I'm Running For President!

It just happened! I said that I was as qualified to clean up and run Washington as the next candidate in a chat room, and one thing led to another.....

News Channel 3 Story (CBS affiliate)


I've been out-polled! This is the woman who has leapt ahead of me in the write in slots! No way I can keep up with her~check out her campaign videos!

Mrs. Betty Bowers For President

Double Breath, Interlude

Okay. There's this amazing fiber artist that I want to introduce you to. But. I think that there needs to be a space between the heaviness of New Orleans and Katrina and my British Isles doyenne.

You see. There is a place for heaviness and another for lighthearted and engendered art - especially in the fabled way that she renders it.. Before I segue into sharing this angel of thread with you, there needs to be a space that is ambient neutral.

I have to tell you that her creativity is stunning. She captures something of the Fey with her needleworks. Childhood is alive and thriving under her hand. You'll see what I mean when she's in print here at the Deepwater Journal.

The planet is large and alive. And there are many of us threading the story of our time here. What this woman I will share with you here does is magic - not plain and simple, but profound, gorgeous, and complete.

The Drowning of New Orleans

There's more to the stories that have impacted us in the years of this administration. These videos are often immediately removed from YouTube every time they're put up. Information is critical to making your life decisions and forming your opinions.


And these are the men who were there- 9 firefighters left to rescue a neighborhood with over 1,000 homes in it.


Greg Palast is a colorful character and a bit of a thorn in the side of government and the powers that be. You can see more of his work HERE.

There are others here.

Soggy Bottom Here At Dog Patch

It has rained off and on most of the week. I believe we got more rain after Tropical Storm Fay made her fourth trek across Florida breaking records and proving once again that weather forecasting is an inexact art. The cats have been holed up here in the house. I'm afraid if I let them out, they'll get a terminal case of mildew.

I decided to leave the flooded yard and swollen canal out back behind and headed over to Martha's for a day of visiting and handwork. Her husband, Jim came home because Orlando was a mess and joined us.

I have this gorgeous true and deep turquoise faille that was just begging to become a Goddess Gown and hauled over a tub of beads and supplies and spread out on Marty's breakfast table while she Juned around the kitchen with her gorgeous new paintings with interference colors on them sparkling like the tiny jewels I was working with. For the non-provencial of you, "Juneing, June, or Juned" is a Southern verb for messing around in the kitchen a la' June Cleaver of Beaver fame.

I took over some fabrics for her to look at for textures since I swear the woman can find inspiration staring at plumbing pipes! Every time I go over there it looks like I'm moving in because there's show-and-tell, hand work in some stage of evolution, or things to share.

You ALWAYS go to Martha's knowing that she's going to be working because she never stops. That's why I bring work with me to do while I visit.

I sketched a design on a magazine cover while in a waiting room Thursday with the intent of using it as a design element on the gown. I got to Martha's realizing that I'd left my transfer paper at home. Here's one method for transfering a design without tracing paper:

1. Use a large safety pin or needle to punch holes around your paper design at 1/8" to 1/4" intervals.

2. Pin your design securely to the cloth centering it over the area where you want it.

3. Use a piece of chalk to rub over the holes. If you don't have chalk, you can use baking soda or talcum to dust over and rub through the holes like pounc.

4. I use a colored Prisma pencil to enhance the design since chalks and powders rub off.

If you click on the progress picture of the gown above, you can see the outline of my design. I'll work on it today while I watch CSI New York reruns on the 'net. I'll share a picture when I'm finished.

Part 15 of Past Lives

You should be coming from Tash's part of the PLR Meme here. If you are new to the Past Lives Meme, go to Australia with Lilly's Life: Fearless and Fabulous to start at the beginning of David's journey around the planet.

Note to everyone: We were preparing for hurricane Fay to land sometime Tuesday along
Florida's West Coast. As I live in Tampa, I'm asking your forgiveness for my part of the PLR Meme being late. I had intended on this being all of a piece, one segued life into another. But our storm guest has become a not-so-fresh fish as we've battened down and stocked up, waiting to see what direction the wench will dance next. So apropos that Tash's segment is written from an island who wages battles with such intense storms during our season as well! Florida is of course, the Northernmost land of the Tropics. ~ Dina

##

We continue now with David's journey into his past, beyond his birth and back into his present life. As an Australian man in the grips of coming to terms with paralyzing phobias that have wrecked havoc in his life and relationships, David has come to see Dr. Harlowe, an expert in Past Life Regression therapy. Nothing else has helped. David is desperate to be free of these fears that have turned his life upside down, impeded his every chance at advancing, and affected every corner of his existence.

David is just coming up from his latest experience in this session with the good doctor...

“Hyarima's evil grin revealed a mouthful of sharp teeth. The sun glinting off the blood dripping down his chin. Dripping...the white milky liquid...fading... the tightening in my chest, my throat...Oh! Great Spirit! Oh Yaya, forgive me!”

A moment of rushing in my ears like the greatest storm winds blowing the ocean surrounds me. I look around at sparkling darkness and then down, confused. There am I, Chuchupe, eldest son of the feared Caribe cacique, Chief Hyarima! I see myself, the spilled manioc liquid seeping into the sand from the lip of the gourd I hold loosely in my hand. Confused, I am down there and yet here, where is here? I am in a panic! The thoughts in my head are in a strange language and yet I understand. There is nothing to make sense of...

I faintly hear Dr. Harlowe's voice as if coming from a room far away from me. Can't make sense of it. What is he saying? The tightness in my chest persists as I am inexorably drawn forward, sound and time rushing past in my ears. The roar in my head is deafening, crushing. I am now aware of slowing. The tightening in my chest is still there. I hear the rattling of each breath as my tiny chest lifts my smock fighting for air.

Mama says I was kissed by the angels in Heaven. There's a little port wine-red heart raised up slightly from the smooth white of my skin on my chest that I was born with. It's my special birthmark. My throat is on fire. I'm so sick to my stomach but there is nothing left inside to wretch.

I see mama and papa, my older brothers Liam, Jedidiah and Joseph, our neighbor Mrs. Spencer through fevered eyes.

“She hasn't got any strength left in her, Abigail,” says Mrs. Spencer. “The doctor still hasn't come from Salt Lake. The men said they have their hands full with the flu up there. And everyone that is standing upright is nursing the others. I don't think the turpentine rub will help at this point and she can't hold down the chamomile long enough to help the puking”. Mama curls in on herself and papa takes her into arms that are shaky and thin.

“Dear Heavenly Father, please not another one of mine! I know that this is Your will at work, but there's been Sarah and Joshua, and now my little Becky!” Mama is weakly slumped over with papa trying to hang on. Poor papa! He looks like he is ready to fall, too. Only my big brothers didn't get this awful sickness. The people in the Ward think that we all got sick because we took turns chewing Louise's cousin's gum. But when I get better, I'm going to ask papa to get me some when he goes to the Ward meeting in Salt Lake at the Temple next year anyway.

“Hugh, I don't think I can put another one of mine in the ground this week! This is my baby...”

Mama is caterwauling now! She's so loud! I hear Mrs. Spencer sniffle, too. I just want to sleep. The fever is making my skin ache and the chills shake my bed down to the woven slats. I see Liam bending over me. I'm so weak I can barely reach up my thin arms to him. I can't breathe....Liam. He picks me up and he cradles me to him.. I'm so sleepy.....So tired...

I look down to see me and Liam. That is me! I'm tiny and blond. My long sleeved smock is tangled around my thin legs and Liam is rocking me, the blanket is around my back and falling off of Liam's long legs. I like it when Liam rocks me....I'm skinny and kind of blue looking...and Liam is rocking, rocking.....

##

Rushing noise. Loud. Sensations of falling backward....

“David? David, can you hear me? I want you to go to the next death experience you remember.” Dr. Harlowe's voice is steadying. I feel myself drift forward again for just a short while. My child's body is transformed into a heavier, more solid one...I feel the weight of it through the somnolent trance Dr. Harlowe has put me in.

“What is it you see? Where are you?”

“Dang salt lick!” I'm kickin' what's left of a chewed up salt block away from where it is wedged agin' this post I'm a workin' on. Caught my fair to new buckskin gloves on that dang barb 'ight there whilst trying to move it! That'll be another stichin' chore I'll have to do.

My name's Ransom Gray Hewitt. Leastwise, that's what my maw stuck me with. She was always reading them old Godey's Ladies Books stories and got a hankering for me to have a romantic name. I shucked that name the same day as I signed on with our neighbor, Mr. Liggett's brother Jim. I was 13 and big enough to be wrangler on my first Spring drive up the to Kansas.

Soon's them men asked me what my hanger was and I tol' em, they put up such a hoot that I got pure-T aggravated with all of 'em and commenced to try to fight ever dang one of 'em. They'as bigger'n me, but I took my punches and kept after worryin' 'em all 'til they got me calmed down thowin' a bucket o'cold water on me from the trough. After that, they called me Rowdy and it stuck. No one mentions nuthin' 'bout Mr. Ransom Gray anymore. I'm Rowdy Hewitt and no different lest you want to fight.

My first drive, I looked after 'bout 50 head of hosses for them cowboys.The older fellas showed me the ropes on the trail and I got so good with them hosses that I started rowell trainin' them to cut. Every trail hand has a bunch of hosses. They's night hosses that are good to see them cattle in the dark and take off after'n stray. Then they's big, heavy chested water hosses that can bust through water and keep the calves from floating off downstream. You got your roping hosses that are part stubborn jackass who know when to haul back on a rope wrapped around the pommel on one end and a cow at t'other one. You also got you a few of them trail hosses who will put in up to 18 or so mile a day, all day long, one leg after another, carryin' rider and his tack, too. That's the mustang in 'em. ' Course I think them cutters are the most important because they know how to cull out the herd, heifers from steers and calves from their mams.

Ole Hamp the cook said that there ort'ento be a dressin' up pretty horse for the end o' the ride when we get our pay and clean up to go see the ladies. He used to wink when he said it. Took me a year or two afore I knowed what his meaning and that wink was hintin' to.

I earnt enough that first Spring to buy myself a good used Colt .44 single action. It was a cavalry gun and a little banged up on the grips, but it shot true and cleaned up nice. Hamp helped me soak leather to make me a decent holster for it and a matchin' one for my Browning rifle and I've had both to this day. I keep an old Lyman mold, primers and some reloading tamps back at the soddy we use for a bunk house to keep my bullets up to stock. I went off to work fer other ranches over the years but always ended up back here at the Double LL.

There. One more post straight and the wire hammered back into place. I'm glad Mr. Jim stuck by Glidden's wire 'stead o' some of the more nasty stuff I've worked with. Two barb is enough! All's you need is a poke to keep them old heifers from pushin' through. Some o' them fancier barbs come unwound at the slightest breeze and just hang there like an ole cow tit.

This ain't been the best o' my days. Mr. Liggett got me up afore sunup to go put back up fencin' down close to the river. Vaqueros from over the border brung up a herd o' Spanish cattle and drove 'em right across the edge o' Mr. Jim's ranch. Went through fence and all just a leavin' it lay where they pulled the posts down. Mr. Jim's worried they might a made their herd a little bigger with some of his strays ridin' through. Won't matter once they get 'em to the stockyards with the Double LL brand on their backsides.

He'll have a couple of the boys ride on up ahead and catch up with them vaqueros see what they got minglin' in with theirs once we head out o' Big Springs.

We're headin' out with our herds for the Spring drive o' '89 this Thursday come sunup. I'll have my 24^th birthday out on the trail. Ole Hamp will have some concoction fer me. Last year he baked a dang number two horseshoe in a cornbread cake. Said the shape reminded him o' the shape o' my legs with the air whistlin' betwixt 'em. I thanked him and allowed as how his ole ass wouldn't be so flat if he'd get down off'n that buckboard and aback a hoss once in a while. He just grinned at me with what few teeth he had left.

I like my life just fine. I get steady pay and three square's a day. Mr. Jim's wife Ethyl is a dang fine cook, too. Makes the best biscuits and cornbread just like it wuz cake in them big ole iron skillets of hers. She serves up some pie ever now and agin when me or one o' the boys brings her some apple or berries back from movin' cattle.

Hamp's a good cookie, too, although a bit rougher on the dough. He babies that old sourdough starter of his like it was gold. Claims it's as old as he is! But he cuts the rashers of bacon thick and cooks a bean pot with a red Mexican chili pepper so's if you find too much of it in your plate, you're off visitin' the bush right reglar' and you don't dare fart fer startin' a prairie grass fire. A trek through the Red River a day after Hamp's beans is a blessin', if you take my meanin'.

There's the ride up part of the Chisolm Trail with some real purty country along the way. I seen a spot next to a crick that fed into the Red River where I could picture my own little spread. 'Course, it would help if I was to have a missus. Ain't really nobody much to think on here outside Big Springs. I met a gal when I was up in Abilene once. She worked the counter at the dry goods and mercantile there where Mr. Jim picked up some calico for Miz Ethyl. I took my hat off, she smiled, I smiled back. She asked could she help me. I got plumb tongue tied and pointed to Mr. Jim. She smiled agin' and went over to Mr. Jim where he stood gawkin' at the cloth goods. Don't reckon she'd remember me from that far back.

Only other gals I know work at the saloon over in Big Springs. I don't reckon' they'd want to be givin' up the high life and them fancy clothes for the hard life o' ranchin' wife. I've visited a painted lady or two in my time. But they ain't the kind to trust out in the middle o' nowhere. Like to have vamoosed at the drop of a hat.

I'm almost done here. Got one more post to take it down to the crick...What the hell is that yonder?

I see part of a curly hide pokin' up amongst all them weeds right there at the bank of the crick. Looks like them Vaqueros might'a left something o'theirs behind besides all this downed fence...Let me just walk over here and see..

Aw, dang! It's a lil'ole hoss colt! Now, I'm right fond of a hoss and it's a shame to see one down and left on the side o' the trail. Lil' ole feller. Let me see if I can drag him up dry a little more. Can't leave him to fester in the water and take a chance the cattle will drink after him.

I'm just got a holt o' him when I'm hearing these wasps a buzzing together...big ole nest of 'em if you ask me! They sometimes likes to cuddle up to some dead thing out here. I don't see none o' them a flyin' but that might mean they're under the dirt some'ers.

Ow! Damn! It's hotter'n the top floor o' hell! Oh, damn! Somethin' has bit right through the leg o' my Levi's right above my boot and it burns like fire! And damn! There's another bite on my other leg, and one more on my left arm above my glove! I jerk my hand up from under the lil' feller and there's somethin' shiny as a penny attached to my glove a flickin' and a writhin' like a wild rope while my legs are being stung over and over agin. My mind just can't figure out what that....oh! Dear Lord in Heaven! It's a dang copperhead! I can't count how many a bitin' on me as I look around me!

Dang fool Rowdy! It's Spring and you know'd they'd be up and down this stream lookin' for a lady friend! Lordy! Must be a whole nest o' them death adders! And you just stepped in the middle of their parlor and het'em up some more. Poor lil' ole fella here just must'a stepped right in the middle o' them just like I did!

Aw, damn I'm pukin' as I jerk that one off of my glove with my right hand! My hand and legs all swoll up already! I can't get my glove off. I'm stumblin' back up to the post I just finished hammerin' on with one of them dang snakes a' hangin' off my leg. My hoss is so far away! Tied on up so I can't get him over here. I got to lie down! My Lord! The pain! Chest hurts bad. I'll just lay on down here.....

##

You'll be going to Vikki's Redchair Gallery in California for Part 16 of PLR.

(Note to readers: The brief life David lived as a tiny girl in 1870s Alpine, Utah is based on a true story. A child visiting from Salt Lake City brought a piece of chewing gum that was passed around in the small community. Unfortunately, as the children passed the gum around for their turn, they were exposed to the flu virus which the child from Salt Lake had been infected with. Many childred died from direct exposure to the gum, or to those who were infected. The Alpine cemetery can be a sad place. Situated on a hill, there are family markers with several children and parents side by side, all succumbing to the flu - some on the very same day.

Rowdy's life was one of my own PLR regressions from the 1970s. The spurs above are Kelly brand. I wore a pair just like them down to the blunt rowells for almost seven years during life on my Utah ranch.)

Past Lives Part 15 Update

Past Lives Part 15 has been delayed due to acts of nature. Hurricane Fay passed close by with lots of puff but no blow and very little rain. I will have it up asap. Thursday: Fay and rains back. Girlfriend doesn't know when to leave the party.

'Zines and Things

Darla was interviewed by Creative Loafing for a story on the 'Zine scene in the Bay Area.

Darla answered staff writer Alex Pickett, "What killed zines?" Darla Nunnery of the now-defunct zine Hostage. "MySpace, message boards, PDF files and the high cost of postage."

After reading the article, I was going through a box of old papers and found printed copies and tear sheets from the old DWJ. I realized that the hard copy Deepwater Journal could have actually qualified for a 'Zine.

I started it as an anti-mag type periodical in response to a writing contest I entered sponsored by - who else? Creative Loafing. I was encouraged to enter by numerous ex professors and some friends as an exercise in submissions. The subject was to be The Flavor Of Tampa in which the author was to write about some aspect of the city and surrounds.

I sent my piece off and waited for the contest end to see the winners. Of course, I didn't win even a mention. That was alright. I was just happy to be participating instead of my m.o. of writing and then putting it in a huge stack with other writings I don't do anything with.

But what truly astounded me was the shitty quality of the winners. I was absolutely stumped at how such infantile essays could possibly have blown the rest of us out of the water. Until I started reading more carefully and looked at a few back issues. I surmised that the 'winners' were darlings of the judges, politically local and correct, or at least connected or influential in some way. I thought of all the people who had bothered to take their precious time to write, edit, hope and send their pieces in only to have zip of a chance for publication before they even licked the stamp.

A day or so later, I read an op-ed piece in the New York Times where some ancient bellicose hat wearing chauvinist commented on his opinion of 'true literature' and the journal movement where 'bored, pudgy housewives poured out their picayune little lives' or some such shit and that they were 'wasting paper.'

Ass. Judgmental old fart. Close-minded, rock salt veined, puffed and piney chested, little weinied, self-entitled, dog breathed **, septuagenarian, hackneyed old jackass of a Calvinist pig!

These two events birthed DWJ. I asked every woman and girl-child I met to send me poetry, prose, stories, art -- anything that they had ever secretly wanted to share and I would give their efforts a home. And I was flooded with just that. Writing. Poetry. Art. Lots of it. And they were good!

Some submissions I've republished here in the electronic version. To a one, every single thing ever to go in DWJ was worthy and certainly not a waste of paper. I still want to see the words and work of others who have been denied a voice.

How the hard copy Deepwater Journal died was convoluted. It was very well received but I was functioning minimally with health and time and other issues. Jeannie Taylor decided to take it on and we merged it with her Journey of a Madwoman. Then artist and writer Heather Brown-Truman took over for Jeannie. When Heather moved to Oregon with her death defying pregnancy and gypsy feet, I got it back. I published a stack of the next two issues and that was it until 2006 when Martha Marshall aggravated me into blogging over at her house one day.

I asked her what I should blog about. She said, "Your writing, your stories...any damn thing you want to."

So. My take is that old 'Zines don't die, they morph into something else. Those old fart critics should be grateful for the ones of us that went onto blogging instead of more physically expressive pursuits. Like bomb making and other ways of not playing well with others.

**(apologies to my legal goddogs, Abby, Reno and Boomer)

Hooray Beret!!

Just finished a crocheted beret in purely grape cotton. The lace was actually finished months ago after a month of hooking, but I decided to use up some beads since I have one or two, and the beret was just sitting there. Still. Not moving or trying to get away. So I attacked. I started with a tight spiral and loosened up a bit as I worked towards the brim.

Used at least a hank of Czech beads in every shade of purple and shape and style of bead and finish you can imagine and every cut a small bead comes in. Used one whole strand of copper lined sapphire charlottes to bind the edge in a scallop.

And what do you do with the little umbilical cord that hangs out after you've netted your last stitch? Why, you bead that too! I used a Swarovski pear drop and a cobalt and silver barrel bead along with other bicones and vintage beads in a bullion button so this hat has its own jewelry. Will be very cheeky hanging in front of a shell shaped ear! And I bet that whoever this belongs to will HAVE to try it with the drop hanging on the center of their forehead at least once!

All my head mannequins have gone out the door with various elaborate head dresses or hats. The beret is being modeled with an iron sculpture that my friend Carol bought for me when she was at an art show. She said attitude and pose, it just yelled my name!

It's for sale in my Etsy shop.

Mother Lode Final Stage

I have binding and some needle sculpting to do but they're virtually finished so I can show you. They will be mounted on separate cradle boards as presentation. Everything you see on them is a form of gold, either in metal, color or gemstone.

As I was looking at the jpgs, I noticed what seem to be eyes and faces looking back at me. I tend to anamorphosize a lot of things from composits like bathroom tiles and marble floors. But then, say 'Hello Kitty' when you look at the bottom image and try NOT to to see it!

(Ed. Note: These aren't quite as garish as the picture shows. I promise! My camera tends to really intensify colors and come up with its own shades. You can see more detail by clicking on the pictures above.)

Bind Your Own Books!

I think this is an avenue to explore for artists. What if you could make your own books - say bound copies of your artwork to hand to a prospective client or gallery? What about selling hand-made one of a kind books in limited editions? Or how about making your grandchildren their own coloring books with pictures they've drawn, photos of themselves or fun vacations using black and white copies with a bit of Photo Shopping to manipulate out large blocks of pattern so they can add their own?

Can't find the author of this video or his site, DIY Bookbinding. If I find his name, I'd like to credit him and direct traffic to his site. In the meantime, use the link above.

Let me know what you make with this technique. I'll feature you and your project.

Part 5 of The Past Life Regression Series

**Past Lives is a Meme which features installments from bloggers around the world writing creative stories about past lives, even possibly their own past lives!

Our story starts with a fictional Australian called David. As a last ditch effort trying to resolve his debilitating phobias, he goes through Past Life Regression (PLR) therapy. Join us as we follow David’s experiences through different times and continents.

If you are just joining us, please read Part 1 of the story and follow the links at the end of each segment to learn David's progress so far. Please note that you will be traveling to different blogs as each author adds to the evolution of David's journey.

Past Lives Part 5- David's Regression Continues

Falling...falling...my stomach in knots as the rocks below me get closer... “David, David, I want you to come back away from the light towards the sound of my words”, Dr. Marlowe's voice soothes and guides me into the observer's stance.

“Tell me where you are now”, he asks.

But I am already on my way, too deeply involved, answering him before he completes his sentence...

“New emotions, heaviness, despondency.. Once again...... Falling...as I feel warmth and watch the rocks below morph into the pebbled tessellations of an Oriental rug beneath my bare feet – browns, golds, terracotta and sand....

“Master Hugh”, Lao Chen's voice comes from my right side and my eyes follow to where he is standing at a black lacquered cabinet, a punk smoking in hand. “Are you ready for the pearl”?

With my addled mind, I listen as Chen's voice rolls his r's with a thick Mandarin accent laced with proper British over his words so that pearl comes out sounding more like 'pe'.

I grunt a response, ready to drift off again into my shadowy dream world. This sorry state of affairs has become my only escape and solace from this, a drab and cursed life, of which I, when younger, enthusiastically embraced as promising and full of adventure.

Another sip of absinthe. I drink mine without babying the water by pouring it over sugar sliced from a loaf. Although meant to take the bitter edge off for those less foolhardy, I much prefer to find what sweet messages I can in the green clouds of milky louche`.

Chen's formal queue of braided black moves with a life of its own from his bare shaved head under his black satin skull cap while he busies himself with the lantern and pipes. The voice of his long brocaded sleeves shushing against his sides as he cleans first the pipe chamber and then adds oil to the lantern lulls me further. My thoughts drift to Lillabeth.

She has become as jaded and as disappointed in me as I am with my union to her. My having a title and minor peerage was as attractive to her as her family's wealth was to me when we were met through introduction at an outing in Churchill. Let this be a cautionary tale to those of you contemplating marriage for either reason- money or status climbing.

While not beautiful, Lillabeth was handsome with regular features, a somewhat ruddy complexion prone to chapping, nondescript dark hair, wide hips and a boyish chest. She grew more comely in my eyes as I learned that she was sole heir to her father's shipping concern. Junkets carrying goods to China, including raw opium from India, and returning with Chinese silver and silks had made a wealthy, if somewhat gaudy man of Thomas Reeve. His one and only child never knew an item of whimsy she didn't get if only barely suggested to him.

Thus, I inherited her with a profoundly developed sense of privilege from her doting father along with his monies and business when he abruptly passed from an appallingly incurable case of bilious gluttony aggravated by gout.

Lillabeth was particularly cursed in the landscape of motherhood. Thrice she greeted me with good news to deliver two of them in her early courses and to carry yet a third, a son, to full term only to be still at birth. I buried him in the family plot next to his grandfather in the churchyard of Greyfriars.

She began to look at me first with guilt, then rage, solemnly blaming me for the mishaps and misfortunes of her ability to carry through a viable heir. I joined Her Majesty's 26^th regiment training under Major Pratt, as part of a deterrent to forces opposed to British shipping interests in the Orient to escape her attention. I was granted the rank of leftenant commanding a small company whom I grew fond of during our long deployment.

My fortune with the military was to prove as dreary as Lillabeth's with her attempts at establishing herself as mother to a titled and landed young peer. Before we had an opportunity to even engage the enemy on her shores, my horse misstepped coming down the ship's plank and sent me hurtling to the hard stone of the causeway below.

I was sent back to Great Britain on the next ship with honorable letters of discharge from 'injuries derived while in service to the Crown', a small but reliable pension, which was the first of monies I could truly say were my own, and was also given an open script for Paracelsus' laudanum from hospital to chip the edge from the blinding pain in my back and legs. No amount of bed rest or remedy could assuage in the least except for the draughts of laudanum.

I am patently aware of Lillabeth's disappointment that I had not been killed by the natives and returned to her in a camphor wood box. Rather, I appear at our ancestral door with my sea trunks and an injury that makes me prone to a gait-disturbing limp. With the knowledge of her final and utter disgust and disinterest in me, I became more consumed with the regular doses of laudanum, and when those tinctures did not serve to make me numb to both injury and my wife's assaults and wicked diatribes on my various shortcomings, I turned then to opium in it's most pure form.

And that, to whit, is why I find myself here in a den on a dodgy side street off Cheapside having Lao Chen prepare yet another pearl and pipe for me.

I lie back, watch as Chen touches the punk to the lamp wick, hold the silver bowl of my bamboo pipe over the shimmering pillar of heat rising from the glass alembic, and observe as the pearl begins to melt into vapour. I inhale deeply. I have forgotten how many glasses of Absinthe and how many pearls have clouded my senses in euphoria today.

Lying back, I watch the ghostly tongues of light from the lamps playing on the ornamental ceiling and feel my heart beat ever more slowly. I close my eyes and give myself over to it. I count the timpani of each spasm of that engine of life between shallow breaths with fingers on a clammy hand.

Slower now...I count...41........42..........43................44...........................

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David’s next PLR Session is only days away. You’ll be traveling to Vicki North's Blog to read Past lives Part 6

Note: David's PLR story is purely fictional. If there are any bloggers in any part of the world who would like to participate in David's story by writing about a 'past life' in a time, place and country you are familiar with, please contact Lilly Taylor at lillyslife@gmail.com.

Accumulated Information on Frank Calloway, Artist 12/26/2008**Updated**

Frank Calloway

Frank Calloway was born July 2, 1896, and taught himself to draw. Diagnosed as schizophrenic in 1952 and institutionalized in various institutions in Alabama since then, he is currently living in the Alice M. Kidd Nursing Facility in Tuscaloosa. At 112 years old, his is a unique view of Southern America. Most of Mr. Calloway's art is of agrarian themes. His medium is ballpoint pen, marker and crayon on butcher paper often 30 feet long. Mr. Calloway puts in a full day of work considering his art as his job. He appears almost savant with his penchant for writing lines of figures and reciting multiplication tables.

Although he's always drawn, he really took it seriously when he took an art class in the 1980s.

He'll be be showing in an exhibition during the Fall at The American Visionary Art Museum in Baltimore where 18 of his scrolls will appear this October. Recently selling for around $50.00 each, his drawings are expected to fetch thousands after the show. See more about Mr. Calloway in the news release HERE.

I've turned the web upside down and have come up dry. I'll be posting links to his art as they become available. **

Mr. Calloway got serious about his art at about 86 years of age. He's getting in his stride at 112 years. Now. I don't want to ever hear an artist say that they're too old to start!!

**UPDATE: As promised, I am adding information I've found on Mr. Calloway's art, where it can be found, and his life and will continue doing so if you'd like to check back with me. Please let me know if you've found additional information on this amazing man.

This is an image of one of Mr. Calloway's works, entitled "Old Man".

A link to a photo gallery of Mr. Calloway HERE.

And some information from versions of the N.Y. Times article:

Quote: "Last year, after a trip to Alabama’s Gulf Coast, Calloway decided to draw boats. But the boats are big old riverboats propelled by paddlewheels, not the modern ones he’d actually seen.
Several years ago, when people started showing interest in buying Calloway’s art, Moncrief-Craig ( director of Alice M. Kidd Nursing Facility where Mr. Calloway lives) decided he needed a guardian. Since 2006, Zondra Taylor Hutto has filled that role. The attorney is the Tuscaloosa County guardian, conservator and administrator for several residents, including Calloway.(I will post info when I can find it)
Calloway used to give away some of his creations or sell them for $50, but Moncrief-Craig and Hutto have stopped dealing the work since an appraiser said they could be worth thousands. They hope to have more of an idea how much the art should go for after the Baltimore show.
Calloway has few expenses that aren’t covered by Medicaid, so any profits will go into a special needs trust in his name so he won’t lose his benefits. The money can be used for items such as art supplies that aren’t covered by the government. When he dies, the remaining money will go to the state or to the state Medicaid agency, which has provided his care all these years.
Plans are for Calloway to attend the opening of the Baltimore show. It will be his first trip on an airplane and likely the first time he’s left Alabama. Hutto said she looks forward to sharing his work with a wider audience.
"His art overcomes boundaries," she said. "People may say, ‘Well, he’s a folk artist. I don’t like folk art.’ But if you ever meet him, there is such life in what he creates, and you can’t look at one of his paintings without seeing that smile, without seeing that gentle man." (End quote)

7/24/2008:

New today, another image of a Frank Calloway drawing, above. Also a discussion on whether Calloway can truly be 112 on a genealogy site HERE.

August 03, 2008 Updated

I have a new image of Calloway's artwork and will also be posting additional information. This all would have been listed sooner, but my computer burped in the middle of posting and I lost all my work even though Blogger said it was saved as a draft.

I believe this work is called "Pink Cow".

August 10, 2008: I found these images of Calloway's:

Jus found a new slide show produced by the Associated Press HERE. If I can find the code, I'll embed it here as well.

Keep checking back occaisionally to see what I've gathered.

August 17th,2008: Michael D. Edens gave me permission to show these two sketches of Frank Calloway inspired by this post. I believe these will be available as limited edition giclees.

Click HERE to see Edens' other work.
If there are any other links with work on or about Mr. Frank, or of Mr. Frank as subject, I'd love to link to them as a clearing house spot for any and all info.

October 28, 2008 Updated****

I have scoured the web and have not been able to find much additional information on Frank Calloway's show at the American Visionary Museum in Baltimore other than these links below. If anyone knows of a show catalog, invitations or cards with any of his work, or information about sales of his art, I'd appreciate adding it. This post seems to have become a central spot with everything out there about him and I'm getting some international visitors. Please note that I have a translation widget at the top left of the page for your convienience.

**Deep Fried Kudzu has a post on the AVM show, which was called "The Marriage of Art, Science, & Philosophy". Calloway was one of 50 artists at the show

***"The Marriage of Art, Science, & Philosophy" Show runs through April 28, 2009 and the gallery hours are HERE

***There are blurbs and news articles about Frank Calloway and the show HERE, HERE, HERE, HERE, HERE,

***There's a great article and wonderful VIDEO here by the Baltimore Sun.

***Blurb and photo from the Baltimore Sun:

AVAM honored and welcomed 112-year old artist Frank Calloway from Tuscaloosa, Alabama. Calloway used crayon, pen and marker to draw on butcher paper stretching hundreds of feet long at times. His work is embedded with mathematical systems and rhythmic patterns such as the 18 times tables. He came to Baltimore on his first airplane ride for a welcome ceremony and the opening party Oct. 3. he seemed thrilled to see his work on display. Calloway was met and greeted by NAACP chairman Jullian Bond on Friday, the morning before the opening party.

****The Independent World featured this STORY.

***There's a great first person account of Mr. Calloway at the show at The Real Muck.

*** Reuters carried the following article 112 Year Old Self0Taught Artist to Be Featured in National Exhibition

*** Artist Mark Barry has these photographs from the show in Baltimore which he's generously allowed me to use here from his Flickr Photostream. Hang around and look at Mark's other work while you're there. If you are interested in buying a set of photos or a giclee of them, contact Mark directly.

Update 12/26/2008: Keeping with my promise to put any and all links and news about Mr. Calloway here on the Deepwater Journal, I have a few small additions.

Wikipedia now has a stub on Mr. Calloway which should be added to.

"Do the job right", video of Mr. Calloway at work.

A New Still of Mr. Calloway with his materials.

And here you can find links to Frank Calloways show at the AVAM with some links. Dated October 13, 2008. Nothing much new. Mark Barry already gave me permission to use his photos of the exhibit.

September 04, 2009: I want to share with you an account of an excellent first person encounter with wonderful insight. David Ettlin is a semi-retired writer with the Baltimore Sun. I won't rib him about the semi part of retired in his bio bits with the George Carlin factionale of "either it got a bone or it ain't". The Real Muck is worthy of a leisurely perusal. Good reads throughout. But in keeping with my promise to update anything Frank Calloway, I hope you'll visit and comment.

Funny this comment from David comes today: I was just thinking of calling the home and asking after Mr. Calloway's health and art.