Memoirs of An Easy Woman

“…every sentence is sensuous and filling.”

“Artistry is described with the same breathless passion as lovemaking, interspersed with references to classical painters and modern feminist works between lushly erotic scenes. It’s a swell experience.”

“Stella left Wisconsin for the Chicago Art Institute; she left there after her second semester in 1975 to paint in New York City where she met a black photographer one morning and an Italian gangster by nightfall.”

Memoirs of a Money Trader

Author: This is my first published book, which was written in the seventies in the same house, and possibly the same room upstairs, in Southbury, CT, where Katherine Anne Porter wrote “Ship of Fools” in around 1962. I did not know this then.

Memoirs of a Seeing Woman

THIS STORY IS THE THIRD IN THE SERIES OF SIX BOOKS
MY NAME IS AMANDA FRENCH. My family name French, I believe says it all. We, the French women, were born to wear elegant clothing and accessories, the finer brocades and silks, fluid and cool, raw dupioni and nubby shantung, the texture that is pure sex to the hand that appreciates.

The Meaning of Ordeal

THIS STORY IS THE FOURTH IN THE SERIES OF SIX BOOKS
I finally detached with the understanding that people cannot give to you what they don’t have. I am not feeling the love because… And because of what was probably this unsatisfied need for affection, I have a history of trusting complete strangers, some of whom have, to their credit, risen to the occasion by displaying the kindness thus expected of others at the eleventh hour.

The Meaning of Ordeal

On a late-spring afternoon in the southern Mazatzal Mountains where the Four Peaks poke through the clouds, just north of Apache Lake, and opposite the Superstition Wilderness of Arizona, a solitary Indian trudged up a grassy slope to a rocky pocket of dark boulders that overlooked the Rio Verde River and the valley that sloped down to it.  In the waving tabosa grass below he saw a spirit side winding through the stems.  The spirit was a snake of air, and it writhed up the slope to the very spot where the young man stood.  Just before it reached him, the Indian closed his eyes.  Wind touched his straight black and silver hair and rustled it about his face and neck.

Memoirs of a Weaving Woman

THIS STORY IS THE SIXTH IN THE SERIES OF SIX BOOKS
It was a sad ending to a story that had begun many years before, full of promise and the happiness of royal newlyweds. She was the daughter of Leopold of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha, born in 1840. Charlotte, as she was known before becoming Carlotta, Empress of Mexico, was lovely: petite, at times plump, with dark eyes and hair. She was serious, curious, and pious, with a strong personality, attracted to Bach and Balzac for pleasure. Maximilian was quite a contrast to her, tall and fair, frivolous and sometimes nasty and vulgar, but not at first.
They married on July 27, 1856 when she was 16 and he was 24.

Silvia is a thirty-something Orthodox Jewish married woman and mother of two daughters, Nechama and Michelle. Her husband, Martin, works for his well-heeled uncle’s shirtwaist dress factory. They live in the brick apartment building south of Canal Street, in Lower New York City, where she grew up, two flights down, or with her aunt, five flights up. There was an elevator. Eventually. Her two daughters attend yeshiva nearby, so they can set their alarm clock, prepare their own lunch, and walk. Marty also works nearby in the opposite direction. He walks into the sun. I don’t understand.

Marty wants to move to a place called “Suburbs.” That’s all he talks about. He wants to buy a car. He can’t even drive. A red car.

But every important thing that ever mattered to Silvia happened there, somewhere in the building. It held her memories and her secrets. Even Marty’s uncle lived in the building before he became a millionaire. Then he moved out from the big apartment on four, and his daughter moved in. She still lives there.

A fascination with Edward Gorey’s Gothic inks on paper and Ann Rice’s Vampire stories, not to mention Isadora Duncan’s naked dance recitals and Vladimir Dracula’s gift for tap birthed this rocky courtship. “Come dance with me. I’ll make all your dreams come true,” the Vampire whispered to Laina, which at first, she doubted was true… For every woman who ever loved a Vampire.

A Deadly Game of Go

Feathers and Fur – what could go awry?
Well, an entertaining story about borderline mortal enemies in the forest.
Culturally, correct? Hardly. Open-minded? LOL. Don’t be daft.
He got his tail feathers shot at by some misguided hunter. Fox
Stayed with him and tended to him as best she could; then she nearly
drowned when the spring thaw caused a flood over the embankment.
Hawk carried her to safety.
It is a tender 30-minute story for the whole family or
Classroom. A teaching opportunity.
Available in print, eBook, soft cover.

He loves me, He loves me not, He couldn’t care less

Does like attract like? That was the question. Does like attract like? Essay due in two weeks. Often what appears different on the surface is the same after only one layer is peeled away. Just like an onion. Sometimes it takes many, many layers to get there but eventually, if you keep peeling, you will see what’s really there.

The incredible, inedible EGG

The kitchen is a place of wonder. It’s a large palate where ingredients and utensils and recipes and textures and colors and smells and tastes and all of the senses get whisked and mixed together with the aid of some incredible utility muse… your own imagination.

Billi Bear, Medicine Woman & Spider

Prose and pictures, and a tender story about nature, culture, and blending. As in families—what could possibly go wrong?
Billi Bear was just a tiny orphaned polar bear when Medicine woman of the small salmon fishing town brought him home and first thing made him brush his teeth.
And Miss Spider? Let’s see, she would be Great…Great…Great…Great… and so on, infinitely. They are all so much alike, same mannerisms. We laugh and tell stories. We are all family.

Contemporary Art & InfoGraphics

How something that oozes out of a thin aluminum tube and onto a primed flat white canvas can convince you of the presence of a three-dimensional world, this translucent paste that conveys the fragrances of pasture and ocean, forest and rain, was to me holy. And I wanted to affect that. I wanted to paint. To see light; to manipulate light; to share it with those who believe, and show it to those who do not.
Doodles, Photos, Arte & Infographics & Other Imagery