Susan Lobb Porter, Author at Oolala the Arty Life

Like An Old Married Couple

by Susan Lobb Porter | Cool Apps, Ponies in the Morning | 4 comments

And dat’s da truth!

Nearly Nekked

by Susan Lobb Porter | Blogging, Life | 20 comments

Disclaimer: Yeah, I KNOW this is an art blog. That means there should be pictures, right? Well, I didn’t have any appropriate photos for this post. You’ll have to use your imagination.

I’m all about self-improvement. Really. I would love to live in a clean house, wear a crisp white apron (with little lacy hearts) while baking golden cookies and downing copious amounts of good-for-me greens. Smiling the whole damn time like the Beav’s mom.

I would sincerely…no, make that dearly, like to maintain a daily yoga/qi gong/meditation practice while listening to spiritual masters and communing with the universe beyond my current level of understanding. Way beyond. Like to the point of the ever-knowing imperturbable smile even when the voices in my head are being ~~stupid~~ ~~dicks~~ unkind.

And when I get to that point, words like damn and dicks would NEVER enter into my head, much less exit out of my mouth.

In a perfect world I would write (fill in your favorite adjective here) blog posts DAILY. You would tell your friends and they would tell theirs. On and on and on until I was more famous than Oprah.

Although I would settle for being half as rich as her. Just half. Really, is that too much to ask?

Yo, Universe, I’m talkin’ to YOU.

There would be a book deal. Oh, many of them. And Oprah, when she interviews me, because she would have to interview me, wouldn’t she… Oprah would notice I’m a size 2. Just a plain 2. No numbers or letters before or after it. USA Macy’s size 2.

And Oprah would be envious and offer me half of her wealth to be her life coach. If my math is right, that would make me twice as rich as her. Of course I would give most of it away to charity. Because I only have two feet and a girl can only have so many shoes. Unless they’re red. In that case maybe I’d keep the money.

But I’d think about giving it away.

I’m baring my soul to you (and what a lovely size 2 soul it is) because I’m doing this personal branding thing. Taking a class with Michele Bergh. I’ve taken classes with Michele before. She knows her stuff so I was reasonably sure her definition of personal branding would not involve hot metal and the smell of burning flesh.

Oh noooo, it’s MUCH more painful than that. Try standing out on the freeway naked (that’s nekked in cowboy speak) waving as the trucks whizz by. Yoo-hoo, fellas, what’dya think of this? Well, that’s what I had to do today.

Or at least it felt like that. Holy crap, did it ever. Crap, another word I won’t say once I’ve evolved. Maybe. Or maybe not. Depends on how pissed off I am. Oh crap, I suppose I’ll have to ditch piss as well. This being evolved shit isn’t all it’s cut out to be.

But back to personal branding sans cowboys. The first assignment Michele had us do, the one that made me feel naked, but not in a good way naked, was to ask friends, family and coworkers for feedback about me. Like, yo, hey, would you please fill out this questionnaire, this ANONYMOUS questionnaire. Say what you think about me. Let ‘er rip. I’ll never know who said what because it’s anonymous.

And then I’ll take those answers, size ’em up against my answers…what I think people think about me (because I had to answer the damn questionnaire too). After dismissing anything I don’t like as being nothing more than passive agressive retaliation because I forgot to pay back that 20 bucks I must owe someone, well then I’m gonna take that 20, put it as a downpayment on a pizza and beer. And find me a cowboy. With chaps. And just enough of a five o’clock shadow to make me forget about the pain.

And you, my best beloved sweetums, you can cheer me up by leaving sincere, happy face comments in one of those boxes down below. I will share the pizza with you. And the beer.

But not the cowboy. WOOT! I’m keeping him for myself.

Bird Being Born.

by Susan Lobb Porter | Art | 2 comments

Spring. The time of birth. Rebirth. Renewal.

You know what that means, don’t you? I mean, besides OD-ing on leftover Easter Peeps and getting your hands dirty in the garden. It means…ta-da… it’s time for Bird Being Born!

Alert! Alert! Crappy photo alert!!! Sorry about that, the good photo is on the computer at work. This is a bit blurry but you can get the idea.

‘Bird Being Born’
Helen Powell
©2012 Neighborhood Center of the Arts
Acrylic on canvas $200

This gem was created by Helen Powell, one of the artists from the Neighborhood Center of the Arts. I’ve been teaching there since forever, although I use the term ‘teaching’ loosely. I provide materials, music and help the artists find what it is they do best.

With artists like Helen, who are totally self-directed, we just step out of the way and let their muse guide them. Helen is a true outsider artist. If you’re not familiar with outsider art or art brut you can read about it here.

I love my job.

Suddenly It’s Sunday

by Susan Lobb Porter | Life, Parents, Ponies | 8 comments

I have not been here for a week. Have not written a blog post, have not thought of writing one.

But wait! Wasn’t that something I said I’d do when I redesigned the blog? Said I’d post something every day. Because, after all, I am a super-human, super-creative, super-duper-super-woman extraordinaire. Without the cape.

Capes get in the way.

Oh, whack me upside the head for being such a silly girl. For not realizing that sometimes life gets in the way of good intentions. That sometimes we need to be and do other stuff. And so I was doing. Doing doing doing DOING until my head spun a complete 360 like that kid in The Exorcist.

I was cleaning and clearing Mama’s cottage for the renter. Shlepping stuff up the hill to my place. To the dining room table for further sorting. To the kid’s rooms, the kids who no longer live here so I can use their rooms as storage for saddles and other stuff until I figure out where they need to be…those rooms.

To the thrift stores. And the dump. Buh-bye.

And all the while my head was SPINNING.

Because this week marks the second anniversary of Mama’s one-way ticket to Jesusland. The week she turned to me with such a perplexed expression on her face and asked, “Why is my body doing this to me?” And all I could say to her was “Because you’re so damn old.”

There was nothing more I could do for her except love her and tend to her with my sisters. That last morning, when she could no longer speak, I slipped some shaved chocolate between her lips. Her favorite, Green & Black 85% Dark. Her smile was pure bliss.

A few hours later she died, just a two weeks shy of her 96th birthday. She died at home. In the cottage, the cottage I’m now okay with renting.

Still, it’s been a rough week. Hard work and bittersweet memories. The cottage is clean now, the renter moved in. I still have sorting, distributing and disposing of stuff but the pressure of a deadline is past. I can breathe now. Relax a little.

This evening I went down to stand with the ponies while they had their buckets, their nightly treat of senior chow and supplements. And as they ate I stood there opening my senses to the moment. Taking it all in. The sight of the mud, of hoof print size puddles, of hay trod into the muck. The pile of hair beneath Lana, hair I pulled out by the handfuls last night in lieu of a proper brushing.

But it was the sounds of the evening that rounded things out. The sound of horses slurping. Birds high up in the trees. So many of them, different birdsong, sweet and clear. From down the lane the sound of voices. A small child. Adults speaking. Laughing. And then the music, notes from some sort of flute.

The sounds dipped and wove around each other like music. Subtly so. We’re not talking boom box here. But standing there with my all my senses…with my heart open to the moment…it was lovely.

Here’s a tiny slice of it I’d like to share. A moment in time captured with the iphone. And just so you know, that muck is mud, not pony poop. Well, mostly.