Another New Year, and - On The Twelfth Night Of Christmas

 

                                            On The Twelfth Night Of Christmas

                                             An original oil on canvas, 24" X 20" , unframed

                                                              ( click on image to enlarge )

     

     I am wondering what percentage of our regretful countrymen woke up on the 

first of January, ( the month named for Janus the god of new beginnings), sadly

wishing they had been more mindful of the consequences of their New Year's Eve's

overindulgence, in celebrating the end of of the old year.   Unfortunately, we mere 

mortals do not have Janus' ability to see into the future, ( as I mentioned last January

30th, in my blog entry about a painting from my Carnival series ), so the numbers of 

hangover sufferers this year must have been staggering, as usual.

     Who can explain this annual ritual of New Year's Eve celebrations, where it seems we

are permitted to go a bit crazy, with paper hats and horns, drinking too much, making too 

much noise, popping balloons, tossing streamers and confetti, and making ourselves sick?

And who can explain the competition between men to see who can fire off the most guns

and ammunition at midnight?  The combined weight of all the lead they shoot into the air

is probably enough to sink a battleship.    Is it all an inheritance from our pagan 

ancestors, trying to create enough noise and fire to call the sun back, to put an end to 

winter and the old year?  Some of us still do try to keep the old yule-log burning for 

the full, twelve days of Christmastide, as if we want to make certain that the sun is 

returning.

     This holiday period of the twelve days between Christmas and the feast of Epiphany,

falls under the astrological calendar-sign of Capricorn, the goat.  That is one of the 

reasons I'm showing this Twelfth Night Of Christmas painting in this blog entry.

It is from the series I called Mediterranean Fantasies, and like the painting in my last

posting, it is another of those folk-art style pieces, which were made for greeting cards, 

using flattened space, shapes and patterns, for the designs, suggesting images similar

to religious icons .   Shakespeare also set one of his well known comedies on 

Twelfth Night, on the Adriatic coast in the Mediterranean, which is so layered 

and rich in tales of adventure as well as being steeped in religious mythologies.

     The traditional song about the twelve days of Christmas doesn't tell us what 

became of the true love's gifts.  Did that partridge and the other domestic fowls 

end up roasted, in a pear sauce perhaps? And after those milk maids finished 

milking the goats, did they do a bit too much of their own celebrating, with all 

those lords-a-leaping and ladies dancing, and then fail to notice that the goats had 

gone missing, and were busily devouring the noble lady's garden? 

     Some who view this painting will think that I may have been making a reference

to the work of Marc Chagall, and the domestic livestock he painted drifting in the air 

in a love dream-scape with he and his wife.    But goats actually do climb trees. All 

over the middle east and north Africa, where the land has been so overgrazed for 

centuries, the goats can be seen climbing on cars, roofs, and into the trees themselves, 

to get to the fresh green branches and leaves.  

     After we have given ourselves a few days to recover from the holiday's excesses

of over-spending and over-indulging, we can take time to acknowledge the fact that

we can't erase the problems of 2021 through the use of noise and feasting.  Our  

problems are going to continue on into the new year, and it is up to us face up to

to the problems of our own creation, and do our best to provide the remedies.  We

have to start by recognizing the fact that we are killing our planet, and we must take 

the necessary steps to reduce global warming.   And we have to acknowledge and

denounce the great, political fraud created by the lies of Donald Trump and his cabal,

which is undermining our faith in our honest elections and threatening to destroy 

our democracy, just for one man's narcissism and greed, and his refusal to admit he

is a loser.    And we all have to do our civic duty, in our war against the covid 

viruses, by getting vaccinated.    Ignorance is no excuse; if you haven't done it yet, 

get the shot!   

                                                                  Eugene P. McNerney

    

 

Thoughts On Christmas, and - Mystic Dawn Of Christmas

 

                                                           Mystic Dawn Of Christmas  

                                                            an original Acrylic Painting

                                                           16" X 25" , on a stretched canvas

                                                                 ( click on image to enlarge )

     

     Now that the party is all over, except for the disposal of the shredded, wrapping paper, 

and the rush to return the gifts which were the wrong size, or the wrong color, or simply 

too wrong altogether, perhaps it's time to pause for a moment and think about the early

origin of our yearly quest for a lasting peace.

     Some years ago, I did a number of folk-art style, paintings, to use as cover art, for 

a series of holiday, greeting cards.  Some of those pieces have been previously been 

posted to this blog, during a past Christmas season.  ( Silent Night, Glad Tidings Of 

Great Joy, The Great Day Is Near, Behold The Glorious Dawn )  I called this series

Mediterranean Fantasies, because I was trying to capture something of a feel of the

land and long history of the place where the mythologies of western civilization began.

It is those mythologies which evolved into what we call our religions.  Religions have 

always been appropriated by our tribal leaders, kings, pharaohs, emperors and  the

succeeding dictators of all our history, to help control their people, by promoting the 

idea that they alone have the true god on their side, and that other people are evil 

non-believers, and therefore they are sub-humans, perhaps even unworthy of life 

or liberty or the right to keep their own land.

     Here and there, over the centuries, some rebel reformers have come along and

spoken out against the powerful establishment, and it often cost them their lives.  

One such reformer was a man named Jesus, who received the standard Roman 

death-sentence - crucifixion.   His followers established a new religion in his name,

but it soon became part of the establishment, and the core of his message is mostly

ignored.  There are millions of people in this country who call themselves Christians, 

but a large percentage of them find ways of rationalizing that their religious belief is 

compatible with racism, xenophobia, sexism, homophobia and most any other form

of hatred or fear and mistrust.  Perhaps all believers should be required to recite the 

golden-rule every day.  That might make them think a little more like Jesus. We will 

never have peace until we all pledge to treat others as we wish to be treated ourselves.

     Since this is usually the time of year when we make our New Year's resolutions,

may I suggest that we make a start by at least trying to be a little bit kinder to our

friends and strangers alike.  Strangers can sometimes turn out to be our best friends,

and we can never have too many friends.

                                                       Eugene P. McNerney

    

    

A Thanksgiving Memory, and - A Light In The Stable

                                                A Light In The Stable

                                                An original oil on canvas, 18" X 24"

                                                       ( click on image to enlarge )

         The American tradition of  celebrating the harvest season, on the annual holiday 

that we call Thanksgiving, is here again.  Most of us who have grown up in this tradition, 

have probably accumulated mixed memories of their past celebrations of this holiday, 

a day which is intended to strengthen family ties, as we give thanks for being together, 

enjoying the food which sustains us.  Too often these days, the memories have become 

nothing more than boring, family dinners followed by televised football games.  And 

for some of us, the celebration has sometimes resembled a comical ode to gluttony.   

I recall that Truman Capote wrote a story of his memorable Thanksgiving, but that 

was a tale of a lonely and melancholy childhood. 

      The memory I most often recall, when I think of Thanksgiving, is of an 

unexpectedly eventful day, way back when I was still in college.  I was home for the 

holiday, and we were all  invited to dinner at the farm house of an aunt and uncle, 

who lived about an hour from town.  Their lakeside home, with the surrounding, 

autumn woodlands, was an idyllic, story-book setting for a traditional Thanksgiving 

celebration.  That day was crisp and cold, but there was a warm, cozy fire in the 

fireplace, and our host added a fresh log to the fire whenever the flames were 

burning low.

     Along about mid-day, we all sat down to a wonderful holiday feast, with a 

turkey and all the trimmings.  And then as we sat savoring all of the flavors of our 

well-filled, dinner plates, we noticed that some beautiful, big, fluffy snow-clusters, 

had started falling outside, drifting softly past the windows, and somehow perfecting

the image of the ideal Thanksgiving scene. 

     By the time we had finished our meal, and began to question whether to have 

desert immediately or save it for later on, we could see that the snow storm had 

increased in intensity, painting the fields white, and continuing to fall so heavily 

that it was becoming difficult for us to see the distant trees.  It was getting dark

but we could see that our cars were already covered with a fairly thick blanket 

of snow.   So, there was an immediate change of our plans for the evening.  Six

of us wanted to try and risk driving back to town that night.  Deserts would be 

wrapped up and sent home with us, as we were leaving.

    After two of the cars were cleaned off and warmed up, we set off from the 

farm, with windshield wipers already fighting a loosing battle against the buildup 

of the accumulating, icy crystals.  The snow was already deep and it was getting 

deeper by the minute, as we forged our way slowly to the main road toward town.  

Once we were on to the more, heavily traveled roadway, we began to see that 

driving conditions were getting seriously hazardous.  A number of motorists had 

slid off into the roadside ditch and become hopelessly stuck, where they had 

abandoned their cars.  Such scenes became more and more frequent as we 

crawled our way forward through the blinding snow storm.  And then one of 

our cars did a scary spin-out.

    A hasty decision was made to park one of the cars at the roadside, and for 

all of us to go the rest of the way to the city in one car.  A set of tire-chains was

applied to the rear wheels of the heavier car, and then with the added weight of

all six of us together, we set out again, through the blinding snow.  It was still very

slippery going, but perhaps we had better traction, because we continued to

pass many stuck cars whose owners had given up and abandoned them in

the drifts.

     After a long, slow and tense slog through the storm we reached the city,

but the streets were still treacherous going.  Motorists had turned the snow into

icy mounds of slush which had traffic in a tangle of fender-bender encounters.

One of our tire chains came off, and someone snatched it and absconded with

it before our intrepid driver could get back and retrieve it, but we did manage 

to make it home without further incident.

     The next morning, the blizzard was gone and the sun was beginning to peek 

through, but the city looked like a deep icy, snow-draped scene from David 

Lean's film of Dr. Zhivago.  After the snow plows had worked on the major 

roadways for a while, the car which had been left behind was dug out of the

drifts and retrieved without damage.

     Over the decades that have passed since that event, and the dozens of 

Thanksgiving holidays which have come and gone, I don't believe that I have 

ever experienced a sudden snow storm of such intensity, and of such deep

accumulation, in such a short period of time, as the one we experienced

that night.

      For the three of us who now still remain, from that adventure so long

ago, any mention of a Thanksgiving celebration always calls to mind that

famous snow to remember.  It remains forever intertwined with our thoughts 

of the family gathered around a Thanksgiving table.

     The painting above is one I had shown in a previous entry, in this blog,

about a decade ago, but I was reminded of it when I was writing this entry,

so I decided that it might be a good accompaniment for this memory tale.

The idea of lantern light in a barn on a cold winter evening, still has a mystery

and traditional symbolism for the holiday season.

 

 

 

     

    

 

Horatio's Scary Tales Of Halloween

 

 

 

     This morning, I was so thoroughly engrossed in another frightening book, 

about how close Donald Trump came to destroying our American democracy, 

that I didn't notice Horatio's arrival until he spoke. 

      "Happy Halloween!", he said.  So I looked up from my scary reading 

to see my little friend, thespian and sometime model, posed like a rather macabre, 

funereal apparition, resembling that of the ghost of an Abe Lincoln-est undertaker.  

As I was admiring his holiday spirit, I said that I didn't realize that he was such an 

avid enthusiast for the day-of-the-dead celebrations.  But he said that, quite to the 

contrary, the celebration was such a long tradition in his family that his middle name 

was practically Halloween, especially so considering the fact that some of his early

ancestors had come in close contact with witch trials and night terrors.  That was 

such an intriguing opening, that I asked him to tell me more, as I set aside my terror

reading to pick up a sketchbook and begin a quick study of Horatio Halloween Hamster.

       Horatio's tales involved stories passed down from an distant ancestor of his, who 

was living frugally in Salem, at the time of the witch trials.  He had an apartment in the 

attic of the humble home of an old woman of Salem, who lived there with many cats 

she had saved from being drowned by the gatophobic villagers.  Her rescued felines  

included a one eyed cat, a tailless cat, and most incriminating of all, a number of coal, 

black cats.  To the villagers, that was a sure sign that she was conducting satanic 

rituals and casting spells.   If anyone had a fall and broke a bone, or became suddenly 

ill , they knew who to blame. And if a perfectly good milk-cow suddenly died of no 

apparent cause, they knew who to blame.  So, they put the old woman on trial for 

witchcraft, and they used the torturous, dunking-chair to try and get her to confess,  

but the dunking boom broke as they were lowering her into the water.  Naturally 

the villagers saw this as a sign from God, but they didn't know whether it was 

a sign that she was innocent or guilty.  So they took a vote and a majority voted

 that the sign meant she was innocent, and they set her free. Even so, some of 

them decided to burn her house down, so she had to flee from the village to 

save her life.

      That fire also meant that Horatio's ancestor had to find a new home in a hurry, 

and so he took refuge in the attic of the humble home of an old woman, who 

raised goats and made cheese from their milk.  But during this period of such witch-

hunting hysteria and capraphobia, the woman's goats, with their nearly Satanic,

pointed horns, called suspicion on her as well.   Evidence began to mount up

against her.  A man who died unexpectedly was known to have eaten some of

the woman's cheese, just two weeks before his death, and another woman

testified that the large, dark furred, goat from the herd, had visited her in the night,

and spoken to her, urging her to participate in Satanic worship.  So, the goat lady

could see the hand writing on the wall.  She and all her goats disappeared one

night, without a trace of them left behind.  Some of the villagers declared that

this was the proof that she had been in league with the Devil himself. And then

the woman who had testified against her, quickly tried to take possession of the 

vacated property, only to discover that some religious zealot had already set 

it on fire. 

     At that point in the narration, I said that Horatio's ancestor had been fortunate

to have escaped two such arsonist attacks, and I asked what had become of

him after he fled the second blaze.  Horatio replied that the story from then on,

recorded that the lucky escapee had fled to a colony farther to the south, 

where he had taken up safe residence above a tavern, which was frequented 

by a much less religious and much more tolerant class of people.  According

to the family history, he had flourished there, successfully raising a family and

enjoying a lively, nocturnal lifestyle, above the music and laughter of the tavern's 

regular patrons.

     As I was putting some finishing touches on my drawing, I asked Horatio

whether he was planing to go out for tricks-or-treating later on in the evening.

He replied that he and some of his fellow thespians from the Quadruped 

Playhouse were planning to make the rounds of some welcoming homes, to 

receive some expected treats.  So I asked him if he might be expected to 

perform tricks for receiving the treats, he said that he could always do a

recitation of Lincoln's Gettysburg Address, since his costume as Abe 

Lincoln was apropos.  

     As Horatio was setting off for his night of frightful fun, I cautioned him

to be wary of all the ghosts and ghouls in the streets.  In response, he said

that we need to be more afraid of those who refuse to wear covid masks,

than we are of those wearing Halloween masks.

     Horatio's reference to The Gettysburg Address was a reminder of

that famous speech, which so many of us were required to memorize

or recite when we were in school.  The idealistic theme of a "government of,

by, and for the people", still remains our goal, but many politicians who

retain power, prefer a government by a select group, primarily for the 

benefit of their group.  Many of our Republican state legislatures are

busily crafting laws which restrict the voting rights of those they deem to

be of the wrong racial, ethnic or religious heritage.  While at the same

time they are imposing their own religious views on all of the women

in their states, telling them what they are not allowed to do with their 

own bodies, for their own physical and mental health.  We don't have

to look very hard to see who is in league with the Devil on this day-of-

the-dead.  All we have to do is look at our Republican legislators.  

     So enjoy your Halloween, if you can.  It's a very ignorant and scary 

world out there!

Trick or Treat?

                                                        Eugene P. McNerney

Lunacy Reigns, and - The Bell Tolls For Thee ( Carnival No. 10 )

 

                                          The Bell Tolls For Thee 

                                          An original acrylic painting, on canvas

                                         14" X 11" , unframed

                                                              ( click on image to enlarge )

     When was the last time you heard someone say, "Now is the time for all good men to 

come to the aid of the country."?  And, if you remember, was anyone else paying any 

attention to the message, at that time, or was it simply being ignored?

     When the heinous 911 attack on our country happened, resulting in the deaths of over 

three thousand of our citizens, we were all united in our grief, and in our resolve to 

prevent further loss of life.  But for the past eighteen months, we have often been

averaging the loss of that many or more, of our fellow countrymen to Covid every day, 

and yet so many of us ignore those facts, while proclaiming that the pandemic is not 

their problem, and that they have no responsibility to assist in the prevention of the 

spread of the deadly virus.

     When did we become so divided?  Why do so many of us refuse the common-sense 

precautions of getting vaccinated and wearing masks?  The stubborn resistance to simple 

health measures, has now increased to the lunatic level of daily, physical attacks on 

public officials and workers who are simply trying to do their jobs, to the best of their 

abilities. 

     In John Donne's famous poem, For Whom The Bell Tolls, he reminds us that no man

is an island, each of us is a part of society as a whole, and we all must bare some social 

responsibility in helping to preserve the lives of others.  For those who continue to think

only of themselves and their own pleasures, there is the reminder that the bell is tolling

loudly for them as well.  It is the death bell, and it is ringing hundreds of times every day.

So, when will it toll for them?  Or are they going to start listening?  

                                                                                     Eugene P. McNerney

Birthday Reminders, and - Horatio's Joke

                                                  

      There comes a point in life, when the yearly anniversary of one's birth, ceases to be a 

time to consider the balance of our gains and losses, and becomes more of an annual 

reminder of the many goals we had set for ourselves, which we have failed to accomplish. 

That is the point at which we try to spend as little time as possible, thinking about our 

birthdays, but sometimes our well-meaning friends insist on marking the occasion, with a 

good-humored reminder. 

     Such was the case this morning, when my little friend and sometime model, Horatio H. 

Hamster Esq., popped up unexpectedly, dressed like firefighter.  He said that he wanted 

to wish me a happy birthday, and then remain on hand when I would light the candles on 

my birthday cake.  He said that having a fireman in attendance was a necessary

precaution, when having such a large number of candles burning at once, because such 

a big blaze would create a serious fire hazard for me and for my guests, possibly even

burning down my studio and creating a four alarm fire.

     I was amused by his little charade, and I played along with it, even though he got 

the birth-date wrong, and even though I also do not eat cake, or bread, when avoidable.  

( My apologies to Marie Antoinette. )  So I assured him that, even if I did own that 

many candles, I did not know of any cakes in the neighborhood, which would be 

large enough to accommodate such a high number, so there was no danger of 

creating a four alarm fire.  

     He seemed pleased that I was going along with his gag, as I began doing a

sketch of him in his new outfit.  When I asked him if he had ever had any personal

experience with a four alarm fire, he said that he had not, but that there was an

old family story about an ancestor of his, who had been an eye-witness to the

start of the great Chicago Fire.  According to the story, his ancestor had been 

living in the barn where Mrs. O'Leary's  cow supposedly kicked over the lantern, 

which set the barn on fire.  But his ancestor, known as Hurricane Hamster, was 

of the opinion that a right-wing arsonist started the blaze, to protest Irish cows 

taking jobs away from good American cows.  I asked if Hurricane had passed

that information on to investigators, but apparently they had never interviewed

him, which Horatio considered to be a clear case of ethnic discrimination.  

But on the other hand, Hurricane had probably not stayed around long enough 

to say anything.  He had acquired his windy-city name, because of his ability 

to make quick escapes from the scenes of crimes and disasters. 

     When I remarked that Horatio seemed to have inherited that talent for

speedy arrivals and departures, he explained that he had to work fast because 

he had to wear so many hats, as as an actor, director and producer at the 

Quadruped Playhouse.  He said that the whole troop was eager to perform 

for a live audience again, after the long, Covid lock-down, and he is already

in rehearsal to reprise his pivotal  role in their annual, holiday production of 

Dickens' Christmas Carol.   But he said the whole company was firm in their 

decision to permanently ban Donald J. Skunk and his dim-witted, disease-

spreading friends, over in the fox den.

     As I was finishing up my sketch, I asked him if he had ever heard any

further stories about his Chicago ancestor, and what had become of him.

He answered that the last time someone had said goodbye to Hurricane, 

he had disappeared into the mists of time.  Then he offered to give me a 

dramatic rendition of such a scene, telling me to give him his cue, by saying

 "Goodbye Hurricane!"

     So I said, " Goodbye Hurricane!"   And before I could lay my pencil down,

he was gone.

                                         Eugene P. McNerney

 

 

 

 

 

Never Say Die, and - Welcome to Carnival ( Carnival No. 8 )

  

                                                              Welcome To Carnival

                                                              An original acrylic painting, on stretched canvas

                                                              22 X 28, unframed

                                                                                    ( click on image to enlarge )

      

     A year ago, on July the seventeenth, I posted an entry on this blog, titled "To Mask,

Or Not To Mask", in which I lamented the irrational determination of so many Americans

to refuse compliance with simple health mandates, to save their lives and the lives of their

friends and families.  Led by Trump's denial brigades, the daily death-toll  among the

misinformed, mounted higher every day, while the partying continued unabated. 

     Six months ago, on the twenty first of December, I posted an entry in this blog, titled

"A Year In The Red Zone", sharing in the great news that, after almost a year's wait, the 

much anticipated Covid  vaccines would soon be available, so that we could put an end 

to the pandemic.  But it seemed that many were still too busy living the good life, to care 

about protecting anyone else-es life.  Just a month later, in the blog posting titled "The

Unending Carnival", I noted again, that so many people were continuing to gather and 

party unmasked, while proclaiming their right to be as stupid and suicidal as they wanted 

to be.

    So, where are we now, a year later, and what has changed?  As soon as the vaccines

became available, I was quick to become vaccinated, as were many millions of my fellow,

thoughtful citizens.  For a while, progress and hope were on the rebound.  But now we 

have bumped up against the wall of ignorant, misguided, anti-vaccine nit-wits, who refuse 

to help put an end to this pandemic, for everyone's benefit.  There is no reason not to 

get the vaccine: it is available and it is free.  And now people are even being offered 

monetary incentives to get their shots, and yet many refuse to do the right thing for 

themselves and for the nation. How many million have to die before they get the 

message?  Some who end up in hospitals, on their deathbeds, beg to be given the 

vaccine, and of course they are told that it is too late.  Meanwhile, Fox broadcasting, 

and similar purveyors of false information to the gullible public, in their "never-say-die" 

ignorance, continue to proclaim that it is the citizen's right to fight to the highest level 

of stupidity that he or she can achieve.

     So, what can we say to the thoughtless fun-lovers who deny the truth of science, 

modern medicine and common sense?   The carnival still continues.  Come on in and 

join in the parade.  Enjoy the competitions.  See who has the best costume. Who's 

costume is the most expensive?  Who has the most expensive coffin?  Who's coffin 

is the most comfortable?  

                                                      E. P. McNerney