Sounds corny but thats what it is. Last night I painted the moon from my electronic device. I noticed its in Gemini right now, since that is my astrological sign I figure its a good thing for me (Helen, please weigh in!) . Its always difficult for me to get the circle shape of the moon right, last night I noticed a jam jar lid of suitable size and used that to pencil in. The little star is a star in the constellation Gemini (HP 2763). Near by I noticed an beautiful thing that turned out to be the Eskimo Nebula (a bipolar double shell planetary nebula-?!-)
Elizabeth left for Marrakech Tuesday, I am off this afternoon! On our return we will have a night in London to catch up with our dear friend, and phenomenal painter, Cynthia Westwood. The last time we all got together was at Newark airport!
It sure feels like a full moon. I did this moon the night before last. Too excited to finish anything. In order to get something done I recruited the help of my Captain Spectacular. He agreed to come into the studio with me before bathtime. He worked on some drawing and crafts while I painted; in exchange for my help wielding the glue gun.
The January full moon is known as the Wolf Moon. This painting is from yesterday actually, though its splendid tonight. (In the background: Every year my dear friend Helen Uger sends me a Russian Calendar,
"fail better" from Samuel Beckett: "Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try Again. Fail again. Fail better."
And the a photo of my mom friends, a particular group of friends I met while pregnant, not a baby group anymore as these days we usually meet for dinner without the kids
That is the official name for the December full moon according to the Farmer's Almanac which has been spectacular here over the past week. Below is a poem Sarah Merrill wrote earlier this fall and kindly unearthed for us when I pleaded for a moon poem.
A crisp morning in early autumn finds me standing optimistically
with my son by the big tree
at precisely seven-thirty, waiting for the school bus to arrive
and take my child away to someone else’s care and professional knowingness.
While we wait we watch our breaths gather before us and disperse,
gather and disperse, gather and so on until someone’s child points up to the sky.
A pale moon seems to hover too close.
“But mom, why is the moon here in the morning?”
I adjust my son’s backpack and consider how
with increasing frequency I do not have answers to the Questions.
How I’m saved by the pillow of virtual information
that cushions my constant sense of falling.
In the afternoon I lead my child back to the big tree
and I point up where the moon used to be. My wisdom is memorized:
That was a gibbous moon, you saw, Sweetie, precisely eighty-one percent—a waxing or waning moon that can look like a full moon but it’s not.
Even as my son is nodding his head I don’t really know what I’m talking about.
But anyway, my digital words disperse in the darkening afternoon,