Sander Roscoe Wolff

A while back we got to see California’s arch nemesis Ken Lay being led off in handcuffs after being arrested by Federal Agents. There was an AP wire picture of him and I became captivated by his face in that picture. I began playing with it, manipulating it, and wound up with this:

I’ve been working on my 2nd painting for a while and finished it last weekend. I actually started it once but, due to some unfortunate events, that first version turned out badly. So, I started it again on a fresh canvas and am, overall, pleased with the result. I had a fairly clear idea of what elements I wanted, but creating them was a real process of discovery for me.

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My father lives in a small town called Ferndale (actually, just outside Ferndale in unincorporated County land). It’s about 30 minutes from the Canadian border, and just North of Bellingham. I lived there, briefly, just after high school, and I am very fond of the place. I’d love to retire there, although I’m not sure how happy my wife would be.

There is a special quality to the light, I think, when the sky is covered with layers of clouds, and the greens of the moss and hemlocks seem to glow from within. The damp seems to seep into everything, and life flourishes in surprising places. Mushrooms of all shapes, colors, and sizes pop up in fields, woods, and through the floor boards. Black and green slug families, large enough to ride, glide in single file across the ground.

Winters tend to be mild, with occasional dustings of snow.

Spring is, perhaps, the most shocking season for one who has lived so long in the unseasonal environment of Southern California. I remember going to bed one night with the world wrapped in the blanket of Winter, the trees bare, the ground brown and tan. Seemingly, the next morning, the entire world had transformed into an explosion of green.

Summer comes, mild at first, then gets surprsingly warm. After the flurry of rebirth, things seem to mellow a bit, enjoying the long, and I mean LONG, days of warm full sun. Berries ripen and, as the days stretch toward fall, it seems almost impossible that this idyllic world will soon fade.

Stain
by Sander Roscoe Wolff
© 1-1-2006 (6:58 PM)

This mysterious insect climbs my window sill,
Its mandibles clacking, searching for food.
I crush it, leaving a stain on the gray paint.

This is the way of things. Brute force wiping away
The weak. A kind of tyranny, I guess. This small creature,
Unaware of my presence, surprised at its sudden
Death.

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I wrote to my friend, Rick Lewis, telling him about my blog, saying “Yes, I know its silly, as I have very little to say, but I have a blog. Why? Because I can.”

To which, he responded:

Blogs. Your comment last night got me to thinking about blogs, and what’s right and wrong with them. I can’t say I reached any profound conclusions; only mildly interesting observations. In the heyday of network television news, not so long ago, approximately three major anchors reached 50 million or so viewers or a regular basis. Blogging seems to have turned that equation on its head. I don’t know the numbers, but what if it’s now five million bloggers, each reaching a regular audience of 100 people? Clearly we are no longer describing the same model at all. Meanwhile, network television news as we knew it is vanishing before our eyes; just not fast enough.

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Here’s a somewhat boring