Beloved

Sometimes the cruelty of this world is dumbfounding and so insulting to our senses that we recoil immediately and simply withdraw. I remember as a child when I saw someone with a mutilated face from burning, or another with missing or deformed limbs, how I felt afraid, as if beholding a monster I had only met in dreams, but now, here it was in real life. My mother would calm me and say, “Do not stare.” But the unfortunate person would ultimately be shunned because of fear.

Now that I am grown, I have no fear of people who are “different”, but rather, compassion for the great burden that they must carry all their lives. Recently, I came across a story on the Internet about victims, mostly female, of acid attacks. These young women usually were attacked because they simply asserted themselves as independent. Then, a spurned suitor or inflamed man attacked with acid, directing it at the victim’s face. It is terrible the damage that is done. See the article: Terrorism that’s personal.

In August of last year, while I was in Saigon, Vietnam, I met a young man begging on the street who was the victim of an acid attack. That week, I wrote my blog and reflected on the term “monster” and what it really means. See my blog, Monsters.

Misfortunes such as starvation, stillbirths, illnesses, have always afflicted humanity but what is truly mystifying and pointlessly tragic is the suffering humanity inflicts upon itself.

When will the human family rejoice in unity and fellowship and end the suffering it has long inflicted upon itself? Only when we see each other as precious . . . not as the “other” but as beloved.

Pleasurable Dance of the Senses

A novice appeared recently at the Wednesday night drawing group I have attended for many years, and in a fit of peculiar frustration and perhaps bewilderment, asked the group why they draw from a nude model. I must say that this group I attend is very relaxed and usually a stream-of-consciousness conversation ensues the entire three hours of drawing.

My eyes were focused intensely on the model in front of me when Fabio asked and nobody answered, perhaps because the question seemed so odd at the time. I was the first to answer and replied, “Because it is creative, and artists have always studied the human form.” The group generally agreed figure drawing is an exacting artistic discipline. The model, a young woman reclining on a short platform pushed against a wall just a few feet in front of the artists said, “And this is why I like to model; because I participate in the creativity and enjoy it so much.”

Over the years, I have seen many models, male and female, young and old. A person does not have to be beautiful, but has to be comfortable in their body. A good artist model knows intuitively to strike poses that are interesting to the eye. When they simply withdraw into themselves and take yoga poses, for me at least, I become less inspired and feel the mundane invoked. The best models enjoy the sensuality of the moments while eyes are looking intently at their nakedness, and participate in a give and take that is a pleasurable dance of the senses.

To see more of my figure drawings, go to the Steven Boone website and click on the drawings link.

The Pleasure of Reading

The pleasure of reading is beyond words. It reaches to the very core of being human, that is, the acquiring of knowledge. Knowledge furthers our ability to communicate and strengthens our interaction with the world, helping us discern between truth and falsehood.

In high school, I remember particularly a class in world literature. My youthful soul lusted after the thrill of discovery, including the adventures found in the pages of books. And of course, the selections were from the best of novels of days gone by.

For many years, I lost the luxury of reading for pleasure. After graduating college, I pursued a career, became a husband and father, and worked hard. My reading became more or less limited to newspapers, non-fiction and religious texts. Sometimes I would think longingly that it had been too long since I had read a novel.

I have rediscovered reading for pleasure. The last six books I have read, in order: Civilization and Its Discontents, by Sigmund Freud (1856 - 1939), Narcissus and Goldmund, by Hermann Hesse (1877-1962) (read for the third time) , Eros and Civilization, by Herman Marcuse (1898-1979), Demian, by Hermann Hesse,  The Brothers Karamazov, by Fyodor Dostoevsky (1821-1881) (second reading), and now I am almost finished with The Torrents of Spring, by Ivan Turgenev (1818-1883). All these books became famous and elevated their authors in the public eye. Of course it takes erudition, knowledge, inspiration and a unique voice to create literary works of art.

Writing a novel can take years. I noticed this when it took three years to write my own book, A Heart Traced In Sand, Reflections on a Daughter’s Struggle for Life. Never before in my life had I taken so long at one task. The most time I have ever spent making a painting was about sixty hours.

Last night, I went with Jean to see the movie about Leo Tolstoy’s final days, called The Last Station. A marvelous film, full of warmth and candor, I especially appreciated it, being a big fan of Tolstoy and having just finished reading Dostoevsky’s Brothers and now pursuing the finish of Turgenev’s Torrents.

I am claiming time for the luxury, great pleasure, and elevation found in reading. Go into a library sometime and look at all the shelves filled with books. This sight is a wonder because it represents countless hours of revelation and inspiration.

Narcissus nodded, deep in thought. ‘Love of God,” he said slowly, searching for his words, is not always the same as love of good. I wish it were that simple. We know what is good for it is written in the commandments. But God is not contained only in the commandments you know—they are only an infinitesimal part of Him. A man may abide by the commandments and be far from God.
From Narcissus and Goldmund, Herman Hesse

Only One Time Exists

Strange, but I am finding that the thrill of being in a flowing lifestyle that resembles a wild river moving through varied and exotic terrain has made stopping difficult. Just as an adventurer becomes restless after camping upon the banks of a proud and flowing river, with his boat tethered on land, so I too, must adjust to staying still.

When I was in Buenos Aires, I once left my keys inside the apartment and did not discover they were missing until late in the afternoon.  The owner was not available to help unlock the door, so I had to spend a night in a cheap hotel. I am philosophical about my experiences, so I simply noted how interesting is THE DREAM. That evening I found a bustling bar where I stopped to sit and write. People sat clustered at small tables that spilled from inside onto the sidewalk under canopies. I sat at the bar in the darkened room while waiters came and went and the bartenders hustled up drinks. From there, I wrote on a tiny notepad I had taken from my coat pocket. It was a stream of consciousness:  
I left my keys in my apartment and locked myself out. Tonight I have to sleep in a hotel. THE DREAM speaks . . . sings, flows, is air, is water, flux. I am in it and witness, play along as an actor on it’s stage. I am audience to my performance as well—yet I only long for the place of unfolding—not the witnessing, but the unfolding. What is it then to unfold and witness at the same time?
Can moments be slowed? Slowed into singularity so that only one time exists? Cessation of separation and realization that sleep, waking, work, rest, play, happiness, sadness, success, failure, male-female, God, human, animal, plant, et al. are unified in the borderless regions of oneness?

Home Is In My Heart

When I travel for extended periods I become homeless and a true wanderer. I begin by abandoning my home, selling off possessions, and then storing in my studio what little remains. When I eventually arrive back in Santa Fe, I only have my studio to go to. The studio is an open space with four concrete walls and a bathroom. It holds my paintings, art materials, easel, a desk with a computer and my large format printer. If I had to, I could sleep there, but it has no shower or kitchen.

I am not a fretful person, nor fearful, so the prospect of not having a place to live is simply part of the ever-unfolding DREAM, and I trust in it to give me what I need.

My former wife Jean opened her home to me when I arrived after my long drive from California. I only needed to stay one night. Going to the Internet site Craigslist, I found a furnished guesthouse, and after a short visit there, rented it and moved in the same day. It is on a property in an expensive district of Santa Fe, next to a large home that is used only part time by absent landlords. I have great quiet, and although my casita is a bit small, I am more or less content for the time being.

Yesterday evening, the Baha’i community around the world celebrated the advent of Naw-Ruz, the first day of the Bahá'í calendar occurring on the vernal equinox, March 21. The New Year also ends the Bahá'í month of fasting, so the celebration is often combined with a dinner. When I was at our local celebration, a friend turned to me and asked “Is it good to be home?” As I looked into her lovely eyes, full of inquisitiveness, I said, “I am always at home—home is in my heart. Looking into your beautiful eyes in this perfect moment is where I live and love. And this “home” for me, is everywhere.” In truth, I have had countless feelings of being “home” all around the world.

Snow fell the first night I spent in my casita—quite a shock after picking oranges in my parent’s backyard just a few days ago.

CHECK OUT MY NEW AND IMROVED VIDEO BRAZILIAN SAMBA PARADE

Bountiful Harvest

Outside the cottage on my parent’s property stands an orange tree laden with fruit. The oranges are so plentiful that the limbs hang down from the weight. No one picks them, and so they fall to the ground to rot in the shade. Each day, as I pass the lovely tree that is so healthy and has dutifully provided its bountiful harvest, I feel as if the tree is speaking to me, begging me to take its offering, almost as if a gift is being proffered, and as I pass by, I can almost hear myself say with a tinge of guilt, “no thanks.” My parents sometimes eat oranges, but only one per day, and the tree has hundreds of fruit. My mother explained, “when I was stronger, I would take oranges to the homeless shelter.” Yesterday I collected a big sack and gave it to my sister when she visited. When I leave for Santa Fe on Tuesday, I will take a couple of boxes of oranges with me.

Hurrah! After all the travails with my laptop breaking down in South America, I have it back and completely refurbished. What a relief. I have been working on my photos form Brazil and Argentina.


I am like the orange tree, offering fruit to anyone who stops to enjoy it . . .

A Prisoner Forgets His Cares

When I arrived this morning at the backdoor to my parent’s home, it was locked and I could see through the window my mother was in the kitchen. I knocked and she came to greet me. “Good morning darling, it is a magnificent day!” Although half awake, my short walk from their cottage to the main house impressed on me the beautiful surroundings. It had rained all the day before, and now, in the cool morning air, everything glistened under the cloudless blue sky. Stepping along the path between shrubbery, I felt the wet grass under my feet, and heard birds sing among the pine trees. An exquisite scent filled the air, for directly between the buildings stands a jasmine bush and it is blooming profusely, adding a unique fragrance to the already luscious environment. Have you ever smelled jasmine blossoms? It is one of the most pleasant sensations imaginable, so that even a prisoner forgets his cares under its spell.

My trip to South America had me under a spell as well. The images I bring back with me from Brazil, Argentina, and Uruguay are strong impressions—from Rio De Janeiro the crush of crowds in the streets during carnival, the incredible creativity and exuberance of samba parades, danger always nearby, and colorful people that drew my attention as an artist. Buenos Aires has an urban sophistication with a European feel, and the distinctive tango undercurrent. I spent little time in Montevideo, Uruguay, but enjoyed the coastal capital for a day and went to the National Museum of Art, which is free and as I was leaving, a lady handed me a nice book with color prints, cataloguing the art collection. “How much?” I asked. “Es libre!” she replied. This is the first time in my museum experiences that such a gift was handed to me. Uruguay is known as the least corrupt of all South American countries.

The earthquake in Chile cut short my South American travels, and yet it was an incredible sojourn. All the moments together are now woven into a tapestry in my mind that I can share. I look forward to my computer being repaired! It broke down in Brazil and I have been trying ever since to get it fixed. The day after I arrived in Santa Barbara, a box came from Apple Computer. I slipped my MacBook inside the pre-paid overnight carton, and sent it off the same day. I expect to have my laptop within five days. For customer service, Apple is the number one rated computer manufacturer. It helps being in the USA now.

Next blog, I expect will be from Santa Fe . . . but that depends on THE DREAM.

Buenos Aires

My apartment in downtown Buenos Aires is on Avenida 9 De Julio, the widest boulevard in South America. After the mean streets of Rio De Janeiro, Buenos Aires has felt much more civilized, and even safe. No one here has stopped to warn me to watch my back. The citizens have a bit of pride in the refinement of their city, which has a European sophistication and provincial air.
While Rio De Janeiro is reknowned for its samba, Buenos Aires is famous as the world center of tango. I went to a club called Cafe Tortoni to see a tango show. At 11 PM the show was beginning downstairs, below the main dining area. Adjusting my eyes to the darkness, I saw that the room was almost full, with people seated at small tables near a raised stage that had a set made to look like a bistro. As I found a seat, the musicians began playing the distinctive tango music, which leans heavily on violin, piano and accordian. The singer also performed as master of ceremonies and narrator. Soon, dancers arrived onstage and performed tango dances under colored lights and smoke effects blown onto the stage. I was mesmerized and lost track of time, so that when I went to the subway at 1 AM to go home, found it was closed, and walked instead.
Tango is a good example of eros informing art, because it depends on the tension between the male and female partners. You can say tango is the expression in dance and music of controlled sexual passion.
I went on Thursday to the Museo De Bellas Artes, but found when I arrived at 10 AM, that it was closed - until 12:30. So I began wandering and THE DREAM led me to a nearby cemetary. La Recoleta is where many of Argentina´s most famous people are buried. It is a fascinating place, where I spent the next two hours slowly walking among the impressive mausoleums and peering inside them.
If I expect THE DREAM to show me one thing, it often detours to go somewhere else, and I simply go with the current and find surprise. Yesterday I sought the Modern Museum, but found it closed for reconstruction. Walking through the nearby streets I discovered the neighborhood called San Telmo, where antique shops dot the cobblestone roads. By chance, I discovered Walrus Books, which is Buenos Aires equivalent of Shakespeare and Co. in Paris, France. It sells only books in English, mostly used but in good condition. I bought The Karamazov Brothers, by Fyodor Dostoevsky, which I am now reading for the second time. Later, I returned to San Telmo where a big flea market was unfolding on a square. Performers were on the streets, and of course, tango.
My iPhone has a neat application whereas when I tap the phone, it transforms into a compass, which has helped me numerous times.
The saga of my broken laptop continues. A Mac shop here diagnosed the problem as a faulty logic board. They said it would take twenty days to receive a part and repair my computer. I bought a ticket and made plans to take it to Santiago, Chile, and try and have it repaired quickly while I stayed with my friend Pierre, but there has just been a huge earthquake, and this morning as I prepared to go the airport, I learned the flight is cancelled. This is another aspect of THE DREAM having a life of its own. I have considerable frustration now, but I keep watching the movie; incredulous.
This blog is late because of numerous problems over the weekend, and I will not elaborate. . . but I have minimum control these days. Where will I be next, and when? Whatever.

Mysterious Course

When at last I closed my eyes to sleep at 5AM, my last thoughts were not about the spectacular samba parade I had witnessed through the night. I could only think about the little boy I almost stumbled over while walking from the subway station to my hotel. He was alone, curled on his side, sleeping upon a piece of cardboard, with no shoes, belongings, or even a blanket. He looked about nine years old, and as dirty as his surroundings. The sight startled me and I almost stopped, but kept going without staring, ashamed that I had just come from an extravagant celebration among tens of thousands of revelers, and that I had spent lavishly for the privilege. When I arrived at my room I cried. There are many such abandoned children in Rio- they are children of the streets.

The samba parades have become such big events in Rio (see pictures), a special venue was created in their honor. The sambadrome is a glorified avenue, about quarter mile long with multi-tiered seating on both sides, holding perhaps 100,00 people. For four nights, various classes of samba groups parade through the sambadrome, starting at 9 PM and finishing at dawn. The lighting is very good, and music plays nonstop. Each group tries to outdo the others in extravagance, artistry and flamboyance, and comprises up to 5000 marchers and often, an accomanying float. The top groups are seen Sunday and Monday. I went Sunday and had a good view, which I paid handsomely for. When I left in the wee morning hours, I felt satisfied I had pictures I had come from the USA to get, and thought, okay, now if I am mugged, at least I have my carnival photos!

It rained a few days after carnival ended, and thankfully the smell of piss on the streets downtown finally washed away.

Many of the hillside neighborhoods have breathtaking views. For about 40 cents, a tram takes you on a winding course between downtown and a fun enclave above the city center, called Saint Theresa. I went there on a balmy evening, and briefly left the beaten track of galleries and bistros. A wall with exceptionally good grafitti caught my eye, so I chanced leaving the main street and began descending a broad flight stairs. A black woman with a flowing, gauzy dress cut high on one leg was climbing toward me. When she arrived beside me, I smiled and motioned to take her picture. She laughed and posed, waving her fan and dancing. Our tango lasted but a moment and then we gave each other thumbs up and turned to go. But she stopped and halted me, wagging a finger with a frown, pointing to the steps below. I motioned to the wall a few steps away, to satisfy her that I was not going into the dangerous favela.

I have thought of returning to Rio De Janeiro someday to do portraits. The people are colorful and I enjoy looking at them. Their features range from fair skinned and blonde to black- some with wavy hair and occasionally green or blue eyes. Many of the blacks have a fine blonde hair on their legs and arms. Everyone, black and white, have tan lines from being at the beaches.

The guys at the computer shop did not fix my laptop. This, after I waited an extra four days! "Because of carnival," they explained. So I will try to get it fixed in Buenos Aires where I arrive Sunday. I miss my computer! I have over 600 photos now, and want to work with them, among other projects. My frustration pales when I think of the children living on the streets. They are in THE DREAM and so am I . . . it has its own mysterious course it follows.

This is my 200th blog. They can all be found at My Fairy-Tale Life. They feed automatically to my facebook page.

Capricious Winds

Since setting foot in Brazil, capricious winds have jostled my fortunes. First, after 1 night in Sao Paolo, I returned to the airport for a flight to Rio De Janeiro, but at the ticket counter was told my departure was scheduled from a different airport. I did not have time to catch the plane, so had to buy another ticket and wait hours. I kicked myself because this had happened several years ago in Milan, Italy. Also, my trustworthy Mac laptop that has gone around the world with me, surviving a grueling safari in Tanzania and being dropped on an airport floor, suddenly quit in my Rio hotel. I depend on it for so much, for instance accessing my passwords and important files, processing photos, making travel plans, writing, etc. etc. It is now in a repair shop, but will take a week to get back because of carnival. This forces me to stay in Rio longer than expected.

I could make a book of impressions from my few days here. This city comes at you from many angles, bringing surprises. Right now, it is crowded for carnival. The hotels, and famous beaches-Copacabana and Ipanema are packed. Samba parades and street parties have begun. Friday night I went to a carnival ball  with the theme "Red and Black" at a famous club called Scala. The doors opened at 11PM to allow an international crowd inside. The big band onstage kept up a lively non-stop beat from the beginning and the crowd steadily swelled until the dance floor was packed around 1 AM. The music reached a pitch at 2 AM when dancers and extra percussionists arrived onstage. Only Brazilians can make their bodies quiver in waves from the inside out when they dance. I t has to be seen. I became part of the throbbing, pulsing mix on the floor, dancing with many people, including some transvestites who obviously were having too much fun. When I left at 3AM, the place was still packed and throbbing.

My hotel, located in central downtown, is very clean and modern, with marble floors and courteous staff. But just outside are the grimy, teeming streets, and on Saturday, the contrast became especially clear when the avenues were packed for a party, mostly of Brazilian. I ventured out but did not see tourists. No wonder because it was a drunken brawl. Some of my refined friends would have expired within minutes. The noise of music and revelry was thunderous, with hot, sweating people almost shoulder to shoulder, all talking and shouting at once. Alcohol was being sold in buckets, mostly by individuals selling from their coolers. Sophistication was absent from the event and barely anyone dressed in costume. I pushed through the crowd for a few blocks while tightly clutching my camera, looking to take pictures. The drunken, blind crush made me miserable. Lines of men urinated against the sides of buildings and the air smelled foul. Amazingly, lovers embrace and kissed amidst all this grotesque mayhem, exclaiming their oblivion to misery. Returning to my hotel, I realized vividly the dichotomy of luxury and poverty.
In the afternoon I ventured outside again to pursue my street photography. Strolling into unknown territory away from crowds, I looked for opportunities. Walls covered with painterly graffiti caught my eye, and as I stopped, a boy, perhaps 14 years old, dressed in some carnival attire came up to me to see what I was doing. We struck a friendship immediately and he posed for a few shots and then took some change I gave to him. Further on, I came to a pathetic group of objects spread on cloth placed along the sidewalk. Nobody was there, and I stopped because the chance arrangement of a few things caught my eyes. As soon as I had snapped a few pictures and turned to go, a drunken black man wearing a blonde wig grabbed me to demand money for taking pictures of his things. I paid him from my pocket and continued down the street, taking pictures of old doorways and walls marked with graffiti. Often, when I make these photos, I try and include anonymous pedestrians as they pass by. As I wandered this way, two young women walked past and suddenly one stopped and turned to me, asking if  I spoke Portugese. I replied "No" and she asked "English?" I sasid yes, and she replied, "I will tell you that what you are doing is very dangerous. This is a bad area. Be careful because everyone is watching you!"

Tonight I go to the huge samba parade at the Sambadrome. Next week I hope to have my computer back and will try and post pictures.

The Present Time

My mother’s walking has slowed, but not her reading. For as long as I can remember, she has read at least five books a week, and I notice that she has kept up the pace even in old age. Her neighbor is also an avid reader and goes to the library regularly, bringing my mother piles of books. It is a familiar sight in my parent’s home—stacks of books on the dining room table. “You are traveling now,” my mother spoke, “and have gone around the world, but I find my adventures in reading.”


My parents receive three newspapers each day: The New York Times, The Los Angeles Times, and The Santa Barbara News-Press. We agree that the New York Times is best, and remarkably, each day delivers facts, stories and data from around the globe and in many different fields of interest.

Since there is now a laptop in my parent’s home, I am hoping that they can enjoy it. My mother has declared she has no interest, but I have introduced her to something that may change her mind. Google Books is incredible. Thousands of volumes are available for free after an account is established. Incredibly, you can select a book and be reading it in less than a minute. Furthermore, you can adjust the type size, and scroll through pages with just one finger.

Monday I leave for Brazil. People have asked me, “Are you excited?” I reply that what excites me the most is the here and now. Just being alive is exciting, and my perception is that THE DREAM is a single entity. In other words, every moment is part of the one preceding it, and the one to come. I do not divide them but live in the universal. The present time gives me all that I need.


Next week I will be writing from Rio . . . and carnival!