If Webster's New Dictionary can still have a crew haircut, a pipe and sport a yellow slicker, I can make an attempt to entertain myself and the casual reader. No one is captive as we all have the option to ignore anything in black and white and green and red that comes into plain sight... So, I can't say much about this blog...just that its about me and the every day occurrences of "moi." Cheers!
Me: I am an illustrator, I am a cantor. I am one more citizen of the world. I was once a political refugee. I live in a city where the sun shines year round (except when it rains.) I cannot complain. Life is good and definitely interesting.
Nancily's Cupcake Shack/ Sister Blog
Follow me on another blog to my cousin Nancilys decadent sweetness...
As I have begun to walk
in prayerful meditation in preparation for days to come, I leave you with great heart the Divine Mercy
Chaplet.
Through Saint Faustina,
Jesus also revealed special ways to live out the response to His mercy–one of
which is the Chaplet of Divine Mercy, as both a novena and a prayer for the
three o'clock hour–the hour of His death.
How to Recite the Chaplet of Divine Mercy
The Chaplet of Mercy is recited
using ordinary rosary beads of five decades. The Chaplet is preceded by two
opening prayers from the Diary of Saint Faustina and followed by a closing
prayer.
Optional Opening Prayers
You expired, Jesus, but the
source of life gushed forth for souls, and the ocean of mercy opened up for the
whole world. O Fount of Life, unfathomable Divine Mercy, envelop the whole
world and empty Yourself out upon us.
O Blood and Water, which gushed
forth from the Heart of Jesus as a fountain of Mercy for us, I trust in You!
Begin with the Our Father, the Hail Mary and the Apostle's Creed:
Our Father
Our Father, Who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name; Thy kingdom come; Thy will
be done on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread; and
forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us; and lead
us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil, Amen.
Hail Mary
Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst
women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God,
pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death, Amen.
The Apostle's Creed
I believe in God, the Father Almighty, Creator of Heaven and earth; and in
Jesus Christ, His only Son, Our Lord, Who was conceived by the Holy Ghost, born
of the Virgin Mary, suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified; died, and was
buried. He descended into Hell; the third day He arose again from the dead; He
ascended into Heaven, sitteth at the right hand of God, the Father Almighty;
from thence He shall come to judge the living and the dead. I believe in the
Holy Spirit, the holy Catholic Church, the communion of saints, the forgiveness
of sins, the resurrection of the body, and the life everlasting. Amen.
Then, on the large bead before each decade:
Eternal Father,
I offer you the Body and Blood,
Soul and Divinity,
of Your Dearly Beloved Son,
Our Lord, Jesus Christ,
in atonement for our sins
and those of the whole world.
On the ten small beads of each decade, say:
For the sake of His sorrowful
Passion,
have mercy on us and on the whole world.
Conclude with (Say 3 Times):
Holy God,
Holy Mighty One,
Holy Immortal One,
have mercy on us
and on the whole world.
Optional Closing Prayer
Eternal God, in whom mercy is
endless and the treasury of compassion inexhaustible, look kindly upon us and
increase Your mercy in us, that in difficult moments we might not despair nor
become despondent, but with great confidence submit ourselves to Your holy
will, which is Love and Mercy itself.
Our Lord said to Saint Faustina:
Encourage souls
to say the Chaplet which I have given you ... Whoever will recite it will
receive great mercy at the hour of death ... When they say this chaplet in the
presence of the dying, I will stand between my Father and the dying person, not
as the Just Judge but as the Merciful Savior ... Priests will recommend it to
sinners as their last hope of salvation. Even if there were a sinner most
hardened, if he were to recite this chaplet only once, he would receive grace
from my infinite mercy. I desire to grant unimaginable graces to those souls
who trust in My mercy ... Through the Chaplet you will obtain everything, if
what you ask for is compatible with My will.
Pen and Ink Illustration - Portrait from a Passport - Ana Juncadella 1/1 - 1977 scratch pen
Are we to paint what's on the face, what's inside the face, or what's behind it?
As you can see in the illustration above, on the far right corner, this piece was created in 1977. This was a time whereby the body of work I produced hoisted archetypal, if not hackneyed, images of an immature state of an artist. The strokes on the parchment are non-committal and hide behind scattered and confused lines. The expression on the storyboard of my muse was more of a reflection of what I was feeling rather than the image that I lifted it from. Despite, the accidental lines and anxious manipulation of the ink, I embrace this piece still because of what it represents - bone deep sadness.
For many years every scratch I made would be cloaked in confusion; I was mourning the passing of my father years earlier. On this occasion it was impossible to escape the sting of death. It took a long time before I was able to paint an adequate rendition of what was on, inside or behind any face including my own.
Today, the faces I paint are clear and engaging and any interpretation at my hand can be considered transparent. Thanks to my father, I own the perfect love template and thanks to my father I am as strong as the valuable lessons learned when I was bone deep saddened.
Me and Raul - best father ever
"I know for certain that we never lose the people we love, even to death. They continue to participate in every act, thought and decision we make. Their love leaves an indelible imprint in our memories. We find comfort in knowing that our lives have been enriched by having shared their love."
I have been told that life is easier when we learn to live freely by embracing our unfinished and unresolved issues. I truly believe I had this one in my pocket until I decided to convert my seventies butcher block kitchen into the Food Channel standard.
In February of last year, I entrusted this project to a reliable contractor and “friend”, whom I affectionately call Tony “Carpintero.” As a point of reference, in our house, it is mandatory to add a suffix or identifier to anyone named Tony. In all there are: Tony, the husband; Tony, the son-in-law; Tony, the father-in-law; Tona the aunt; Tony, the colleague; and now my son, Armando (the new Tony) as this is the name he has chosen for confirmation. In any event, my new kitchen became my Valentine’s Day gift and all my Tony’s agreed to celebrate together some haute cuisine once the project was completed.
Well, spring came and went and Tony “Carpintero” disappeared. Summer arrived and I got a promise to return. In the fall, he asked that I not pressure him as he was in the midst of bigger projects. The Floridian winter arrived and the kitchen still lacks all of her promised bells and whistles. My “Capintero” took his masterful mill work out of state and has yet to find his way back to his humble beginnings at 33012. On a positive note, the work that was completed was well done but, I have learned to glance over the unfinished pantry, trims and shelves and still smile. I have learned to embrace the loose ends. No denying I had my intermittent moments of mutinous thoughts and expletives, but that is behind me today.
After really, truly, accepting my station in kitchen life, I decided to employ some divine intervention to my plight and I ordered a small statue of Saint Lorenzo, the Patron Saint of Chefs from Italy.
According to history, Saint Lorenzo, was one of seven deacons under Pope St. Sixtus and was condemned to death by the Prefect of Rome. The story goes that as he was being grilled, he called out to those torturing him and said, ”Turn me over I’m done on this side!”. Then he prayed that the city of Rome might be converted to Jesus and that the Catholic Faith may spread all over the world. And right before he died, he said, “It’s cooked enough now.” Based on this story, it is said that Saint Lorenzo is the patron Saint of cooks.
Today, my kitchen waits with a spiritual companion in the cupboard named Lorenzo. I have artfully concocted some haute cuisine to our satisfaction and I don't lose sleep over unfinished mill work. In fact, no worries, this Valentine’s Day she may turnover as she will be done on all sides..
Saint Lorenzo, Patron Saint of Chefs - August 10th
Illustration: pen and ink - Ana Juncadella 1/1 self portrait
My Letter to the World
This is my letter to the world, That never wrote to me,-- The simple news that Nature told, With tender majesty. Her message is committed To hands I cannot see; For love of her, sweet countrymen, Judge tenderly of me! Emily_Dickinson
Illustration: pen & ink - Ana Juncadella 1/1
The Bird of Folklore
It is wintertime, and the earth is covered with a layer of snow, as smooth as if it were marble cut from a mountain. The sky is high and clear, and the wind as sharp as an elfin-forged sword; the trees stand like white coral, or resemble blooming almond branches, and the air is as fresh as it is in the high Alps. The night is beautiful with streaming northern lights and countless twinkling stars.
Storms are coming; the clouds rise and scatter swan feathers; the snowflakes drift down, covering the hollow lane, the houses, the open fields, and the quiet streets. But we are sitting in a cozy room, before a glowing fire, and tales of olden days are being told. We hear a legend.
"By the open sea there lay a viking's grave, and on it at midnight sat the ghost of that buried hero. He had been a king, the golden crown encircling his brow. His hair fluttered in the wind, and he was clad in iron and steel. He bowed his head sorrowfully and sighed in deep grief, like an unblessed spirit.
"Then a ship came near. The men cast anchor and went on land. Among them was a scald, and he stepped forth toward the kingly form and asked, 'Why do you grieve and suffer?'
"Thereupon the dead man answered, 'No man has sung of my deeds; they are dead and gone. Song has never carried them over the lands and into the hearts of men; therefore I have no rest, no peace.'
"And he told of his work and his mighty deeds; the men of his time had known them, but not sung of them, for then there were no scalds.
"Then the old scald plucked the strings of his harp and sang of the hero - of his daring as a youth, his strength in manhood, and his great and noble deeds. At that the dead one's face brightened, like the edge of a cloud touched with moonlight; happy and blessed, the form arose in beams of glory and vanished like a trail of the northern lights. Only the green mound of turf with the stone devoid of runes remained to be seen; but over it, at the last sound of the chords, and as if it had come from the harp itself, there flew a tiny bird. It was a most beautiful songbird, with the tuneful melodies of the thrush, the throbbing melodies of the human heart, songs of home, as the bird of passage hears them. The bird flew over hill, over valley, and over forest and meadow. It was the Bird of Folklore, which never dies."
We hear the song; we hear it now here in our room, in the winter evening, while the white bees swarm outside and the tempest tightens its strong grip. The Bird sings not only heroic songs; it sings soft, sweet love songs, rich and many; it sings of faithfulness in the North; it gives us fairy tales in melodies and words; it has proverbs and a language in song, and thereby, as if runes were laid on a dead man's tongue, it can speak to us of ancient times, and thus we know the homeland of the Bird of Folklore.
In ancient heathen days, in the times of the vikings, its nest was in the harp of the bard. In the days of knighthood, when iron fists held the scales of justice, and only might was right, when the peasant and the dog were of equal value, where then did the Bird find shelter? Brutality and narrow-mindedness alike had no thought for it. But over the balcony of the castle, where the lady sat before her parchment and wrote down the old records in song and story; in the humble green-turf hut, where the wandering peddler sat on the bench beside the good woman, telling her tales - there, above them, fluttered and flew, twittered and sang, the Bird that never dies so long as earth is green under the foot of man - the Bird of Folklore.
Now it sings for us in here. Outside are the snowstorm and the night. The Bird lays runes on our tongue; we know again our homeland, as God speaks to us in our mother tongue in the melodies of the Bird of Folklore, and the old memories rise within us; faded colors are bright again; song and tale give the joy of a blessed drink, lifting mind and soul until the evening seems like a Christmas festivity. The snow is drifting, and the ice is crackling; the storm reigns; it has great power; it is the lord, but not our Lord!
It is wintertime, the wind still as sharp as an elfin-forged sword; the snow is drifting - it has been drifting, it seems to us, for days and weeks - and it lies like a monstrous snow mountain over the big town; it is like a weighty dream in the winter night. All beneath it is hidden and seemingly nonexistent; only the golden cross on the church, the symbol of faith, rises above the snow grave and glitters against the blue sky in the clear sunshine.
And away over the snow-covered town fly the birds of heaven, the large and the small; they chirp and they sing, each in its own tongue.
First is the flock of sparrows; they chirp about all the little things in street and lane, in nest and house; they know tales of the kitchen and the parlor. "We know that buried town," they say. "Every living soul there has cheep, cheep, cheep!"
Then the black ravens and crows fly over the white snow. "Dig! Dig!" they scream. "There's still something to get down there, something for the belly - that's the most important thing. That's the opinion of most people down below there, and that opinion is caw, caw, caw!"
The wild swans come with whizzing wings and sing of the greatness and glory that still live in the thoughts and hearts of the men in the snow-covered slumber of the town. It is not the sleep of death, for evidence of life comes forth; we hear it in tones of music; they swell and sound as if they are coming from the church organ, they are gripping as a strain from an elfin mound, as Ossianic songs, as the winged rush of the Valkyries. What harmony! It speaks to our inmost heart, uplifts our thoughts; we hear the Bird of Folklore! And now the warm breath of God breathes down from above; the snow mountain breaks open, and the sun shines in through it. The spring is coming, and the birds are coming, a new generation, with the same familiar tones. Hearken to the drama of the year - the mighty snowstorm - the weighty dream of a winter night! All fetters shall be broken here, and everything shall rise again at the beautiful song of the Bird of Folklore - the Bird that never dies.
What a day it was! I can still feel the good 'mojo' and excitement of Innauguration day.
It's one of those days that you don't forget. As life will have it, many or a few years down the line, no doubt, someone will ask, "Where were you on Innauguration Day 2013?" Yes, Siree Bob! I will respond with rapid fire, "I was perched in my favorite arm chair in my "Florida" room. This arm chair traveler followed the entire 'fete' with zeal; inspired by the festivities, but especially by Ricardo Blanco, a Cuban American poet and teacher chosen to be the nation's fifth inaugural poet.
I am sure some or many haters would beg to differ with me, but I believe, that despite who you follow an Elephant, Donkey or another party, you just couldn't deny the positive energy of this partiotic day in 2013.
The following poem was delivered by Inaugural Poet Richard Blanco during President Obama's second inaugural ceremonies Monday. Below is the full poem, as provided by the Presidential Inaugural Committee.
'Woke up, fell out of bed Dragged a comb across my head Found my way downstairs and drank a cup And looking up, I noticed I was late Found my coat and grabbed my hat Made twelfth Ave in seconds flat...'
I am clearly beating my own dead horse, but....allow me to introduce my encounter with COEXIST.
co·ex·ist(kg-zst)
intr.v.co·ex·ist·ed, co·ex·ist·ing,
co·ex·ists
1. To exist together, at the same time, or in the same
place.
2. To live in peace with another or others despite
differences, especially as a matter of policy:
What a lovely concept; to be one with the universe and inhabitants. Ah.... but,
this is my tale of woe about a fellow co-exister.
You decide - illustrations et. al. of one Hialeah morning on my way to the Metro rail station on Okeechobee Road, Florida. *Please refer to photograph. (feel free to click on image)
My goal: to drive south on 12th Avenue and reach Okeechobee Road, turn left and arrive at the Metro.
COEXIST'S goal: to drive south on 12th Avenue and reach Okeechobee Road and turn left by skipping ahead of all cars headed the same way feverishly and arrive at the front of the line like Conan the Barbarian.
Exhibit X: Coexist decides to enter at X point facing oncoming traffic.
Realizing that there was a car directly facing him/her at that position, he/she skirted around the car facing him/her aggressively cutting ahead and pushing into the line of the south bounders. Note: the south bound cars were patiently lined up in the proper lanes headed to Okeechobee road. It was a bumper to bumper morning.
Exhibit Y: Exhibit Y appeared to be a good idea to COEXIST because the median markings were off limits to lawabiding drivers and shielded COEXIST from the north bound cars. So let's drive through the striped yellow lines until we can make that Evil Keneival move.
Exhibit Z: Not good enough. He/she took a leap of faith just ahead of Exhibit Yand entered the south bound group by jumping ahead of 16 cars submissively waiting their turn as they headed towards the very same crossing.
I was the last guy he/she finally cut off, hence the lovely photo of the tag reading COEXIST and "My Child Did the Right Thing."
If you personally know COEXIST, be a friend and let he/she know the next guy might not be as nice as I am. If you are braving the roads as I am, Beware of a Kamakazi Hollywood Chrysler Jeep with a brag tag that reads COEXIST - tag T47 0AM!
I love movies! Sadly, I am typically a few light years behind the celebrated neon launches at the box office. This 2005 gem and its' kin the 1997 masterpiece Life is Beautiful / La Vite e Bella written, directed, and protagonized by the talented Roberto Benigni feed my cinema-loving soul - this is myunofficialover the top recommendation... just sayin'
Each original storyline reveals Roberto Benigni's skillful ability to create delightful protagonists such are Attilio de Giovanni and Guido Orefice as humorous, charming and chimerical in a way that only Benigni can portray. Attilio and Guido both tend to answer their own questions with rhyme and quip; an endearing quality that spools the viewer into the film and then grabs on with wit and charm until the credits creep into view.
Although much acclaimed and chosen by many as a top film, this was not the 'Oscar' choice. Benigni brings us yet another love story framed by a time of war with an unpredictable yet spurious conclusion.
In brief, Attilio de Giovanni in 'Tiger in the Snow' teaches poetry in Italy. He has a romantic soul, and is universally loved by women. He dreams of one woman, Vittoria (portrayed by Nicoletta Braschi also in Life is Beautiful and real life wife to Benigni). Every night, as if in a fairytale, he dreams of marrying her while always sporting his boxer shorts and a t-shirt as his wedding attire. The plot takes the cast to the Gulf war whereby the love story ultimately reveals itself.
Go ahead and accept Benigni's invitation into whimsy. You will thank me later.
A love-struck Italian poet is stuck in Iraq at the onset of an American invasion.
Recently, I was having what seems to be a recurring discussion about the pay for artists' and musicians' services -typically a conversation that takes place after having rendered a service and not having received remuneration.
The reality is that due to the nature of my specific venue, which is in the service to and in the house of God, I have found that it has become increasingly easier for assembly members and non- parishioners to take advantage of the forever smiling, kind hearted musician.
On more than one occasion, I have been contacted half joking and or half seriously to cantor at a liturgical service at no cost for a private mass. No problem, totally possible. Once alerted, I have accepted and happily sacrificed time and treasure for the cause. Time because I am away from my family and activities. Treasure because I am not getting paid and I have bills to be paid like everybody else; I could be earning my keep elsewhere. This is a choice that I can either accept or decline; a spiritual donation of sorts. So far, no worries, Charity can be my middle name and is many times over.
On more than one occasion, I have been left a hopeless beggar seeking wages; embarrassed, demoralized and hands extended like poor pathetic Oliver Twist, "please Sir I want some more".
At this point, this very same aforementioned conversation takes place - to exhaustion.The conversation starts with, "Well, they paid for the flowers, the party, the clothes, the photographer, the caddy and so forth...what are we a band of free musical martyrs? No bueno!
I will further with an analogy of a lawyer (not the same, but think about it). An individual trains to become a lawyer for several years, first obtaining their bachelor's degree, then passing the LSAT law school entrance exam, then they pursue their law degree, pass the board around graduation time and are certified to practice law in a particular state. Part of the reason lawyers are paid what they are is because of their specific training. Well, in that respect it's not much different for musicians. Musicians spend years learning their instrument, songs, recording their music, attention to liturgy and conferences to get it out to the public in a tangible and consumable way, overall, perfecting their craft.
Unfortunately, some think it's okay to devalue all that training and work by asking the musician to do pro-bono work or accept a handshake and a, "thank you my sister/brother." I don't know too many lawyers who would be willing to accept a handy dandy handshake for a stipend and willingly pursue pro-bono work for the majority of their career.
The point is, there is a business side of being a musician even in His service. I find it beneficial to educate those around us about the mass and what is involved. I've also found that information is the best resource in helping people understand what goes into being a professional musician in the service of God. I hope they can begin to look at the same situation differently and offer up more than a handshake when it is time to pay the piper.
Long story short, 2013 arrives on a white horse and carriage with a new set of wheels and these wheels and the horse and carriage are not yet paid for. Perdition!
All joking aside, music takes a lot of effort for a good artist/musician to be able to provide that service well, and thus they should be paid for it.
Final thought: Music is an enhancement to any service, but the Catholic Worship Service in itself is what gives greater glory to God not the music.
Slow and fractured tales from Madame Dragonfly's nest - a pocket compass while fluttering along on the Road...to The Way of St. James; Le chemin de St. Jacques; Jakobsweb; Il cammino di Santiago; O caminho de Santiago; Ruta Xacobea; El Camino Frances; The pilgrimage route to Santiago de Compostela and Life.
g-z
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