MP Contact


image: Contact
 CONTACT
& Subscribe to the NEWSLETTER

Use the form below to share your thoughts or ask questions. Anything you would like to say is welcome. 

Also use it to subscribe to the free every-month-or-so newsletter (100+ subscribers). Just check the box.

The newsletter includes newest works of original art, photography, and sometimes video, audio, prose, verse, and excerpts from the Squeezeshot Saga. You can see recent issues below, after the form.

Your name

Your email address

< < < To receive the newsletter, check this box.

Thoughts, questions . . . ? All are welcome. Write them here.

CAPTCHA (required):

PRIVACY: We will make no other use of your name and address.






Email button 100W
NEWSLETTERS
Below are the latest Issues.
For all issues,
 
click here.






squeezeshot angel with pearl

November/December 2017


CONTENTS

IMAGES

SAGA
EXHIBITION







IMAGES

Zoom or click for a closer (and more revealing) look. 👀



Leaving the ClubLeaving the Club






Dancing the Night AwayDancing the Night Away





Self and OtherIdea(s) to Chew On





Untitled imageUntitled





Hand of GodHand of God (Above and Within)




Witnessing the MiraculousWitnessing the Miraculous





Perfectly OrdinaryPerfectly Ordinary





UntitledUntitledUntitledUntitledUntitled





UntitledUntitled





UntitledUntitled





No CenterNo Center?



 




THE SQUEEZESHOT SAGA

Excerpt 6
from
Journal cover

The chapter titled A Saving Grace: The Eternal Present, begun in the September and October issues, concludes below. In it, Vassal Squeezeshot describes his first encounter with angels. More Journal excerpts appear at the Squeezeshot website, as part of Vassal’s multivolume saga. Below, the end of Excerpt 5 sets the scene for Excerpt 6.



 

A Saving Grace: The Eternal Present
 (conclusion)
 


last paragraphs of
Excerpt 5

I first met the angels three summers before that. I had completed postgraduate studies in electrical engineering and molecular biology, with related studies in other engineering fields, as well as in chemistry, physics, philosophy, and literature. In the course of those studies, my curiosity had led me in many directions, which I had pursued voraciously.

When I graduated, however, I suffered a letdown. I lacked goals and ambition. I hadn’t looked for a job, or thought much about it. I didn’t want to think about it. My mind held too much baggage, to no purpose. I felt restless, unable to move forward, becalmed without peace of mind.


*

Water pours
into a pool without end
—no journey ahead.
— H.A.

*

I spent the summer alone. I loved to fish. Often in those years, I drove deep into the Maine woods to fly-fish for brook trout. Day after day, I forced my beat-up car down a half-mile of overgrown logging road, then lugged my canoe and fishing gear over several hundred yards of tangled game trail, to the shore of my favorite pond.

The best time to fish was late afternoon and evening, when hatching insects attracted trout to the surface. I usually went in midafternoon, however, to arrive early. At the shore, I would put down my load, and make my way to a ridge that rose a few hundred feet above the north side. At the top, I sat on a moss-covered promontory I had found, leaned back on my hands, stretched my legs in front of me, and for an hour or two looked out over the pond and the miles of forest beyond it. Most days, clouds drifted across the sky, their shadows playing on the treetops below me. Waves marched across the pond’s surface, and lapped the shore. Gusts of wind rippled the water, and breezes twirled. Fish ducks, mergansers, fished in the coves. Often, a beaver would be swimming near the marshes.

In the shallows, great blue herons fished among the aquatic grasses. Sometimes, a mink darted from the shore to pull mussels and crawfish from the rocks and mud on the bottom. A white-tailed deer might stroll from the forest to drink. Often, a moose stood shoulder deep, feeding on underwater plants. Some days, a fox trotted along, hunting for squirrels, snakes, frogs, toads, grasshoppers, and the like. Almost always, a few kingfishers would be diving into the pond from overhanging trees and emerging with minnows clutched in their beaks. Small birds and larger—warblers, nuthatches, chickadees, jays, woodpeckers, thrushes—fluttered through the bushes and trees. Crows and ravens flew above. Gulls—herring gulls and big, bullying black-backs—circled higher, scavenging. Red-tailed hawks, osprey, and sometimes a bald eagle, soared highest. The birds’ songs and cries (ravens can sound human), accompanied by breezes purring through the forest, spoke to my reverie.


* * *


Excerpt 6


In prior summers, observing all of that had been sublime pleasure for me. As that summer began, however, it no longer was. My aimlessness possessed me. I couldn’t enjoy anything. I wanted to be elsewhere, doing something else, but I didn’t know where or what. My discontent pained me, angered me, and depressed me. I couldn’t resolve it, couldn’t moderate, escape, or avoid it. I suffered it, and had no patience for my suffering.

On the afternoon when I first saw the angels, I was sitting on the ridge, waggling my foot, fidgeting. Behind me a red squirrel chattered, scolding me for being there. A jay swooped to a tree branch a few feet above me, screeched at me, and flew off. In the woods behind me, a vireo sung its exultant song—cheerful little bastard. A few yards to the side, a pair of beady-eyed chickadees chittered and buzzed, exhibiting purpose such as I did not possess. A small spider climbed onto my jeans and scurried halfway across before I flicked it away.

I looked at the sky. It was cloudless, a dome of blue. To the west, the sun shone above distant hills, where in a few hours it would set. I should return to the pond and get ready to fish. I was about to stand up and do that when something about the sky caught my eye. At first it was raw perception, something before you know it. Then I saw that the entire sky shone with golden light. The light was soft, otherworldly. It shone as if nothing else existed. Its radiance filled my vision, my mind, and my spirit.

Something else caught my eye. To my left, eastward, a cloud was drifting into view. It was as luminous as the sky, tinged with the same gold. And upon it, I suddenly realized, reclined a large being. It emanated the same light as the cloud and the sky, as if it was part of its surroundings. It seemed to be made of that light, without other substance; I could see through it to the sky beyond. But its appearance was more defined than the cloud’s. It was human in form, but bulbous, like a child’s toy, as if you could squeeze it and make it squeak. It had a pudgy torso, arms, and legs, and a round head with two eyes and maybe a nose and mouth. It was larger than human, however, much larger, large enough for me to see on the distant cloud. It lay there at a slight incline, its feet forward and head and shoulders raised, and gazed in the direction of the cloud’s drift. I sensed that it was alive and aware, but I could determine no more than that. It didn’t move. It just lay there, riding the cloud, emanating the golden light. I had never seen anything like it. I was stunned. It’s an angel, I thought. It is gigantic and pudgy, and has no feathered wings, but…it’s an angel!

The cloud and the angel continued their drift. Soon they passed in front of me, halfway across the sky. The angel hadn’t moved. Then, abruptly, it did move. It turned its head toward me and looked right at me—at me and into me, to greater depths than I had ever known or imagined. The look lasted only a moment, a glance, but that was enough, for it conveyed a message. 

The message electrified me, and changed my life. As well as I can translate it from angelic radiance into words, it was this: “Relax, Vassal. Everything is fine.” The angel’s look embodied that message, and evoked it from everything around and within me. It struck me body and soul, rang me like a bell, sang to and from every fiber of my being. And itransformed me, putting an end to my unhappiness. I had been a typically overwrought young adult. Now, the burdens that I had been bearing—my torpor, confusion, and the rest of my plagued inwit—disappeared. My anxious interior chatter ceased, replaced by a blessed silence.

Its message delivered, the angel turned away and resumed facing forward, continuing its journey. The radiance of the sky, cloud, and angel held deeper meaning for me now. It pervaded everything. Everything emanated it, including the pond below me, the forest near and far, the creatures of the woods and water, and I myself. Its source was everything everywhere, and it shone upon everything everywhere, at once cause and effect. It brought everything to life and it was everything’s life. The universe, every universe, was made of nothing else. All things were one and the same, identical, while at the same time lacking none of the differences by which we distinguish one from another. 

The radiance illuminated for me a reality that I believe all people sense, but that usually abides beyond our consciousness. I began to think of it as “the more real than real”, a truth of truths, than which there is no other. On that afternoon, as I sat on my ridgetop perch and watched the angel and cloud drift toward the western horizon, that reality was tangible to me. I basked in it. My every thought thought it, and every feeling felt it. I felt fortunate to be experiencing it so directly. 

When the angel and the cloud passed out of sight beyond the hills, I turned my head and looked the other way, toward the east. More angels were approaching, a host of them, each on a separate cloud. They sailed in front of me in ragged parade, some higher in the sky, some lower, some ahead or behind. Like the first angel, they seemed alive and aware, but this time none looked at me or acknowledged me. There was no need for that. By their nature, by all nature, they saw and acknowledged everything at once, including me and my bit of light. I watched them until they drifted out of sight.

Afterward, alone again, I felt boundless bliss. The angels were gone, but they were with me, too. And so they have remained. Despite difficulties that I, like anyone, have encountered, they and their universal light have remained present to me. Whenever and wherever I look for them, I see them and am strengthened by them. Always, seeing them puts a kind of end to any unease, discomfort, want, or suffering I might be experiencing. On that day by the pond, when they showed themselves to me for the first time and gave their light to me, they changed me, saved me, with saving grace.

* * *

At my seat on the floor of the Stone Age cave, the angels were with me and not, as usual. I struggled to my feet, feeling stiff in my knees. I wanted to make my way in darkness, so I left my flashlight turned off. I crouched again to avoid the stone ceiling, and shuffled back the way I had come, guided by my memory of the passageway, the feel of the walls beside me, and the sound of open space ahead of me. A few minutes later I came to the entrance. I paused just inside. Outside it was dark; the sun had set. I felt a breeze on my face, coming from the sea, and I heard the slow rhythm of waves pushing onto the shore. I turned on my flashlight and aimed it ahead. In its beam I saw the dirt path leading away. I leaned forward to step out.  As I did, I felt a heavy blow on the top of my head. I staggered, almost knocked over. My legs quivered. I fell to my knees.

The pain subsided. I pointed my flashlight upward. The stone across the top of the entrance was set lower than the others. I had not bowed low enough to pass beneath it. Had the ancient builders placed it lower for structural reasons? Or to serve as a threshold whose purpose was to encourage humility—to beat unwary heads like mine against it, to clobber anyone foolish enough to walk too tall?

I knelt there, angry and sorry for myself. My injury cast doubt on my belief that I had insight into this place or, angels or not, into anything. I imagined some of the ancient people, my forebears, grinning at me across the centuries, their faces as creviced as the worn stones around me. Their grins twisted into me, provoking demons within me that I could not escape.

Shriveled, dizzy, my head aching, I reached to the stone above me to steady myself, and rose again to a crouch. My legs resumed shaking. I bent as low as I could and stepped outside. Clear of the entry, I stood up, took off my hat, and looked inside it with my flashlight. A blot of my blood and hair stuck to the crown. The sea breeze made the gash on my head feel cold. I touched the spot and stared at the red smear on my fingertip. I shuddered. My teeth chattered. I took my hat in both hands, raised it over my head, and lowered it gently.



END of CHAPTER





 

EXHIBITION

No Way?, below, has been selected for the 2018 Newton Open Studios Winter Juried Show. The exhibition will take place in the Newton City Hall Gallery, on the 2nd floor of City Hall, from January 8 through February 23. There will be a reception there on Wednesday, January 10, from 7-8:30pm. The jurors are Ellen Wineberg and Cathleen Daley of Room 83 Spring in Watertown.


No Way?No Way?







PUBLICATION



 ART Habens story
Art Habens Contemporary Art Review has published a 24-page article about SQUEEZESHOT. It includes a dozen artworks and an interview by the curators. 
 
 

 


Email button 100W

SUBSCRIBE

These free newsletters include original art, photography, and sometimes video, audio, prose, or verse. You can see recent issues here, subscribe here (100+ people do), or unsubscribe here. If you know other people who might like them, please share.
 

 
Saga     Art     Photography     Video     Verse  


   



 
squeezeshot angel with pearl

October 2017



CONTENTS

INVITATION
GALLERY
SAGA




 INVITATION
. . . if you’ll be on the Boston area

 
ART OPEN HOUSE
PHOTOGRAPHY, GRAPHIC ART, TAPESTRY, & MORE
by 3 artists: Ellen Fisher, Ellen Kaplovitz
and Marcus Parsons

Saturday, November 4, 12–5 pm
at 41 Waldorf Road, Newton Highlands

All are welcome. We hope you’ll come by!
If you know others who might like to come, please invite them.

Details and preview here.



 


GALLERY



NOTE: Images can enlarge for a closer look. Just tap or click.

 
 
 Worried?
Worried? Amused? Both?
 
 
 
 


On the Train
On the Train
 
 

 
 
 
. . . and a few for Halloween 
 

Stone BonesStone Bones
 
 


 
 

Stone Mask I

 Stone Mask I
 
 




Stone Mask II
Stone Mask II
 





Fire Within
Fire Within




 

 

 

THE SQUEEZESHOT SAGA

Excerpt 5
from


Journal cover(NOTEExcerpts 1 through 4 of Vassal Squeezeshot’s journal appear in this year’s JuneJulyAugust, and September issues. They also appear elsewhere at this site, as part of Vassal’s saga. The end of Excerpt 4 follows below, as a lead-in to Excerpt 5.)

 
 
Saving Grace: The Eternal Present (continued)
 

last paragraphs of Excerpt 4:

. . . I proceeded through several small chambers, where I found more spirals, and images of animals, eyes, and, I thought, women’s breasts. I came to the final chamber: round, ten feet across, five feet high. More carvings covered the wall. I sat down on the floor and studied them. Then I turned off my flashlight and sat in darkness.

There are many such barrows in northern Europe. No one knows their purpose; their builders left no records, and no tales survive. Scholars speculate that shamans or priests built them as homes for the dead; perhaps as portals to an afterlife, where the living conducted ceremonies to encourage the departed to guide and protect loved ones who would follow. Or, they may have served as places for holy teaching, vision quests, or other exercises of the spirit, unrelated to death.

Eventually, some of those ancient people migrated from Brittany to southern England. The builders of that barrow may have been my ancestors. I chose to believe so. I also believed that whatever other purposes the barrow may have served, those people also built it, decorated it, and gathered together in it—or came singly, as I was doing—to take comfort in the miraculous.

So it was that on that day, as I sat with my eyes open, blind in the darkness, and as I smelled the dirt floor and damp stones and felt the cool air on my face and hands, I looked for what I realized I had come there to see: angels, my familiars. 

As soon as I looked, the darkness stirred and there they were. Ever since my first encounter with them several years before, they had appeared whenever and wherever I wanted. As they still do. And as they will, I expect, for as long as I live, for they are present within me and—to me—within everything. As I must now attempt to describe.

 

Excerpt 5

I first met the angels three summers before that. I had completed postgraduate studies in electrical engineering and molecular biology, with related studies in other engineering fields, as well as in chemistry, physics, philosophy, and literature. In the course of those studies, my curiosity had led me in many directions, which I had pursued voraciously.

When I graduated, however, I suffered a letdown. I lacked goals and ambition. I hadn’t looked for a job, or thought much about it. I didn’t want to think about it. My mind held too much baggage, to no purpose. I felt restless, unable to move forward, becalmed without peace of mind.

*

Water pours
into a pool without end
—no journey ahead.
— H.A.

*

 

I spent the summer alone. I loved to fish. Often in those years, I drove deep into the Maine woods to fly-fish for brook trout. Day after day, I forced my beat-up car down a half-mile of overgrown logging road, then lugged my canoe and fishing gear over several hundred yards of tangled game trail, to the shore of my favorite pond.

The best time to fish was late afternoon and evening, when hatching insects attracted trout to the surface. I usually went in midafternoon, however, to arrive early. At the shore, I would put down my load, and make my way to a ridge that rose a few hundred feet above the north side. At the top, I sat on a moss-covered promontory I had found, leaned back on my hands, stretched my legs in front of me, and for an hour or two looked out over the pond and the miles of forest beyond it. Most days, clouds drifted across the sky, their shadows playing on the treetops below me. Waves marched across the pond’s surface, and lapped the shore. Gusts of wind rippled the water, and breezes twirled. Fish ducks, mergansers, fished in the coves. Often, a beaver would be swimming near the marshes.

In the shallows, great blue herons fished among the aquatic grasses. Sometimes, a mink darted from the shore to pull mussels and crawfish from the rocks and mud on the bottom. A white-tailed deer might stroll from the forest to drink. Often, a moose stood shoulder deep, feeding on underwater plants. Some days, a fox trotted along, hunting for squirrels, snakes, frogs, toads, grasshoppers, and the like. Almost always, a few kingfishers would be diving into the pond from overhanging trees and emerging with minnows clutched in their beaks. Small birds and larger—warblers, nuthatches, chickadees, jays, woodpeckers, thrushes—fluttered through the bushes and trees. Crows and ravens flew above. Gulls—herring gulls and big, bullying black-backs—circled higher, scavenging. Red-tailed hawks, osprey, and sometimes a bald eagle, soared highest. The birds’ songs and cries (ravens can sound human), accompanied by breezes purring through the forest, spoke to my reverie.


* * *

(The Journal chapter Saving Grace—The Eternal Present will conclude In the next issue.)
 

 


 
 
PUBLICATION


 ART Habens story
Art Habens Contemporary Art Review has published a 24-page article about SQUEEZESHOT. It includes a dozen artworks and an interview by the curators. SQUEEZESHOT was chosen from more than 3800 submissions.

 
  

 
 
Email button 100W

SUBSCRIBE

These newsletters include original art, photography, and sometimes video, audio, prose, or verse. They are this project’s evolving edge.
 
Subscribe to them here (100+ people do). See recent issues here. Unsubscribe here.

If you 
know other people who might like them, please share.
 
 
 
Saga     Art     Photography     Video     Verse

 








 
squeezeshot angel with pearl

September 2017



CONTENTS


GALLERY

SAGA

Publication

 


 

 

GALLERY

(Images can enlarge for a closer look.)

 
 
 

 ObstructionObstruction
 
 
 
 

 
Flow
Flow
 
 

 
 
 
AfterlifeAfterlife
 
 


 
 
 
BuriedBuried
 
 




 
Decline and FallDecline and Fall
 




 
 
On the Way
On the Way



 
 

 

Rockies
Rockies



 
 
 
Rockies 2
Rockies 2





 
 

Young Buck
Young Buck




 
 
 
Detroit
 Downtown (Detroit)



 
 
 
 
Seaside (Maine)Seaside




 
 

Fore Street (Maine)
Fore Street (Portland)



 
 
 
Longfellow House (Cambridge)
Direction (Cambridge)







Mother and SonMother and Son







 

 

THE SQUEEZESHOT SAGA

Excerpt 4*
from
Journal cover
*NOTEExcerpts 1, 2 and 3 appear in the
June 2017July 2017, and August 2017 newsletters.
They also appear elsewhere at this site, with other
Journal excerpts, as part of the Squeezeshot Saga.






Saving Grace: The Eternal Present

—the sere schoon of the deep while the was—



In search of my beginnings, I have traveled centuries. My journey began in my 20s. One summer, I took a month’s vacation from my engineering job in Boston and set out to visit my ancestors. I drove north to Maine, where I had grown up on a farm. Earlier generations of the Squeezeshot family had lived nearby.

On the morning of the first day, I waded through a tangle of raspberry vines, goldenrod, and Queen Anne’s Lace, and clambered onto the granite foundation stones of my great-grandparents’ 19th century farmstead. An hour later, I did the same at the rough ridgetop farms of their parents, a few miles away. The next day, I drove to the coast and rode a ferry to the island fishing village where my great-great-great-grandparents came to live a few years after the Revolution.

I returned briefly to Massachusetts. At Plimoth Plantation, I visited a replica of the seaside hut built in the 1620s by the first Squeezeshots to arrive in North America. The family patriarch then was a rum-swilling adventurer who brought his wife and their two teenaged children, plus a baby born en route, on the perilous voyage across the Atlantic.

From there, I flew to England, where I traipsed around Hampshire, Oxfordshire, and East London, the homelands of earlier Squeezeshots. I managed to follow my roots as far back as the early 1500s. Some reports pointed further, to the 1200s, but were unreliable, so I spent a week in libraries and pubs and on park benches, reading histories of medieval Britain and earlier. Those carried my imagination and understanding back as far as pagan times before the birth of Christ.

* * *

I crossed the Channel to Brittany. There, I came one sundown to the mouth of a cave-like barrow built by people of the Neolithic era. It was set into a grassy rise overlooking the sea. As the daylight faded, I sat on the ground facing it. Birds hopped and fluttered, weaving through brush and tall grass on its back. Beside its entrance loomed a tall rectangular stone, a menhir.

I stood up, turned on my flashlight, and ducked inside. Stale, damp air tickled my nose and sinuses. I sneezed, blinked, and looked ahead. A low hallway led deeper in. Massive oblong stones formed the walls and roof. I twisted up the brim of my cap so I could see, and shuffled ahead. I am six-and-a-half feet tall. The ceiling forced me to bend so far forward that even with my elbows bent, my knuckles brushed the dirt floor—suitably simian, I thought. The dirt was dry and cool to my touch, packed firm by the tread of earlier visitors.

I turned a corner and passed out of sight of the entrance. My flashlight’s beam settled on a stone beside me. A spiral appeared. I leaned closer. It was four inches across, etched into the rock, and veered toward its center as spirals do. I felt that not a moment had passed since the hour five thousand years ago when someone carved it there.

I proceeded through several small chambers, where I found more spirals, and images of animals, eyes, and, I thought, women’s breasts. I came to the final chamber: round, ten feet across, five feet high. More carvings covered the wall. I sat down on the floor and studied them. Then I turned off my flashlight and sat in darkness.

There are many such barrows in northern Europe. No one knows their purpose; their builders left no records, and no tales survive. Scholars speculate that shamans or priests built them as homes for the dead; perhaps as portals to an afterlife, where the living conducted ceremonies to encourage the departed to guide and protect loved ones who would follow. Or, they may have served as places for holy teaching, vision quests, or other exercises of the spirit, unrelated to death.

Eventually, some of those ancient people migrated from Brittany to southern England. The builders of that barrow may have been my ancestors. I chose to believe so. I also believed that whatever other purposes the barrow may have served, those people also built it, decorated it, and gathered together in it—or came singly, as I was doing—to take comfort in the miraculous.

So it was that on that day, as I sat with my eyes open, blind in the darkness, and as I smelled the dirt floor and damp stones and felt the cool air on my face and hands, I looked for what I realized I had come there to see: angels, my familiars. 

As soon as I looked, the darkness stirred and there they were. Ever since my first encounter with them several years before, they had appeared whenever and wherever I wanted. As they still do. And as they will, I expect, for as long as I live, for they are present within me and—to me—within everything. As I must now attempt to describe.

 

the barrow and menhir



(Saving Grace—The Eternal Present will conclude In

Excerpt 5, in the next issue of this newsletter.)





 
 
PUBLICATION


 ART Habens story
Art Habens Contemporary Art Review
has published a 24-page article about

SQUEEZESHOT, with a dozen artworks
and an interview by the curators.
 
 
 
 

 


 
 
 
 
Email button 100W

SUBSCRIBE

These newsletters include
original art, photography, and
sometimes video, audio, prose,
or verse, for you to view on
your personal screen(s). 

Subscribe here.
(100+ people do.)

See recent issues here.

Unsubscribe here.

If you subscribe or are
already a subscriber, and
have friends who would like
these newsletters, please share.

 
 
* * *


 
 
Saga     Art     Photography     Video     Verse 

 



 
PRIOR ISSUES

 



  

 
 
squeezeshot angel with pearl

August 2017


CONTENTS

GALLERY

SAGA

Publication

 

 

  

GALLERY
(All images can enlarge for a closer look.)

 
 
 
 
Untitled 9Untitled 9
 
 
 
 

 
Untitled 14
 
 
 
 

 
 
Rising Rising
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Tendril, continued
 Tendril (continued)
 
 
 
 
 

 
Life EternalLife Eternal
 
 
 
 
 

 
Pine
 Pine
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Looking Ahead
 
 
 
 
 
 

 Black Rock
 
 
 
 
 
 
  Coiled
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Dream
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Masked Masked
 
 
 
 
 
 
Walking the Line
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Motion
 
 
 
 

 


 

THE SQUEEZESHOT SAGA

Excerpt 3



EDITOR’S NOTE
and
 PREFACE to the SECOND EDITION
from
Journal cover
NOTE: Excerpts 1 and 2—Vassal Squeezeshot’s public
message to Victory Tree’s murderer—are here and here.

 


EDITOR’S NOTE

by The Reverend Professor Henrietta A.

Vassal first published his famous journal decades ago, to describe how he invented his all-seeing little drones. Now, come what may, he has given that invention to the world.

To accompany that gift, he and I have published PRELUDE and CHORUS—a big work and a short postscript We have also begun to create a second edition of his journal, adding details and clarifications. We hope that, along with PRELUDE and CHORUS, it will help people deal with his gift. We expect to complete and publish the new edition soon. Meanwhile, we are providing the excerpts that follow below. We will keep adding to them until we are done.

—H.A.

 



PREFACE to the SECOND EDITION

by Vassal Squeezeshot

Most everyone knows that more than forty years ago, in the 1970s, I invented a tiny marvel that could have turned our civilization inside out. I refused to allow that change to happen. The time wasn’t right, I believed, and might never be right. I kept my invention to myself.

I kept a journal in those days. My entries in it were sketchy; I am not much of a writer. Fortunately, I was living with the playwright Victory Tree, who helped me with it. After she was murdered, I decided that I must complete and publish it. I enlisted The Reverend Professor Henrietta A. to continue Victory’s editorial role. Her assistance, like Victory’s before her, proved invaluable. We published it to predictable acclaim.

Now, more than a generation later, I have given my tiny marvel to everyone, for free. To accompany it, as The Reverend Professor has mentioned in her EDITOR’S NOTE, above, she and I have published PRELUDE and CHORUS, both of which she authored with my full cooperation. They comprise the most up-to-date installments of what she calls my saga. In them, she describes my experiences and my thinking far better than I can. Both on the page and through her art, she speaks for me more truly than I can for myself. 

She also speaks for herself. I am delighted that our project has given her a platform from which to share her perspectives as well as mine. That’s not to say that we don’t see many things similarly. Our perspectives tend to coincide, and she is generous toward me when they do not.

As she reports above, we have also been revising my journal, and expect to finish it soon. We have also written more of my saga—a series of volumes—which we will also revise, and publish if our circumstances allow.

—V.S.

 

* * *

Excerpt 4, in the next issue of this newsletter, will begin the chapter of Vassal’s journal entitled Saving Grace: The Eternal Present. In it he describes how he traveled centuries in search of his and his invention’s beginnings.

You can also read that excerpt (and others) here.





 
 
 
  
PUBLICATION


 ART Habens story
Art Habens Contemporary Art Review
has published a 24-page article about
SQUEEZESHOT, with a dozen artworks
and an interview by the curators.
 
 
 

 
 
 
Email button 100W

SUBSCRIBE

These newsletters include
original art, photography, and
sometimes video, audio, prose,
or verse, for you to view on
your personal screen(s). 

Subscribe here.
(100+ people do.)

See recent issues here.

Unsubscribe here.

 
 
* * *


 
 
Saga     Art     Photography     Video     Verse





 

 


squeezeshot angel with pearl

July 2017




CONTENTS

GALLERY
SAGA
Exhibits
Publication

 

 



GALLERY
(Click images to enlarge.)

 
 
 
 
Pool
 Pool
 
 
 
 
 
 
Sea of Fire
 Sea of Fire
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Untitled 8
 Untitled 8
 
 
 
 
 
 
The Point
 The Point
 
 
 
 
 
 
Untitled 11
 Untitled 11
 
 
 
 
 
 
Untitled 7
 Untitled 7
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Triads
 Triads
 
 
 
 
 
 
  Untitled 12
 Untitled 12
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Outlooks
 Outlooks
 
 
 
 
 
 
Samurai
 Samurai



 
Onward!
Onward
 
 
 
 

 


 

 

THE SQUEEZESHOT SAGA


Excerpt 2
from

Journal cover
(Continued from the last issue. You can read Excerpt 1 here.)



To the Murderer 

You shot her in the forehead. She must have been looking in your direction. She may have been looking right at you. She may have seen you pull the trigger. I thought of that as I ran for the guards. I have thought about it often since. 

For you, those moments must have been different. For you, they included how you held your aim, breathing softly; and how you gently squeezed the trigger until your rifle fired. Then the sound of your shot, the kick of your rifle against your shoulder, the sharp whiff of gunpowder, and seeing her drop from the dock into the water. And within that were whatever other thoughts and feelings you were having: your desire for my invention; your rage at her and at me for keeping it from everyone; your concern that your shot land where you aimed it, and your satisfaction when it did. And whatever else. 

Your bullet ended her life and ruined mine. As the world knew, probably including you, she and I loved each other. We were so attuned to each other that we could think each other’s thoughts, feel each other’s emotions, and share each other’s perceptions. Saying that doesn’t even begin to describe how we were, however. Our love was more than words can say.

One day, despite the protection of a battalion of government guards—or with their complicity (the thought saddens me)—you may kill me, as well. Or you may want to kill me, but find that you can’t get to me. Or you may feel content with killing Victory, and wish to do no more harm.

You are alive. I wish you weren’t. I wish you had never been born. Maybe if your parents had known what you would do one day to Victory, they would have acted differently at the time of your conception; given a different sperm and egg a chance. Too late for that now, of course. All I can do is direct these remarks to you, which you may never read. Which is fine. What difference can it make whether you read them or not?

I also have something else for you that you may never read: the journal I have kept in recent years. It begins on the next page, and covers the time from my invention’s inception to Victory’s death. During the last months of her life, she and I were preparing to publish it. If you read it, you will pay attention to it as only you can. But again, I don’t care if you read it. Millions of other people will, and they’re the ones who matter. Many of them will understand, as I’m sure you cannot, why it and not my invention is all I wish to share with everyone. That has been an easy choice for me to make, made easier when you murdered Victory.



(To be continued in the next issue. Or you can read the continuation
and the rest of the Journal excerpts at the
 Squeezeshot website.)

 

 


  

 
EXHIBITIONS
 
 
 
Lightfall (Alive)
 

In addition to Bouncing Off the Walls, at the NewTV Gallery 

(23 Needham Street, Newton) until July 15, Lightfall (above)

has been chosen for Emerging Artists, the Cambridge (MA)

Art Association’s 2017 Summer Exhibition, July 6-28 at

the Kathryn Schultz Gallery, 25R Lowell Street.

Reception (public invited) July 6, 6-9pm.

Cambridge Art Association
 
 




 


 

PUBLICATION




 

   has published a 24-page article about

SQUEEZESHOT, with a dozen artworks

and an interview by the curators. 

 
 

 


 

 
Email button 100W

SUBSCRIBE

These newsletters include
original art, photography, and
sometimes video, audio, prose,
or verse, for you to view on
your personal screen(s).

Subscribe here.
(100+ people do.)

See recent issues here.

Unsubscribe here.

 
 
* * *


 
 
Saga     Art     Photography     Video     Verse
 


 



 



angel with pearl
 
June 2017
 
 

 



CONTENTS

To The Murderer: an excerpt from the Saga 

new images

current exhibit & publication

 
 
 
 
 
THE SQUEEZESHOT SAGA: An Excerpt
 from
 
Journal coverJournal cover
 


To the Murderer

Two years ago, down by my dock, you aimed a rifle at my beloved Victory and pulled the trigger. Your bullet went into her forehead and out the back of her skull, killing her. I was in the house, and heard your shot. After the controversy, threats, and attacks brought on by news of my invention, I knew what might have happened. I sprinted down the path to the dock, and arrived in seconds. I didn’t see Victory until I reached the top of the ramp. She was lying in the water on her back, slightly submerged, a few feet from the dock. Her eyes were closed. She appeared to be unconscious, or worse.

The tide was going out. She was drifting away. I ran down the ramp, jumped into the water, and pulled her to the muddy shore. She was not breathing, and had no pulse. Blood poured from the wound in her forehead, onto her face and chest. I knew that she was dead. Nevertheless, I sat astride her and for several minutes pumped her heart and breathed into her lungs. A few times, I paused to clear blood from her closed eyes. Soon, it covered my hands, cheeks, nose, and mouth. I could feel it, smell it, taste it. Some of it trickled down my throat, still warm.

I couldn’t revive her. I didn’t accept that; maybe there was something that someone else could—. I looked for our government guards offshore in their launch. They were there as usual, in the river’s main current a few hundred yards out. Hadn’t they heard the shot? Hadn’t they noticed? I leapt up, waved my arms, and hollered. Apparently, they didn’t see or hear me. Leaving Victory on the mudbank, I ran back toward the house to get the guards posted at the end of our driveway. I knew it was too late, but I ran as fast as I could, my arms churning, my feet pounding the uneven ground. 


To be continued in the next issue. To
 read more now, go to JOURNAL at the Squeezeshot website.





 
 
IMAGES
(click to enlarge)
 
 
 
Birth
Birth

 

 

Journey
Journey
 


 
 The Memorial Service
The Memorial Service
 


 
 
Smokes
Smokes
 


 
 
Driftwood 2
Returned from the Sea

 
 

 

Low Tide
Low Tide
 
 
 

 
 
 
EXHIBITION
 
 
Lightfall (Alive)

 

Lightfall (above) will remain on display at the
NewTV Gallery in Newton through July 15.
It is part of Bouncing Off the Walls, the
Newton Open Studios Spring Juried Show.

 
 
 
 
 
 
PUBLICATION
 

 

ART Habens storyART Habens Contemporary Art Review
has published a 24-page story about
SQUEEZESHOT. It includes a dozen
artworks and an interview by the curators.

 

 
 
 
 
 

Not a subscriber to these
every-month-or-so newsletters?
They include newest art, photographs,
and sometimes video, audio, prose,
or some verse—original works to
view on your personal screen(s).
To subscribe, click here.

See recent issues here.
Unsubscribe 
here.

 



SQUEEZESHOT
Saga     Art     Photography     Video     Verse



See the archive of all issues here.



 



TOP
⬆︎
of CONTACT page

 

 

SHARE SQUEEZESHOT
Facebooktwittergoogle_plusredditpinterestlinkedintumblrmailFacebooktwittergoogle_plusredditpinterestlinkedintumblrmail

FOLLOW SQUEEZESHOT
youtubeinstagramyoutubeinstagram