Green Art News: Plastic

     My love affair with the ocean began as a  child on the beaches of Puntarenas, Costa Rica.  In 2004  I suffered head trauma that effects my short-term memory to this day, but I do remember riding horseback with my older cousins along the shore.   The sounds of hooves splashing in the water, along with waves crashing along the rocks, and the smell of  the ocean air were the things I looked forward to the most.  Playing in the sand, and bringing  home seashells that would become my most treasured toys as a young child.

     My father tall, and lean his eyes the lagoon blue of the ocean; would place conches against my small ear at bedtime so that I could hear the sounds I fell in love with. My father was an American, a POW from WWII, upon returning home to the states he traveled and spent much time in Central and South America.  He met my mother, a dark and exotic server at a local restaurant in Costa Rica and fell in love.  After they exchanged their vows, he spent the next five years in various locals in Costa Rica before returning with his wife and daughter to Southern California.  Where I was raised and my love for the ocean continued.  The beaches much more crowded than what I had been introduced to.  The feel of  crisp ocean air, and the warmth of the sun on my  skin were less frequent;  but nonetheless were what I looked forward to.

     Today those beaches in Puntarenas are a far cry from what I remember as a child.  The fishing industry and tourism has taken its toll.  I have included some informative material about the effects of plastic on  our coastline in Ecology of Marine Debris.  I also have included links to Artists who have devoted their work in the recycling of this debris in creating whimsical works of Art.

May peace and prosperity greet you at every corner.


Finally the six essentials 

 Have you ever seen a master Chinese watercolor painter at work with brush and ink as they effortlessly create a beautiful composition with its florals or landscape cascading waterfalls and mountains…in minutes?  Then you try your hand at it well because it looked so easy but you fail to make a connection with the brush and water so your like “hmmm I’ll think I’ll stick to crocheting booties”.   So I politely introduce myself to my brush and I spent quite some time courting it, I light candles, pour sake, and don my silk lounging attire. I voraciously study “The Mustard Seed Garden of Painting” with all its thousands of annotations, I use chop sticks to keep the hair out of my face while I venture into my version  of the ‘life and times of a brushstroke’ which just means practice practice practice your brush strokes like there’s no tomorrow then I guess I could have utubed it but where’s the fun in that?  It’s like fishing it’s a meditative sport you kick back and drink …sake?? 

Cherokee Landing Postcard Series

Cherokee Landing Retrospective: Deertracks

Cherokee Landing Retrospective

Cherokee Landing Retrospective

A Poem for my Mother

Its early, the sun is beating down on the leaves

And they hold up

The sun has barely made its entrance to a new day

Bringing with it an Imperial heat

The sidewalk emits a heatwave

its the only time it moves

I imagine steam as the sprinklers reluctantly

spit drops that miss the yellowing grass

and land with a hiss

leaving a wetspot

A mirage really it lasts just seconds

the sidewalk glares back

Dry and solitary taunting my sanity.


I close the blinds and stand on the cool tile under my feet

I hear the voices in the other room,

She cheers on todays winner

Bob Barker should be a distant memory,

It’s not his voice I hear though,

but a New Robust

Fella now

Some famous man I don’t know.

My mother she is faithful

When it comes to her shows.


I play the harmonica something sad

Something lonesome

And my Emmillee howls

Right along with me

We play a duet

This makes me laugh so

My giggles float along

Bounce off walls and

Visit every room

She closes her eyes

A penny for her thoughts

I close my eyes and try hard not to think


Waves of empty thoughts come crashing

Instead of white foam and the smell of the ocean

A menagerie of colors

The colors of painted rooms

The sound of pots clanging

And lonesome ‘rancheros’

Stories of unfaithfulness.

The smell of beans and garlic,

and spilt beer.

Green, broad, long, waxy leaves

Reminders of “la selva”

I pinch the dark soil

And smell deep and long

Time to clean up

Time to play a new song.


The sun is low

In the horizon

I shake myself

And look hard and long

My brush in hand is dry

My paper calls out to me

For color

I feel the cool tile under my feet.

I open the blinds

I admire the pretty shades of pink

In the distance

And wet my brush.

I listen to a new song.


Sushistrummin at the Fairgrounds




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