I’ve been busy learning Krita, an open-source free platform. Created by artists for artists, this powerful, professional-grade software supports layers, advanced brush engines, and color management (CMYK/RGB).
Here I’m strictly using the clone tool to paint and transform my original oil painting into a new artistic-Tradigital-style for my portfolio. Don’t know yet where it may end up, but that’s the same process as traditional painting. So far I’m thoroughly enjoying the expansion and creativity it affords me.
East avenue irregulars hahaha that’s who we are I say after their query of my family and its unusual array a cast of misfits from Roslyn, Pa—
fighting/ backstabbing/ an unruly lot amixed-breed-brood from that darkie Arab guy who looks Puerto Rican and that red-headed American/ who shies away from everything puffing on her cigarettes/ inward and lonely—
mister and misses off-beat sure created an unseemly plot set amongst a backdrop drab/ ordinary/ working-class a usual story a cape cod/ a row of hedges a chevy in the drive—
then there’s you and him the mister and misses of my best friend with their questions and their gaping stares—
as if their discussing some crazy movie they just watched on their television
their kids 5th grade friend becomes their nightly entertainment/ a curiosity of a young lot from over there/ from the other side of town with less than—
mixed and messed and unseemly at best although the Irish like moms side are a blended mess too/ as are you two McCalls/ can’t get more Irish than that—
but in America/ the strangest strangers are dark/ foreign/ and blended not a purist like they think they are—
invaders and boundary breakers come in all shades and kids with silly grins often don’t notice them—
mister and misses invade from within the warmth and inviting promises of their pompous questions as I sit in their// we made it //suburban kitchen wishing I could shut my mouth—
but it runs like some uncontrollable leak from their scrubby toilet and sink while they push and prod at my little brain experimenting with how far they can poke me— and all I want to do is escape.
With all of the ongoing and seemingly never-ending, death and destruction in Palestine, I’ve been sad enough, but these past few weeks we’ve also been dealing with having to say our final goodbye’s to our best friend, Samuel Jones. Don’t know why we named him Samuel Jones, it literally popped into my head when we found him, so I decided that was his name. I believe he was telling me, telepathically, that was his name.
He was found in the park down the street from us when we were still living in Philly…rescued without anything on, no collar, no microchip, nothing…it was a cold rainy evening when our neighbor said he came out of the bushes and jumped into her arms, naked and afraid, like Brother From Another Planet. Cut to her calling me on the phone of course…knowing my dog addiction… and that pretty much was the end, he became second dog and little brother to our dog, Khalil, my Chocolate lab.
He lived to be about 17-18 years old. When we found him the vet said he was approximately 7-8 years old. We had a great 10 years with him. It’s been pretty difficult losing him, as he held a special place in our hearts, especially after the loss of our first dog. My wife and him were particularly bonded, he followed her everywhere…well, both of us adored the little bugger. First time in 21 years without a dog, but we are taking a break for a bit after this one.
PRINCE SAMUEL
You saved my life— showed up when I was in serious strife
Ain’t nobody gonna tell me other— you are my brother
A little fierce fighter A story unknown
From no home to our home feral, you roamed
But today— you will never, ever ever give up your knightly throne.
I am not one to share much in the way of personal stories, typically it is laced throughout my art and poetry on this blog. However, approaching the New Year self-reflection is a given and during these difficult times in history, I find myself compelled to share my story a bit more.
I’ve gathered a few facts below about who I am and where I came from. In that, I count my blessings everyday and lick my personal and collective wounds as well, recognizing the strength in embracing all of it. Cheers!
“ When I was young I never needed anyone And making love was just for fun Those days are gone “
Eric Carmen 1975
I am the first born child out of 3, and I have 1 stepsister and a half sister who is 13 years younger than me.
I am the 5th born cousin out of 46, or more, on my father’s side … What can I say, Palestinians are prolific.
My father is one of nine siblings, 1 brother and 7 sisters.
My mother is 1 of 6 siblings and her oldest brother died after childbirth.
My childhood was spent meeting, greeting and watching my large extended family immigrate throughout the decades from Palestine to America, as the brutal occupation began to extend further into the West Bank, where my father’s family came from.
I only had one set of grandparents, my Tetah and Cede. We spent almost every weekend at their house, it was our second home. I never knew my mother’s parents. I wish I did.
My mother’s roots can be traced back to County Cork Ireland, and she’s damn proud of that fact, as she was pretty much parentless and grew up in an orphanage.
My mother and father divorced when I was 11 and both remarried shortly after.
My Tetah called me every year on my birthday until she passed away from congestive heart failure. I believe she had a bad heart because it ached so much for her homeland. I truly am a believer in the connection of our emotions to our body.
My mother is 78 and has recently survived chemotherapy treatments for breast cancer and back surgery for spinal stenosis.
I am the first one in my family to attend University and graduate with a degree, and I did it completely alone. My parents both dropped out of high school early and were consumed with survival and raising families.
One of the worst and most defining things that ever happened in my life was losing my cousin Billy to suicide. I was 19 and he was 20, we grew up together playing baseball, riding the go karts we made from lawn mower parts, climbing old tree houses that we found in the woods…the usual kid things…and he was one of the funniest kids I knew.
I have a 27 year old who is a successful and thriving individual. He is working as a full stack engineer in the tech industry and travels way more than I ever do. He currently lives in Brooklyn with his girlfriend and their little dachshund, Wally.
I am married to the most beautiful and loving wife I ever could have imagined being with. Her name is Melody and she came into my life when my kid was twelve years old. We met in 2008 while working in television together, she now works as the Director of Development at the largest and oldest subscription based theatre in the state of Florida.
I leave you here with a poem I wrote about another defining moment in my life that I experienced as a very young child. May your 2024 be better, blessed and bountiful, and most of all peace in Gaza! —
ATLANTIC CITY
The beer cans flung from the boardwalk onto the beach/ whistling as the jeers and taunts land like a thud
onto my little head/ of four not more/ I think/ I recall.
Thoughts of her and us and the clan the damaged goods walking along the hot sand of Atlantic City’s filth.
The foul mouthed and long-toothed the ringers and boomerangers the insults hanging like that strange fruit—
from lips drunk with hate and love commingling with fear as Tetah winks at me and wonders to herself I can tell wanting to believe that none of this is happening.
We’ll find a quiet place somewhere to set down she hopes and enjoy this American past-time of beach combing and sun tanning amongst the hate—
the garbage lobbed like missiles onto us/ around us/ missing us but on target anyhow somehow.
The Atlantic City beach-line pounding inaudible sounds/ a ringing city by the Jersey shoreline—
hotels tower/ gotham-like loom large as bats/ against the skyline as the pilgrims descendants
shout and wave and chant in terroristic mantras filtering out the family fun of that day.
But/ I felt the shifting earth imbalance slipping in quicksand a throttling motion toward the waves undone/ undone/ it’s come undone.
How? Why?
Do they not see the love/ the beauty in my Tetah/ in my Cede my father/ my mother/ me my family/ all of them
Do they not see/ like me?
I don’t know/ there were like 20 of us we were a big clan then and even more so now anyhow—
the display of hatred landed hard that day/ 1969…70? you know how it is/ I was four or so I don’t know but the pulse of that moment beating/ hard/ fast it left a permanent mark on my soul.
The dark mark of that dark family from Ramallah has crawled from their hole
and dare share the beach with the pilgrims descendants. I mean c’mon please!
Perhaps they can’t see the love of my Tetah as she speaks Arabic frantically glancing away from the anger that flashes momentarily a repeat/ on repeat—
they suffer to integrate in a land/ not there not yet their home
trying to find peace Integrate at once! And pretend it’s home—
it’s not/ it’s not it’s just not.
The bruising and battle-burns mark their soul. Integrate/ integrate/ and pretend that it's home!
In the land of the holy and the hearts of the mad the day has come to assess the damage and stop pretending/ this experiment has not failed—
born in desperation/ burned by condemnation alas’ it cracks/ feel the burn/ return your humanity to the unborn/ to the dead children/ your madness stole theirs/ unchained and fit on vengeance.
You convulse in disbelief at the reality/ feel your humanity leach into the void that could have been your soul/ wretch at the release of the crumbling walls/ wailing/ pulling at your hair—
a pit is left gaping / to conjure a heart/ sinister in mission forgo the thought/ march in lockstep/ to face the calamity—
mission incomplete/ head spinning/ facade cracking where now
Peace will not come until they are home. The heart will not settle until they are returned. The maggots will not rest until the dead stop roaming,satisfied and at peace, home in their own land, home in their own hearts, home in their own confiscated beds. The exiled will not rest! …read full poem here
This poem was first written in response to some personal attacks I was experiencing, today this is again relevant, but on a much larger scale. #ceasefirenow
– Keep the humanity alive. Never lose the ability to see the people in the face of the atrocities. And, never cease to speak truth to the in-humanity.
