PHOTOFICTION

Like a serial novella, served in continuous installments, this page is my publishing house for 'Photofiction'. A story unfolds with my photographs, illustrations and mixed-media pieces. A graphic novel of sorts!

"The Mental Notes of Currie and The Plant Keeper". Copyright (2012) by Patti Friday

Dear Currie,

I am so sad. I gasp for air in the night and dream of frogs who jump on my bed. The worst nightmare was of my leg, covered in swollen and sticky barley pearls and little black worms were slithering out from the center of each one. I scratched these moonbeam predators but they would not come off. I feel panicked most turns of the clock; in a hurry to do what? My joints suffer and I seize my limbs instead of the day. Has this life been a complete waste of speeding years. I fear that time is running out and the world will miss my entire point(s). Tell me Currie. What would you do if you were me?

Love The Plant Keeper

Dear Plant Keeper,

I woke up this morning thinking of Dad. Remember he used to make such a mess in the kitchen on Saturday afternoons? And Mom would be so happy lounging by the pool, sipping her gin and tonic. She never did much really. One day I listened from the steps of the turquoise chlorine water. You sat on the edge of that vinyl lawn chair and asked her about my name. She took a long swirling puff of her cigarette, shrugged her shoulders and said, 'Her Father named her. And so she became Currie.'.

I guess it's Father's Day somewhere.

Love Currie

Currie Dearest. You never wrote back to me. And then I got your letter yesterday. 

Thankfully the sunshine and humidity this summer has raised my spirits some what.  Odd that the makers of sunscreen don't really describe in full, honest detail how to use and apply and re-apply sunscreen. For heaven's sake, who knew this? I sure didn't. Did you? Did you realize that SPF 15 needs to be slathered on again and again and again every fifteen minutes! What a racket.  Anyway, here's my dilemma. The apples are not on the tree. Seriously Currie. There aren't any. And none on the ground either. I looked. That crabby farmer down the tenth line was spewing at the cafe, stating that the early Spring and the walloping cold snap killed the buds and confused the bees. Well, I never. What shall I do with our acres and acres of macintosh trees? 

Write back soon. I did a rain dance last night and slid down the banister five times. I think it may have worked. The screen door just banged. Must go.


Love The Plant Keeper


P.S. I am growing garlic to go with your spices.

Dearest Plant Keeper,

Before I answer you about the fragile fruit situation, I wanted to let you know that the elevator in the loft is on the damn fritz. I lug my canvases up the back stairs; annoyed at first, having to go pee, and then beyond frustration I begin to laugh remembering our little cubby inside the farmhouse. You know the place. Under the stairs. We'd hide there when Dad began to yell. You'd grab your little Dixie Cup bean plant. Masking tape emblazoned with your official title marked in scribbled handwriting. All upper case. THE PLANT KEEPER.  Of all the things you wanted to protect while he smashed his way through the creaky floored rooms was your sprouted greenery.  

Forget about the apples for this season my love.  Nature has decided. 

I've started a new series of paintings. "Miracle Whip". This triptych is called, 'Whose Joint Is This Anyway?". The Latino lady who runs the bodega smirked and her cousin was so offended.

What do you think?

Oh. And about the rainfall. You better do another dance tonight. It didn't work.

Love Currie

Dear Currie,

That Dixie Cup holder; avocado green plastic, is still screwed into the wall beside the tall pantry cupboard.  The one closet to the sink, which for the record, I finally fixed. No more dripping in the night. I thought I'd go (further) mad with the drip, drip, drip, drip. 

I've resigned to the fact that I won't be making apple pies this Fall. I'll settle for corn relish and Lady Rose pickles. 

The thing about Jesus and Mary. Are they smoking weed or a Camel?  Potheads claim the plant was here and used as stated in the good book of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost. But that's not your point I am pondering. I mean you are correct. Who is in charge of this place, this planet, this universe. Seems the humans can't decide and trouble-she's-a-brewing all over the place. Sad and angry people. Lonely souls, lost and forgotten and brutalized and beaten down. 

To magnify all this spiritual confusion we've got souvenir icons and crosses and symbols and tchotchkes made in China, trimmed in faux gold, sitting on car dashboards and hanging from rear-view mirrors. They sit on bedside tables and around skinny necks and grace the mantles of hopeful homes. Do you really think a key chain can save you? That's the miracle Currie. That we are all still walking and able to function even though we settle to believe in something that can't be proven. Whipped like unruly work horses in the field. I believe you are on to something. Keep going. 

I'm having a bad day. I am sad and still hopeless in everything. The potatoes should be good. I planted them a bit late, but the quality of eyes. Amazing! 

Can't shake the memory of him hating me so.  My. Even the dirt under my nails is cleaner than his filthy attacks on my emotions. He was relentless. Vicious. The meanest person I ever met. I wish I could forget his words. 

Tonight's dreams better be in technicolour cause I need some happy to fill me up. Which God is in charge anyway? You see. The world has a problem. None of us can decide.

Love The Plant Keeper

Damn You Currie!!!!

Where are you?  I might lose a lung riding my Bobbin down the lane to the post box.  I watch for the plume of dust.  I listen for the man's screeching tires and echo of the crows flapping away in a panic. Then I know the mail has arrived.  It's been seventeen days since I got a letter from you. I only have eight cigarettes left.  I keep them in the freezer.  You know I hope to get something from you at least every pack. Remember?

In honour of harvesting and processing my Chinese lanterns yesterday I made home-made egg rolls to eat with my sugar-boiled corn..  Thank God I was able to find a greasy little packet of plum sauce way, way in the back of the junk drawer!  Do you like where I put your butterfly painting?  This plant is so aggressive. It is taking over the entire border down by the pond.  I'm OK with it. Plants needs to be free. I am packing up a box of about 50 stems to ship to your studio. They will look spooky cool in one of your old coffee cans.  Just dump those crusty used paintbrushes out of one.  I need the exact address. Hurry up now!

Did I tell you I bought a pink ukulele?  

Love Your Plant Keeper Forever.

_________________________________________________________________________________

Dear Plant Keeper,

The sky was fiery peach and strawberry this morning. A touch of salmon flesh mixed with juicy cantaloupe. Burning smoky clouds blushed on the eastern morning horizon. Rising, warning, welcoming. The sailors whispered of pending wavy doom. I'm sure I heard them. Oh, I'd give anything sweet, sweet Sister to be on a ship; floating down a calm river. Lounging on the upper deck watching an avocado French landscape slip by.  

So sorry for being late with this return post. I don't want to use the word 'busy'. It sounds so selfish, don't you agree?  But, I have been heart-occupied with my new blank canvases. I see the work but can't pull it up and out of my inner atelier.  The studio will certainly be brightened with those Chinese lanterns of yours!  I can't wait to receive them. Box them up carefully. 

Don't faint. I know you will want to when you hear this, but I've packaged (twine, brown paper and prettywashi tape - green polka-dot, your favorite colour) a dozen blueberry scones for you. They are on their way to your golden rod road. Oh yes. You may bow before me now. Yes, indeed. I made them special order for you. Just the way we used to bake them on coolish rainy autumn Sundays. They will melt in your mouth.

Kiss me now because I must run.

Love Currie

_________________________________________________________________________________