Friendship
Nina and I started this blog in 2014 as a way to share our art with each other. We unexpectedly acquired followers and connected, first, with a group of fellow artists–many like us, trying to encourage each other to return to a regular creative practice. The blog changed over the years to include more than just visual art, and many of our fellow bloggers became not just followers but friends.
Twelve years is a cycle, and after careful deliberation, we have decided that this one has reached its ending. We want to thank all the many people who have read, commented on, and supported our work through the years.
I will still be visiting blogs, though perhaps not quite as frequently, and I will still be consulting the Oracle at kblog. I’m not sure what else I’ll be doing there—it’s a different place than memadtwo. You can also find my art every two weeks, along with lots of other wonderful stuff, at The Kick-About.
every friend
remains a presence
inside each
creation–
inhabiting countless threads
woven into years
“A friend is someone who gives you total freedom to be yourself.”
–Jim Morrison
(this quote is the first thing I posted)
Fighting for good cheer.
Returning to warmth, friends, home.
Setting voices free.
Making sense without despair:
choosing with hope. And singing.
“Now ain’t it good to know that you’ve got a friend
When people can be so cold?
They’ll hurt you, yes and desert you
And take your soul if you let them
Oh, but don’t you let them“
They are trying their hardest, but don’t let them. Keep connecting with and supporting what is good and being a friend.
Phoenix (Draw a Bird Day)
blood of water, woods, earth–
birth in death
breath transforming air into wind, wild
child of the dawn,
eons compressed between
unseen boundaries
freezing in hard fire, ashes becoming
humming sounds, wings
singing legends, serving the sky,
high above the morning star glowing
blowing currents ancient, storied–
blood of water, woods, earth
I don’t have any new bird art, but thought I would do a post on the Phoenix, as I knew I had a few pieces of both art and poetry that feature this mythical bird.
The Phoenix is most associated with Greek mythology, though firebirds are features of cultures all over the world. Some think the Egyptian Bennu bird, a manifestation of the sun god Ra, is the source of the Greek myth. Other related birds include the Chinese Fenghuang, the Hindu Garuda, the Jewish Milcham, the Slavic Firebird, the Persian Simurgh, and the Native American Thunderbird. Early Christians adopted the Phoenix as a symbol of the immortal soul and the resurrection of Jesus.
There are a few variations of the myth. They all agree that the Phoenix is long-lived, anywhere from 500 years to thousands. It resides in Paradise, or nests in the Tree of Life, or lives in the City of the Sun. It always rises from the ashes of its predecessor, but often it first builds a nest of herbs and spices that is ignited by a spark from the sun. Sometimes it sings a haunting farewell song. And in some stories it constructs a cremation egg and puts the previous Phoenix’s ashes inside.
I did two posts on the I Ching Hexagram #30 (Fire/Clarity) which both referenced the Phoenix, although in the second collage I represented the rising bird with an owl.
#30 Li Clarity
“Shed your light into the darkness of other lives—with joy accept the connection with all things and be a part of it.”—dreamhawk.com
To enter
you must meet, then turn
back. You must
return and
then leave. You must find words that
disconnect meaning.
Now burning,
now drowning, the waves
washing pure
energy
down dark deep, spiraling wheels
across the cosmos,
Unbridged nets
capturing sudden
stillness—wings
emerging,
multiplying time with fire–
opening beyond.
I also wrote a Phoenix haiku for the Pure Haiku theme of Celestial Bodies in 2018
Your ashes illume,
cradled beyond day and night –
great is the unknown
As a symbol of regeneration and spiritual renewal, the Phoenix represents the ideas of time and eternity, and creation and destruction. It is also thought to be a guardian of sacred sites, and a protector of ancient wisdom.
Impromptu (Thursday Doors)
Why is it I keep
traveling back to the past?
What is it I’m looking for?
Rain glooming the day–
buzzer rings—clouds lift, I smile–
we had all the time in the world.
Fifty years ago, after the dorm at FIT, this was my second apartment in the city. Located in the West Village, it was a fifth floor walk up with a laundromat on the first floor. When someone buzzed my apartment, I would toss the keys down to them, as there was no way to buzz them in. We had no computers, no cell phones, not even answering machines for our house phones. If they happened to be in your neighborhood, friends would just buzz your apartment to see if you were home. And I was (mostly) always happy to see them.
The West Village is quite upscale now, but evidently the building is still a walk up. There’s a first floor apartment available to rent for $5800/month, looking much the same but with a better kitchen. My roommates and I paid $300.
I was nearby for a memorial service last winter, and couldn’t resist visiting the corner on my way home. I only lived there for a year, but it was an eventful one.
My poem is a mondo for Colleen at Tanka Tuesday using the kigo word traveling.
And don’t forget to check out the rest of the doors at Thursday Doors, hosted by Dan Antion.
Other Worlds (Thursday Doors)
much is concealed
in the hidden folds of yesterday–
images taken and then forgotten
like a casual conversation–
only to suddenly reappear
as a whisper, a persistent hum
that was there all along–
lingering between consciousness
and the full moon shining
through distant nightclouds
These tiny otherworldly dioramas were part of an exhibit at the New York Botanical Garden that I visited last fall with my family. I ran across my photos of them recently and was newly enchanted.
The exhibit was inside Ross Hall, which is a large imposing structure. Strangely, I could find no information about it–who designed it, when–either on the garden’s website, or anywhere online. Perhaps there is information inside the building–I’ll look next time I’m there.
Here’s the door from the inside. I like the reflections on the floor.
My poem is a quadrille for dVerse, where De provided the word much. The moon was magic, as always, outside my window this week.
My daughters and I went to the 9/11 ceremony at the Firemen’s Memorial in Riverside Park this morning. Another crisp September morning. Hard to believe it’s been almost 25 years.
And look for more doors at Thursday Doors, hosted by Dan Antion.
Windhorse/Rubin Museum (Thursday Doors)
Come, the yellow one said. Follow my secrets. Breathe into always.
Come, the green one said. The air is a garden of forever between deep and wild. Follow my secrets through the whispers of sea shadows wearing skins of light. Breathe into always inside the mother moonship rising along the crescent.
Come, the red one said. Not by lines but by circles. Take your fears and hide them.
Come, blue one said, in the thousand tongues of the night sky, in the dazzled river songs of darkness. Not by lines but by circles. They danced though currents of stars.
The white one held out a wing and a prayer. Take your fears and hide them. Shapeshift into your dreams, beyond the tides of why.
Come, they said.
The Rubin Museum, which closed in 2024, was one of my favorite places in the city. Besides the wonderful exhibits of Asian art, it offered classes (I made an amulet in one), and musical performances in a small intimate auditorium (among the ones I attended were Rosanne Cash, Tom Rush, Tim O’Brien and Alejandro Escovedo)
My last visit there featured this sculptural installation by Asha Kama Waydi, called Windhorse, after Lungta, a mythical Tibetan creature that “combines the speed of the wind and the strength of the horse to carry prayers from the earth to the heavenly realms”.
Constructed of faded prayer flags, the horses that emerge from the falling flags embody the traditional prayer flag colors: yellow, for wisdom and earth; red, for compassion and fire; green, for equanimity and water; white, for purity and air; and blue, for endurance and space.
The Rubin was constructed in a spiral with the staircase to each floor winding around a central atrium, and the windhorse filled the space from top to bottom. I was reminded of it by a recent visit to the Guggenheim, which is laid out in a similar way.
I was very unhappy when I learned the Museum was closing to become a “traveling and virtual museum” and research center. All museums suffered during Covid, but evidently the Rubin’s endowment was in pretty good shape. In any case, no explanation to satisfy me was given. The building could fetch tens of millions of dollars from a real estate developer, which might have had some influence. But why couldn’t they have cut a deal to keep a physical museum with apartments built above it?
I was glad to have had the chance to experience this wonderful work of art before the museum closed. Art is best experienced in person, not virtually.
The Lungta is associated with positive energy, life force, and good luck. You can read more about it here.
The doors and facade photos are from the Rubin website. You can read about its history and current projects, and also view photos from the art collection, here.
My poem is for Sadje’s imagery prompt at W3.
And don’t forget to check out all the doors at Thursday Doors, hosted by Dan Antion.
September 2025
September is complicated with ends and beginnings. It’s not always clear which is which. The year has accumulated, and there is so much left undone. I always mean to simplify, but instead of subtracting, everything seems to multiply. Again, again.
Crow is back, spending his mornings standing his chosen ground as high as he can perch on the water tower two buildings over. He complains and proclaims his right to call the neighborhood to attention with the first hint of dawn. Wake up! Wise up!
Too soon the trees will lose their green and their foliage and the branches will make their beautiful winter patterns against the sky.
I puzzle out a grid
while my mind wanders the crossroads
looking for lost time
This is another grid I created by cutting up some of my old textile print designs. The pieces were irregular, which made it like putting together a puzzle. It’s not at all a perfect fit, which is pretty much how life unwinds, at least for me
Wooden Doors (Thursday Doors)
a seed becomes a tree becomes
a vessel for holding the stars,
a sanctuary, shelter, home–
the keeper of history, lore–
a portal, mysterious door
that opens incandescent dreams–
enchanted celestial spheres–
kinship, unearthing roots and seams
Muri’s W3 prompt this week was to write a huitan on the theme of seeds. I wanted to use it in my doors post, so I decided to write about trees and feature wooden doors. These are from my archives where, as I have noted before, I have many photos of doors with no context.
I’m pretty sure they all reside within about 20 blocks up or down from where I live though. I’ll have to be on the lookout so I can photo the buildings they are attached to.
And one of my favorite songs.
And don’t forget to visit all the doors at Thursday Doors, hosted by Dan Antion.
July 2025
oasis–
inside the heat dome,
cool sweetness–
icy pink
lemonade, watermelon,
beneath backyard trees
I’m a bit late for last week’s Tanka Tuesday prompt from Colleen to incorporate fruit into a poem, but it’s perfect for beginning the month of July. Today promises to be another hot and steamy day, just right for the watermelon I brought home last week from the fruit stand on Broadway. If only I had a forest inside my apartment too…
Once again I’ve made a grid from cutting up some prints I did in my textile design days. I left the third design in the group (the circles in the second image) alone though–it reminds me very much of the beach, which would also be an excellent place to be in this weather.
My boyfriend in 1969 looked a lot like John Sebastian here, sideburns and all. I still see boys with hair like this, but I haven’t seen sideburns on anyone in a long long time.
Hispanic Society of America (Thursday Doors)
My shadow follows nobody’s rules, not even its own. Rules mean nothing to it. What is a shadow? I doubt if it ever considers what its existence means at all.
I can’t define my identity either. My blood is a mixture of many nationalities—none can claim me as their own. And yet. My shadow keeps casting me into one of my many ancestral rivers.
It seems to have a preference for the Spanish-speaking branch, singing to me over and over again in the second language of New York City, the place I came to live at age nineteen and never left. Is that why this city has always felt like home?
Or perhaps it’s because this place offers me a mirror into the entirety of the world contained in my genes–multitudes of intersecting pathways, alive with a kaleidoscope of dreams. A place for my shadow to find lucency.
inside the sweetness
of tropical fruit, colors
of unfiltered light
I went to the Hispanic Society Museum last weekend because I wanted to see Adriana Varejão’s large ceramic plates and it was my last chance to visit them. But of course before I went in, I had to take photos of the surrounding doors.
The museum is located on Audubon Terrace, at 155th Street and Broadway. I lived a few blocks away for many years, and had gone to there with family visiting from out of town, but I hadn’t been there since its renovation.
The complex also houses the main Boricua College campus. “Founded by Puerto Ricans in New York City, Boricua College is a private, not-for-profit liberal arts institution designed to meet the educational needs of Puerto Ricans, Latino-Hispanic, and other students underrepresented in higher education.” (from the college website, here)
The main entrance to Boricua is on Broadway, but these side doors are really beautiful. I’m glad they were preserved along with the original facade.
This is not the main entrance to the museum, but its doors have lovely details as well.
Here’s the main entrance, below, which also has distinctive doors.
Across from the main entrance is a famous sculpture by Anna Hyatt Huntington, El Cid, which has been embellished with a snake by Adriana Varejão as part of her exhibit.
The main hall inside housed the ceramic plates.
Varejão titled this group of works Don’t Forget, We Come From the Tropics. The images she created are a tribute to the Amazon forest’s ecology, art, and culture. The backs of the plates are beautiful too.
The upper floor of the museum was closed–I think they were preparing a new exhibit–but there was also a display on the first floor of Iberian ceramics from Archer Huntington’s collection. He founded the Hispanic Society and paid for the building of the complex, which also once housed the American Numismatic and Archeological Society, the American Geographical Society, and the Museum of the American Indian. The other original tenant, The American Academy of Arts and Letters, is still located at Audubon Terrace.
If you want to know more about the detailed and colorful history of Archer Huntington and Audubon Terrace, The Daytonian has a long and photo-filled article, here. In 2017, when he wrote about it, I had been living nearby for quite a few years. The neighborhood was primarily Dominican, and though it was in need of some renovation (and where in NYC is not?), it was a vibrant community, and Audubon Terrace was an integral part of it.
My poem (much revised–time to let it go) is in answer to Bob’s W3 prompt, to respond to his poem using the phrase “nobody’s rules”, along with metaphor, to “explore themes of persistence, belonging, growth, or survival”. We are all looking for a place to belong.
And don’t forget to explore all the doors at Thursday Doors, hosted by Dan Antion.
The Hispanic Society Museum website is here. And you can read more about Adriana Varejão and her work here.
method two madness 
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