Buddy Cushman Art

engaging stories of hope and joy


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Bad Gringo Hombres

 

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So this was yesterday.

I’m coming back from the center where I’ve dropped my son and a brief stop at Trader Joe’s for non-organic fruits and vegetables. Dinner’s my bag tonight and I’m already sweatin’ it. It’s just after 10 am.

I’m flying down Cesar Chavez/39th and way down there I see an old Chevy pickup slowing at an intersection as I approach, and here I am gunning it 45 in a 25 mile-per- hour zone and just as I get there the pick-up swings into his left turn directly in front of me, I’m jacking up the brakes and looking into a cab filled with four pale hombres who look to be casting rejects from “Deliverance” and meanwhile the driver looks like Donald Fagen from Steely Dan except here he’s been on a vicious meth run for the last two and a half weeks so my speeding-down-the-hill black Taurus is probably mistaken for some strain of mosquito, and since there are barely any mosquitoes in Oregon to begin with I take him and his cab-mates for Trump voters. As my Mexican wife would say – “Estupido”.

Good thing I make it back to the house, having swerved around Sheriff Arpaio or whoever he was, just in time for a traffic jam, my roommate Jannine crawling into the back seat of some road-trip pick-her-up in my parking place, so I’m facing down the street on the wrong side and coming flying in my direction, making my previous speed look lawful, are two small foreign jobs and there’s not much room between the Taurus and the Buick Regal picking up the roomie so I throw up my arms in the windshield in a slow-the-fuck-down you morons we got little kids on the street gesture, as if there are streets that don’t, and in the rear-view I see the tail lights jam to red and there’s screeching stops and out of both cars come the drivers, big scary white dudes both let me point out with Make America Great Again red caps, indicating in less than a half nanosecond that I’m dealing with morons and odds are bigoted pea-brains, and as Jannine’s about 50 percent of Jamaican heritage I slip out the 38 from the glove box and leap out the passenger side, whacking my nuts across the console which pisses me off further and the MAGA boys take one look at the piece of steel and my expression and skedaddle on back to their let’s- make-america-great-again Hondas and boot it around the corner. Which at the same time the Regal and roomie drive off so I can swing a half u-ee and pull in front of the house and unload the apples, raisins, and broccoli, fruits and veggie somehow unharmed after this decidedly trump-world danger driving home from the grocery. It’s 10:14.

Less than an hour later – I’ve been in the basement typing like there’s no tomorrow, which of course there might not be, listening to a YouTube collection of Brenda Lee and Zakk Wylde favorites when I hear some pounding on the door upstairs so I go up slowly – my cajones gently but persistently reminding of the less-than-ballet-like vehicle departure, so it takes a minute and I open the door to two millennials in white shirts and black ties with short hair and big smiles asking if I’d like to be saved, preferably today, never mind receive swell literature with only a monthly contribution to the great educational work going on at Liberty U over there in Virginia, and they confirm that yes in Lynchburg which I point out is surely always a welcoming vision for folks pigmented like my roomie Jannine, of whom they have no idea. But they morph into less than praise-go friendlies when I say no thanks I’ve just express mailed a check for two grand to the Southern Poverty Law Center, me and Morris Dees are tight bruh, and I see their hands curl into oppo turn-the-other-cheek fists, but I don’t think I mentioned yet that I brought the 38 into the house with me – ain’t America great after all – which I now produce in the hopes that even these trump voters (yeah, they got the red caps too, and one’s sporting a rather large button with the words “Goring was good”) so there’s another not necessary giveaway, anyway the 38 helps make the point that my abundance-filled self points in another direction from theirs.

Now get this. It’s not even 11 am on a Tuesday morning and here’s two MAGA imbeciles on the porch and one of them looks at me and quotes Eldridge Cleaver – “If you’re not part of the solution you’re part of the problem”. I have to laugh and it ain’t easy to laugh these days – though our laughter is a shield – but I’ve got to laugh that I’m being quoted Panther phraseology on a Tuesday morning by these two Liberty emissaries who are clearly not, like the Blues Brothers, on a mission from God, and after I’m done chuckling I unbutton my orange-hibiscus-on-blue Hawaiian shirt and reveal the Public Enemy t-shirt I’m wearing underneath.

Fight the power, kiddies.

And that was just the morning.

 

(Above photo contains no bad gringo hombres. But possible aching cojones.)

 

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Guts

Remember these guys?Defendants in "Chicago 8" Trial

They were charged with crossing state lines to incite a riot. Subsequently formal investigations determined that the riot had actually been caused and perpetrated by the Chicago Police Department at the bequest of warlord and Mayor Richard Daley. But the trial went forward — though without the sole black defendant – Bobby Seale – who was bound and gagged in the courtroom and removed for a separate trial later.

I mention this piece of most unpleasant history to wonder aloud why there is not talk this morning of alt-right, white supremacist, neo-nazi leaders from around the country being brought up on the charge of crossing state lines to incite riot –  an actual appropriate use of that law. And beyond that, being charged as co-conspirators in the death of 32 year-old Heather Heyer.

You know who else needs to be charged as a co-conspirator in her senseless death?

Donald Trump.

My wife Susan and I traveled across the country to be married in Virginia in 2010. We stayed and were married in a little town a few miles from the Skyline Drive and spent one of our honeymoon days in Charlottesville, walking around UVA, strolling through the beautiful center of town and having a hot dog dinner there, earlier making our way a few miles south and east to Monticello and the home of Thomas Jefferson. Charlottesville is a beautiful place.

I weep for Charlottesville and Virginia this morning, and for my Country run by morons and bigots and spewers of hate, the soundbites of whom cross state lines every day. Every hour.

The leaders and instigators of these torch-carriers and Hitler slogan-screamers and violence-encourage-rs and murderers should be charged and prosecuted and sent away to prison.

God damn them – each and every one.

 


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Love Is An Ocean I Can’t Forget

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I am going to the ocean tomorrow. To this place.

I came from the ocean. I know, supposedly we all did, if you’re a Darwin kind of gal or guy. But, specifically, for me, I came from the ocean side. Born in New Bedford – the Whaling City – raised in Wareham, a town filled with beach communities and bays and water all about. I graduated from Cape Cod Community College, a half mile from the Atlantic on those Main Street days, and later Salem State College, a stone’s throw from Salem Harbor/the Atlantic. I lived in Salem for many years, then off to Rockport and its peninsula self into the Atlantic for a winter, eventually to Plum Island and Newburyport, where the mighty Merrimack River flows into the cold ocean there.

When I first left Massachusetts, at age 27, I flew to Los Angeles and lived for a short while in both Venice Beach and Santa Monica. Later crashing in graduate housing at UC Irvine, hard by the Pacific, and working for a spell in San Clemente, able to take an occasional dip there or in Laguna Beach. A few years later it was New Smyrna Beach in Florida,ariel-view then Vero Beach. Back up to Mass and a year-long stint running an HIV/Aids housing program in Provincetown, a block from Cape Cod Bay. I squeezed a year and a half in Oakland, CA somewhere in there, crossing the bridge or taking BART under the San Francisco Bay, while running a kid program in the Lower Haight. Where, with the right eyes, you could see salt water from the tops of the highest hills. And certainly from Berkeley out from Blondies Pizza.

Yet somehow, within the reality of this always-by-an-ocean Bedouin life, I ended up in Portland, Oregon. Nearly 100 miles, as the raven flies, to the ocean. The Pacific. The one in the photos above. Some two hours away. Let me paraphrase “Remember the Titans”: How far? Too far? How far? Too far.

You can take the boy out of the ocean – if you must – but I don’t believe you can take the ocean out of the boy. Certainly not this boy…..Ocean si, Portland no.

I married an amazing woman

moonlight+beach+encinitasand her parents live in San Diego, and I have traveled there with her many times and everyone of those times been lucky enough to spend time in the Ocean Beach part of town. And swim there. A lot. We’ve day-tripped up to Encinitas a couple of times and swam at the gorgeous Moonlight Beach as well.

 

But most of the time, for these last eight and a half years of beach-withdrawal life in Portland, I have ached for the ocean. Deep down. I’m a beach boy. Look at my writing: “Ring Around The Rosy” and it’s ocean-side wander from Marion to Rockport; “Astoria Strange” where the Pacific sparkles and shines from the top of the Astoria Column. My current work, “When I Settle For Less“, book one of a novel set in southern California’s imaginary DeLoreal Beach.

You can’t take the boy out.

I’ve been blessed with the fact that my step-daughter Marie’s dad, my wife’s ex, owns with others a cottage three hundred yards from the Pacific Ocean in the Pacific Beach community of Tierra Del Mar. We rent it cheap for the promise of an amazing cleaning by me (and it’s always cleaner after than before), and I’ve been able to go and be there many times these last six years. The last two Marie and I – both writers – have commited to a “Writing Retreat” of five days/four nights, and I am thrilled to say our third such venture begins tomorrow. If the creek don’t rise and there ain’t no meltdown I’ll be right there, where I took those photos at the top, in a little less than 24 hours.

Get to refresh the genetic shadows deep within, of life by the water.

Get to rejoice.

"Gorgeous sunset from UC Berkeley!"


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A Laugh and A Tear

 

Hunter 1

Hunter Thompson is one of my favorite authors. These are my Dr. Hunter S Thompson books, most of which I’ve owned for a very long time, as evident by the covers, in this case by which you can judge the book.

I’ve posted about Hunter Thompson here in the past, and an opportunity I had one night on a cross-country airplane to hang out and talk with him. You can search my past posts for “Hunter and Me” and read about it there. This brief post speaks to something else.

Recently I picked up and began reading again “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas“. You can see the bookmark there, about halfway through. Back a ways, in Part One of the book, is a passage I’ve always considered my favorite of his — among so many favorites. I’m going to quote it here in its entirety.

“My central memory of that time seems to hang on one or five or maybe 40 nights — or very early mornings — when I left the Fillmore half-crazy and, instead of going home, aimed the big 650 Lightning across the Bay Bridge at a hundred miles an hour wearing L.L. Bean shorts and a Butte sheepherder’s jacket…booming through the Treasure Island tunnel at the lights of Oakland and Berkeley and Richmond, not quite sure which turnoff to take when I got to the other end…but being absolutely certain that no matter which way I went I would come to a place where people were just as high and wild as I was. No doubt at all about that.

“There was madness in any direction, at any hour. If not across the Bay, then up the Golden Gate or down 101 to Los Altos or La Honda…You could strike sparks anywhere. There was a fantastic universal sense that whatever we were doing was right, that we were winning.

“And that, I think, was the handle — that sense of inevitable victory over the forces of Old and Evil. Not in any mean or military sense; we didn’t need that. Our energy would simply prevail. There was no point in fighting — on our side or theirs. We had all the momentum; we were riding the crest of a high and beautiful wave.

“So now, less than five years later, you can go up on a steep hill in Las Vegas and look West, and with the right kind of eyes you can almost see the high-water mark — that place where the wave finally broke and rolled back.”

For me that is beautiful writing, and I feel this passage deep in my bones, the certainty that we had something then that we have no longer. What? Righteous belief? Pure hope?Universal love? Musical and colorful joy?   “Those days are gone forever”, Steely Dan sing in ‘Pretzel Logic’, “over a long time ago.”

I got to meet Hunter Thompson and talk for some 90 minutes in the back of a plane due to my most fortuitous entanglements with two men named Bob Zimmerman and Dr. Doug Martin. That’s explained in the previous post.  Sadly Bob and Doug and Hunter are no longer with us on our tattered planet, and its the planet’s great loss – and certainly mine.

Bob gave me a present back in 2006, the copy of “Hey Rube” up in the picture on the middle left. Hunter was one of the ways we connected – along with Doug – in what we considered “the main vein”. Plugged in. Turned on. With it. Bushel-full of personal faults (especially me) or not. Bob signed the book in his only-Bob way.

Hunter 2

Only way to be.


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A Wareham Druids Freshman Tabor Musical Contest

Blue Flowers

 

I’m thinking of a song.

This is a song that reminds me of my hometown of Wareham, Massachusetts, in the US of A. I’ve been thinking about my hometown more than usual this week and posted in this Blog Tuesday about the good old days and some of the bad new ones. That post received quite a bit of attention and a number of comments, one of which, from Thom Laine, was musical in nature.

I replied to his comment and in my response mentioned that I had been for a brief period in time a member of a musical group in Wareham. We called ourselves The Druids (I don’t remember why) and consisted of Billy Fisher on guitar, Wayne Lavallee on drums, and a summer kid from Hyde Park (in Boston) named Roy (last name lost in the cobwebs of my mind), who played bass or rhythm guitar (again, the brain cell thing) and lived summers with his family in Swifts Beach – one of Wareham’s many and distinct and wondrously enchanting beach communities. Oh, I was the singer. Billy was a couple of years older than me and actually was on active duty in the Navy, stationed in Newport, Rhode Island. Wayne was a year older. Roy was around my age and had a brother and I hung out in their summer house. We held practices in Wayne’s garage, poured concrete floor and all, which – I believe – officially makes me a member of a garage band. Cool.

 

April Flowers

 

We got to play in public, at least two places I remember were a Wareham High School freshman dance (and my memory here in crystal clear of screams and wails from the female members in attendance, just like with The Beatles) and in a battle of the bands in next town over Marion at Tabor Academy (along with Wareham’s Table Scraps), said Academy so many years later serving as the slightly unreal Tabler Academy in my first book, “Ring Around The Rosy”.

We sang cover songs. Other groups’ songs. One of which I’m thinking of right now. And in the spirit of fond remembrances of days past, I’m offering a contest. This is it — correctly guess which song we covered – one guess only – and in my mind today and be the first to post your answer on the Blog itself or my Facebook page and you will win one of these three paintings I have recently created, your choice. Each is painted on 11 x 15 watercolor paper in acrylic, and will be packaged as safely as I can get it and mailed out tomorrow. I might even throw in a Wareham-related surprise.

 

Duck

 

The rules are simple: Guess the song (remember, one guess per person) and reply on the Blog or my FB page. And be the first with the correct guess. Of course, as there are probably 127, 555 songs in my mind from which I might be listening I’m going to give you three hints. I’m hesitant to do so in fear it will be way too easy. Heck, I’d only need one of these hints to make the correct guess. But in the spirit of fairness I feel obligated to help out. So, here they are.

  1. The song was originally released between 1962 and 1969. (Which you probably could of figured from the years of and around my high school life. Duh)
  2. The song was released on Capital Records. (Hmm, could this be any easier….Beach Boys, Beatles, Bobbie Gentry, The Lettermen, The Righteous Brothers, Quicksilver Messenger Service, Helen Reddy, Gene Vincent and His Blue Caps, Don Yute….a few others. Heck, I might as well just tell you.)
  3. This would have been a great song blasting in a convertible roaring down Route 66. (Sorry Helen Reddy.)

Okay, I’m sure I’ve given it away. Thank you Billy and Wayne and Roy and especially Wareham for the memories. Swifts Beach and Tabor and The Table Scraps and The Revolutionaries and  The Monday Club and summer crushes Roberta Magarian (Lexington) and Pattie Parent (Wakefield) and Elaine Flinkstrom (Easton) and Parkwood and High Street and  Royal’s front yard and Main Street and Onset Beach and plain old Route 6 – thank you too.

I bet you get the picture.

Call me. We’ll have lunch.

(Contest ends tonight, 7/13/17, at midnight.)

 


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Upside Down

 

Upside Down

It’s the title of the very first single my fave rock band The Jesus and Mary Chain released. It’s also the title of my painting – pictured here. At first, second, or third glance there appears no good reason for this painting to have that title, especially since it’s painted in the realist and not my favored abstract or expressionist style. But there is one. A reason.

For the first time in my relatively brief (given the number of years I’ve roamed the planet) career as an artist,Upside down 3 I painted a painting entirely upside down. The idea came from the book “Drawing From the Right Side of the Brain” by Betty Edwards. One of her techniques is to practice drawing images when they are turned upside down. It’s supposed to lower the light and activity of the logical left side of the brain and amp up the cells on the way-more creative right. I’ve done drawings that way a number of times, with results varying from wicked cool to what-the-hell-is-that.

Anyway, I had the flash, one day in my wife’s garage-turned-studio, to try an upside down painting.

NS 1

I had some old, used books of photos from around the world and I found one of a fishing village in Canada.  Deciding on it as my subject, I did something else I had never done before as a painter and graphed out the photo. You can see that in the picture to the left. When that was done I penciled in a similar graph on the 20 x 24 canvas. Standing close to the finished painting today some of those pencil marks remain visible through the acrylic paint. There’s also a vivid example of the process in the lower right with the blue boat. The graph mark cuts that boat right in half, but since I was painting one graphed square at a time the boat is slightly off and it almost offers the appearance of movement and another dimension. We painters call things like that fortunate and happy accidents. Often I prefer “Duh”.

NS 2

 

 

Anyway again, before applying the first brush of paint I turned the graphed picture upside down and began painting – a square at a time -from right to left, top to bottom, on my canvas, in actuality painting the sky last. I never once turned the painting over to see how it was going, not until every inch of the canvas was covered and the paint had dried. I say, in all modesty, that I was shocked at how lifelike the houses on the bluff/hill came out. I have never been able to paint a house with windows that well right side up again – before or after. Ever.

 

 

I tried the graphed, upside down technique one other time on a painting, attempting to copy my favorite artist David Park and one of his paintings. It didn’t work very well.

No lessons to be learned here, no moral nor heavy thought. No keen insight or words to live by. Simply a little story about a painting I did88ef918dc457d2dada7cf751635148da.599x601x1 upside down.


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Back In My Little Town

 

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Once upon a time, far away and long ago, I grew up in a small town in Massachusetts named Wareham. Hard by the Buzzards Bay inlet of the Atlantic Ocean, and no doubt a clone of sorts from Wareham, England, itself hard by Poole Harbour and its larger Atlantic mother. The “Gateway to Cape Cod”, that’s what it was called at times, that’s what the sign said out on Route 28 by the Chamber of Commerce. Situated just before the Bourne Bridge crossing over to The Cape, at the confluence of the Cape Cod Canal and Buzzards Bay.

I was lucky to have grown up there, for many reasons. It was a gentle place, mostly, dotted with beach communities and summer homes and summer days, Cape Verdean enclaves and culture, pine forests, and luscious ponds carved out by retreating ice-age glaciers. In the winter we skated those ponds, pushed against the sparkling frosty air, sometimes with a stick and a puck at our feet. In the spring, summers, and fall we fished, especially me and Donnie Sisson, usually Mill Pond – both sides of 28 – but others as well – Tihonet, the horseshoe mill, in West Wareham. Donnie had a hand-made net contraption thing, and we would wet it and rub damp Sunbeam white bread into the bottom and throw it in the Wareham River in back of Franconia Oil, just over the railroad tracks, and come back an hour later and haul it up, usually loaded with chubs and shiners, and these we would put in buckets of water and on our bikes create amazing acts of balance with buckets and fishing poles and tackle boxes and cruise to the spot of the day. In fact the Wareham River is, to this day, never far away for me, though I’m away 3000 and more miles as the red-winged blackbird flies. The River remains always in my mind and heart, I bet it’s in the blood that pumps and gravities through my body. Yes. I painted my feeling about it a few years ago. That green and gray thing up there.

Little Harbor Beach was another place of childhood summer days, with the folks and sisters and picnic lunch, blanket on the hot sand, and horse shoe crabs in the endless low tide wading and splashes, later on as a place to drink beer and park at night as the sun went down. With summer girls if we were lucky. I painted that too, actually a view away from the harbor and its Buzzards Bay supplier. This.

Little Harbor Lookaway

I write about my hometown today because yesterday on Facebook were links to a Wareham story of death threats against children and a militarized response and endless hours of parent and child anguish. Simon and Garfunkle sang about My Little Town. They also sang of a Mother and Child reunion. Here’s a link to a story about it all from a local news site.

 wareham-ma.villagesoup.com/p/wareham-students-evacuated-from-schools-following-pretty-specific-threat-of-shooting/1667706#.WWPKzCgT5ns.facebook

Reading the words, looking at the pictures, here in the Pacific Northwest, tears fell from my eyes. I couldn’t help it. They just fell. More water, like the Wareham River, like Little Harbor, like Buzzards Bay. More water, like my childhood.

Mary Hopkins sang a song back in my growing up time – “Those were the days my friend, we thought they’d never end.” The Kinks sang a song then too – “We had our good times pal, we thought they’d last forever. But nothing lasts forever.”

When I crawled into bed last night my wife Susan, still awake, asked me, because of the way I am these days, if I had lost all my hope for the planet. My answer was “Most of it.”

Forget all the miles. It’s a long way from flying down Lincoln Hill on our bikes, hanging at Jay’s and Minnicks, dreaming of summer girls on Parkwood Beach, working at the record store, growing up with friends – it’s a long way from there to here. Today. For me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Oh, to look through those childhood eyes again.