night, I was putting finishing touches on a mixed media piece titled Carnival and suddenly, I thought of blueberry muffins. When I got to a place where I could reasonably take a break from Carnival, down came the cookbooks. This time I wanted to make something without so much butter and sugar, just something I could snack on, or maybe have in the morning with coffee. Time was running out, I needed to get back to Carnival, so instead of muffins, I made muffin bread. No need to grease and flour all the muffin tins (didn’t have any muffin papers), so I greased and floured a bread pan. This is the result. It's easy to slice and stays well in the fridge uncovered. I thought I would have to toast it, but no, just slice a hunk off and enjoy with coffee or tea. Of course you could toast if that's your preference.
Here’s the recipe. It’s a one bowl thing. I left out the sugar because the blueberries seemed sweet enough. I used oil instead of butter, and egg whites instead of whole eggs (those pesky yolks and their cholesterol!). I like King Arthur flour. This time I used King Arthur white wheat, but I suppose any flour will do. Prepare pan. 350 oven Ingredients: 1 ½ cups of flour, 2 t baking powder, ¼ t salt, 1/3 c oil, 2 egg whites or one whole egg, flavoring, pint of berries. Wash and dry berries. Sprinkle a little flour, about a teaspoon or so, on the berries and toss for even coverage. Put dry ingredients in bowl, stir. Put oil in a measuring cup; add two egg whites and enough water to make one cup, stir to break up egg whites Add liquid to flour mixture Stir, just enough, it’s not a cake, you want it kind of bumpy. If it's too wet add a little more flour; if it's too dry add a little water. Add teaspoon or so of flavoring (vanilla, lemon) Fold in blueberries. I’ve made it with strawberries and will try raspberries Scrape batter into a prepared bread pan (you could make muffins if you want) Bake at 350 for about 20 minutes or so Cool in pan about 5 minutes Scrape sides of pan and turn onto plate Now, back to Carnival. This is acrylic paint on canvas, magic marker (sharpies in different size nibs); and sequins. The yellow fading into the darker colors made me think of a carnival or circus tent. This is art as therapy. Try your hand. There are no mistakes or rules, only paint, a surface, your hands and heart. The first one will probably feel a little tentative, but then watch how you feel the next time you try. Here’s to happiness! #ArtAsTherapy
 They're working on the train tracks. I can see the big machines, the workers in their orange vests. The construction noises from the big machines are loud, but comforting. When the work is complete, the next train comes along. I say, hi train. The whistle is blowing loud and really long. This is significant because the conductor does not always blow the whistle. Today the whistle is laughing about something, or maybe just happy to get the train moving again. Did you know Nature produces many shades of green? I'm reminded of that because of the foilage outside my window. I'm waiting for the deer to pass. They usually come in the morning. Maybe they'll come later. After the train goes by I realize something's different. Then I notice in the midst of green is a sheath of gold. The beginning of August, and gold is reminding that Autumn will be here soon.  Coffee, leftover rice, fresh veggies, eggs, oranges and toast for breakfast. Energy. Maybe I should eat like this all the time. Maybe I should workout. I read somewhere that it's not healthy to workout everyday. Something about the body needing to recalibrate, recharge, heal. Maybe I should finish the painting I started the other day.
canvas, acrylic paint, wheat paste, beads, pearl cotton thread, hand embroidery This is art as therapy. Try your hand. There are no mistakes or rules, only paint, a surface, your hands and heart. The first one will probably feel a little tentative, but then watch how you feel the next time you try.
Here’s to happiness! #ArtAsTherapy
Like AWB sings in School Boy Crush, I was "just out walking," getting some fresh air and exercise. The other reason was to get to know my new, refurbished camera, a necessary tool for visual artists. It is 84 degrees and 9:30 a.m. By the time I get going, it's nearly 90 degrees. Mask on and sweating, I make my way to Riverfront Park along the Monongahela River. Funny thing about sunshine and breezes, the 90 degrees part of the equation is not a hindrance, rather a blessing. People all over the world are sick, some dying or dead. No complaints from me. I walk for them. The following is a photo and video journal of my morning walk.  On the path.
This first image is a mistake, the camera did its job as it swung around my neck. I forgot to turn it off and this is a picture of the path I walked. Mistakes can be good things. Like Miles said, "There are no mistakes, just new music."
This little bird allowed me to take its picture. Then suddenly turned in the other direction so I could get that side too.
Texture and color theory. The first is a close up of a huge boulder situated along the path. The second is the same boulder where someone spay painted across the bottom, lines of pink.
Lots of shades of green and majestic trees along the Monongahela River. And then bursts of fushcia.
Next came geese walking. Time to sit, relax, reflect. Pardon my shaky hands.
Since I began with AWB, here's School Boy Crush. Back in the day I knew the number to this song on the jukebox at the bar. Here's to relaxation and good times. Listen with earphones so you can hear the baseline. Enjoy!
 Underwater, detail Remember finger painting, how much fun that was? So messy and rewarding at the same time. Why is it that when we become a certain age, we stop needing to be messy. I was reading one of my art journals yesterday, looking for inspiration and came across this quotation by the painter, Howard Ikemoto. He said, "When my daughter was about seven years old, she asked me one day what I did at work. I told her I worked at the college -- that my job was to teach people how to draw. She stared at me, incredulous, and said, You mean they forget?"  Horse, by Howard Ikomoto Saturday, I was out walking and decided to visit the Goodwill store by my house. I found canvas boards, new ones and at a much cheaper price than regular art suppliers. Thinking of Mr. Ikemoto's daughter, I decided to get messy. I never could draw, but what about the feel of a brush in my fingers, letting the paint become an extension of my good mood. Here's the result that I titled Underwater. Underwater: canvas, acrylic paint, glitter, embroidery thread, chain stitch This is art as therapy. Try your hand. There are no mistakes or rules, only paint, a surface, your hands and heart. The first one will probably feel a little tentative, but then watch how you feel the next time you try.
Here’s to happiness! #ArtAsTherapy  Free style quilting allows the quilter to relax and sew. There are no preconceived notions about block construction. You simply reach into the basket, pull out the next piece of fabric and attach it to another piece of fabric. Before long the design wall is filled with interesting and delightful blocks, colors and textures playing nice. For this quilt and others like it, after your design wall is filled with your blocks, start to rearrange them. See where the quilt is taking you. After several weeks of piecing and finally arranging and rearranging quilt blocks, one block emerged as the spokesperson, displayed a window motif, hence this quilt's name, Golden Window.  When I was piecing this quilt, I watched a documentary about the great jazz musician, Sonny Rollins, titled Beyond the Notes. Mr. Rollins said something about horn, without the words and I thought, quilt without fancy technique. Simple movement through color, shape, lines, texture and thread. In this same documentary, the bassist, Christian McBride, said improvisation is the genius that allows for music composition on the spot, while the thing is going on. He also said, "Learn everything you can about playing jazz and then forget it." That's how I feel about quilting. Learn everything and then have fun. Those techniques are your foundation, your toolbox to pick, choose or discard as the need arises. We needn't be overburdened by doing something "right," as opposed to doing what feels "right." The Golden Window  This quilt and it's fabric may look familiar. They were born from the same scrap basket. See Golden Window's sister quilt, Bit of Raspberry. Thanks for stopping by and happy creating!  This is what you call an old fashioned quilt. It's made from bits of fabric scraps leftover in my stash. You step back, let colors and textures speak among themselves. It’s quilted in sections, so that I wouldn’t have to struggle machine quilting on a machine designed for garment construction. The middle section came first then I built around that. Once all the pieces were set on the design wall, I noticed a flash of raspberry. Hence the quilt’s name, Bit of Raspberry, which reminded me of raspberry sherbet I loved as a kid. Bit of Raspberry  This quilt is machine pieced and quilted. Some of the fabric (including the raspberry fabric) functioned as clothes in another life that I purchased from Goodwill. Other material includes polyester, cotton and muslin. Sometimes muslin gets a bad name. It’s an inexpensive fabric that designers use to make a garment before cutting the “good” cloth. I like muslin. It’s sturdy and malleable. It’ll do whatever you want. And it’s great for paints, will accept water color, acrylic and others. I also use it when I want to tea or coffee dye fabric. Some quilts are for hanging on the wall. Other quilts are for wrapping up in. Bit of Raspberry feels good.
 Quilts chat about contradiction; they tolerate harmony. When you get going on a quilt, the sewing machine sings to you. Even an old machine like mine, clunking along in her bass voice. The act of pushing and pulling the quilt, having the feed dogs lead—these things—and the experience becomes meditative, especially during this time of deceit and honesty. Liars and oppressors are ugly, but beautiful when the whole world notices and isn’t afraid to comment. Honesty can be ugly. When colors, fabric textures and hand-feel clash and don’t want to work together, but you put aside what you know to be true and push on anyway. In the end, the quilt is not really ugly, as in revolting, but sad, just there, in your house. Maybe a child wraps up in it on the floor as they watch television. Like if you know the truth, are honest with yourself about truth but feign ignorance about it in conversations, or during your daily rituals and encounters. You lie to the world, but in your heart, you know the truth. God forbid if a child lays on the floor and watches television wrapped in your deceit.  One day though, and suddenly, your silence slips and your honesty, that thing you know but have lied about, exposes itself. Maybe you whispered it to someone who may have been your ally at another time. But during this pandemic-killer cops time, you realize that person is no longer a collaborator. You missed it when they voiced the hidden truth, stood tall and took it, the uncomfortable feeling we all get when our brains shift and we decide on something better. Your collaborator owned up to complicity. Your collaborator changed.  All these thoughts, a meditative approach, as my sewing machine hummed. The dark fabric is light, like truth found on a blank slate, the blackboard waiting for someone to record thoughts or calculations. Gangster yellow reminds about care, how much goes in because too much yellow overpowers the quilt’s message, its flow and then not even contradiction can have a say. Use yellow like spice sprinkled from above, sparingly. The yellow is sun pushing her way though, no matter what, and aligning herself with darkness, the grand plan, the empty slate, the blackboard that reveals our limits too, when we flinch as fingernails dig the slate’s surface and scratch across. That sound. That’s where we are, able to stand the sound, or cowering, our nerves shot to hell under the weight. The on and on of seasons. The leaving and coming. Straight lines. Crooked lines. Sunflowers alongside camouflage. Slants of green until Spring highjacks and green throws itself everywhere in a pleasing way. There’s gold specks on black and gold specks on red. There's red and gold prairie points jutting answers, recommendations, and healing. Midnight and Sun May 2020 Photos by Natalie Moffitt Techniques: nine patch, strip piecing, prairie points, reverse appliqué, machine piecing, machine quilting.
Materials: antique quilt pieces, cotton and polyester fabric, threads, batting.  This post is about unfinished projects and imperfections. In the quilt world, we say there is no such thing as a perfect quilt. Look outside. Nature is crooked, bent and twisted. We also say in the quilt world, when imperfections become too noticeable by the maker, the quilt becomes a “keeper.” It’s perfectly beautiful, just not one you want to offer to paying customers. It’s probably true about all forms of creativity, that if you are in a middle of a project and, for whatever reason, find yourself being pulled away from its completion, getting back to it can be problematic. You forget your place. Inspiration fueling advancement dries up. Impressions are forgotten. Keys to next steps go away. While reorganizing fabric, separating cloth into piles of like-minded colors and textures, I stumbled across an unfinished quilt project. We had a sit down, the quilt and me, as I tried to remember what the quilt wanted. I couldn't remember.
Luckily, a new set of inspiration arrived. The quilt and me moved forward. There were shortcuts. I decided not to continue hand embroidering which, now that I think about it, is probably one of the reasons why the quilt remained unfinished. Hand embroidering is time consuming and more than that, our bodies have just so many cycles. Embroidery has become hard on my wrists and fingers. I decided to finish the quilt, try to remain as close to the original plan as possible, but without adding more hand embroidery. I always preach to my students the importance of hand sewing bindings. You don’t want to see hemming threads from the back on the front of the quilt. Plus, there’s such a calming effect that happens when you hem: the pretty hem stitches, the mesmerizing rocking of the needle. I was all set: tea, audio book, threads, needles. I began hemming, realized how long it would take me to finish, and coupled with the tingles in my fingers as I worked, broke one of my cardinal rules and decided to machine hem. Here's Redwork In Blue Variation. The word variation is added because the binding fabric is black and gold. A traditional redwork quilt uses only two colors: red and white. Materials include cotton fabric, West African woven and hand dyed cotton cloth, pearl cotton and embroidery floss. Techniques include hand embroidery, applique, machine piecing and quilting. Reorganizing? Find an unfinished project? Give it another go. Nothing unfinished? Try something new. What better time. Thanks for reading. Hope to see you again! To learn about and see other examples of redwork, click the following links:
 Back in the 1950’s and 60’s children grew up with The Wizard of Oz and Peter Pan presented once a year as Sunday night television treasures. I have to admit my excitement about both presentations. In Peter Pan, I could fly. The singing by Mary Martin as Peter, and Cyril Richard as Mr. Darling and Captain Hook, made the whole thing joyful. It was a thing to take part in. I clapped loud and long for Tinker Bell. The content as pertains to Tiger Lily, the Native American character portrayed by Sondra Lee, was problematic. Without knowing any authentic Native languages or music, we knew that portion as bogus and learned to skip over the weird parts. The Wizard of Oz lasted longer than Peter Pan, as a Sunday night television event. The flying monkeys were terrifying. The Munchkins lived in a beautiful neighborhood with lots of big colors, flowers and candy. The town was clean. Everyone dressed nice. Even the thug Lollipop Kids were accepted by the community. The Wizard was a big disappointment. But kids should know that feeling of disappointment, believing in something or someone and then realizing the whole thing as fake. This is one way for children to recognize fakery in real life. The thing that bothered me about The Wizard of Oz was the treatment of the so-called Wicked Witch of the West. Munchkin Land was afraid of her. Why? Listen, if some girl in a flying house from some place no one ever heard of came crashing down, landed on my sister and killed her, I’d be angry too. As a kid I learned the difference between anger and wickedness and I wondered why no one else understood. The Witch of the West was angry. Not wicked. To me, Mrs. Gulch was the wicked one, pedaling around on her bicycle being mean to innocent puppies.  I had an old broom. Sometimes I used it. Most times it sat in the corner. The broom followed me everywhere I moved. Finally, I put it in the hallway outside my apartment door intending to use it to sweep the hallway as needed. But I never did. One day as I was unlocking my front door, the broom stopped me. I looked at her and decided to bead her, brought her back inside and began to bead. As so often happens in the midst of creation, the thing being created tells you what it is and how it is to be. I listened. The result is The Old Broom, Resurrected by the One They Called Wicked. By the time I completed The Old Broom, my fingers felt arthritic, by back hurt, and my eyes were seeing black and white stripes and boxes at the edges. But, I was grateful for the opportunity to create Her. I was happy I listened to her instructions. She has become a part of me. We are one. She is me. I am her. What The Broom asked for, is that she be resurrected with shiny glass beads to reflect light, and packets of potions hung in muslin by twine at the base of the broomstick. The potions include elemental tools like rice for sustenance, spices for excitement, coins for prosperity, dirt for planting and standing strong, and candy for happiness and relaxation. She also wanted a quilted pad to rest her feet (the bottom of the broom straw). Techniques include design, circular peyote stitch (the real name is tubular peyote, but I always forget that word. It’s one bead on your needle, you sew it in, you pop it into place, you pull the thread for tension, you pick up another bead and around and around you go) bead weaving, twine braiding, hand piecing and machine quilting. Materials include the repurposed broom, glass beads, muslin, glitter, Mod Podge, rice, spices, pennies, dirt, candy, threads, batting and twine. As always, thank you for appreciating my work and Happy Creating!  If you follow this blog, you know that in 2017 I visited my niece, Karen, in San Diego, California. Karen had just undergone brain surgery and I wanted to lend my support to her as she recovered. Since that time, I am happy to say, Karen has survived two surgeries and radiation. She is thriving. She is my hero. Our family is from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Karen left home to join the Marines when she was 18 and never looked back. She traveled extensively, finally settling in San Diego. She’s happy there, and when you go through such a life altering event as she did, home seems so far away. This is when you find out who your family and friends are, you find out about willing warriors, the ones willing to stick with you during the thick of it. Karen’s friend, Thomasina, rose to the occasion, let me tell you. She attended every pre-operation doctor visit to help Karen listen to doctor’s instructions, was there for the operations and post-op check-ups, as well as just being there for Karen at home and during her recovery. I noticed when I was there, the effect Buttons had on Karen. Buttons is Thomasina’s puppy and when Thomasina and Buttons visited, Karen’s spirits soared. She smiled, got on the floor with Buttons and generally enjoyed herself that day. She and I talked about the fact that maybe a puppy would be good for her too. We visited a shelter and she continued to visit shelter websites after my visit was complete. One day Karen called to tell me about Cookie, the shelter dog she had adopted. What a difference Cookie has made in Karen’s life. Cookie is funny, smart and protective, the kind of puppy you think you have known all your life. She just fits in! What do you do when you are so far away from a loved one, how do you continue those moments of love and healing. Karen and I talk frequently. She plays upright bass, bass guitar and rhythm guitar. So we talk about music and our family ties to stringed instruments. My paternal grandfather, Boyce Richardson, (who I never met, he died before I was born) played guitar, and his brother-in-law, my great uncle, Jim Bennett, played upright bass. Uncle Jim Bennett was an entrepreneur and died during a shoot-out with Revenuers as he protected his still and other investments, with his silver 45, down there in Spartanburg, South Carolina. We know they are pleased, from heaven, about our love of music and stringed instruments. But still, I wanted to do something else. I wanted to keep my energy in Karen’s life, from Pittsburgh all the way to San Diego. Then it hit me. I’ll make quilts, one for Cookie and one for Buttons. That way, as I thank Karen for her strength, and thank Thomasina for her friendship, the sentiment has a tangible component.  The quilts are identical, except that Cookie’s quilt incorporates gingerbread cookie fabric.  Here is a slideshow of Karen and Cookie, followed by Thomasina and Buttons and Cookie. Cookie is such a ham, getting in all the pictures. Thanks for stopping by and good luck to you on whatever you create today!  Women and Drinking SongsThis is a continuation from another post titled Music Appreciation, a thing I'll continue to do as the mood dictates. Pandora played a song for me by Mikki Howard that I'd never heard before. I liked the song so much (lyrics, voice, music) that I wondered what other songs had been recorded by women about drinking and getting high. It's usually men who record get high songs, so I did some research and what I found interested me. I'm sure there are many other songs, but let's start with Mikki Howard's Beer For Breakfast. This song is so fonky. The bassline alone. My My. Enjoy! Let's go back and pick up some classical blues. Here's Bessie Smith singing Me and My Gin, "Don't try me nobody, cause you will never win. . ." Nina Simone recorded Me and My Gin under the name Gin House Blues. Her rendition, though upbeat, is still the blues. Of course Nina on the piano. This is a live version. Unfortunately no video. Imagine being in that audience. Lil Johnson is one of my favorite blues singers. Her songs tell it like it is, like this one, Let's Get Drunk and Truck, "You know my other man is out of town. Your other woman she's not around. Now is the time to break em down, let's get drunk and truck." Ruth Brown. The song is not about drinking, but it is about confidence in what you got. If I Can't Sell It, I'll Sit on It, "This is not St. Vincent DePaul." Let's slow it down a pace for Dinah Washington singing Drinking Again. I grew up with Dinah's voice in the house from my older siblings, Dorothy, Evelyn, Sonny and Jerome. This is the kind of music they listened to. I'm glad they did. Their choices in music helped lay a solid foundation for the soundtrack of my life. Listening to Dinah made me think about Nancy Wilson, who passed a few days ago. Their voices are close in texture and mood. I couldn't find any drinking songs by Nancy. But I did remember she did a commercial for Stroh's Beer. Once at a concert at the Syria Mosque in Pittsburgh, she sang the commercial for us. Here's Nancy at the recording session. Watch Nancy's expression when the man wants to go through it once for her, as if she needs help interpreting a little ditty.  Smokin Room by Rufus and Chaka Khan presents another thing. I guess the song is open to interpretation but I think it's about a woman who wishes to take the relationship beyond just having fun and getting high. See what you think. We'll let Billie Holiday end this post with Ain't Nobody's Business if I Do, "If I go to church on Sunday then cabaret all day Monday, ain't nobody's business if I do." Hope you enjoyed this installment of Music Appreciation. Happy creating. Good vibes to all that you write, sing, compose, sculpt, build, whatever you are doing. Stay in the groove! Oh, but wait. I found this. Aretha singing Drinking Again. Had to include my girl. 9:30 a.m.
I'm sitting by the back window, cup of coffee warming my hands when suddenly, I see through the camouflage of brown brambles and bare trees, two deer—one female, head down nibbling whatever nourishment still thrives under layers of dead leaves; and one male, head down sniffing the female’s nourishment. They are a couple, I think. Just as suddenly, a train passes along the trestle as it does everyday in 15 or 20 minute intervals. Today, the train stops though and awakens the sun to shine on me through my window. I raise the blinds to allow full access. The deer continue nibbling and sniffing. The train continues to stay. The sun continues to shine on us. It is tableau. We remain in our respective roles for 20 minutes or so. I marvel about how my body slows, is neither thinking of what I need to do nor caring that I don't. I do notice that the female deer is almost impossible to see, her camouflage so correct as to save the next generation. The male is brown, but deeper, more noticeable. Finally the female deer decides to sit. She uses three jerky movements to settle herself. The male deer stands a few more seconds, then joins her in sitting. They are opposite each other, only inches between. His ears remain upright, twitch, listen. She is more relaxed, continues chewing. I smile because it looks like she’s chewing a stick of Juicy Fruit. We are montage making a miracle; Olorun (the sun) shinning down on Òsóòsì (the hunter, deer), Ògún (iron, technology), and me. My fixed schedule looms but I can not move. It's as if the miracle bids me relax, desires that I bask in the majesty of Olóòfin's (God’s) natural manifestations, His/Her/Its science and technology. After about 20 minutes more, train sounds begin, the grind of metal on metal urge forward movement. As the train slowly departs, the deer stay, are not frightened by the train’s big noise, have become familiar and comfortable with the reverberation of iron. The sun hangs about. The deer and I receive continuous shots of vitamin D. After more minutes, a new train arrives. The deer glance up, appear to watch its arrival as children do, in states of wonder. I turn my face to the sun, directly in front of me now, smile, hold the miracle. Physically, spiritually and intellectually, I experience majesty, say: Mo júbà Olóòfin! Mo júbà Olorun! Mo júbà Ògún! Mo júbà Òsóòsì! Only then am I released and refreshed enough to fit myself into the schedule Spirit has planned for me. Most often our schedules prevent us from spending moments with miracles. Like the train, deer and sun, let us revive ourselves again. What are your miracles? Translate the experience into your knowledge of majesty. Share them if you'd like and happy creating! Back in the day someone would buy a new album, a dime bag and adult beverages. There would be food and friends all converging to relax and listen, our version of music appreciation. Most often the sounds were instrumental—jazz, and R&B from popular singing groups that also wrote and played their own music, like War. I remember once the celebration centered on the soundtrack from a movie scored by Quincy Jones. Some of the pieces were short bursts of musical energy that probably represented some lively thing happening on the screen. Other pieces were longer. Quincy took no shortcuts. Each piece, whether brief or extensive, was a fully realized composition. I don’t remember the name of the movie. I do remember the fun we had that night, partaking and listening to Quincy’s creativity. If you are still a partaker of adult stimulants, or if your mind is sufficiently stimulated without help, sit back and enjoy this version of music appreciation. This morning on Pandora, the first song played was Aretha singing Today I Sing The Blues, recorded in 1960. Aretha was 18. Today I Sing The Blues is an old standard, but I’d never heard Aretha’s rendition. A lot of her songs have a Blues foundation, like Dr. Feelgood and many others. But this is clearly the Blues, straight, no chaser. As one thing often leads to another, my mind took a turn from Aretha and met up with Pharaoh Sanders. Here’s The Creator Has a Master Plan, recorded live in Leverkusen, Germany, October 19, 1999. Prayer, revolution, lust, sensuality, a spiritual convocation. The piano sounds like a waterfall, the bass is both thunder and rain, the drums punch heart beats, and Pharaoh is the echo between two mountains, wa guitar, and percussion. Pretty music. “This is what he said,” is Jennifer Hudson’s introduction to her live interpretation of Al Green’s Simply Beautiful at Kennedy Center Honors. Just listen… For Eddie and the Cruisers fans. This is one of my favorite love songs ever. Sung here by the real “Cruisers,” writer and singer of all the movie’s original songs, John Cafferty and the Beaver Brown Band. Tender Years. Next is a cut from the video and film, Take Me To The River, featuring Bobby Blue Bland and Yo Gotti, on Ain’t No Sunshine, a little old and new fusion, “built for bad weather.” I mentioned War in the introduction. This next cut, City Country City, is from their album The World is a Ghetto. I remember precisely the time and place of this musical appreciation session. I was living in Cincinnati, Ohio. The Gold was good, and War produced a multi-layered sound, all instruments speaking beautiful music together. When you concentrate, you hear the conversation, the push, the pull back: rhythm guitar, bass, organ, horn, trap drums, congas and other percussive instruments. Never get tired of this one. It's funny how language transcends, is borrowed and shared. For instance, when I was in Ireland in 2010, I noticed people saying “ta,” to mean thank you. It reminded me of my mother saying “ta ta,” to the little ones when she was teaching “thank you.” We began this post with the Blues and will end with Johnny Guitar Watson singing I Want To Ta Ta You Baby. Happy listening! Hope this post inspires you to create something wonderful today.
 This morning, Thursday, August 16, 2018, Aretha Franklin, The Queen of Soul, stepped from this life into the realm of ever, everlasting. Her voice defined music. She was composer and arranger. She taught herself how to play the piano and she sang everything. Here's Aretha back in the day on the Martha Steward Show. When Martha asked about the song she played and sang, Aretha explained that it was Drink to Me Only With Thine Eyes, "an old English folk song with a little Bach in the middle." Everyone is writing about and commenting on Aretha. Most of what I have read and heard is heartfelt and passionate. Some people, however, need to tell us whether or not she was raised by her mother, or how old Aretha was when she had her first baby. If it is shame we want to expose, what of the baby father? Why must girls and women continue to bear the brunt of stigmata. I got pregnant at 17. This is called life. Aretha's situations informed her creative juices, her outlook on whatever may befall, and dared the world to decide if she was copy or the real thing. When we talk of love or the lack of it, I think "Baby Baby Baby" is her best tragic love story work, she sings, "I'm bewildered, I'm lonely and I'm loveless. . ."  When Angela Davis was arrested for her supposed part in Jonathan Jackson's plan to release his brother, George, from prison, Aretha offered to pay Angela's bond, stating: “Angela Davis must go free. . .Black people will be free. I’ve been locked up (for disturbing the peace) and I know you got to disturb the peace when you can’t get no peace." (Read Soledad Brothers, Chicago Review Press, 1994). Here's Aretha singing Nina Simone's "Young Gifted and Black." Thanks to Hans Linden for uploading the song and carefully curating the photos. I won't write about "Respect." I know "Respect," is generally everyone's favorite song. Back in the day, we liked that song, but Aretha had so many songs and we considered some of the others more pertinent. I'm talking about the kind of songs where we had to sit and think about the lyrics and why she was singing them the way she did. For example, if some boy approached with some ole okey doke, we could readily say, boy, you must be running out a fools. Later in the 1980's, we could say something like, really? Who zooming who? Thank you to Soul Roulette for posting this video of Aretha singing "Running out of Fools" on the TV show, Shindig, from 1964.  The very first album I purchased with money I earned from a summer job was "I Never Loved a Man." I remember listening to those lyrics, not fully understanding most of them, but falling in love with the voice that sang them. She addressed my feelings about my little young boyfriends in ways that I could not express. Later, when I found myself in stupid relationships with men, and not strong enough to set myself free, Aretha's lyrics, still deep in the recesses of my mind, got me through. Thank you to allaretha.wordpress.com for posting this 45, "Sweet Bitter Love" from 1965, both "A" and "B" sides. There really is no difference between R&B, the Blues, Jazz, or Gospel. Each reflects some version of life, our downs, our ups, our holy combinations and everything in between. When Aretha sang "Running Out of Fools," she could have been singing "Oh Mary Don't You Weep." The combination of Quincy Jones and Aretha on the album "Hey Now Hey" produced some Blues so raunchy, we hear Aretha talking about how she feel like "somebody just slapped her with a nasty gym shoe." Another song I want to introduce you to, or have you remember is "Try a Little Tenderness." I was seventeen, pregnant, confused, abused and generally ashamed of my life. The first version was done by Otis Redding. I had the 45 playing on my little record player. You had to sit close in order to hear the music and I remember thinking, wow, tenderness. I didn't know how to give it, or ask for it, but I knew I wanted it. I played that 45 so much the face of it turned white. Aretha did it later, put it in first person, made it more relevant. Chris Brown did it also for the movie "This Christmas." Here's Aretha's version. What I think about Aretha is that she was a down to earth woman, daughter, sister and mother, born with that voice. She never had a face lift or any other kind of cosmetic surgery that I know of. She aged. She was and is forever. She had no need for playacting, no need for any theater of the absurd. You could take her, or leave her. She was holy, in the way that Marvin sings it at the end of Let's Get I On, "I been sanctified," meaning set apart, made legitimate, purified, unburdened, redeemed. Always when an icon such as Aretha Franklin leaves this earth, people emerge, try to copy the style and grace of the legend. For example, there's a girl on this season's America's Got Talent who is all the rage with her renditions of James Brown. Everyone is over the moon about her, but I would say to her, what is it about your own life that informs your creative juices, your outlook? What about you will tell the world whether or not you are copy, or the real thing? On the other hand, there is this desire to add our voices to what has already been created. The other's work inspires us, and motivates us to see what else can be done. We don't want to paint another Starry Night, nor quilt another Gee's Bend quilt. We want to take the feeling we derive from these works and create our own majesty. Here is Aretha creating her own "It Was You," first written and recorded by James Brown.
 That's Aretha on the piano for "It Was You," and it happened during a rehearsal session complete with full band. Some of the recordings from those rehearsal sessions became the album "Aretha Arrives." When I listen to this album, I realize that even the great ones have to practice. We hear Aretha saying things like: let's start over, and that will be a good one when it's right. What's really telling is the rehearsal rendition of "Dr. Feel Good." She sings it almost on the other side of the beat of the finished project. As an artist, Aretha empowers my many, many tries. I will probably add more to this post, but I was compelled to write something now because of complete sadness and wanting to celebrate Aretha's life. A candle is lit for Aretha on my Ancestor Altar and if it is as we think it is on the other side, there's much rejoicing going on over there. Here's Aretha with James Cleveland and the Southern California Choir. P.S. August 17, 2018 I forgot this one, "My Song," which is literally, my song: "your leaving makes my heart beat slow and slow. . ." Aretha on the piano, "you left me, singing a song." Here’s me entering an MFA program in 2008 because I thought I wanted to write fiction. Here’s me emerging in 2010 fully committed to poetry. We don’t always know who we are; the trick to finding out is to put one foot in front of the other, to travel along the road to discovery. Here’s a photo of my mother as a young woman enjoying a night out with girlfriends, cocktails and dinner, at a place called the Loendi Club in Pittsburgh’s historic Hill District.  Christine Shefton Richardson (1912-1994) Harlem Renaissance poet, Claude McKay, dubbed The Hill, “Crossroads to the World,” because it was home to Billy Eckstein, Earl Hines, Billy Strayhorn, Art Blakey and Joe Harris, to name a few greats and including entrepreneur, Gus Greenlee, owner of the Old Negro Baseball League Team, The Pittsburgh Crawfords.  The Pittsburgh Crawfords including Josh Gibson, Oscar Charleston, Cool Papa Bell and Sam Bankhead. Here’s me submitting a manuscript titled Good Dirty Down to The National Poetry Series 2017 Competition. On Wednesday, September 13, 2017, I received an email announcing winners and informing me that from 1,500 manuscripts, my collection Good Dirty Down was chosen as a finalist. The email concludes, “Many congratulations again on an extraordinary manuscript.” So I’m thinking, what made me a finalist and not a winner. These thoughts prompted me to rethink, revise and refashion the collection. During the extensive reconstruction, I realized that, among other things, the title was wrong. It did not capture the essence of what I wanted the poems to reveal. My mother began speaking. She was aggressive and gentle; she pushed and soothed until finally the magic clicked. I thought about that haunting photo of her, my Christian, upstanding community member mother (the mother I knew) sitting in an after hours club with friends, relaxed and enjoying food and cocktails. I think by studying the photo, my mother gave me permission to dig deeper, to dismiss the obvious, to linger long (a phrase my friends and I used to say during heated Bid Whist parties at my house back in the day) on the blurred and uncertain in order to make sense of the seemingly senseless, thereby discovering or rediscovering the valuable. Here’s me realizing that the poem I’d written about my mother needed to take a front row seat, if not in placement, then certainly as the needle and thread that would anchor the collection. After reworking and improving her poem, everything else fell into place. I wrote an earlier post about a collection I’m writing called The Book of Spells. In my mind, The Book of Spells was supposed to be my next published book. But, we don’t always know what we are doing; the trick to finding out is to put one foot in front of the other, to trust the process, to travel along the road to discovery. Daughter Mouth Blues (formerly Good Dirty Down) will be published by Blacksmith & Bones Press, available here.  I think Daughter Mouth Blues articulates signs and symbols of our time, including magic; the differences between prophecy and divination; the change from ancestral analysis to sculpted concealment; and the ramifications of profit or passage. Daughter Mouth Blues reveals necessary work at the crossroads, the “sudden transformation, sudden certainty, sudden articulation, long legged talking finally foaming from [our] daughter mouth blues.”
The idea of “still life,” (the representation of inanimate objects, such as fruit, in paintings or photography) intrigues me. One day, I set out arranging and rearranging items in pleasing manners to take photographs. Maybe for quilt ideas, or if the images came out real good, to frame and hang on my walls. The image I liked best is this one: my shoes, hat, guitars, quilt, water, glass, magic leaves.  Still Life If you are a fledging musician, like me, and your timing is cockeyed, and you can't get your fingers to move fluently over the guitar strings, from one chord to the next, my advice is to study Tupac (Gangsta Party and California Love; both music and video) and Muddy Waters (Champagne and Reefer, and Too Young To Know. Search youtube for old footage of Muddy.) Both of these artists radiate music through voice, timing, and percussion. In Gangsta Party, there is no slide in, no pause: "Picture perfect," before we realize the verse has even begun. In Too Young to Know, Muddy sings/narrates, but the conversation is between young girls and the more mature women who knows very well. Both are lightening and thunder. Spontaneity, exaggeration and craft. I honor them. They are more than inspiration, they motivate me to add my voice to the conversation. So, the mind as mixture, seemingly askew, but not, simply bubbling excitement, and these artists, with our shared origins, led me to go back further, to research other artists and was there such a thing as homemade stringed instruments. This is a sampling of what I found. Stunning beauty and creativity all around the African continent and the Diaspora. The images are excitement and contagious. The artists have the nerve to create, are in possession of the artists' way. Create, no matter what. So I thought, what if? The following is Blue Belle, my homemade cigar box guitar.
I’m writing a book on my experiences using Tarot, and want to dispel the notion of negativity as relates to magic, spellwork, and divination. What is the etymology of the word “spell,” what does the word really mean and what are its origins. From the American Heritage College Dictionary: spell
My next burgeoning project began as songs, just me playing around with lyrics and guitar chords. One of the songs that emerged, White Night Falling, seemed a strong contender for the main voice of something. I just didn’t know what. Artists, you know that in these times of seemingly jumbled information, the thing to do is wait, listen to day and night dreams, believe and ask the question, what if? So I thought-- What if the project was poems and music? I’m writing, I’m writing. What if the project expanded to include other written forms? I’m writing, I’m writing. What if the title and book cover had to do with trance states, magic words, the awesome-ness of still lives, those inanimate objects that portray the power of seemingly motionless form? I’m writing, I’m writing. What of heterodoxy, the challenge of taking the least walked or new path? I’m writing, I’m writing. What if you include a cd of musical forms and selected poems? I’m writing, I’m writing. The project birthed itself as The Book of Spells, became a bubbling cauldron, a mixture of picture perfect swerving heterodoxy, something like Tupac and Muddy Waters making low down music on angel harps. Make. Do. Become. “Lick candle wicks. Wish. Work spells. Pounce.”  This collection is continuing to move through my need to tell it what to do. The collection is teaching me to shut up and let it tell me. It's in it's eighth iteration. Here's me learning patience.
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AboutThis is a blog about how we make things. 
cathleen margaret
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