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In blogging platforms.  I can’t maintain it!  First it was blogspot, w/ a blog that was about my stamping and card making, but also very political.  This was in 2007-2008, and the political part started to feel scary so I deleted them. 

I always had a hard time commenting on other blogs, and it was a time when I had more time to do so, plus wordpress seemed, well, impressive.  Plus I was very inspired to do a blog about art and creativity, so I started one over at wordpress.  Its title is inspired by a sunny day and conversation with a spiritual friend - Whizbangwoman.

I wrote some about the Richmond art scene, I wrote and still write poems.  My poems frequently end up as thoughts/elegies about people who have passed.  I like a lot of them.  Recently they have felt blah, and museless.

Then I discovered Tumblr, which seems like a cross between twitter & wordpress.  It’s very visual, and I thought about how changing and intermingling this world of technology and creativity was, so I named it Mutable.  I re-created the problem of not knowing where to write what, though.

Oh, Geez, I completely forgot about my blog on Open Salon.  I should have stayed over there.  Lots of positive interaction w/ other people. 

I just like to explore!  And since I am very visual, and I love to “Look”, I am including a photo here, if Tumblr allows.  It did, it just put it at the top.  It’s a wreath I made for Valentine’s & always.  I needle-felted a heart by hand, and a flower which I cut w/ a die cut machine, but assembled & decorated w/ needle felting.


Love me some Gertrude Stein!

A Long Dress, by Gertrude Stein

THAT is the current that makes machinery,
that makes it crackle,
what is the current that presents a long line and a necessary waist.
What is this current.
What is the wind, what is it.

Where is the serene length,
it is there and a dark place is not a dark place,
only a white and red are black, only a yellow and green are blue,
a pink is scarlet, a bow is every color. A line distinguishes it.
A line just distinguishes it.

I found this lovely poem here.

Mr. Doster

Sweet, gentle soul,

I met him at church.

He was a slight, stooped fellow,

with an abundance of white hair for his 84 years.

His eyes were aqua-blue,

and rendered such kindness and calm.

He was “layed to rest” today,

out in the country,

atop a small hill.

He was my friend.

When I married,

I asked him to be an usher at my wedding

years ago.

I asked two elderly friends to be ushers,

as well as my brother.

Both of my friends have passed on.

Mr. Doster, I love you.

I know you loved me and my family.

I never thanked you for fighting in the war.

May I now?

Miss Ella will miss you, I know.


I’ll make sure she knows we’re here

loving her and missing you.

The Loss of Margaret

I saw anguish today.

A sharp, handsome man,

in his 89th year,

left for the funeral mass of his

beloved wife.

Escorted by an equally handsome son,

dressed in a fine black suit,

he sadly departed.

Later, I saw a smartly dressed

middle-aged man,

standing by the nurse’s station.

He had a small, unreadable smile

on his face. 

As I neared I saw his widowed father.

His fine black suit was mussed.

He was splayed in a wing chair,

his tie undone.

A woman was kindly comforting him

with trite words, unheard.

He was barely recognizable.




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