... I have something to say here - yo! dudes and dudettes! Listen up!

         Hear ye! .... Hear ye !
let all in the realm, be at standing, standup I say! and render a hearty cheer! by waving hands exuberantly overhead, thus being all joined together in wishing his Royal Self,
                                             Kurt Deuninck
                                                        a great big 

"*"*"*"*HAPPY BIRTHDAY "*"*"*

$4.00 participation fee will be collected at door upon your leaving... unless you want to stay all night and party hearty.  Somebody, but not me, go tell Karen 50 celebrants will be at their house in 2 hours for a Party-Over.

RAFT OF THE MEDUSA - Gericult [350 x 1950 ft.]

Does one need a reason go to Paris?  It seems I did at the time. Just one painting?  Good enough for me.  Another "Before I die thing" - the painting, is checked off my list.  I saw it, and even touched the frame. It's not 3 1/2 x 5 inches, as I had become used to seeing it in books.  I'm writing a book about it.

Everest may be wait-listed.  I can't find anyone willing to hold my hand... I scare easily.  I'm going to try to get back here, L J, on a regular basis... It seems I need your affliction.  Need a helping hand with that too.  As I have said many times....  Hold each others right hand...  feel heat... double it with whatever is Left.
Have to go and feed da' horses.

A fun idea ... sort of

Yesterday we were at the DOM - Cathederal in Cologne, Germany.  Kurt asks if we would like to go up to the bell-fry of the Tower on the left.  "Sure" is replied by all.  About 3 eu paid and then up the stone stairs we go.  I did not know till after = the tower is about 500 ft tall or more perhaps... about 400 steep stone steps... a 36" wide (front door wide) spiral ascent with a skinny black handrail meant for only the "done-it and going down procession"... most folks are polite when squeezing by you except the French...  there is no "free coffee and donuts at the top"...  that winning is topping the tower only if you live to enjoy it.... my cardio is as good as the VET doc's said it was, but my legs are only 2 ply rubber and lack the stamina to do a "run up thing"... a "I don't care who has cancer= I'm not running" or that Mount Everest ascent is off my "to do before I die" list... or anything higher then where the kitchen stool could get me... the tower climb was a really good test of friendship aptitude...  'Kuuuuder' preference testing has no catagory for a near-death experience... no oxygen pit stops on way up, either by way of cylinder or in the thinning atmosphere...  I have flown often at altitudes lower then where I wound up... that more 8 year olds do this "Right Of Passage" then seniors... I was the only one who came down over the age of 36...  I had been asked once half-way up by a considerate German National if I was OK, I thought at the time I was and thanked him (in Dutch as a spur of the moment forgetfulness and not in German) ... being an American doesn't help you do anything better... I really hate small, confined spaces that seem to lead nowhere... there does exist a level of performance about half-way up that can be called the "Holy shit" point...  that I really missed my dog... and truck... and Kentucky... and will be drawing off to the side- Kurt, when I've gotten down, to have a friendly chat about enthusiasm... that the expression "Look before you leap" is not at all that powerful a precautionary advisory when looking down is no where near a do-able thing when you're above the clouds and not in an airplane...  that people can look very small, like ants, at times depending on your perspective... that God can test you even in holy places...  and finally... that we do survive.

I bought myself a Deutchland pin and patch in the Pilgramage gift shop when I returned to earth.  I felt I deserved it.  I tried to enjoy the mandatory hot chocolate in the quaint cafe (it was Italian choco hencely bad, really bad whipped cream... Belgium choco is the best when even desperate).  Holding the hot cup, bringing warm life back to the dead cold fingers on a drizzly cold day beside the Rhine River).  That is one big-ass river folks, on the order of the Mississippi for sure.   

I'm glad I "carried on in good form" and did the Tower on the left, if only to know that //redwhiteandblue// Americans like me try to do things really stupid at times.  I could have had a coronary, or a cow.  It really didn't seem that terribly bad now that I am back in my HOME!!!! in Belgium.  Warm.  Talking to friends.  When the time clock gets to be a morning reality in KY, I'll call the veterinarian and check-up on Sadie Mae.  BTW there are no pick-up trucks in Europe...  none.  Really.  (((shack's me head(((.  I like the farm.  I miss messing with dirt.

It was a wonderful day.  Seeing the most magnificent Cathedral man has ever made.  God knows.  Unbelievable.  Friends take you to places that you would never have imagined existed.  I had a good time.  We had a good time.  Fun.  Real fun.  Eating a whole bag of chips and not sharing... Greasy fingers rubbed on jeans and not caring.  "Not caring", did I say?  Different for me.

So, I could ask Kurt, "what are weees gonna do today... for fun BRO?"  He'll probably say "The Tower on the Right".  Something down deep inside of me unhesistantly replies silently but in a really big American-Made way, "Let's do it Dude".  OK, maybe there is some value in being "Stupid" at times.  It has shown me one thing...  that I am alive... and need to be.

And want to be.
- 30 -

Catching Emile Claus at home.... really.

Museum of Fine Art, Ghent, Belgium:  4 or 5 Euros to see EC work if I remember, but the rest of mus is free.

I connected with his more realistic work and his work salted with a light impressionistic styling... not too much of the pointalism, fuzzy with no use of black =( thence I go south.  His combination of the two presentations is out of this world.  et la vie rurale  as in "Farmer's Meal time", "Picnic", "... and sometime or other in the field of Flax". Maybe they were weeding it. ...... was downright brilliant - my opinion solely and souly.  Most of his 'of the land' work was truly inspirational.  I will be going back to mus often.

on my way to Florence... but

UPDATE:  I am using a euro-keyboard in typing this entry.  Half the keys are re-arranged or are substituted by Euro-speak symbols ie: £ùµçàè§é  for just a few.
Today I am in Belgium.  Yesterday did a side-trip to Holland and this zeekend probqbly Paris.  >>> kim...London may have to wait till September when I hope to return.  I have seen qnd experienced more religious art then one can imagine...BILLIONS worth... qnd that was in just one cathedral.  Every town, city, hamlet has at least one church, some 5... saw a Mike-angelo sculture in a side nook of a Belgie church somewhere in Flanders.  Station`s of the cross have the really good 15th and 16th century work.  Really good stuff all over zee place- restrooms included.  My French qnd German are in terrible repair.... want not to even try with these folks- they, the French laugh.  Belgium folk try very hard to speak English- most polite people on eqrth:    gOTHIC is all done up for real- no cheap imitations allowed- Their Carrefore stores { a Euro-Wally World} have gargoils on them; LOL
I should be checking bus and train schedules for zee week.  Better like reading schedules when going Euro.  Gotta go folks.  <mISS MY Saddie-May... CAlled my vet in KY,USA - she is doing great:

(no subject)

A knowing emerges clad in a spectrum’s light. Brought back from its ancient dark obscurity of a blackened impurity, yet it comes alive again and is transforming.  Hear of its past in the great howlings of now pure-white robbed hawks.  As was once witnessed from this artist’s point of view, that of his soul’s prosodied perspective, it is now of this man’s knowing wherefore I paint, and of his soul’s idea to word.


Painting    Aspect and derivative of a larger work-

Is it nothing … Lam 1:12, and its commentary.




Paint is the medium of the artist- put to work by the person within.  Word-work is the medium of their artistic soul.  They reflect upon each other, about each other, in knowing, inspiring, and in transforming each other, as well as the world.  One without the other is incomplete, unknowable, void of life- dead.  Beauty in Art is a coming together, the person and his soul, of their artistic workings, to be shared, and its worth’s value accessed as judged by you.  Of what color are you then?


Life exists between the black and the white of it- in the paint.  All else in light’s middle medium is but colored opinion.  We are all but shades and hues of a light’s spectrum.  Passion is rendered in vanity’s vibrant tones, while purpose is drawn as imperfect, by feathered fears and penciled bones.




I wish not to paint religious art, but to compose with color’s spirituality.  I want not to write words to think, but to script wonder poetically.




Origins of Life rendered in Devine Black beyond all light


The absolute-cold color observed was painted from beyond all light.  A paradox- of its nothing, is rendered in the darkest of all tinctured emotions- in black.  The color’s mysterious artistic allure entices us with its purpose, leading our hesitant trust back in space and in time toward the mythical beginnings of light, advancing its affect into the depths of the lightless desolation awaiting us.  The emptiness abiding therein retreats us further into its own sinister place, then further still, back into its unknowable eternity.


This unwelcomed guest- the apprehension we feel, as we venture deeper into that black, authors our growing fear of this threatening unknown void, while receding us into that color’s realm of beyond all light.  As we journey, our cunning intruder’s weighted dimension quietly drapes us within its dyer darkness.  It prepares its final heavy embrace in having clothed you and me in the blackest remnants of a dementia’s darkest shade.  Our attendant fear re-fashions its persuasions, as we descend downward, deeper, into a much stranger sensing of a distant on-coming presence.  Deeper yet, it now turns our intuitions around our weakening objections from a self-confessed perplexing disbelief into a sudden moment’s reluctant acceptance.  Deeper still.


That of our being now wanders among unfamiliar strangers slowly moving to the rhythmic dirge of solemn shuffling gaits, as performed by the blackest of silhouetted souls.  We sense our belonging to this order of seekers, roaming as they must and as we now move, having joined them in their meandering soundless wave-in-wait of dutiful witness to this unending procession before us- that of the militant marchings of mystifying life-like black shadows.  The passing pageant demonstrates its remaining color columned in secretive silence.  Arguing in muted gestured complaints and objecting in disturbed gyrations, they protest at the decaying of their once human forms. They are slowly wasting away as all light disowns them, discarding them behind.


The fading of the figures foretell of light’s final abandonment as they pass.  They rove in misery toward a formal forgetting of the last vestige of their once only desire- that of doing well in perfect synchronicity with their lifelong companions. Their faithful service was dutifully recorded by their light-filled lingering past, that was until now, this being their solitary closing dark passage- their unknowing of that last light in their lives, leaving nothing of them but words, neither to be spoken, nor to ever be remembered by.


The passing shadow’s sorrowful pleadings silently hover above the ranks moving beneath them in their death’s retrospective, until their growing number and weight of words releases them to empty their desperate implorings into the slow downward churn of whatever faint-praised psalms and expired prayers  that may still languish unstirred, or among those which have fallen to lie far below, interred.  Beside the composers’ sacred versing and hallowed pleas of the past, those shadowed final beseechings rain down too, as desiccated dying dust, settling to lay forever decomposing into that paradox of its nothing by the workings of utter despair, upon the blackened bleak bar rain of the unknowning , and forgotten dead.

Devine Black


Man of us, take your leave in words of this dismal dark beyond.

Wait for a God’s absence, then ascend!  Quickly!  Fly!

Return to the world this light, as life!  Worthy words of its knowing.

Remember that for which I shall have to stay, here behind,

As I had before, and in my own way, to harvest light among the sorrows.

For us, I surrender words to that work for which I now must pay.


Return to paint with a resending light’s rescued white,

Though dimmed down to a cad’s argued glowing- made imperfect.

Survivor of life’s end- the light, it to you I shall send, and most often.

Believing in that of its absence- well then, let that be your flawed night.

Of that remnant light from the dead?  That to paint into a perfect day!

Move on.  Leave now.


I remain in eternity to paint among these souls and shadows that pass,

Making certain to recover their discards of light- spent life in their path,

Redeeming all of light’s beauty and abundance of glimmerings that last.

It shall be my gift for you to paint, to use light in its whole or in its parts,

As having been taken from those who may have in life from its start,

Neither chose it … to want, nor wished it … to see.  To wonder.


I shall forever endure for them their light’s loss- a saddened borrow.

And by this utility- my deepest sorrow, I shall forever ask in words,

”Are these then not our winnings? Not my chance?”

Depart ! For certain you are my eyes to see, my willing want in dance.

Your spirit by His approving glance, has set you for all of eternity-

The more favored of us, the one part of us He chose to be free.


Herein, I shall abide my pain with this one colored paint- beyond all light,

As well as to suffer through knowing of your more fortunate fate.

Yet still, trust me to ably brush a humor’s want upon your faceless fears.

Know that since before this conviction’s time, I have been at your drawing,

At your warring, as silent courage- friend, as your mold, your artistic soul.

Is that faith’s light your’s?  Forwith to grow?  Then go and draw on!  War on! 


Shall I eternally labor as one fearless among the more forgotten, the dead.

Forgiving darkness, watching always its creep through black stained-glass tears?

Giving up to life, that light from this darkness, of which now you surely can know?

I shall then paint!- my sadness, my madness, my shortest moments into eternal years,

In that Devine Black- beyond all light, is for you to know.  To then show.

Of it and of me?  Be pleased in your leaving , for only you and God will truly know?




Rockin’ Horseman  ‘09



Journal Entry

January 26, 2009

From where does this inspiration come?  Why is an idea- a knowing, or its color given sanction by an artist to paint from it, a writer to wander its words across the hunger of a blank page- a Dante, or a musician to compose from it four single notes into an unforgettable symphony?- a Beethoven.   I am neither entirely sure, nor can I believe I will ever know.   What I do know is that of a shared feeling of sadness born in a tearful sorrow’s release by my dear friend upon her reading of Thomas Hardy’s last page of his novel- Mayor of Casterbridge.  What I do know is that fear, that stark dark terror, when brought within an arm’s reach of Joseph Conrad’s character Wolf Larsen in his classic novel, Sea-Wolf.  What I do know is that Black- beyond all light, imperfect yet gloriously Devine, alive! from having seen it in the velvet shine of my Saddie Mae’s black coat, as she basked in the bright morning sun of a winter’s day following a snowy arctic night.  A vivid violet seen in effervescent sparkles made her black resplendent, gleaming, luminous, unlike any black extruded straight from a color’s pretentiously labeled tube.  Maybe I should not have told you that, and let your creativity wonder.  Know that I believe sacred should be those color’s we chose for our lives, and use in rendering our best ideas- mixed and made imperfectly, yet Devine, upon the palette of our artistic lives.

-  30  -

(no subject)


Monday, January 05, 2009     Today I have created a separate journal to capture my personal thoughts, and record those comings and goings of the many projects at hand, in particular the painting pA08002.  Now there are three Journal-types abiding individual paintings- R&D’s, Thoughts/Reflections, and Records.  I call them my Read, Feed, and Deed books.  Yesterday, I picked up the painting from Hopewell Museum, after a two month exhibition here in Paris, KY.  Some Lexingtonian art’sie folks stopped in too.  After taking down the painting from the wall, I had a long and very enjoyable conversation with Nancy O. –  of curatorship and archaeologistic learnings and leanings.  We discussed her current creative writing- historical fiction (very Irish stuff for me, lavishly painted words in hedonistic hues of catholic emerald green, spot-checked with a dab or two of a northern orange).  She is busy with writing adventures, character development, etc. as well as with aspects of her interest in art-in-general.  I suppose that could include my painting as well.  Art stimulating creative writing?  Yep.  I am pleased to believe that may have been the case.

The titling on the wall ID plaque, “It Is Nothing . . . Lam 1:12” was incorrect.  It should have read “Is it nothing… Lam 1:12” posed as a question- a mistake or oversight, probably on my part.  Apparently a museum patron had picked up the misquote.  Interestingly, someone had thoughtfully posted a copy of the chapter and verse of Lam 1:12 beside the painting for easy reference.  Helpful I'm sure.  I first thought.  I had hoped that folks would have an impetus to hurry home and to at the least, find their family’s “Good book”.  I suppose there were enough inquirers to justify the time and effort for someone to have placed the verse-copy alongside the painting.  Victory still at hand?  Yes.  Apparently folks were curious enough and somewhat engaged in the painting, which for me was the important thing- that it really mattered for whatever reason.  Maybe they got the message, or were intrigued enough to think about what it was that the artist, I should say the painting, ultimately wanted to convey, although, the creation of it and for much of the painting’s life thus far, was not intended for public consumption or comment.  It had been just a thing’ie-thing I had been working on trying to come up with some answers to some simple questions, like – Why 911 ?   Living down, deeply deep, in the Bible belt, one has to be very careful, by being industrially sharp witted when referencing Biblical text, as well as staying on message.  Folks here insist that it is verbieten to digress from God’s honest truth, at least from what they have come to believe it to be.  I’m getting an impression that folks too, seem a bit suspicious about incorporating any Old Testament text, tenor, or texture in rounding out a religion’s bigger picture, with one exception- that being of incorporating “anything” from Isaiah regarding a messianic message.  OK, a little passing hint from Mica is welcome too.  Yet, OT Biblical history will get them a’walkin’ away from you real quick.  They seemingly don’t want to know, nor do they like you knowing any either.  I wonder why.

I later met with Patrick and Leona up at their barn.  They were very encouraging in their comments about the painting, having gone to see the exhibit before Christmas.  Their professional opinion was that it should be in New York.  I value that.  Patrick had at one time been a very “super big time” NY Gallery guy.  Others I’ve talked with seem to think 'NY' as well.  Patrick and I then strolled out into the pasture and tried to get “Willard” to come over and have a visit.  Patrick didn’t bring any carrots, so “Willard” wasn’t that interested.  Mr. "W" knew he was without halter, so it became a “catch me if you can” playtime for him.  Enticements like carrots and apples (better) are a no-no, a never do thing from drop day one (birth), to try to get an equine-anything, at anytime, or to have them do anything.  Patrick should have known that.  He does I’m sure.  But he loves horses too much to abide by an elemental rule.  I guess that's OK.  I’d sneak an apple or at least rub it on my hands anticipating the big nose sniff.  The horses are his babies, bliss-babies.  I admire him as we all should.  He’s a good horseman, a kindly person.  Horses have a way of making humble stick.  Now, due to a horrendous bout of “stickie wickies” which got to do a’clingy to his tail and his mane when he rolled around on the ground some weeks ago in da’ weedies- contaminated Bluegrass, basking in a sunny Sunday afternoon’s delight, Patrick has made a train-wreck of his tail and mane-  he cut them out.  Truly a bad hair day if you’ve ever seen one at least for a horse.  They’re very sensitive creatures you know.  Sure.  But I am sure Willard thought it was a good idea at the time.  Horses don’t always do what they should or what you would want them to do.  Hmmm.  ‘Say same’ about some folks I know?  You Know?  "That’s what ya’ get Patrick for not tractor-mowing often enough."  It can be said, “that’s the horses’ job”- mixed opinion here folks.  I did at least have a hands on meeting with the other stallions.  They walked right on over when we approached them.  Patrick’s got some drop-dead beauties- thoroughbreds, mixed in among some Standard Breds.  Some carry the World’s best bloodlines- triple crowners, but they never did well under silk (racing).  Shame.  They are still damn gorgeous.

Well, my freshly shinned- military grade spit shinned, “Sunday Go Ta’ Meetin’ shoe-boots” got pasteurized so to speak.  Even mucked-up in the lacings.  When I got home Saddie Mae picked up the “horsie” on my shoes.  Her “knows” got bent for not having taken her.  She went right off her dinner just to show me… didn't eat a thing, knowing I’d worry like hell cause she’s not eating again- ya’ know the “vet bills trick” dogs seem to know about, and use frequently.  Better then having her choose to throw-up in your best sneakers, an alternate anger venting she could have done I suppose.

Again my thoughts have run to Rockin’ Horse Farm’s role in what the big picture has become.  Horses, Dogs, and “The Act” program are creating a bigger and better Burgoo to deliss’h on, so it seems.  All of it is fairly fuzzy or finely feathered, but I can see something really important developing.  I’m into it, but its making life more complex.  Hard to adjust, after so many years of trying to even the hills, and make it all simple.  I just hate to RE-shine my shoe-boots… even my horseshoes… so I’ll just go and start another painting instead… maybe of a mad, bad dog.  Saddie Mae now gives me a long drooley mouth slobber kiss, and then that’s that.  I did use the sleeve, and then gave her a pat on her butt... and I guess I can now say that all is well again at Rock’n Horse farm.



(no subject)

I am often asked, “Where is Rockin’ Horse Farm?”

This wonder, if expressed as a serious wish to visit that venerable Kentucky homestead, can very easily be addressed.  What cannot be so simply stated however, are those recommendations commonly asked for- as regarding the best way to come, as well as for a way’s future direction upon leaving.  Who and where are you now? asks the questionnaire.  Are you willing and prepared to embark- free to come?  Are you able to bravely accept that your maps’, or chart’s, knowable point of departure may not necessarily be that same place anticipated upon your later return?  It seldom is.

The notion of access to opportunity is wonderfully inviting and initially free of the constraints of later realities.  What is made of the experience, and to where and how one journeys, are still relatively unpredictable.  Ah! Is it then an adventure? one may ask.  It always … can be.


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