Mea culpa mea culpa mea culpa

Mea culpa mea culpa mea culpa my Daddy , wave the glistening scepter above my humble head .        Embaseth the vestment and vouchsafe unto me  swaggering piercing judgement  until I am dead .        I kneel in the shadows of men's alters but it is always your infinite structure Daddy  that over takes my being and prostrate thus lower I moan Daddy i have been bad . I bend over lower behumbled  by your prejugdement  Daddy . So very vary  bad  have i been that your banging at the back door of the fiber of my being is just medicine for desired penance . Oh Daddy I will take the whole swaggering girth of your sovereign  scepter into my wanting hands to gently kiss with my red lips and drink down deep delightful essence  . And Daddy when you are nearing the end of my punishment and lesson I will arch my back upwards  high to honor and salute you my master in ecstatic joyful excitement .       I lie  myself naked at your feet my sweet  Daddy , purge me of my dirty sins oh knowing master  Judge for your self almighty Daddy how latent and slippery deep my sinful passion  lies .Gag me Daddy and bound and tie my white limbs with strong leather ties . Beat and kick me hard with a vengeance due a weak sinner till my exposed white back and limbs turns pink and than red . I beseech you dear Daddy for my lustful passion will control me until I am dead . bless me Daddy for I have sinned it has been forty-eight years from  my last confession . Flagellate my naked body dear  sweet Daddy , forgive my nasty dirty transgression .

Artist Art Work Opening Show at The Bundy Museum of Art and History Binghamton NY .Oil Paintings by Thomas J Nixon, Show Title Adult Care Giving

Here I go again stepping up to home plate with feet firmly grounded in the dirt covering earth. Every Artist/Batter chooses his or her day . At the end inning and fanfare left to linger behind to a blind eye or death ear, my art work. Opening evening I will bow prostrate with an extended leg and flat back kissing a man made carpet of worsted wool of the finest quality.You the viewer will decide good or bad and decide is it art? Behold hanging on white gallery walls my art work vulnerable and exposing my soul expressed with oil paint  on wood. In a valley surrounded by rolling hills on the third floor of The Bundy Museum my art awaits my your visit. Already I ask why I created the paintings-



-your visit. Already I ask why I created the paintings? My guess is I do not know when to shut up. Being stubborn is not a virtuous quality. From birth day through out life I have never given up painting . I always have something to say with paint and drawing . Using Art as expression for me is an inherent quality giving me the strength and determination to go forward. Perhaps I will live on to paint more with resounding notes left to echo off  the Southern Tiers rolling hills. For now this opening night is my short lived 15 minuets of fame.

                                                            painting detail by Thomas J Nixon

Sunday Thursday

First 5 hours after a morning breaking feathered birds sing a chorus and feed their young dependent fledglings cuddled in beak and Tallon made nests well hidden up in trees. Underway moving traffic east-west on interstate race by leaving rolling rubber steel belted tires spinning beyond imagination wooshing and ringing reverberating through the cool air. Cylinder and piston driven engine noise echoes off the surrounding granite filled rolling hills. Throughout the Southern Tier all hamlets and tributaries, towns, villages and cities are in valleys awaken sleepy-eyed. All the while a commerce never ceasing 24/7 lassoes in a few early birds and ever nimble fingers caress plastic  screens of phones and I Pads. The quest for carbs, sugars, and fats of processed food substances filled with salts and preservatives quickly begins again perhaps never to end throughout the day with the unquenchable thirst signaled by a plastic bottle in hand. A morning misty haze electrified by sunlight becomes ablaze with blinding full spectrum white warm light.  The last lilac blossom aromas now joined by wisteria perfume the air. An open bedroom window covered by lace drapery fluttering sensually like Solomay's vail not covering up much tickles a quivering throbbing flesh. Somewhere a Herrod is passing judgment sentencing mankind to shackles of lifetimes of hard labor. From sunrise to twilight and sundown the lasso around one's neck never loosens. The ball and chain around one's ankle keep one in line of defined boundary. As Sunday spins on to Thursday and twilight makes love with dawn a nightingale sings a territorial song. Cool breezes flit around as a bridal vale lifts to reveal soft supple lips moistened for the kiss of a 5oclock shadow lip and cheek. Thursday Swoopes in downcasting its shadow upon plant life and mankind. The entire world shakes and pressure is released. Man and time continue to die. Sundays and Thursdays are born all over the world again.

                 

Connor Running

Connor runs like wind passing  over sand leaving ripples vibrating sunshine back into the atmosphere of blue cradled  by darkness absorbing bright white and yellow stars passing through our universe colliding amongst dust particles dancing in broken patches of sunlight piercing canopied forests and rock  remains and bones of dinosaurs  long ago .

Dust Gathers Any Time Any Year

  You have miles to go while I have few and yet soon to sleep .  On the round house of blue ceilings there are many rooms . I will live to the last of my words that will echoe quietly on dark waltzs  whose notes linger  falling deep .                                                                                                                            At every end there comes a rumbling thunderous quake . No nothing is wrong . Listen  to mothers whispers .  All will be well . White softness will carress on any a morning you awake .                Solstace and frozen days arrive uninvited . There is earth and yet there is water . But where is a home ?                                                                                                                                                               Watching ones boundries fill to their coffers and yet next door there are bars creating boundries . Who  cares  . We  are  you and  I  am me   .    You and me are free as the round houses forrests beneath painted blue ceilings filled to the outter limits of dreams  .                                                                   Choose to carry on the load one way or anouther . Problems arrive anew like no other . Drink our mothers waters so sweet .  Choose to tough the load long  down the paven street .

Thank You Both

   I am thinking of my father deceased 10 years . I am thinking of my mother deceased 5 months . Today we ate turkey , the gift of my mother a few months back . Both of  my parents younger years were not  my times .Their younger years were the Great Depression Years . The whole country of The United States of America in a state of depression of significant scale  . Theirs were years of rations . Rations of foods . Rations of  gas and oils .Theirs were the years of families loosing their homes . Their younger years were the years of the great dust storms . Their formative years governed how they raised their children , me and my siblings .                                                                                           My parents younger years became their tools to educate their children . Hours spun onto years as my parents memory stories  schooled us children . Most of the stories  had pleasant  antidotal  endings . Others of their stories ended sadly with melancholcal endings . Indeed the basest of tools teach a good lesson when the tools are used well .                                                                                                   Today my stomach is full . I feel the love that my parents had for one and other and their children  as a blessing unmeasurable . I am truly thankful to have had such wonderful parents and take their lessons of life and love to the bank of daily life every day to my very  last . 

Bouquet

As of fine wine your cut flaxen glistening bright with  not a single one out of place I long to drink in . With frame so square and angular  I enfold and cave  into day dreaming  desire  . Your entire enclosure   butressed  by strong bone and angle  is  pillow wing  down  fill to my   head longing to rest  . Your image my eyes take in  assuaging my brains need of  pleasure release to receive a comfort akin to happiness yet all the  while with in soul I am tormented .