Awake Fair Poetess Awake

On a hedge of a sofa beyond the crowd, ambushed by my mind's keepers -- hurry and wait, I sought the quiet. There, two gladhand callers with snares fixed on my sacred moments, when lost, an unfaithful lover, or, if found, or given, a surprise downhill feeling, inexplicably giddy, no dishes, no laundry, no calls. A beckon to be still, be glad for the tea. Steel hammers stopped for a snow day -- a grab your purse, sale ahead -- early Christmas -- a full fridge -- gas in the car.

Frippery took notebook and pen from her bag, her divided selves allowed onto the white page. Mary Kay pale beige on hotel terry, a Rorschach for the demented to read, she reread her morning's poem:

Stripes, foliates, foulards, pucker the early grey.
Quilt clutches asunder as young twister touches down,
he, a candy wrapper lock on vast calico field.
Cornrow raider hacks lone country, reads report.
Soft words stir, whilst hard coffee sours the soul,
the new light leaks past yarn maids once so comely.
Next breath chastises last,
sand bucket thuds in seconds to beat the lame rooster,
car pool drums again.

The everyday, genial soldiering -- one part dream, to two parts chore, the anti-recipe to precious time to drink court wine of the artist -- or know when a full glass was already in hand. Downstairs the hall clock's, "bahm, bahm, bahm," a fairy tale reminder named the hours. Her thoughts parted into twelves, then into factors of twelve. A fractional madness.

Time, a mountain ride on smashed Tijuana bus. Bald, unforgiving, curving, spiraling, pressing.

August nylon of crabgrass pushing up. How did that get here? Catching your heel, turning to catch balance, another bit grabs for your toe. Damn! Not my vacation shoes. The quiet hour dimmed again. Cluttered with rules from the undone -- and a driving fear -- from the depth. You changeling, time. Always, a phantom botherer.

Taking in the scene, I pulled my camera phone out of my envelope bag to take some photos of the lovely red room...then wandered in to the next, then the next...soon I was drifting through the halls as if in a dream.

The Envelope Please...

Personally, I always found the mayor to be a scowly sort of fellow. Might have been because he voted down my idea of re-purposing the Community Center into an odd fellows inn meets juice bar.

He always looked half cocked and fluttery. Maybe he was a dandy in another life. In any event, I straightened up, I cleared my throat, excused myself, and, in my best none-the-wiser fashion pulled my purse from my ham.

The envelope please....

Evening Bagged

The evening was in the bag. Cleverly disguised as a ham sandwich, Frippery's phone went unseen as she approached the mayor. Too, she had thought to bring her spiral cut ham purse which one could possibly mistaken as a meat lover's accessory. Regardless, Frippery was a self-professed vegan and the purse suited her just fine.

A little ham slice side pocket to hold secret hankies and a zip off ham slice served as an unlikely broach. What next? Maybe a pair of small fillet of sole -- shoes?
Fashion was such a romp.

The Grand Lucinda Ball

"My, there are so many people," Nonesuch said as he alighted from his car. "I knew this was thee ticket in town, but, who knew what amazing follies awaited the eye and...what amazing delicacies awaited my palette."

"Oh, Nonesuch, you are a dear. I am just so glad that I found this frock in my closet and...still fit in it. I have had far too many chocolates, and far too little exercising. But, even I cannot miss the yummies ahead. Oh, look, there is Mayor Tippsy. Shall we pay our respects?"

"Yes, let's." And, off they went.

Do you have something in Pandora blue?

So, while our Frippery painted and painted, I watched. Swish, stroke, swish, stroke, blot, stroke, stroke...quietly she worked and all the while, slowly her hypnotic swish overcame me. The room seemed to fill with clouds of thinner and medium. Maybe the sun on the window warmed the skin under my pinstripes and starched collar too much, but I found I was hard pressed to stay awake. It seems I slipped into a trance or, maybe a deep dream...I tried to unbutton my jacket but fumbled at it badly, still sleep pulled me forth.

I shudder as I think about it now. It is probable that you, my dear readers saw it coming all along that our poseur friend Frippery was of a different breed of artist.

Declaring her simply a hothouse flower was too obvious here, but also it seems she could employ -- what I dare call only to myself -- something akin to magical thinking. Frankly, I had never even encountered such an idea before -- though I think it is oft talked about in rarefied circles, those circles from which I would unlikely have had occasion to conduct business.

My thinking all my life, I now freely admit, was always too limited. In that I thought life was containable and predictable. As example to this, I tell you I thought Lady Frippery was merely a painter and fashioner -- inspired or not -- I leave that to your kind critique -- but if you, my kind reader had suggested she was rather a changeling as she worked or made things, -- and further things out of those things (all the while poking at this idea of irrefutable permanence that I held dear)...at that I surely would have scoffed and eased myself politely out of the room.

However, as I am no longer your same narrator, formerly cloaked in the thinking of reproducible facts. I have come to respect the field of wonderment and hypotheses as the first steps of wisdom. My re-birth, if you will allow, had the strangest tendency to ease my mind and temperament the more I trusted my wholeness beyond the beloved confines of my former rule making and habit of constant questioning which I now found to be largely divisive and a fear about the quiet. My temples were falling as well they should. And, as Anais said, blossoming had it's risks.

No matter what the supposed risks or facts, I promise you I now know -- she, he or something was capable of some spirit enterprise. There was something definitely Pandora or uncommon afoot. I was still part skeptic in the margins of my being, that is true, as I was dyed in the wool a long time ago, but now, like it or not, I was forced to be a participant-voyeur and was determined to learn the source of all. Unceremoniously I was evicted out of my safe places and was now engaged in that snarl of ephemeris.

Dream or not, these woods were not only of our known world, though it shared many of its characteristics -- but rather here was the known world put back and forwards and shaken a few times; surrounded by agents and angels, trolls and all manner of things harpy, circus, gypsy, siren and -- thankfully the sublime divine. I could feel the shawl of the sacred around my shoulders. Whether ancient elders or other, I could not know, but I was glad for the company.

No wonder this parallel place was not often penetrated except by the exceedingly open or hapless. The latter would best describe my situation.

This was an easier world than our world, and too, sometimes harder -- if the Alignment was askew with too many assertions -- than the world you think you possess and grasp fell to dust.

My findings thus far are that the Woods are agile and dynamic. Its' dimensions are quantum and, and, as you see, I stutter -- alterable. Whether with smoke, mirrors, paint or some other contrivance chemical, physical or mental -- I know not how, but it seems I am on a course to discover.

Let us just say that if here one were to paint an apple, Frippery or another, it would be more than a simple two-dimensional painted thing. The apple might have inhabitants within, or might really be a vehicle of transport -- that if you were to pluck it off the page, you could also take a seat and passage to another time and place – possibly not of your own devising -- likely that is the case.

As a manner of start point, I confide that I had in fact sat myself down as I was invited to do one recent summer day. My rail ticket, so to speak was a typical 19th c. caned wood Hitchcock chair set just so for a portrait sitting at the behest of an anonymous gift with Madam Frippery presiding and my passage thus secured. Little did I realize that I had unknowingly set things in motion -- once enlightened one cannot return to darkness.

There was the expected oil paint on her palette and the requisite canvas as she began, but...as I have I queried myself again and again going over the sequence of events, how was it that when I awoke, I did not have the same form -- as when I had arrived for my sitting.

Nonesuch, the mister of the house, I am certain had his part too. It was not a cheap deception on either of their parts, at least I do not think so, but, rather simply the place itself or possibly a combination of place with these beings about how things came to adjust and re-present themselves.

The Perfect Shade of Perfect or What to Wear Tonight

"Are you getting ready Frippery?" said Nonesuch. "Say what?," said Frippery. Getting ready for what?"

"Tonight is the Grand Lucinda Ball, had you forgotten?", Nonesuch explained.

"I had completely forgotten. I can't go, I cannot deal with my hair and all the maintenance at this point. I need my village of upkeep villagers. Oh, vey. I'm not super woman. It's not like I have a pressed super hero costume in my closet just ready to go." Her rant was warming up....

"Where are Viktor and Rolf when I need them? I guess I could go if I could work out the right dress, hair, shoes...make-up...yadda, yikes. How does this outfit look? Oh, the myth of the perfect. This is going to take more than a felted princess miracle," continued Frippery as she wandered in the general direction of her closet.

"Nonesuch, what are YOU going to wear?"
"Nonesuch?" she called to no reply.

All Stew and No Dessert Makes for a Dull Dinner

And paint Frippery did. And draw. And paint, and draw, paint and draw and paint until the goose in her stew began to unravel itself.

"Rupture and repair," she tried her Nonesuch's adopted mantra. Well one of them....she had a few of her own -- some were not fit for print at all....All the while she knew that Nonesuch was off in his studio working. Working for them. Boy, she just wanted to run away from that word.

Work. Work. That four letter word. It was a mantra in and of itself.

Sometimes Frippery thought that when she worked she had a mantra-guide that worked through her. Her brush or hands. It could see behind walls, through people and the masks they wore....always she dared herself to paint dangerously. After all it was just paint and paper, much of it she stuffed under her mattress. Then again, there were at least two sides to each side of paper. She admitted sometimes she saw just what she wanted to see and sometimes, what she wanted to see hidden. But, out it would come.

She was hard pressed to admit that maybe life was more about the process along the way. Maybe she thought too much. She would think about that too. But how do you not think? That was unthinkable.

The ark had opened too wide to close it now. Boy! Life could get wirey, yes wirey to her way of thinking. Especially when she turned her art on herself....one man's art is another man's woodpile she wondered a loud to herself, guess that was why it took so many people to make a planet. Now where was that wire?

Oh, Tidy, thy beauty is so fine.

Hard Hat to Fill

"Me, me, me!," Nonesuch ruminated to himself. Is the cup (or, in his case, the hat) half full, or half empty? He was never quite so sure and his seemed to have a hole in it in any case. He tried to maintain his composure and take an in breath. Problem was, sooner or later, he had to breath out....dancing as fast as he could, but the steps kept changing...sometimes, he felt there was a veritable fire in the house...he just had to say "no," and not squash people as sometimes happened. How to be okay with upset and not always try to manage it. Well, back to work. Nonesuch went to his garden studio and picked up his pen...

Frippery stewed and stewed. She then picked up a paintbrush and started mixing paint. Soon she found an old linen canvas brought back from a trip to France years ago that had a half painted painting on it. The painting was now the start for her next work. Thinking and painting, painting and thinking. The process calmed her and put her in her world. It seemed from her vantage point, going or not going on a trip was beside the point and it was all a tempest in a tea cup and she was sorry to have caused so much commotion.

Truth be told, reality was not her favorite cup of tea. And, yes, Nonesuch was right. It was a crummy time to launch that dream. Drats! At least when she painted, she was free, floating and, yes -- happy. For a while, she allowed herself to finally breathe deeply and indulge her painting. Life serves you up itself, like it or not. She fished in her pocket for her last chocolate and popped it in her mouth. Yum...

A Mean Breakfast

The Importance Of Being Relevant

"Frip, what's this?" queried Nonesuch.
"Well, take a look," she said.

"Okay, okay, I will, but...what could it be?" It looks like a note...," he wondered aloud.

Jumping in Frippery said, "Or,...maybe a pair of cruise tickets," excitedly motioning to the trick bottle she felted yesterday and stuffed with papery notes."

"Uh, oh, is someone...going somewhere?" eased Nonesuch.

"Yes dear, WE are, it is my biggest birthday ever and, well...simply put I have decided we're going on a grand tour," she stated.

"But, you know...this is a bad time in the economy and all. I thought we decided to put off super sized indulgences." offered the now becoming flustered Nonesuch.

"Nonesuch, this is nothing of the sort," tried and indignant Frippery, "If anything, I would call it eminently practical, not only that, but an educational mandate, a call to ponder, and refine -- a sabbatical for the soul," she said.

"Why my dear strive so hard in life, filling one's head with endless thoughts, facts and figures -- honing one's talents all day out of books and all manner of dithering with the computer and what not if not to step away from it all and test oneself for relevancy in the world.

"In fact, why create curiosities in one's head if not to occasionally try it all out in the actual stuff of the real world? What IS the point after all Nonesuch,?" stated Frippery at length starting to stand.

"Calm yourself Frippery, I did not say anything, I am just mulling," Nonesuch offered.

"Nonesuch dear, I have actually heard it said in polite circles and beyond, that civilization can be so uh, uh, uh..civilizing..." Frippery finally announced.

"Responsibilities or not -- let's enjoy life from another deck chair," she continued. "Quite possibly the change of view would challenge us about what our priorities actually are these days. The daily slog will survive quite well without us," as she harrumphed away.

Well, this was a pickle of sorts, and not one to be "dillied" with for very long. Nonesuch was astounded by what he actually regarded as a wild idea and deeply perplexed about the quandary of it's timing.

However, this relevancy thing Frippery talked of was what was most stuck in his craw. Was HE in fact relevant? Was it important to be relevant? What to do, what to do, if anything. Couldn't one be relevant without a trip abroad or following the latest trends and fashions? Must one always be striving and moving? Wasn't that just another distraction?

Sometimes a flower could be the whole world he thought to himself.

Of a sudden it seemed in fact Nonesuch's world was spinning faster and faster and tilting out of control. His beloved measured life was manifesting all manner of hard questions. It seemed as if a serpent had sprung from his quiet garden and he was being called to adapt and act fast.

Nonesuch did not much like adaptation, unless it was on his own terms. And, frankly adaptation by surprise ambush, as it seemed this morning, was his least favorite variety.

He rathered his surprises more if they were served up alongside his Sunday pancakes like a pair of crisp bacon slices done on the slightly crisp side. Insead it looked to him as if he was going to start his day with what he called a "mean breakfast" as his first course. In other words, the bacon was burnt and tasted like dust.

Off in to the garden he went to gather his thoughts.

I don't know about you but...

"I don't know about you Nonesuch, but I think it is a fine day for a picnic," Frippery stated. "As a matter of fact, I have it right here," she continued.
With that she pulled from her basket: an instant grassy meadow, a gingham cloth, a pair of blue sky napkins, pork chop on plate, deli ham and Swiss sandwich in a brown (cashmere) bag, rotisserie chicken and as well a fine vintage. Too, the requisite insects were also included, pre-jarred of course as this made them less bothersome.

Let it be known that the sup was figure saving and in fun -- as it was of the felted, fabric and wooly sort.

It was a lovely picnic indeed -- if one was prepared. (
You see, Frippery was in the habit of making things all folly, whether a "vegan" lunch as in today's picnic or other faux "objet d'art" items. All the while her guests sat here and about she would be popping all TOO real, and very "outside the food pyramid" chocolates from her seamed pockets into her mouth). The unfortunately unprepared fed themselves on their wry amusement or occasional, if suppressed, disappointment.

As such and knowing this gag Nonesuch settled himself and picked up the bottle marked "Der Wine," uncorking it, he noticed a flash of white, what was this device?...could it be there was a note in the bottle?

He unfurled it, and with it, his suspicions...Frippery held her breath...

Nonesuch as Mr. World

Wire for Mother

"Ahhhhh, what a lovely day to tour the world," said Nonesuch, "I will start with my garden," and off he went.

"Oh, my dear Frippery, do come and look at the roses. Don't they look sooooo happy? Why the Edens, the platinums and the Cecil Brunners are running in reckless abandon! The pinks are touched by cows' cream and just enough lime. You naughty petits, you thought I would not see your secret glory and newborn arches. You are heady indeed," Nonesuch added.

"My, my calm yourself dear man, what a conversation! Though I must admit I, for one, am lapping it up. Tell me, why are you so happy?" queried Frippery.

"I don't know really," he paused. "I guess it just occurred to me, I ain't never lived this day before," Nonesuch called over his shoulder as he skipped away.

"Hmmm," Frippery said to herself as she fumbled a photo of Nonesuch and his world of flowers. "I like that thought....I think I'll just wire it with these photos to dear mother,....hark, is that a peacock I just heard cawing?" added Frippery.

Frippery Makes The Morning Post

Hi, I am Frippery. My friend Nonesuch (here with his derby bowler) and I are combining efforts and creating this post.

I am a kindhearted gypsy art gal, who, if I joined the circus, my freewheeling art and style would come with me.

Nonesuch, on the other hand is taking in the whole scene, maybe coming up with a better way to design the tent, a make it taller, wider, more accessible and affordable -- kind of guy.

Both of us contemplate the meaning of life and the meaning of random and try to enjoy the moment. This is where our art and design dialogue lives.

Some days, one of us flows and the other ebbs and vice versa....maybe you'll learn (or share) a trick or two and come along with us on our traveling desktop circus.